Paul Levine - Paydirt

"Why? So you can win the bet?"

Before they could answer, a gasp when up from the crowd. The two men turned to see Stringer rolling out to his right and firing down the sideline to a wide-open receiver who had caught the secondary playing up for the run. The pass was complete at Denver's thirty-seven where the receiver stepped out of bounds. The clock stopped with thirty-one seconds left.

"Way to go!" Kingsley yelled.

"It's not the bet," Bobby said. "I want to preserve the institution of football."

"You hypocrite! You're the one-"

They were interrupted by a second roar from the crowd. After faking a handoff to the fullback, Stringer dropped back and tossed a short pass over the middle. The tight end grabbed it, broke two tackles, then dragged a defensive back to the sixteen-yard line. Now, crazily, both teams attempted to call time out. Denver had to stop the clock in order to have enough time to score if they ever got the ball back; Dallas needed to stop it to have a chance for a field goal. The referee decided Denver had signaled first and ordered the time out charged to the defense. Nineteen seconds left.

"You tried to sabotage my team, you bastard," Kingsley said.

"I shouldn't have done it," Bobby admitted. "I shouldn't have become just like you. But now, you've won the game fair and square, so be happy about it."

"Screw you! All you care about is the bet."

"I care about the game. Don't destroy it. Too many institutions have been ruined. We don't trust the White House or Congress or the media or even our churches. Let us have something to believe in. Let us have football."

"You can have it on my terms," Kingsley snarled.

Time was back in, and now Stringer used a quick count and a two step drop before snaking a pass toward the end zone. The wide receiver on the right side was running a post pattern, streaking straight down the field, then cutting hard left to his left. He broke open just beyond the goal line, and Stringer's pass hit him squarely in the hands, but the ball squirted out like a wet bar of soap and fell harmlessly to the ground. Kingsley let out a groan as if he'd been knifed in the gut.

"Eleven seconds left," he said, shooting a look a the stopped clock. "I don't want to risk a sack or turnover. "Turning toward the bench, he waved his arms and yelled, "Field goal unit, get your asses in there!" Turning back to Bobby, he said, "Thirty-three yards. This is a chip shot for Boom Boom."

"It's crazy, Martin. Run out the clock. This will ruin you."

"Fuck you," Kingsley said, "and the horse you rode in on."

As Stringer broke the huddle and took his position with one knee on the ground seven yards and change behind the center, another gasp went up from the crowd, but this time it had nothing to do with the play selection. As Stringer barked the signals, a spotted horse with a rider dressed in flowing black silk and a black mask galloped onto the field, headed straight for the kneeling quarterback.

Zorro, Christine thought.

I look like Zorro.

Her senses took in everything as the horse broke from the tunnel. The first two security guards let her pass, probably figuring she was part of the post-game festivities. A uniformed Miami-Dade cop wasn't so sure. "Whoa there!" he ordered. But Christine tugged at the reins and guided the bogus Temptation around him. The horse whipped its mane, which cracked like a rug snapped into the wind, then leapt over the Mustangs' bench, knocking over a table of Gatorade and scattering the players who stood at the sideline, ready to celebrate the victory that was already assured.

She noticed the strange sound coming from the stands, a communal catching of breath, a soft whooshing wind that turned to laughter and cheers as the horse galloped past the line judge and directly toward the twenty-two men on the field. As she closed on them, the crowd suddenly grew silent, as if someone had turned off the TV set, and she could hear the horse's breathing and the clomp of its hooves on the grass.

Craig Stringer looked up then as the horse bore down on him, looked up from his kneeling position, and through his face mask, his face appeared to freeze, his mouth open, his eyes wide in terror. Then his features seemed to melt, like a block of ice perched close to a flame. Christine tugged hard on the reins, and the horse halted, reared on its hind legs and whinnied, the sound as accusatory as a lover's lament, the cry crawling up Christine's spine like a saw blade shrieking against iron. The horse, she thought, sounded just like Temptation.

Stringer emitted a high-pitched scream, then ducked and covering his helmet with both hands, as if the horse would crush him with its striped hooves.

Suddenly, Christine was aware of a piercing whistle. The referee ran toward her, followed by several uniformed police. She dug her heels into the horse and headed for the end zone. None of the policemen made a move to block the path of fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh, and she flew out the stadium exit, streaking toward the horse van at the far end of the parking lot.

What in the name of jumping Jesus Christ is going on!" Martin Kingsley fumed.

"All those years of horse riding lessons just paid off," Bobby said.

"The hell does that mean?"

"Nobody ever listens to me," Bobby said, shaking his head. At first, he was angry. He had told Chrissy not to mess with the game. To Chrissy, he thought, there was something larger at play.

This was the ultimate act of rebellion against her father.

The referee signaled timeout, then jogged from sideline to sideline to confer with the head coaches. The clock still showed eleven seconds remaining and wouldn't start again until the ball was snapped. Stringer removed his helmet and trotted straight for Kingsley.

"I don't think we should go for the points, Mr. K.," he said. He was as pale as the papers his lawyers filed against the insurance company for the dead horses, Bobby thought.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It doesn't seem right. I mean, the game's won."

"Not my game! Now, get the hell back in there and give him a good hold. Boom Boom can make this one in his sleep."

Stringer pulled his helmet back on and trotted back toward Dallas huddle.

Kingsley turned angrily to Bobby. "Goddammit! You were behind this, weren't you? This was some cheap stunt to throw off Boom Boom, wasn't it?"

"No. We were going to sacrifice a live goat at midfield to get to Boom Boom."

"I knew it! Well, tough luck, because he'll still make the kick. A 33-yarder is a gimme for that little cricket."

Bobby watched Stringer as the Mustangs came out of their huddle. Usually, the quarterback would just move to his spot, drop into the knee-down stance, and call the signals. But now, he was looking around the stadium, his eyes stopping on the end zone where Christine and steed had disappeared into the tunnel. Was he worried the horse would come back? Or maybe a stampede of the other horses he burned to death. What fiery winds were blowing through his mind?

"Christ, Stringer, get into your stance!" Kingsley yelled.

The quarterback did it then, hurrying to the spot, dropping to one knee. In the entire stadium, Bobby thought, there might be three or four among the multitudes who took note of what he saw. The Dallas special teams coach would have noticed and maybe the assistant coaches in the press box working the phones to the bench. Boom Boom would have seen it, but it was too late to do anything about it because Stringer was already barking signals.

Stringer had lined up a yard short!

Boom Boom had marked the spot for him, walking back eight yards from the spot of the ball, then toeing the ground a foot inches in front of that. Seven yards, two feet, the precise distance. But Stringer was a yard closer to the line of scrimmage.