Page 31 of 40-Yard Line

“She left. She took the kids and went to her parents in Boston. Said she couldn’t take my mood swings any longer.” He sat down, gripping his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth. “I’m tired of the headaches. I’m tired.”

“I know,” said Trevon, sitting beside him. He gripped his forearm, squeezing it as he looked at his teammate. “Get your things and come with us, Petey. Please.”

The big man nodded at his friend, standing and stretching. Ghost stared at his wide, heavy body, his eyes traveling up toward the oddly shaped bone at his shoulder.

“Is your collarbone broken?” he asked.

“Docs said no, but it sure as fuck hurts like it is,” he said.

“Son, it’s broken. I can see it popped up like a tent. Did they inject it?” He nodded, holding up three fingers.

“Gave me a shot directly into it and then two shots for pain. Gave me some pain meds as well.” He saw the looks of concern on the faces of the men. Shaking his head, he stood and walked down the hallway.

“Need some help?” asked Trevon.

“No, man. I got this. Trevon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming,” he said, nodding at his friend. Trevon smiled at him, nodding.

“Is that unusual?” whispered Ghost. “Do they often cover up injuries like that?”

“All the damn time,” said Trevon. “You have to be willing to shake the trees to get them to give you the right treatments. It’s all a set-up, isn’t it? You can’t play if you’re injured, but if you’re injured, she can let you go.”

“Hey, is he okay back there?” asked Gaspar.

“Petey? Petey, you okay?” asked Trevon, walking down the hall.

The next sound was not something any of them were prepared for. Not one of them. It was the sound of a gun. One single shot from a gun.

“No,” whispered Trevon. “No!”

“Son! No, don’t go back there,” said Ghost. He tried to hold Trevon back, but it was like trying to stop a bus. He plowed through him, knocking him to the floor. “Damn.”

Gaspar followed him, standing behind him in the bedroom. It was a stark room. Only the bed and a few items of clothing on the floor. Slumped against the wall was Petey Rossi with a .45 caliber pistol in his hand and a bullet wound through his heart.

“No,” whispered Trevon. “No.” He looked down at Petey’s left hand and noticed a sheet of paper below it.

Stop her T. For all of us.

It was hours before Felix and his team took the body and promised to do a thorough autopsy on Petey Rossi. Trevon notified his wife, Debra, and the police would be calling on the team to notify them. But by six o’clock, his suicide would be all over the news, connected directly to that of Butch Cavet’s.

“I’m sorry, Trevon,” said Ghost.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” he said with a sad smirk.

“I won’t lie. It hurt like a bitch and pissed me off,” grinned Ghost, “but I would have done the same damn thing. We’ll find out what is going on, Trevon. I promise, son.”

“Thank you, sir. Can we go home now?” Ghost and Gaspar smiled at the young man, giving a quick nod.

“Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The news of Petey Rossi’s suicide was all over the news that evening. His autopsy would take at least a week, possibly longer, but the news was already reporting the death could have been related to a recent injury, drug use, or even concussions. Every reporter commented that Glenda Pinken was under a microscope.

“Trevon? You okay, baby?” asked Claudette, giving him a big hug.

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