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“You’re slow,” he said calmly.

“Fuck you!” He charged him again, hoping to tackle him, but the man evaded his touch once again.

“You’re fat and slow,” said Trak.

The man couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight years old, but he’d let his desire for money overshadow his desire to be in shape and play good, clean football. When he charged Trak for a third time, he not only maneuvered out of his way but climbed his back, gripping his neck in a solid hold.

Falling to his knees, the other players watched in horror, starting to move forward.

“Uh, uh, uh,” grinned Cruz. He jammed a needle in the neck of the man, and he dropped, unable to move.

“What the fuck?” said another man. “Who are you guys?”

“Oh, we’re with the office of the Sandman, and you’ve been deemed bad boys. Taking money to blow games, allowing your team to lose,” said Jean, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Wide-eyed and now ready to run, the men shifted from one foot to another. But it was too late. The men in black put their masks on, watching as the others struggled to keep their eyes open and breathe. When the last man dropped, they opened the doors. Jean looked at the man at Trak’s feet.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“No. I wanted to, but Mama Irene told me I couldn’t. She said it was too close to Christmas, and I had to let him go.”

“Alright,” laughed Jean. “Let’s load these assholes into the truck. They’re taking a little vacation out on a barge in the middle of the bayou. Even if they were to get by the cousins, they won’t find their way home by themselves.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The morning of the game, the replacements were in the locker room early, dressed and hidden behind their helmets just in case anyone questioned who they were. The coach calmly explained that several of the defensive players had come down with a horrible virus and wouldn’t be able to play. To avoid forfeit, he’d brought in extras.

“No offense, Coach, but do they even know how to play?” asked someone.

“You wanna test me, boy?” asked Tailor. The man shook his head and took a seat.

“Where are the other coaches?” asked another man.

“Oh, they were all affected as well. I’d like you to meet the temporary coaches for this game. Nine, Gaspar, Ian, and Ghost.”

“Ghost? Nine? What kind of names are those?” said Billy Buttrell.

“I don’t know, what kind of name is Butt-rell?” The others smirked, and he blushed, nodding at the big old man. He didn’t look like someone he wanted to screw around with.

“Alright, get out on the field and start running drills,” said Coach. When the players were gone, he looked at his new coaches. “I sure as hell hope this works.”

“What the fuck is going on with my team?” came the shrill voice.

“My team,” said Coach, “is full of replacements because this shitty fucking facility has made my guys sick.”

“No. No, that can’t happen. Not today,” she said in a panic.

“What’s the matter, Glenda? Afraid the defense won’t know what to do?” asked Gaspar. She turned to stare at the strange man and looked back at the coach.

“What are you doing? What is this?”

“This is me taking control of this team and protecting my players. This is me making sure that the whole world knows what kind of woman you are. This is me finally feeling like the man that I know I am.”

She was seething. Literally, steam was coming from the top of her head. Her hands were balled in fists, and she was more than a little pissed off.

“It won’t matter,” she smirked. “None of it will matter!”

“Why? Because you think you own the referees?” asked Nine. Her face blanched, and she looked from one face to another. “Don’t worry, Glenda. We’re going to do the Fire proud.”

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