The Violation

By Jeff Schneider

He looked into the heavens, rain streaming down his cheeks as if tears. “Why, Lord?”
And then a cold, chilling stare formed on his face. Ace Cleveland didn’t care anymore.
The entire sporting world is turned upside down. Everyone, including writers, broadcasters, coaches, athletic directors—even parents—are ignoring the fact that steroids are being used in college athletics.
And killing people.
No more. Someone, something, had killed his younger brother, the kid who used to tag along with him when he delivered papers. And, by God, someone was going to be held accountable not only for his brother’s death, but for all the other players who had died over the years. For the medical records that had been destroyed, for what happened to perfect physical specimens like 21-year old Jose Zoellers who now moved like an old man and looked worse.
And for the pitiful way Ace’s grieving mother wandered around her drafty old house, wondering how the University men who’d promised to care for her son and give him an education could instead just send him home in a coffin.
Ace Cleveland was hurting too, but was far beyond caring about himself. Too many dominoes had fallen. What did it matter that they’d shot his dog, torched his house, had his livelihood threatened by an F.B.I. agent. When his wife left him with their infant son that last straw had ignited a wildfire inside him.
Every university president in America had some explaining to do, but Ace no longer cared about the big picture. There were so many dirty secrets at State U., finding what killed his little brother would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. So be it. Danny Cleveland’s death had awakened the devil, opened the gates of hell—and in Ace’s hands a pitchfork glistened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Schneider
• Release date: Jul 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476140346

Jeff Schneider

Author Jeff Schneider is a former college athlete and administrator. He worked ten years in the University of Louisville athletic department. LEARN MORE ABOUT Jeff and his other books at: readjeffschneider.com.

Book preview

Prologue

He quietly, oh so quietly, saved the contents of what he was writing to the CD in his external drive, waited for the information to be loaded, pulled out the disk and put it in the square paper envelope.

Footsteps sounded from down the hall. This late at night, probably a security guard, but he couldn't take the chance. He quickly erased the file from his hard drive, made sure he emptied the little trash bin on the upper left corner of the screen, then pulled up a press release he had been working on earlier.

As the footsteps came closer to his door, he remembered the CD, grabbed it, swiveled his chair and jammed it where only he would ever know to look for it.

Time and time again during his first two years he had asked maintenance to repair that damned spot, now he was grateful they didn't give a hoot about him.

When the door knob was jiggled, he called out. It's open, come on in.

A security guard, one he didn't recognize, stuck his head in. Working late?

As always.

Guard nodded. Thought I heard someone in the hall earlier. Thought I'd check it out.

Haven't heard a thing. Far as I know, it's just you and me.

Good, that's what I thought too, said the guard, reaching behind his back.

* * *

CHAPTER 1

Hit ‘em, Cleveland. Drive those feet. Use your butt. C’mon, son. Push…push…PUSH!

Danny Cleveland fell hard to the grassless, August ground, a beaten red-shirt freshman. A scorching sun sizzled the creases in his neck, dust caked his nose and mouth, whistles blew as if a jail break, and it wasn’t even close to 9 A.M.

Grape-shaped sweat poured from under his scarred helmet and oozed from the rest of his exhausted body. His shoulder throbbed, his hand bled, and now the assistant coach was in his ear, spit and obscenities flying from his mouth.

Get up, dammit! The ground is for fat asses and pussies. Are you a pussy, Cleveland?

No, sir, Danny barked, quickly jumping up, heading for the back of the line.

Where you going, Cleveland? The coach screamed, grabbing Danny's face mask and swinging him around.

I'm going to show you how to drive block, Cleveland. You’ve been here a year already. You should know this. Watch. This is the way it’s done at State University. My offensive players kick ass, boy, not the other way around.

The burly assistant coach with a shroud of whiskers on his face turned the bill of his ball cap around, spat a stream of chewing tobacco into the parched ground, untucked his T-shirt, got down into a four-point stance, then sprung into the defender, pushing the athlete off the ball and five yards down the field. He finished his block by hurling the player into some orange pylons, then turned back toward Danny, steam seemingly rolling out of his ears.

It’s all in your ass, Cleveland, the coach screamed. Use your ass and you’ll beat the other guy this time and every time. He slapped Danny's helmet with a meaty paw. Now get back in here and finish the fucking job, now!

Yes, sir, Danny said as he put his mouthpiece in, knowing that it was his feet he needed to move quicker, not his ass.

The coach crossed his arms and waited for the two players to position themselves over the football. The defender across from Danny was a senior and twice Danny’s size. They each got into their stances, then the whistle blew and mayhem broke out. Within seconds Danny was shoved aside. The defensive unit screamed at their man’s victory. The offensive linemen shook their heads. The coach was back in Danny’s ear.

Get the fuck off the field, Cleveland. He grabbed Danny’s face mask again and pointed to the locker room. Get your ass off my field. And don’t come back until you've learned how to drive block. You won’t play a down this year until you start acting like a man instead of a boy.

Danny nodded miserably.

And don't come back until you've got some iron in your bones, fire in your eyes.

Danny limped away, exhaling his own quiet obscenities that stuck to his faceguard like snot.

Hurling his helmet through the empty locker room, he plunked down heavily at his stall. Wretched coaches were always pricks this time of the year. Jackson, his friend from high school, had said Marine boot camp was a killer, but this had to be worse.

Welts and open wounds decorated both arms and hands as if he’d just climbed through a field of penitentiary razor wire. He had a bright red scratch under his neck, a gash the length of a pencil zig-zagged down his right calf, and the mouse below his left eye oozed puss. He felt none of it. All he could think was that he had to get better. Bigger and better. And stronger.

He clinched his teeth, unlaced his dust-caked shoes and removed his bloody socks. He looked up when he heard a trainer across the way making Gatorade.

Coach Nutt has a burr up his ass today, Danny, Quincy said as he stuck a green water hose into the huge orange cooler. Don’t let him get to you. He’s an ass…hole. They’re all assholes. A shout echoed down the runway, Quincy jerked his head. They’ll be screaming at me if I don’t get this outside pronto. He rolled the Gatorade toward Danny on a rusted dolly with one bad wheel. Here, man, get something to drink. It’s hotter 'an hell out there, and it looks like you sweated out a quart. Hydrate now so you don’t get sick. Supposed to be over a hundred again tomorrow. Fuckin’ Ohio Valley humidity.

Thanks, Quincy. Danny gulped the orange liquid, then poured another cup. I don’t know what else I can do out there, Danny wiped his mouth with the back of his sweaty hand, spit out the dirt the senior tackle had made him eat. I lift and run every day, but I’m being pushed around out there like a feather. He put his head in his hands. Might be time to hang it up.

The trainer sat down beside Danny, and poured himself a glass of the Gatorade. Some of these guys you’re going against are three, four years older. Makes a big difference. How much you weighing, anyhow?

About two forty-five before practice. But I lose about five to eight pounds a day from the heat during these two-a-days.

The trainer nodded. I hear you. Zach Crawford lost ten pounds yesterday just during the morning session. We were afraid to let him go out during the afternoon.

Maybe if I double up on the protein drinks. Danny wiped his face with a towel. But they taste awful.

The trainer looked around, walked across the spacious locker room and closed the door that led into the training room. He sat back down, helped Danny remove his shoulder pads, and said quietly, I can help you with your strength, dude, long as you keep it between me and you and the goalposts.

Danny tossed his jersey into a pile with his socks and shoes. He picked grass off his arms, and from an open wound under his elbow.

You hear me? Quincy asked.

I heard you, he said without looking up.

It'll put you where you want to be. You saw what it's done for some of the others.

That crap is bullshit, Danny sneered. If you can't get bigger in the weight room—

Yeah, I know the sermon. But you think Darnell only swims, bikes and runs?

Danny stared at Quincy. Darnell was a legend on campus, after finishing second in the international Ironman competition the previous year. I thought he was all about nutrition and supplements.

For those funky ass public service announcements, sure. The trainer leaned over, held a finger to his lips, and whispered a short word in Danny’s ear.

Huh? Danny said, a startled expression on his face.

You didn't hear it from me.

But what about the side effects?

The trainer rolled his eyes. There are side effects taking aspirin. Don’t sweat it. Everyone's doing it. You gotta know that.

No, I don’t.

I'm telling you, everyone.

Like who?

The trainer’s eyes inspected the locker room again, then he said in a hushed tone, All the starters, except the QB and the kicker—and others.

Jesus. Do the coaches know?

Officially, no one knows. And you don't either, or else.

Or else what?

Or else you come in one day and your name is no longer on the depth chart—your scholarship is yanked. The trainer took his index finger and dragged it across his throat.

How come I never heard any of this?

Couple years ago, Quincy leaned over and whispered, one of the guys got drunk. Started mouthing off about it in the Rathskeller.

Yeah, and...?

Got taken out on the Ohio River, wrapped in chains, and just dropped over the side of the boat.

The trainer grinned at Danny's shocked expression. Ha, gotcha. But listen, you want to sit at the big table, right?

Danny stared at the dirt on the towel from the drubbing he'd taken earlier. He didn’t want that anymore. And you can...?

Just see me in the morning.

The empty campus gave Danny an eerie feeling as he walked alone through the commons toward his dorm. Two hours to kill, time enough to run over to the Fruit Market in St. Matthews and see Becca. No one would know, and he'd be back in plenty of time for dinner. He could do that, but just as he was considering it, he heard his big brother Ace's voice saying, Champions do the right thing, even when no one is looking.

Big brother or girlfriend. Girlfriend or big brother. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a nickel, flipped it, caught it and covered it on the top of his right hand with his left.

He put the nickel back in his pocket without looking at it and hurried to the parking lot. A bus rolled by with the State U. football schedule on it. Texas Elpaso was first. He couldn’t wait.

Becca was busy at the register, so Danny walked through the store and studied some of the nutritional drinks in the refrigerated glass case lining one wall. Most were all natural products, the only thing natural about some of the others was the can.

Hey, you didn't say hello, came a soft voice over his shoulder a moment later.

He turned. You were swamped.

Yeah, been busy today. She paused and studied his face. Everything okay? You seem—

A shrug. You know, two-a-days.

Jesus, you're all banged up.

Not as bad as having a coach screaming in my ear.

She took his hand. Tell 'em to kiss off. There's more to life than football.

He smiled. She was calling him out. She knew telling him to quit was only going to inspire him. Maybe I will. Would that make you happy?

What would make me happy is if you kissed me right now.

I thought the manager said…

You have coaches screaming in your ear, I've got a little creep of a manager asking me to join him in the steam room.

Danny cringed, but held his tongue.

Kiss me, she said.

Danny did as he was told. They locked lips for fifteen seconds. He pulled back and held her by the shoulders. You’re going to get fired for this. But tell that little dwarf if he so much as lays a finger on you I’m gonna break him in two.

Don’t worry, I can handle myself. I’m a little tired of it, that's all. That’s why I’m in nursing school. To control my own destiny. To work wherever I want.

Becca, we just got to get through this, and then one day, we'll be sitting on our own porch with a couple of rugrats running around, and—

You mean that? A huge smile crossed her face.

Gee, I don't know, do I mean it? He asked himself playfully. She poked him in the ribs. He grunted. She'd found a bruise. Well, maybe just a little.

She frowned and said: How little?

He spread his arms as wide as possible, unveiling another wide smile. She kissed him again, then quickly moved away when she saw the store manager starting toward them. You git. I’ll give you a call later. You love me?

He winked, but didn’t answer. Didn't need to. The truth was in his eyes. He watched as she hurried away, swaying like she was walking a Victoria Secret runway. They promised each other they’d wait until they had their degrees before getting hitched, but man, that felt a million years away.

He heard his brother's voice again, and he was right. Champions do the right thing even when no one is looking.

Yes, I love you, Becca, he whispered as she slipped behind the counter to man the cash register. Loving her was the rightest thing he knew.

* * *

Chapter 2

The alarm clock blared: 5:37 A.M.

Yuk.

Danny closed his eyes and groaned. His shoulders were sore, his arms tired and his thighs felt as heavy as wet oatmeal. Ugh! He wanted to sleep, but then his mind started spinning. His body hurt, but a worse ache was his desire to crack the starting lineup. Sleeping late wasn’t going to make that happen. If it’s meant to be, it’s up to me. Another of a hundred pithy sayings courtesy of big bro. And yeah, he respected and looked up to Ace, who was always right, even when Danny didn't want him to be. Especially on mornings like this.

The small of his back popped when he sat up, and his knees and hamstrings resisted any kind of movement. He turned his fan off, then finally got his feet to the floor. Standing, he pushed his chin to the left with his hands, cracked his neck, then turned to the right and did the same. Christ, he felt like an old man -- like Santiago in the Old Man and The Sea, his favorite book. Yeah, he was Santiago rowing the boat to shore, only to realize that all that was left of the mighty catch that had bloodied his hands was bones. Hemingway had it right. Hard work was not its own reward. Not when there were sharks and coaches and creepy store managers swimming around the boat.

He finished working out the kinks, yawned, and found his warm-ups, which clung in the already sticky humidity. Jesus, the sun just peeking over the horizon and already it felt like a steam room. The image of Becca's weasel of a manager popped into mind. He had to get her out of there, but she needed the money as much as he needed his scholarship. And keeping his scholarship meant making the first team, and that meant getting with the program.

Yeah, he'd meet with the trainer. He definitely wanted his place at the big table, as much for Becca as for himself. Ace would have a shit fit if he knew, but Ace was hundreds of miles away. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Danny sat alone and ate a bowl of cereal and two bananas, then sucked down two bottles of Gatorade as he walked to the training room. He knew better than to eat a heavy meal with practice only two hours away. Heavy meals lead to puking on the playing field, and he sure as hell didn't want that, especially after Coach Nutt had ripped his ass yesterday.

When he entered the training room Quincy was sitting at his desk, reading the morning sports page. Lance Armstrong’s picture and a big headline covered the top half of the paper.

Mornin', Cleveland, Quincy said, eating a granola bar. You been following the Yanks? They’re sixteen games up on everyone in the East. Pity the team that gets them in the playoffs. They’re spitting nails this year. They beat the White Sox by eleven last night. Unbelievable.

Baseball players make way too much money for standing around waiting to catch pop-ups.

Quincy scanned the box score again, knocked back the rest of his coffee, and then folded the paper and stuck it in a bottom drawer. Hidin’ this so I can read the rest at lunch. Suckers around here took it on me yesterday.

The trainer stood, stretched, and nodded for Danny to follow him. They made their way down a hall, then Quincy pulled out a set of keys and unlocked a door to the equipment room. Behind stacks of helmets and shoulder pads the trainer unlocked another door, and the two entered.

Cardboard boxes lined the far wall. None of them were marked, but Quincy seemed to know exactly what was where. He reached into a box that was opened, and when he turned around he handed Danny a container. Danny studied it as if it were dynamite.

It’s okay, Danny boy. No one'll know a thing. He grinned. It’s un-de-tectable.

Danny watched Quincy’s face, lifted the container one more time to inspect it closer. This is powder. You sure?

Uh-huh. You’ll start to feel a difference in three days, if not sooner. Just give it a try. Pretty soon the coaches’ll be calling you Sir Daniel the Lion-Hearted.

What happens if I get tested?

Quincy waved it off. There’s ways around it, okay? Just give it a chance, and then tell me what you think.

Danny took the container of powder and tucked it deep into a pocket. Quincy was psyching him out. Probably nothing more than a protein drink. Does it cause acne?

Shit, not getting laid regular causes your face to break out. He started for the door. You wanna be pretty or play football?

Football, definitely.

Two weeks later Danny studied his right glut in a full-length mirror as clanging iron plates and grunts and ripe body odor seeped under the door to the weight room. Quincy’s powder was supposed to cut fat and eliminate water build up. The fact it seemed so secretive had bothered Danny at first, until he started feeling and more important, seeing the results. His body felt rock hard, and the coaches had started yelling compliments instead of curses for his line play. Part of him also thought that it might be one of those placebo effects. It wasn't beyond Quincy to give him glycerin, making Danny think he was taking steroids. Change his attitude, boost his confidence. Maybe it was all mental, after all.

Winning was everything at State, but would they really risk steroids? Would they really risk an NCAA ban for a few extra victories a year?

Hell, yes, they would. And the way Danny felt now—invincible, rebounding quickly after the brutal two-a-days—he would too. Like Michael Jordan preached in that commercial, Just Do It.

And so he slugged back his second protein drink of the morning. The evidence was tossed into a trash bin as casually as a candy wrapper. Danny opened the door, walked to a mirror, and flexed with a hard grin.

Becca used her key to Danny’s room and quietly slipped it into the doorknob. She knew he was down the hall in the shower because she could hear him singing, booming out, Another one bites the dust. She giggled. How the macho sports guys loved that song. Probably didn't realize Freddie Mercury was gayer than springtime. What a surprise her macho sports guy would get when he walked in and found her under the covers wearing nothing but a grin.

Several minutes went by and Becca waited anxiously, that sweet ache building until the sheets seemed to crackle with static electricity. She finally heard the door opening and the aroma of sweet soap filled her nostrils.

And another down, another down, another one bites the dust, he rumbled off-key, a towel tied around his waist.

Another warm flush washed through her as his shoulders and pecs rippled in the light coming from the window.

She peeped out from under the covers. You'll be gentle with me, won't you, Mr. Schwarzenegger?

Danny covered his surprise with a wolfish smile. Arnold's got nothing on me, he said, reaching for the door and clicking the lock. He turned and let the towel drop to the floor. And now I've got nothing on me either.

Help, someone save me! she giggled as he swooped toward the bed.

Becca lay there motionless as Danny dressed, her eyes roaming over his cut body and the muscles rippling with his every move. My God, that was...

Too much? Should I hold back next time?

Don't you dare. She stretched out a final shudder that swam down to her toes. I swear, it seems like you’ve gained thirty pounds.

More like forty, and it’s all muscle.

She smiled from under the covers. Geez, I…I’ve never…

Never what?

Never felt your body like that.

Get used to it, there’s plenty more where that came from.

Two-a-day practices were complete and State U’s first game was six days away. Finally, Danny thought, the season's almost here. But the physical intensity of August practice was about to be replaced by a whole new level of pressure. He sat at his locker stall and tried to focus, getting himself mentally prepared for the all-out scrimmage that was just the first tough step of what promised to be a grueling week. Like climbing a volcano, it would get hotter and hotter each day as the coaches whipped them into a fury before the season opener against UTEP.

He stood up, checked himself in a mirror inside his locker as he put on the shirt he wore under his shoulder pads. He looked thick in the shoulders and chest, but small, almost dainty, around the waist. Would look good prowling Daytona Beach. He grinned, imagined the heads that would turn, he and Becca—a pair of beautiful lions.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Quincy, munching on a Snickers bar. Dude, Quincy said, smiling, you look like fucking Hulk Hogan without the bandanna. I can’t believe how big you’ve already gotten. You are the shit, dude.

And I feel strong as an ox, Danny whispered. Last night I was taking a shower, and when I was drying my back off, I accidentally ripped the towel in half. Yo, that’s never happened before.

The head coach, Don Gazzlin, entered the locker room, smoking a pipe. The place suddenly became as quiet as a January snowfall.

Watch me today, Danny whispered to Quincy, gonna do something that might just make the evening news. They tapped fists.

Speaking of news, Quincy whispered back. Did you hear?

What?

They just hired a new sports information director.

A new word jockey? Big deal.

Yeah, well you won't have to worry about him misspelling your last name in the press releases.

Why not?

Cause he spells it same as you every time he cashes a check.

Danny gaped at Quincy, who was cackling as he wheeled the cart out the door. He then picked up his shoulder pads and found they needed adjusting again. He slipped the elastic out to its limit, rolled his shoulders underneath to seat the pads. This was all he needed -- his Dudley Doo Right big brother coming to work at State U, sticking his nose in Danny’s business. Fuck it, two weeks ago he was worried about being cut from the squad, now he felt like a young god with lightning in his heart. He growled and crashed the locker with his forearm, feeling the hot pulse of adrenalin as he rumbled out towards the field.

Danny was listed as the No. 2 right guard. A senior, Haynie Brown, was given the starting nod. But today was his chance to turn that all around. No way was he going to let them relegate him to mop-up duty this season.

He chewed his mouthpiece like it was made out of bubblegum, watched the action, the growl still in his gut, his fingers opening and closing like he was cracking walnuts. When his name was called he pounced into the huddle.

Slant left, green hitch to the right, on three, the quarterback said.

The play was designed to slam the fullback into the left side of the line, then to hand the ball to the halfback who would dart between guard and tackle on the right. His side of the line. This was the perfect play for him to show the coaches how far he’d come. The offensive line broke from the huddle, and Danny got into his stance, his right hand on the ground, his left quivering on his knee, taut as Robin Hood’s bow. He listened for any last minute changes from the quarterback who was now hunched over center, but there would be no audible this play.

Red, blue, 37, hut!"

He pushed his right hand further into the dirt, felt adrenaline pumping through his body, and when the ball was snapped, Danny broke first, put his hands up, drove forward with his feet and his butt, and pushed the defender into the linebacker four yards up the field. He never saw the halfback run through the opening he helped create, but he heard coaches on both sides of the ball hollering about the results of the play. Half were screaming mad; the other half were screaming in joy. He looked up to see the halfback crossing the goal line, and suddenly the O-Line coach was dancing in front of him, smacking him on the helmet.

God damn! Hell of a block, Cleveland! the coach screamed, the molars in the back of his teeth showing. That’s the way to drive block, son. Put him on his ass, boy. WHOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I think I may have just found me a player today.

He became a mountain pass-blocking, an axe on sweeps, a bludgeon up the gut. They left him in for three series, then a fourth. The defensive coach tried some switches. None of it worked. Danny was in the zone. Once he caught eyes with the Coach, who looked like he was considering a switch, but he must have seen something in Danny's eyes, and changed his mind. Good thing, the way Danny felt at that moment, he would have punched Gazzlin if he tried to pull him.

And then the scrimmage was over, way too soon. Danny had plenty left, could feel it swirling through his body.

The line coach slapped him on the pads as he walked by.

He turned toward the sideline, a huge smile on his face, and quickly walked over to Quincy who was sitting on a golf cart, slapping high-fives with him. Thanks, pal, Danny said, then lowered his voice. Thanks for everything.

As the two men ambled toward the locker room, Haynie Brown stopped Danny with a stiff arm.

Gotta problem, Haynie?

That's Mr. Brown to you, boy.

He brushed him off. When Haynie grabbed his arm, Danny grabbed his wrist, turned and glared.

Haynie growled, You think the juice is all it takes, whitey?

Don't know what you're talking about.

Yeah, right. Two weeks ago you couldn't even bench your own weight. He leaned closer and snarled, Word to the wise, boy. Stay out of my way like a good boy. You can try to fill my spot next year.

I like my chances this year.

I'm headed for the NFL, he warned. You get in my way, I'll bulldoze you.

Danny saw one of the coaches eyeing the pair. He grinned and released Haynie's wrist. Let the best man win, Haynie.

Best man will win, boy.

And in that instant Danny felt his self-esteem climb to the stars. If Haynie was scared of him, well shit, then he was halfway home.

Don Gazzlin sat in his golf cart smoking his pipe and watched the confrontation between the two players. He didn’t say a word, just puffed. After a few minutes he summoned a manger to drive him and his golf cart to the football complex. Got me a player, I think, he mumbled to the manager. Boy finally got the message.

* * *

Chapter 3

Ace Cleveland reached for his wife’s limp hand, looked in the rearview mirror at his sleeping son, and inhaled deeply, the thick, humid Kentucky morning already causing him to break into a light sweat. He took one last look at their old, leaning rental home in the darkness, then backed out of the gravel driveway, rocks spilling onto the paved country road like ice falling out of an ice-cream maker. As he put the brown Datsun jalopy with the sticker AUTOMOTIVEJOBS.COM on its bumper into Drive, he noticed a wavering single light easing down the road toward him. No doubt the paperboy making his daily run. 1415 Smallhouse Rd. How appropriate. You could take a dump and spit toothpaste into the sink all at one time. Yep, this place would be easy to put behind him.

He checked the gas gauge a second time, hoping they had enough in the tank to travel the two hundred miles from Bowling Green to Louisville.

This is it, Maggie, he quietly whispered, squeezing her hand. The radio dial illuminated the soft features of her face. This is the last stop for a while. Promise. We’re going to Louisville. We’re going to see my brother.

Did they give you any going-away presents? she murmured drowsily.

What?

At you're going away party. She yawned.

Oh yeah, he said, almost blushing about the send-off party the staff threw for him. Some of the girls bought me a pair of leopard-skin Speedos. Said they wanted a picture of me in them for over their desks.

A Speedo? she asked with a trace of jealousy in her voice, her eyes leaning into him. Who?"

Just a gag gift. No worries.

She reached over and pinched his thigh. You didn't pose for them, did you?

Hell no. He laughed. It was just Stacey. You know how she is.

Yeah, I know how she is, her voice a tad agitated. She’s been wanting to jump your bones for a long time.

Maggie had that one right. But it wasn’t something he’d ever pursued. He was always getting hit on, probably because he kept himself in great condition. He ran almost every day, watched what he ate, and did a series of sit-ups three times a week that had created the six-pack in his stomach and kept him in pretty good shape. Not the shape he was in during college when he played basketball and had dreams of the NBA, but still in better shape than most men his age. Can you blame her? He ran a hand through his light-brown hair. Beauty, brains and brawn, hard to resist.

Don't let it go to your head, Mr. Good-bar. She acknowledged his cockiness with a roll of the eyes. Either head, hear me? Or you’ll lose me— and that boy sleeping in the back seat faster than you can say Richard Gere.

Aye aye, captain. He saluted her, then fingered some chest hair poking through his half-buttoned shirt. Got to admit though, Maggie, there's still a lot of zip in this twenty-eight-year-old bod.

Yeah, she mumbled. If you’ve got so much energy, then how come it's always me getting up in the middle of the night to feed and change Clay?

Natural motherly instincts, honed over centuries of evolution?

Neanderthal. She reached over and pinched the soft flesh under his ribs.

That's me, baby. Your one and only card-carrying, club-wielding caveman.

Ugh.

Ace turned the radio on just loud enough for them to hear a Rush Limbaugh replay. Maggie quickly leaned up and punched the dial to some easy-listening. None of that political crap from that blabber mouth. Can’t take him early in the morning. She stretched, looked out the window, watching a faint pink sun creeping over the distant tree line. You ever get a hold of Danny?

No. I tried calling him again yesterday, but kept getting his answering machine. He called back, but I missed him. We’ve been playing phone tag.

Well, I'm sure he's as excited about seeing you as you are to see him.

Ace smiled. That was the best part about the entire move to Louisville. He’d be able to see his brother’s football games and watch them with his son, not just read about them in the paper. Not only that, but if the kid ever got good enough, he'd be able to pump him up in the media. Make the pro scouts sit up and pay attention. But Danny had been lucky just to get into Division I, and probably wouldn't get farther. If he’d been quicker, faster, he might have become a linebacker. But Danny would never be big enough to be a lineman in the pros. He had the height, but he always had a hard time gaining weight. Ace sighed at the irony. He had always been a better athlete than Danny in every sport: basketball, baseball, softball, even swimming. At least until the injury. Anyhow, that didn’t matter, it was good knowing he’d be seeing the kid on a daily basis. He was family.

Ace felt a deep tug in his gut. Growing up, it had been just Mom, him, and Danny. And because his mother had to work, it was just him and Danny after school until she got home to fix dinner. Looking out for his kid brother had been a fact of life, one he thought he resented until he went to college and discovered he missed the little scamp, missed having someone to take care of.

The feeling hadn't gone away until he met Maggie. He'd been crazy about her from the moment they met, but underneath was that desire to take care of her and make their own family together.

Maggie pushed strands of uncombed morning hair out of her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. She had followed him to two different universities in less than four years. They had a baby now. She wanted a big yard. A swing and a white picket fence. Maybe even a pool when they could afford it. More than anything, she wanted stability. A place to put down roots.

You think we can get our own dryer? she asked, as if reading his mind.

Ace heard the trace of hope in her words. The clothesline routine was getting old. State U. wasn’t paying him a king’s ransom, but they would be able to buy a dryer. Dirty diapers on the line wouldn’t be good for his image, and their days at Peggy Clark’s Laundromat were over. He grinned. I thought you liked showing the old widows my underwear.

She reached up and pinched his cheek, leaning her head on his solid, broad shoulders. He hit the accelerator and moved through the small town, past Walt’s Bait House, Tom Kramer’s Tire Shop, Flo’s Main Street Diner, Molly Joe’s Day Care. He took a final look, savoring the fact that he was moving on, with mixed emotions about where they were headed. The jump from Division II to Division I was a bit like losing one's innocence. Kids played college sports for the love of the game, while universities played to win, pure and simple. The stakes were higher, only one step away from the pros. They could have stayed here, safe and snug in a nice, but dusty, college town. But he was ambitious and knew the mantra: in order to move up, you gotta move on.

He had his blueprint for success all mapped out. Yes, in front of him was at least four years as the sports information director at State University, Kentucky’s largest college. That would put him in line for a spot as an athletic director at a small college. And once he got more experience, maybe in five years, he’d move up to the Big 12, SEC, maybe Big Ten.

Instead of writing press releases, he would be holding press conferences. They'd be reading about him in the sports pages.

He felt the tightness in his face, still hearing the childhood taunts of schoolmates at his inability to read in front of the class without having panic attacks. He remembered one afternoon his frustration blowing up into a fist fight and, he was suspended for three days. When his mother didn't know what to do, his Uncle Max took him to see Muhammad Ali fight at Freedom Hall, to see real fisticuffs. After the fight his uncle took him downstairs to meet the champ. From the seats, it looked like Ali had breezed through the fight untouched. But up close, you could see the damage he'd absorbed, even in victory.

Does it hurt? Ace had asked in innocent awe.

The champ turned and smiled. Gotta take your lumps if you wanna shake up the world. The memory brought back a smile. Later he realized that the champ probably said the same thing to every wide-eyed young person who stood before him, but for some reason Ace was certain Ali meant it just for him. Especially when his uncle thanked the boxer and started to usher the boy away.

Shake up the world, young man, Ali called out to him. Shake up the world or it'll shake you down.

Thereafter, when someone at school made fun of him, he always thought of the champ's bruised face. Ace took the jabs silently.

Ali's family had been poor, just