Matt Pentz

The blood felt warm on his hands.

The preparation room assaulted the senses immediately.

Christmastime in Katy, Texas, in the 1996th year since the event that inspired it.

The betrayal was consummated at an I-70 rest stop west of Wheeling, as a bitter wind swept off the flatlands of Eastern Ohio.

The quarterback laid flat on his back, legs straddling the warped wooden bench. These two weeks of solitude had been paradise. He felt refreshed, mind alert, ready to throw down at any obstacle that dared step in his path.

His satin sheets had turned into restraints, silky, scarlet boa constrictors that bound him more tightly the greater the struggle.

The moment unfolded in super slow-motion, seconds drawn out so long you could physically sense the wheels of momentum creaking to a stop and beginning to churn the opposite way.

His birth was an ignoble one, a pitiful, stumbling entrance onto life’s stage.

The army was pouring eastward, high-stepping soldiers in lock step, the thunderous hooves of the cavalry kicking up dust. Eastward, through the lush, rolling hills of Southern Ohio into the ear-popping elevation changes of the Appalachians. Eastward, where the Purple Hoard awaited.

“… Chad?” The assistant whispered as she edged open the cracked door.