Sam offers a half grin. ‘Feels kind of good.’

‘Good? I’d think it must feel incredible, unbelievable. When you scored that touchdown against FSU—what a rush, huh?’

‘Yeah. That one felt great.’

‘Did it?’ Diane sits back, the fly now snug in her web. ‘Let’s take a look.’

The lights dim, the smart glass becoming a circular hall of projection screens, Sam’s image on every panel.

Sam takes the pitch from his quarterback—

Cuts to his right—

Pivots back toward the line, evading tacklers … punching his way to daylight—

The cameras zoom in from a dozen different angles—

—focusing on his facial expression as he sprints down the sideline.

The image freezes. The lights come back on.

‘Sam, that certainly doesn’t look like delight on your face to me. It looks like, well … like fear. Were you afraid of something?’

‘I, uh …’

‘You seem kind of worried, like you might have just screwed up royally. How could you have screwed up by scoring a touchdown?’

‘I was just winded—’

‘You must’ve had trouble regaining your wind, you only gained sixty-two yards on the ground the rest of the game.’

‘It happens. FSU had nine defenders in the box. There were no holes.’

She smiles coyly. ‘Since when does the Mule need a hole?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘This was the biggest game of the year. Billions of dollars had been wagered in the federal government’s weekly football pool. The ’Canes were a six-point favorite. The final score was FSU 16, Miami 10. The game was a “push,” generating a cool 2.3 billion for our friends in Washington, DC.’

‘Are you accusing me of throwing the game?’

‘Of course not, not you, Mr. Perfect. But hypothetically speaking, how much would someone, say, Florida’s governor Ryan Wismer, have to pay you to pull up lame?’

‘You lousy fushcubitch! ’ Samuel stands.

The cameras keep rolling, Tanner far from finished. ‘Any truth to the rumors the PCAA is launching its own investigation?’

‘That’s it, we’re done. Shut it down.’ He searches in vain for an exit.

‘Sammy, darling, before you dash off, explain to my viewers why you ran out of bounds in that third quarter drive. Samuel “the Mule” Agler never runs out of bounds.’

Sam targets a mirrored panel. He jumps off the stage, pivots in midair, and executes a devastating side kick, his right heel striking the smart-glass like a sledgehammer, shattering it into a thousand smoking shards.

Diane ducks, unable to avoid the shrapnel. ‘I’m, uh, Diane Tanner, and that’s This Week in Sports!’

Sam hurtles past the stunned technicians and out the door.

UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI MAIN CAMPUS, CORAL
GABLES, FLORIDA

November 21, 2033 7:18 a.m.

Lauren Beckmeyer stands at the dais, rechecking her notes and display disks for the third time. Seated before her are four of the five committee members assigned to the university’s research grant council. English Lit., Asian Studies, Physics, and History … everyone here but my Geology guy …