The Seahawks’ locker room had the feel of a morgue ten minutes before the toe met the leather. Steam curled off the showers like cigarette smoke in a bad dream, and every man in uniform wore the same long face. The word had come down that morning like a body off a bridge: Glenn Simon, their All-Star wide receiver, had been pancaked in a freak Zamboni mishap. One minute he was the king of the end zone, the next he was a smear on the ice. Morale went with him.
Coach Mike Macdonald paced the tile like a priest with no faith left. He tried to sell hope the way a bookie sells sure things. “I know you think nobody replaces Glenn,” he said, voice echoing off the lockers. “But I know one guy who can.”
That’s when they noticed the stranger. Quiet. Small. Already pulling on pads at Simon’s locker like he owned the place. Fawn-colored fur. Short legs. Cold eyes that had seen worse things than a fourth quarter blitz. Boris Pug.
The room went dead silent until quarterback Sam Darnold let out a laugh sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he sneered. “Simon was a stone-cold killer. That mutt’ll be a grease spot before the—”
He never finished. Boris moved. One second he was a dog in a jersey, the next he had Darnold folded up in a ninja death grip that looked like it had been outlawed in three countries. The air left the quarterback’s lungs in a wet cough. Boris eased off just before the man’s windpipe gave up the ghost and let him crumple to the floor like a losing hand.
“I was trained by the Korean Dark Lords of Justice,” Boris said softly, straightening his pads. “I think I can handle your little game.”
Nobody said a word after that. Boris went back to suiting up. The players exchanged looks—slow smiles creeping in, the kind gamblers wear when they realize the deck is stacked and the house is about to go broke.