The ball is snapped. K. C. fakes the handoff to his fullback, then tosses a short pass to Samuel Agler, who has released from his block and is rolling left out of the backfield.

Sam catches the pass—

—and is immediately hit by Alec Parodi, a reserve outside linebacker for a three-yard loss.

Coach Demaio kicks at the turf, then blows his whistle. ‘Mule, with me!’

Twenty-one pairs of eyes follow the star tailback as he jogs over to the sidelines.

‘Yeah, Coach?’

‘You hurt, son?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Girl troubles?’

‘No, Coach. Why?’

‘Something’s gotta be wrong, because you’re not running like the Mule I know.’

‘Coach, I’m giving one hundred percent. Parodi just made a nice play.’

‘Parodi couldn’t tackle you in the open field on his best day.’ DeMaio lowers his voice. ‘Look, I’ve heard rumors. If this is a money thing?’

‘Coach, I swear—’

‘Okay, okay, I had to ask. It’s just that I’m worried about you. We’ve got a huge game in two weeks in Gainesville, then the first round of the January Jubilee. I need to know my best player is ready.’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Hell, son, show me, don’t tell me. Coach Lavoie, line ’em up again.’

‘Yes, coach.’ Offensive coordinator Mike Lavoie yells at the two squads. ‘Okay, girls, get your asses in gear!’

K. C. Renner buckles his chin strap, listening as Lavoie’s computer communicates the same play.

Sam lines up in the backfield behind fullback Doug Parrish. He focuses his mind inward, his adrenaline pumping, as he beckons the entrance to the ‘zone.’

Renner takes the snap. Fakes the handoff to Parrish.

Sam slips inside the nexus.

The field brightens, the action grinding to a slow crawl.

Sam’s quadriceps burn as he pushes through heavy waves of energy. He blocks the blitzing strong safety, pancaking him with vicious forearm to the chest, then looks up as Renner’s pass floats toward him like a balloon.

As he looks up, the sun melds into a soothing white light.

Who are you, cousin?

The female’s voice coos at him.

Slip inside the light and speak with me.

The light brightens as it widens, blotting out the football, blotting out the entire sky.

Sam leaps out of the nexus—

—as the ball strikes him on his helmet, and Alec Parodi crushes him with a bulldozing hit.

A whiff of ammonia snaps Sam back into consciousness. He opens his eyes, the team doctor’s face appearing fuzzy.

‘You okay, son?’

‘Dunno. My head still attached?’

‘Let’s get a quick scan of your brain.’ Dr. Meth slips the portable MRI device right over Sam’s helmet. ‘Don’t move, this’ll only take ten seconds.’

The device activates, scanning Sam’s brain.

PATIENT: SAMUEL AGLER.
DIAGNOSIS: THIRD-DEGREE CONCUSSION.
PROTOCOL C-3: ICE, ANTICONCUSSION/INFLAMMATORY
MEDS, MONITORED BED REST.
RETURN TO ACTION: THREE DAYS MINIMUM.
NONCONTACT DRILLS FOR FIVE DAYS.