Chapter 3: Broken Plays
Scott Rigot blinked against the fluorescent glare of his office as consciousness returned in flickers. His ribs ached. His head throbbed. A thin trickle of dried blood crusted at the edge of his ear. He was no longer in the abandoned hotel off Peachtree.
He was in a locker room.
More specifically—the Kentucky locker room.
“Welcome back, sunshine,” came a voice from the doorway.
Rigot turned his head, slowly. A trainer stood there with a raised eyebrow, a bag of ice in one hand and a power bar in the other.
“You passed out in the tunnel last night,” the trainer said. “Looked like you got hit by a freight train. Tubby said to check on you, then left for team film.”
Rigot tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.
“You missed the second half,” the trainer added. “Cats pulled it out by two. Tubby looked ready to throw a chair when he realized you weren’t on the bench.”
Rigot nodded faintly. Of course they’d won. Of course Tubby noticed.
But how the hell had he gotten back here?
His memory was splintered: the hallway, the flash of the gun, Vukovic’s cold eyes… and then—
Nothing.
The duffel bag. Orlov. Gone.
He pushed himself up, ignoring the trainer’s protests. He was still wearing his Kentucky jacket. Inside, in the hidden stitched seam of the interior lining, the envelope from Langley was gone.
But something else was there—a business card, unmarked, with a smudge of blood on the corner.
On the back, a single sentence, handwritten in a bold, deliberate script:
“You owe me. –D.V.”
Rigot’s heart dropped. Vukovic hadn’t killed him. Which meant he wanted him alive.
And that meant something far worse.
Rigot stood on shaky legs, muttered a thank you to the trainer, and walked out of the locker room just as Tubby rounded the corner.
The look on his face said everything.
"Tell me you were scouting that damn Croatian, Scott."
Rigot forced a smile. "Zagreb was a bust. But I’ve got a lead on another kid—six-ten, Serbian, moves like a guard."
Tubby didn’t blink. “Another lead? You’ve had a dozen of those. What are we even doing here, Scott? You’re supposed to be my international guy, but you vanish every time we’ve got something important going on.”
“I’m close, Coach. Just a little more time.”
Tubby shook his head. “We’re playing Mississippi State tomorrow. If you’re not on that bench, don’t bother flying home.”
Rigot nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Tubby stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
Rigot waited until the hallway was empty before sliding the card back into his jacket.
He didn’t know what Vukovic wanted.
But whatever it was, he had no choice now.
The scoreboard at the Georgia Dome had declared a Wildcat victory.
But Rigot?
He’d just lost another game entirely.
We really do have some fake, obnoxious fans (not that I’m not accusing anybody on this board of that).
