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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Also by Wil Mara

  Copyright

  For Tracey

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Cut would not exist if not for the overwhelming time, talents, energy, and generosity of so many people. First, my beloved wife and three children, who motivate me to reach ever higher. Then my editor, Pete Wolverton, and my agent, Tony Seidl, who are football fanatics in their own right. Kudos also to Katie Gilligan, Pete’s assistant; a tireless worker and a wonderful person.

  The number of friends who patiently answered countless questions, reviewed portions of the text, or helped in other vital ways is staggering. I don’t even know where to begin, so I’ll just list them alphabetically—Zennie Abraham, Ernie Accorsi, Walter Anaruk, Walter “Butch” Bartlett, Gil Brandt, Mo Carthon, Bill Chachkes, John Clayton (the best there is), Craig Ellenport, Chris Florie, Leslie Hammond (my gratitude is boundless), Jon Harris, Matt Israel, David Kaye, Pat Kirwan, Marv Levy, Milt Love, Warren Murphy, Bill Parcells, Bill Polian, Keyshawn Johnson, Chris Redmond, Tim Ryan, Brian Taylor, Frank Winters, Lisa Zimmerman, and Mark Zimmerman.

  I would also like to thank the good media folks who helped promote The Draft and generally get the word out about this series. I am grateful to all of you.

  And finally, a heartfelt sentiment for Peter Snell, who was always supportive of me and my writing. He passed away, suddenly and tragically, just a few weeks before the ’07 draft. He was one of the most beautiful souls I have ever known. I miss you, old friend.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story exists in a kind of “alternate universe.” It is a blend of fact and fiction, and the choice of where one element meets another has been made erratically. You may note, for example, that the great bulk of the plot unfolds on the grounds of the State University of New York in Albany. This is, in truth, where the New York Giants hold their annual training camp (unless they change the location before the book hits the shelves, and if that happens, we can’t do anything about it). On the other hand, you’ll also see that the New York Jets are said to have reached the last AFC Championship Game but lost to the Cincinnati Bengals. While this, too, might reflect reality at some point, it never happened at the time stated in the text. I simply made it up to serve the needs of the story.

  Above all else, this is a work of fiction. It is best to take it from that angle before moving forward. There is some factuality, yes, but this isn’t an almanac. Read it for the purpose for which it was intended—enjoyment. Football is, in my view, the greatest of all modern sports. If you’re a fan, you should be able to draw great pleasure from this novel and those to follow. But if you’re the type who nitpicks over every tiny detail, then I suggest you put the book down and go check the towels hanging on the bathroom rack because one of them might be crooked.

  1

  Barry Sturtz finally ran out of patience.

  “T. J.’s numbers for the last two years have been incredible,” he said for the third time. “No one here can debate that. Last year alone—eighty-seven receptions for eleven hundred and forty-four yards and thirteen touchdowns. The best stats for any tight end in the whole damn league!” He pounded his fist on the burnished mahogany table to underscore the last three words.

  “No one’s denying his value, Barry,” Palmer responded. “We all know he’s one of the best at his position.” Thirty-six-year-old Chet Palmer had been the Giants’ general manager for the last three seasons. With his thinning hair, dark suit, and tortoiseshell glasses, he looked more like a corporate accountant.

  “No, Chet,” Sturtz corrected, almost out of breath, “he is the best at his position.”

  “Okay, okay,” Palmer said, hands up defensively. He didn’t have much of a stomach for confrontation. “But we have a contract already, and we expect him to honor it. He’s got one year left. After that, we’ll be happy to discuss a renegotiation.” The third man in the conference room remained silent, as he had throughout most of the meeting.

  Sturtz shook his head. “No, we’re discussing it now. T. J. has put up the best stats of any tight end in the league for the last two seasons, and what has he been getting for it? League minimum—this year he’ll make less than five hundred grand. Dinkins, meanwhile, will get two point seven million from the Cardinals, Schaefer will get two point one from Denver, and Barone will get one point eight in Miami. T. J. is performing better than all of them.”

  “Barry,” Palmer said calmly, as if his greatest concern during this exercise in organizational thievery was to remain civil, “we took him in the sixth round. We gave him sixth-round money and a sixth-round contract. He didn’t have to take it, but he d—”

  “He’s being ripped off!” Sturtz screamed. An icy silence followed, during which the ticking of the wall clock became noticeably louder. Palmer seemed a little nervous now, whereas head coach Alan Gray continued to appear unaffected.

  Of course Brookman was being ripped off. They both knew that. The whole team knew it. The team, the league, the sportswriters, the fans—anyone who knew the first thing about the business of professional football knew that T. J. Brookman was being grossly underpaid for his services. He was the best new tight end the game had seen in ages—amazing considering he was a nobody from a nowhere school out west. His statistics had been damn good there, but then most of his opponents had been a joke, barely a notch above high school talent. He did well at the combines, too, but he was still written off. That was what most scouts did to anyone who wasn’t playing at the top schools in the top systems. In spite of decades of evidence to the contrary, the pros still turned their noses up at anyone who wasn’t considered elite. When T. J. started shining in New York—beginning the second half of his rookie season when the starter went down with a broken leg—Gray was quick to take credit for the “find.” “I knew he had something to offer,” he told the media after Brookman’s third game—eighty-eight yards, two touchdowns, and eleven key blocks against the Redskins. The fact that Gray had to be talked into drafting T. J. by the scout who had actually discovered him seemed to have slipped his mind.

  Sturtz laid his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “We’re not asking for top money, even though T. J. is the league’s top tight end. We’re asking for an average of the three top salaries. That’s more than reasonable. T. J.’s younger than those guys, so he’ll be productive for a long time. He signed for nothing, he’s played his heart out, he’s live
d for this team day and night. He deserves this, and you damn well know it.”

  Palmer said, “I’m sorry, Barry, we just can’t do it. Not at this time.”

  Sturtz shot into an upright position, shaking his head and looking out the window at a perfect summer afternoon. He’d rather be anywhere else in the world than in here with these two bastards.

  “Okay, then,” he said, “I’m going to have to insist that he sit out until we get something done.”

  “Sit out? You mean a holdout?”

  The shock in Palmer’s voice was pleasing. “That’s right.”

  “Camp is right around the corner. Be reasonable.”

  “I’m trying to be,” Sturtz said quickly. “But I see no other way. I’m doing this with a clear conscience, believe me.”

  This wasn’t completely true—Sturtz hated contract holdouts. While they did create leverage for a player, they usually accomplished little else, and the long-term damage was always considerable. Bruised egos, hurt feelings, seeds of mistrust, not to mention the time that the player missed practicing and learning the team’s system. Also, the agent’s reputation took a hit, as other teams would be wary of him—and his clients—in the future.

  “Barry…”

  “You’ve left me with no other option. You’ve backed me into a corner.”

  Alan Gray smiled as he ran a hand over his hair. It was short and neat, a bit longer than a military cut. It had once been dark brown, almost black. Now it was evolving into a pewtery silver. The face wasn’t exactly handsome, but the features were strong and fully realized. His eyes were particularly striking, small and watchful, and they seemed to burn with a kind of sinister intensity.

  “No,” Gray said quietly as he spoke for the first time in almost a half hour. “No new contract. I need your kid on the field, in camp and practicing, in less than two weeks.”

  Sturtz laughed. “I’m sorry, Coach, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that T. J. sit out until he gets a fair deal.”

  Sturtz was happy that Gray had finally jumped into the mix. He had wanted to address him directly from the start. In his view, this was the man who had the most to lose if T. J. didn’t play.

  “This team suffers without him,” Sturtz went on. “Last season he was the most productive receiver you had.” This was an incredible fact, but a fact nonetheless. The Giants’ wide receivers had all been spectacular years ago, but they had drifted beyond their prime and were now in the twilight of their careers. Last season had been a comedy of errors—dropped balls, missed routes, easy interceptions. T. J. was the bright spot. The experts were saying he was their future, as well as the future of the tight end position—one that was becoming increasingly important in modern football.

  Some even said T. J. Brookman was Alan Gray’s only hope of keeping his job.

  Gray pursed his lips and began nodding. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said, rising to his feet. “Maybe we need to get this matter settled, and right quick, too.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “As of this moment, consider your boy on the bench.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If he doesn’t practice, he doesn’t play,” Gray told him. “That’s my rule.”

  Sturtz studied Gray for a moment, then chuckled and tucked his hands into his pockets. “You’re bluffing. You can’t afford to do this. Your offense will crumble.”

  “I doubt that. We can always find someone else.”

  “There’s no one else like T. J., and you know it.”

  “We’ll have to alter the system a little bit, but…” Gray finished the sentence with a shrug.

  “Okay,” Sturtz said, a fine layer of perspiration breaking out across his brow, “then release him. Let us get a deal somewhere else.”

  Gray smiled, and in that smile Sturtz saw that he had already considered this option. The sonofabitch had huddled with Palmer and forged a tag-team strategy long before this meeting.

  “Sure, that sounds good,” Gray said. “But I doubt you’ll find a team that’ll give us what we want for him.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Oh … two first-round picks.”

  “That’s absurd. No one in their right mind would…”

  Sturtz trailed off, his mouth hanging open. They know this. They know no one would agree to such a deal. “You can’t do this,” he said angrily. “You can’t. I won’t permit it.”

  “Of course we can,” Gray replied in a tone so casual he could’ve been discussing the weather. “Right, Chet?”

  “According to the contract that T. J. signed, we have tremendous latitude in what we can request if we decide to put him on the trading block.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Sturtz said unsteadily. “After everything he’s done for this team.”

  “We’ll make him plenty expensive,” Gray ploughed on. “Or we can keep him and just sit him. Since we’re not paying him much, we can find some other guy. Yes, I believe we’ve got lots of options here.”

  Of all the ruthless scumbags Barry Sturtz had dealt with in his life, from the meeting rooms of zillion-dollar sports franchises to the ruthless Bronx neighborhood of his youth, these were the only two who had succeeded in making him feel physically ill.

  “You’re just trying to create leverage for yourselves,” he countered, feeling like a dying animal on its back, flailing at its tormentors. “You know you’re ripping him off. Everyone does.” He gathered up his things and stuffed them into his shoulder bag. “And I’m still telling him to sit until he gets a new deal.”

  “Watch out, Barry,” Chet Palmer warned. “You have your reputation to think about.”

  He was right, and Sturtz knew this. But today he just didn’t feel like giving a damn. Not with these guys.

  “You need T. J. here, playing,” Sturtz told them. “Your own butt is on the line if he doesn’t. Both of you, in fact.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Gray replied.

  “That’s just what I’m going to do,” Sturtz said as he opened the door and went out.

  * * *

  Alan Gray’s office was large but not spacious, not like something on the top floor of a corporate skyscraper. And, like its occupant, it was cold and utilitarian, giving away nothing personal. A huge flat-screen TV hung on one wall with wires running to a DVD/VCR combo. There was a pile of game tapes stacked on a nearby file cabinet, each neatly labeled. A markerboard larger than the TV was attached to another wall, decorated with the X’s and O’s of some play that was still in development. The handsome walnut furniture had been chosen and delivered at the team’s expense. Notably, there were no framed family photos, no indication that the man had a life outside of here. Anyone who bothered to read the bio that had been written up for the team’s media guide knew that he had been married to a woman named Lorraine for thirty-three years, and that the couple had two daughters—Eleanor and Marilyn. Independent research by the curious revealed that Eleanor was in her second year of law school and Marilyn was a marketing major at Brown. The only time anyone had seen Lorraine in the flesh was during the first party the team threw after Gray’s hiring, but that was only for the rest of the coaching staff and select front-office personnel.

  Shortly after returning to his desk, Gray summoned two of his coaches—offensive coordinator Dale Greenwood and tight ends coach Jim O’Leary. He almost didn’t need to bother, as word of the meeting with Sturtz spread like flu in a daycare center. In fact, it would be on SportsCenter by the following morning, courtesy of a loose-tongued member of the organization that the top brass had yet to identify.

  The door was half open, but Greenwood, leading the way, still knocked.

  “Come in,” Gray said, reviewing some papers. “Take a seat.”

  Greenwood was a large figure with a round face, steel-rimmed glasses, silver hair with faint traces of its former black, and an easy smile framed by a light rosiness to his pudgy cheeks. Every article of clothing on his b
ody was flawless, from his pressed khaki shorts and team polo shirt to the fresh white socks and out-of-the-box sneakers. Holding the shorts up was a brown leather belt, and attached to it were a cell phone, a pager, and a PDA. He was never without these devices.

  O’Leary, who was Greenwood’s subordinate as well as Gray’s, was a bit more pedestrian. He also wore a collared shirt bearing the Giants’ familiar blue-and-red logo in concert with khaki shorts and sneakers. It was not at all unusual to see a great percentage of a club’s staff dressed almost identically, as if they all worked in the same fast-food restaurant. He had boyish features, spoke softly, and was notably good-natured as long as the boys under his tutelage were performing well. His neatly cut red hair was barely noticeable under the team cap that he wore every day, which protected his fair Irish skin from the brutal New Jersey sun.

  The two men took their seats on the other side of the desk. Gray went on reading for a few seconds, then looked up and, without any transition, said, “You both need to know that I just told Barry Sturtz I was going to sit T. J. Brookman this season.”

  Dale Greenwood felt something die inside him. “He’s the best guy I’ve got, Alan.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Gray replied, “but Sturtz wants to renegotiate his contract. He wants more money.”

  Jim O’Leary said, “But T. J. is the best tight end in the league right now, Coach. We kind of figured he’d be asking for a new contract anyway.”

  “I think it’s a bad idea for any team to continually give in to this kind of thing,” Gray responded. “He signed a contract, and we expect him to stick to it. And if that means we get him cheap, then we get him cheap. We don’t need to compromise. Besides, we’re already neck-deep in cap problems.”

  Thanks to Chet Palmer’s management blunders, was the unspoken sentiment that lingered between them.

  “So what now?” Greenwood asked.

  “Get some replacements in here, and fast.”

  “Replacements? For T. J.? No one plays like T. J.”

  Gray shrugged and picked up another piece of paper. “Then we’ll have to make some changes to our system.”