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ball.
    â€œThat’s the idea,” said Corndog. “It’s all about forcing the defense to make some wrong choices.”
    â€œDecent linebacker’s gonna read it, stuff the tight end easy,” said Ramp.
    â€œNot if we do it right,” said Corndog.
    â€œNot if I do it,” said Chris.
    There were some jeers and whistles at that. Ramp puckered his lips and made a sucking sound.
    They walked through a dozen plays before Coach Mac nodded at Corndog and waved over some linemen.
    â€œNo hitting, half speed,” said Corndog. “Ramp, go to middle linebacker.”
    Brody faked a handoff to Pete before firing a short pass to Chris. Nice soft hands. Ramp roared in. Chris feinted left, then spun away, leaving Ramp standing like a fool, hands out.
    Chris kept running, picking up speed down the length of the field. He cut and juked around linemen pounding the sleds, then crossed the goal line with the ball in one hand over his head. He moonwalked a few steps.
    Ramp watched him, frozen. The coaches were laughing, but Tyrell was shaking his head at Matt. You don’t make Ramp look bad. Captain Potatohead never forgets. Be a long camp for the kid.

EIGHT
    By the end of the first day, Chris was the buzz of camp. He outran everyone except the senior backs, and he lifted with the linemen. His agility through the strings was unusual for someone his size. He was good, Matt thought, but he flaunted it as if he weren’t so sure. Never walked when he could strut, never talked when he could shout. He ran drills like they were conference games, which pissed off the veterans who weren’t in shape yet.
    â€œBetter get mustard for that hot dog,” said Brody.
    Ramp laughed a little too loudly. “And some tea bags.”
    Only Boda and Hagen snickered.
    â€œThat’s over,” snapped Tyrell.
    â€œWho elected you?” said Ramp.
    â€œGot to hand it to him,” said Pete. “Puts out a hundred and ten percent.”
    â€œPuts out for you?” said Ramp, making a kissing sound.
    â€œLeast he showed up in shape,” said Tyrell, pointing to the roll of flesh overlapping Ramp’s shorts.
    â€œYou want a piece, little bro?” Ramp grabbed his crotch. “Tea for two.”
    â€œWater break,” said Matt, throwing an arm across Tyrell and steering him away.
    â€œSomeday Tyrell is gonna take a piece of that fat cracker,” said Tyrell.
    â€œC’mon, man, we’re a team,” said Brody, catching up. “Don’t let’s fight over some new kid.”
    â€œNot about him,” said Tyrell.
    At dinner that night, Chris was the only one who seemed to have any energy. Or was he faking it, making a show? Matt remembered Dad pointing out woozy boxers on TV grinning and dancing to pretend they were still dangerous. Never let them know you’re hurting. Matt watched Chris, wondering why the kid fascinated him. He was a prospect, all right, but there was something about him that made Matt uneasy.
    Everybody crashed that night. Brody didn’t even mention poker. Matt didn’t remember falling asleep, and then it was morning, and the coaches were banging cans and ringing cowbells.
    The second day, in pads, Hagen managed to drop Chris with a knee-high tackle. The kid went down hard on his shoulder. But he bounced right back up. Shook it off. Grinned. Didn’t rub.
    On the next play, Brody hit him with a little buttonhook. Chris juked Hagen and Boda out of their shoes, left them looking stupid, and almost made the goal line before Ramp ran him out of bounds. Chris spun away from Ramp’s shove and danced on the sideline. Corndog screamed at Chris to cut it out, to show some Raider class, but the other coaches were smothering laughs.
    Before lunch, Coach Mac pulled Matt aside. “Tone him down.” Like there was only one him in camp. “I don’t want to break his spirit, but he’s trying too hard.”
    â€œI’ll talk