Sunday, September 11, 12:40 p.m. EDT

Cleveland, Ohio

“Okay, Riley, now tell me how you’re feeling right now—I mean, really feeling.”

“Angry.”

“Good, good. Now, try putting that into a sentence. Like, ‘I’m really feeling angry right now because . . .’ You know, then you can fill in the blank with whatever. Just remember to make it real, make it raw! Go!”

Riley stared at the producer—Narbinger? Narvinger? Novinger—that’s it, Mike Novinger—trying to keep control. Come on, watch what you say! Don’t forget you’ve got a mic on! Think about it before you open your mouth! WWJD, buddy!

Typically, with a little bit of mental reasoning and a few deep breaths, Riley was able to maintain a solid handle on his words and actions. Unfortunately, this time his inner monologue didn’t quite have the desired effect on his outer response.

Slowly standing from his bench in the Cleveland Bulldogs’ visitors’ locker room, he leaned into Novinger’s personal space. He could feel his face reddening, and he fought to control the volume of his words. “You want to know what I’m feeling? Really? Then how’s this? I’m really feeling angry right now because I’ve had a camera in my face since 7:30 this morning!”

“But that’s just part of—” the producer sputtered.

“And . . . I’m really, really feeling angry right now because some obnoxious little Chris Berman wannabe keeps asking me every five minutes what I’m feeling and why it is that I’m feeling the way I’m feeling! Comprende? That clear enough for you?”

“Sure, Riley,” Novinger stammered. “You know, I don’t mean to be such a pain. I’m just trying to do my job the best I know how.”

Riley sighed deeply and looked toward the ground. It was true that, ultimately, this guy wasn’t to blame. Instead, his anger should be directed toward the owner, Rick Bellefeuille. He was the one who contacted HBO and offered up the ultimate subject for their new PFL series, Sunday Warriors.

He could imagine Bellefeuille’s pitch: “Who better to follow around the entire day of the game with three cameras, multiple mics, and a producer/sports psychologist who could really get into the mind of the player than the ultimate Sunday Warrior—Captain America himself, Riley Covington?”

Great plan, Bellefeuille, and if you get your team a little more publicity and yourself some extra spending cash in the bargain, well then that’s just bully for everyone around. Everyone except for the zoo animal you’re putting on exhibit!

Lifting his head so that his mouth was right next to Novinger’s ear, Riley put his hand around the back of the man’s head and said, “Listen, I know you’re only doing your job. It’s just that I don’t like your job. And I don’t like that I’ve been forced to be part of your job. So I’ll tell you what: I’m going to go hit the head. While I’m gone, I’ll see if I can get myself back into the ‘It’s okay, Riley, you’re only going to be exploited for one day’ frame of mind. Deal?”

“Sure, Riley. It’s a deal.”

Riley could feel his hand dampening with the man’s perspiration. He started to let go, but then clamped his hand tighter. “One more thing. I’d consider it a great favor if you muted my mic for the next five minutes. Some things are just personal, and if anything like that made it into your little show, well, let’s just say you’ve read my bio—you don’t want to have Captain America out gunning for you, do you?”

“Of course not. I mean, of course so,” Novinger grunted as Riley gave his neck a final squeeze. “I mean, no problem; we’ll mute the mic.”

Riley released the man, then walked past two of the cameramen. As he did, he heard Novinger whisper, “Did you get all that?”

He turned his head in time to see one of the boom mic operators holding a thumb up. “Frickin’ awesome,” the operator whispered back.

Shaking his head, Riley continued onto the sticky tiles of the bathroom and shower area. Immediately, the stench hit him—a miasma of odors emanating from years of opponents’ nervous stomachs combining with this week’s new offerings.

Swallowing back a gag, Riley found an empty stall and closed the door behind him. Thankfully, he didn’t really have to go—the thought of any part of his anatomy actually coming into contact with that chipped, semi-whitish fixture caused another wave of revulsion. He was just looking for a place to get away for a few moments, and this was the one place he hoped he could get at least a semblance of privacy.

Well done, he chided himself. You lost your cool and gave them exactly what they wanted. He punched the metal divider with his taped and gloved hand, rattling the whole rickety stall system and causing groans of protest from a few of the players who were leaning against it trying to regain their composure.

“Sorry, guys,” Riley called out. Then the picture flashed in his mind of all these huge, tough guys sprawled on this disgusting floor leaning against these just-as-disgusting dividers, and he began to laugh. It started small but quickly grew. Soon he had tears pouring out his eyes, and he was having a hard time standing up.

Meanwhile, the door slammed on the stall next to him, and someone noisily barked out the contents of his stomach. This sent Riley over the edge, and he dropped onto the seat of the toilet.

“It ain’t funny, Pach,” a voice grumbled from next door.

“Sure it is, Panda,” Riley answered merrily, recognizing the voice. “Every week, you sound like you’re giving birth to a baby through your esophagus.”

“Bite me,” Panda answered, starting to laugh himself. “By the way, this week it’s a boy.”

Five minutes later, Riley emerged from the bathroom. He and Panda had gone back and forth about the newly arrived baby, covering topics from his name to his skin tone to his future college education.

The protests from the other stalls finally shut them up, and they quietly stepped from their stalls. It was a respect thing. Each player got ready for a game in his own way. The one element that was typically honored by all was quietness. The two apologized to their teammates, then snickered on their way out.

Riley arrived back at his locker and the waiting crew. But not before deciding that he was taking himself way too seriously. His pride was getting in the way again—an affliction that he constantly found himself battling. It wasn’t easy keeping a small head when there seemed to be a television, newspaper, or magazine story every other day that talked about how he was America’s hero and the greatest thing since frozen waffles.

The worst thing he could do would be to start believing his own press. Chasing down glory eventually turned into a losing proposition—it always did. Ultimately, why should he care what people thought of him? Whose affirmation was he trying to gain, after all?

He remembered the apostle Paul writing, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” So his life wasn’t really about himself anyway. Just be yourself and try to show Jesus in how you’re living. Beyond that, who really gives a flying flip?

As he sat down at his locker prepared to apologize to Novinger, he could see that the producer had tears in his downturned eyes and was desperately trying to suppress a grin. Riley looked around and saw that the rest of the crew were in various failing stages of laughter suppression.

“So I’m assuming you didn’t mute the mic,” Riley said to Novinger, causing a brief snigger from two of the cameramen.

The producer tried a couple of times to answer, but each time ended up looking at the bench again—his shoulders silently bouncing up and down.

Riley could see that they were beginning to attract attention, which could mean trouble. He was about to tell Novinger that he and his crew better cool it, when he saw defensive coordinator Mick Fields come stomping through the locker room.

Too late.

“What’s the matter with you people? Are you a bunch of amateurs? Aren’t you supposed to be from HBO, the big leagues? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a team here trying to get ready for a PFL game—that’s the Professional Football League, the big show—and you’re all here tittering like a bunch of schoolgirls reading a Tiger Beat magazine! Well, I’m not having it! Get out of my locker room—all of you!”

Novinger began to pull out a piece of paper from his back pocket. “But we’ve got permission from Mr. Bellefeuille to—”

“Save it! I don’t care if you’ve got a signed affidavit from the Almighty executed by seven flaming archangels; I won’t have you disturbing my locker room. Now get out! You can catch up with Mr. Superstar on the field!”

As the crew gathered up their equipment and headed toward the doors, the crimson-faced coach swung around to Riley. “And you—don’t think I won’t throw you out with them!”

“Sorry,” Riley said sheepishly. “My bad. Seriously, Coach Fields, it won’t happen again.”

Fields glared at him for a time. Seeing the sorry look on Riley’s face mollified him somewhat. Grunting, he turned to go.

“Oh, Coach, one more thing,” Riley called after a few steps. Fields stopped and slowly turned, fire in his eyes. “If you happen to see a little kid named Ralph back in the bathrooms, would you mind sending him my way?”

Originating from just beyond the doors of the locker room, the sound of the HBO crew completely losing it echoed through the tunnels of the stadium.