Page 34

The past hour had marked the first time he’d driven on the highway alone since the heart attack. No Josh grinning with him. No Nadia riding shotgun, ready to catch him if he stumbled. Just Tyler and the cold open road of I-15. A necessary step, but a stark contrast to his previous visits.

He cut the engine and grabbed his duffel bag, swallowing the stupid anxiety that rose in his throat like bile. He tugged his baseball cap lower. Hardly a disguise, but he felt like he should make an effort. He took a moment to three-three-three himself back into his body.

Keys. Bench. Door.

Engine ticking. Shush of traffic. Two girls chatting by their car.

Wipe hands. Crack neck. Open door.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, ragged exhale.

What would Josh tell him if they were on the track at sunrise?

Take a breath. Let all the craziness out of you. You got this. Just thinking about Josh’s eyes settled him a bit.

After closing and locking the car door, Tyler strode toward the entrance, slowly letting some of his nerves go. Josh’s voice in his ear: “One step and then another and you can go anywhere, buddy.”

He walked briskly toward the entrance, but before he could reach for the door handle, a voice stopped him in his tracks. “Tyler Fantana!”

Six feet from his cardiologist’s door, a rail-thin woman with unnaturally bright red hair ambushed him from behind a trash can to jam a microphone in his face. “Cilla Miller, Channel Twenty-four Sports.”

“Holy—” Tyler recoiled. His heart slammed against the inside of his ribs, each beat painful as an ax. He struggled to keep his face blank, but his vision blurred with each beat of his pulse. “Warn a guy, huh?”

He didn’t recognize this chick, and after a decade, he knew the San Diego regulars. The helmet-haired redhead looked perky and carnivorous, a glossy shark with threaded eyebrows. Her camera crew scrambled around them, capturing every facet of Tyler’s surprise.

“Care to comment on rumors you’re getting traded away from the Swells this season?” She was flanked by a scruffy cameraman and a stocky soundman holding a mike on a boom over their heads. The men looked bored and maybe a little embarrassed by her strident style. Even the adamant artificial red of her hair felt aggressive.

“No comment, ma’am.” He tried to step past or around them. No dice. She had installed carefully to block his path into Reynolds’s office.

Normally he’d have simply pushed through, but now Tyler vibrated with rage and panic, his mouth dry and his shirt soaked with cold sweat. Why hadn’t he brought Nadia when she insisted? He should have known the press would track him down eventually.

The reporter persisted, shoving the fat foam knob of her mic at him. “How’s the comeback going? What about your heart condition?”

“Ma’am, this is me being polite.” Tyler knocked the boom from overhead, and the sound guy stumbled. He started to push through the scruffy crew. “I asked you to back off.”

Was she really arrogant enough to try and manhandle a 260-pound NFL tank who played offense? She might imagine she was pushy, but pushing giants around was what he did for a living.

Undeterred by the security guard approaching from the lobby and Tyler’s mounting aggression, Ms. Miller jostled closer with the microphone. The capped teeth and the stiff hair made her seem like an angry doll. “Heartthrob to heart slob. Think that bum ticker will hold up? Are you willing to risk your life?”

Tyler’s mouth clicked shut. Fury boiled in his veins. He tried to think like a musketeer: a little brash, a little reckless, and a little more polite than necessary. Panache. Big cocky Aramis grin. “I said no comment, Cindy.”

She didn’t like that one bit. “Cilla.” Her frozen smile cracked. “I’m Cilla. Miller. KSDF. Reporting for Channel Twenty-four.”

He rolled his eyes. “My apologies.” He’d done it on purpose, misnamed her and shamed her so she couldn’t use any of this footage to sleaze her way up the ladder. The only reason he didn’t physically lift her out of his way was because the Swells didn’t need any more reasons to kill his contract.

“We’ve heard reports—”

“Then you’re all set.” And with that, he rammed past them and burst through the doors into the safety of Dr. Reynolds’s office. The receptionist looked up, startled. Tyler’s heart pounded, adrenaline scorching his veins.

Outside, the guard had reached the camera crew, but slender Cilla Miller bulldozed past the poor guy. “Mr. Fantana?” She trailed Tyler, headed straight for the front desk, mic at the ready. “Are the Swells fixing to nix Eighty-six?”

Eighty-six was his jersey.

What Tyler needed right now was a door between him and her. He shouldn’t have come alone. Stupid.

Cilla wouldn’t stop. “Mr. Fantana?” The cameraman trailed behind her, lens looming with the boom swinging and bobbing in pursuit. “Just a few questions for San Diego’s hottest, Tightest End….”

Cilla Miller had sat in her cubicle and planned that crap so she could come stick a mic in his face. Is Fantana getting eighty-sixed? How many junior reporters had pulled this same routine with him the past two months? He wasn’t anything but a headline to them.