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was losing mental ground, knew it seemed like he was headed for a sanitarium. A stronger part of him knew this wouldn’t happen. He wasn’t the type to end up in a straitjacket and a padded cell. He simply couldn’t let go of the world he loved, and this was the closest thing to it that was available to him. But it wasn’t the same—he had to get back out there. That was where salvation was waiting. Once he got back on the field, he told himself, he’d be fine. Friends who were still lucky enough to be on other teams invited him to practices, just to be there. He always declined. Even his old Panthers coach offered to let him hang around. But he couldn’t bear to watch without being a part of it.
    Eventually his agent began looking for things for him to do, things that were somehow connected to the league without putting him anywhere near the field. That was where Nolan’s charity golf tournament idea came from. It was a common kind of activity among retired pros—golf tournaments, broadcasting spots, commercials, product endorsements, collectibles shows—but Hamilton couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger on any of them. It would be a form of acceptance, a confirmation that he acknowledged the end of his playing days. It was the football equivalent of a rock band taking a gig in Vegas—the best days had come and gone, and now it was time to reflect and remember. He just couldn’t do that yet.
    There was another problem as well.
    *   *   *
    He sat on the couch in shorts and a crewneck and watched a tape of his third game with the Panthers. It was a 24–21 overtime win against the Cardinals in which he was responsible for a crucial two-point conversion in the closing seconds of regulation. Without it, they would’ve walked out of Sun Devil Stadium with a 19–21 loss and 1–2 record. It was the first time the team hung all its hopes on his shoulders, and he rose to the occasion. It also supercharged the team’s confidence and led them to eight more victories in the following nine contests. They would make the playoffs that year but fall to the 49ers in the second round. Still, what an amazing ride that first season had been.
    For the average NFL player, watching a game tape meant seeing a lot more than what was on the screen. Jermaine remembered conversations he’d had with guys in the huddle, jokes on the sideline, and the coach’s halftime speech when they were behind. He remembered he ate sushi for lunch that day, then threw it all up shortly before taking the field. He also recalled some quick words of encouragement from a guy on the team he really never got to know that well, a defensive back named Charles Edwards. Edwards, normally quiet and distant from his teammates, clapped him on the shoulders and said, “Relax, rookie, you’ve been doing good.” Although Hamilton exchanged only two or three more sentences with Edwards the rest of that season, he felt deeply saddened when the guy died the following March after his SUV slid off an icy road, sailed silently through the air for about fifty feet, then slammed into an oak tree, snapping his neck and killing him instantly.
    Melanie came into the room. She was a small and strikingly beautiful woman of thirty-four, dressed in a tight black skirt that stopped well before the knees and a matching camisole that was stretched almost to the breaking point. A tiny corduroy jacket did little to hide her considerable cleavage, but then it wasn’t supposed to. Dark stockings and three-inch heels rounded out the ensemble, plus a Prada handbag and a pair of diamond earrings.
    â€œI’m going,” she said simply.
    Hamilton turned, took in his wife’s formidable appearance, and muted the TV. “Please don’t.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Jermaine.”
    Summoning all his strength, he said, “Where will you be?”
    â€œCarly’s.”
    He