From the sidelines, Mike judged it to be going about seventy miles an hour. That new second-string quarterback was good. Near the ten-yard line, Marcus Stormweather leaped off the ground like a ballet dancer. Catching the ball, he landed gracefully, turned and ran into the end zone. “It’d be a touchdown,” Mike yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Good goin’, Stormy.” From behind him, he heard mumbling. Johnny Turk, a first-round draft choice whose place on the team was still up in the air, was mouthing off again. The late-morning sun was brutal, making the day over eighty and humid. And causing tempers flare. The first week of camp was always a bitch. And Mike was just about fed up with the rookie. The kid didn’t even know how green he was. “All right, Turk, you’re next.” “‘Bout time.” Mike gripped the clipboard and pivoted to take a bite out of the Turk’s ass when he saw Tyler, Kyle, Jacelyn and Eric in the box reserved for the family of players and coaches.
