Blackout by Jason Elam, Steve Yohn Read Free Book Online

excuses to go to war and slaughter innocents. Yet others have found reasons to go and tend to the wounded and dying that were left behind by the first group.
    Putting the book back on the shelf, he thought, I guess while there are huge theological differences between Islam and Christianity, there isn’t necessarily that much difference in the people.
    I mean, look at Khadi. She is one of the best people I know, and she is a good Muslim. At that thought, sadness came over Riley. Unfortunately, being good is not enough. And believing in something false is also not enough, no matter how passionate your faith.
    As he finished getting dressed, Riley prayed for Khadi as he often did throughout the day. He also prayed for Tony Hawker, and he even forced himself to pray for Zerin.
    Just before reaching amen , Riley’s prayer was interrupted by a voice. “Covington!”
    Turning, he saw Zerin walking by on the other side of the locker room. Suddenly, he underhanded something at Riley. Instinctively, Riley reached out his hand and caught the item—a mini bottle of Gatorade. He was so stunned that he didn’t look back up to say thanks until Zerin had already walked out the door.
    Dropping to the bench in front of his locker, Riley began laughing. He twisted the cap off the bottle and chugged the drink in one pass. Wow, maybe things are starting to look up. He put the cap back on and launched the bottle with an NBA-quality flip of his wrist. The empty sailed across the room, hit the rim of a trash barrel, and bounced to the ground.
    â€œMissed it by that much,” Riley said, getting up to retrieve the bottle. But before he had a chance to collect it, defensive coordinator T. J. Ceravolo walked up and lifted it off the ground.
    â€œThanks, Coach. I think we need to put a backboard on that barrel,” Riley said, laughing. However, his mood quickly changed when he saw the look on Ceravolo’s normally friendly face.
    â€œCoach Burton needs to talk to you, Riley—ASAP.”
    â€œOf course. What’s up?”
    â€œJust get up there,” Ceravolo said, not looking Riley in the eyes.
    â€œSure, Coach,” Riley answered, his anxiety level starting to rise.
    As he traveled down the halls of the training center, his mind raced. A player never got called to the coach’s office for good news. Typically, it meant you were leaving the team for one reason or another—suspension, cut, or trade. But none of those options made sense to Riley.
    He hadn’t done anything suspension-worthy—although his brain rapidly processed through every supplement and pain remedy he’d ingested over the past six months. He couldn’t imagine getting cut, unless it was because he was becoming too dangerous to have around. And the thought of trading him, when the off-season talk had all been about designating him the franchise player, made absolutely no sense.
    Franchise player—that’s it! The July 15 deadline is only days away. These bums are going to go through with franchising me!
    Up until recently, the Mustangs had been telling Riley that he was their franchise player. But for some reason, they had been holding off on making the final decision. The coaches had told him it was a done deal, his agent had told him it was a done deal, but Riley kept on holding out hope that it would fall through. It’s not that he wanted to leave the team. Far from it—he couldn’t imagine playing anywhere else. But while being franchised offered a player job security, it stunk in the financial department. Between salary and signing bonus, a “franchise player” designation could cost him upwards of seven million dollars this year.
    â€œBut now they’re going to do it,” Riley grumbled under his breath as he opened the door to the coach’s reception area. I guess I should have expected it.
    Karen Watkins, the same secretary Coach had had since coming to the team years