Passing by vehicle after vehicle, he could feel the deep bass from the Hummers’ sound systems rattling his insides. Lord, please blow my limo’s speakers before I get there. Suddenly, something caught his ear. What in the world is that? Opera?

A center window in the behemoth next to him slid down, and Sal Ricci stuck his head out with a big grin.

Anticipating Riley’s question, Ricci said, “It’s Andrea Bocelli-my gift from the boys for getting offensive player of the week.” Ricci had been awarded that title after last Sunday’s game against the Pittsburgh Miners in which he had racked up 178 yards receiving and caught 2 touchdown passes, one for 85 yards.

“You must be loving that.”

“Well, not exactly.” Ricci leaned back from the window so that Riley could look in. Toward the back of the limo, a trio of wide receivers was doing an impersonation of the Three Tenors-singing into bottles of Michelob. Judging by the number of empties on the floor of the vehicle, these weren’t their first microphones, and this wasn’t their first song. While they sang with great passion, their goal seemed to be focused more on volume than pitch. Riley grimaced.

“And check out Watkins,” Ricci said, jabbing his thumb toward the opposite side of the limo by the bar. Jerrod Watkins, fifth-year tight end out of Central Michigan, was swaying back and forth while making some very strange noises with his mouth and hands. “He calls it operatic beat box.”

“I didn’t know that was possible.”

“It’s not. I do believe it’s going to be a long ride to Del Frisco’s.”

Laughing, Riley pulled himself back out of the window and made his way down to his position’s limo.

“What’s up, Jacks?” he said to Garrett Widnall as he stepped through the door. Widnall’s nickname was one of the team’s more obscure ones, finding its origin in the Humboldt State mascot.

The rookie climbed in after him. “Hey, Pach. Pretty sweet limo, huh?” Widnall shouted. Evidently Riley’s prayer about the blown speakers had gone unheeded.

“Yeah… uh, pretty sweet.” As Riley looked around, his impression was less of twenty-first-century luxury than of 1970s Huggy Bear.

“And check this out! I had them stock the fridge in the bar with Diet Pepsi for you.” Widnall swung the refrigerator door open, proudly displaying its contents.

“Thanks, man. That was very-”

“You stocked it with what?” Keith Simmons interrupted, getting right in Widnall’s face. “I didn’t just hear you say Diet Pepsi, did I? Boy, don’t you know that my man Pach drinks Diet Coke? What’s the matter with you?”

Widnall turned to Riley with big, pleading eyes.

“Simm…,” Riley warned, trying to defuse the situation.

“When I want to talk to you, Pach, I’ll look at you. Now, Rook, get your little Humbone State backside in that building, and don’t come out until you find Mr. Covington some Diet Coke! Got it?”

“Sure thing, Simm,” Widnall muttered as he scrambled out of the limo.

Simmons stood up through the moon roof and called after him, “And you better hurry up, or I’m ordering three prime ribs tonight and giving two to my dog!” He fell back onto the leather seat laughing. “You see that boy run?”

Riley didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it. Everyone had been on the wrong end of rookie night before, and it was never a pleasant experience. “Just do me a favor tonight, okay? Go easy on Jacks.”

“Of course, Pach. I’ll treat him like he was my little brother. Man, I hated that punk.” Everyone in the Hummer burst out laughing.

I was right, Riley thought. It’s going to be a very long night.

Riley watched as Travis Marshall nervously folded and unfolded the thin brown straw that had come with his little four-dollar bottle of Coke. He could almost see the sixth-round offensive tackle out of William and Mary computing the tab in his head and dividing it by the dozen rookies on the team’s roster. He had received a $25,000 signing bonus back in July, but after a welcome to the wonderful world of taxes, agent fees, and a down payment on a condo in town, he was probably living paycheck to paycheck. He looked worried, as he should be. The vets were already doing some pretty heavy damage at the restaurant.

“Hey, Travis,” Riley said, tapping Marshall on the forehead. “You in there?” Riley, Ricci, and Marshall were sitting in a booth just off the main tables.

“Man, I think I better start filling some doggie bags here, because I don’t think I’ll be grocery shopping for a few weeks,” Marshall replied softly.

“Well, you know you can always raid my refrigerator anytime you need to,” Riley offered.

“I’d say the same thing,” Ricci said, “but Meg says we can’t afford you anymore. Every time you come over for an evening, she’s got to plan a trip back to Wild Oats the next day.”

Chris Gorkowski slid into the booth next to Riley, pinning him to the wall. “Hey, Marsh, you’re not going to finish that, are you?”

Before Marshall had a chance to reply, the veteran center reached over, picked up the younger man’s New York strip steak, and bit a chunk out of it the size of lower Manhattan.

“You see what happens, Sal? I warned them about letting Snap here off of his leash,” Riley said.

Gorkowski turned to Riley, gave him a full, meaty grin, and slid his enormous bulk even farther into the booth.

“Uncle!” Riley gasped.

“Marsh,” Gorkowski continued, the alcohol on his breath causing all three of the men to lean as far away as they could, “me and the boys have been missing you over at the O-line table. We think it’s time you came over and sang us a little William and Mary fight song, preferably in the voice of Mary rather than William.”

“You can’t be serious,” Marshall pleaded.

In response, Gorkowski bit off the borough of Brooklyn, dropped what little remained of the steak back onto Marshall’s plate, and said, “We’ll be waiting.”

When the center had gone, Marshall looked at the others with desperation in his eyes. “Riley, Sal, can’t you guys do something?” he begged.

Riley laughed. “Well, since the air force took away all my access to heavy artillery, I’m kind of at a loss.”

“Just go and get it over with,” Ricci said. “It’s all part of the game. You should have seen what I had to put up with. At least you came from an American university. I arrived from the Hamburg Donnerkatzen.”

“Yes, the mighty Thundercats, widely recognized as the worst club nickname in all of global sports,” Riley laughed. “You should have seen it-he’s getting all these Lion-O and Panthro and Cheetara references thrown at him, and he’s got no clue what anyone’s talking about.”

“Apparently, we Italians were not quite cultured enough to have the ThunderCats cartoon broadcast on canale cinque.”

But Riley was laughing so hard by now that he didn’t even hear Sal. “And then the singing! I think at different times throughout the evening Sal had to sing the Italian national anthem, the German national anthem, the A. C. Milan fight song, and the Hamburg Donnerkatzen theme song.”

“I didn’t realize the Donnerkatzen had a theme song,” Marshall said.

“They don’t,” Ricci responded. “I just made up a song in what the guys thought was German. It was actually mostly Italian with some ja, jas and an Ach, du lieber or two mixed in. It’s not like they would have known the difference.”

“Yeah, and it’s a good thing they didn’t have an Italian-to-English dictionary handy. From what I remember, most of the song had to do with the lineage of your fellow receivers and their various romantic attachments to barnyard animals.” Tears were streaming down Riley’s face as he fell sideways into the booth. When he finally caught his breath, he turned back to Marshall and said, “Just go and do it, Marsh. The night will be over soon enough. Besides, these guys are so smashed, they won’t remember a thing in the morning.”