Rough Trade

been given the choice of working his aggression out on the gridiron or in juvenile hall. I had no idea whether the story was true. He played second string in college, spent an undistinguished season in the pros, and immediately went into coaching, landing a spot as an assistant to Joe Patemo in his first year at Penn State.
    After three years at Penn State, Bennato returned to Texas and landed his first head coaching job. Apparently his fiery temper served him well, and after ten years as a head coach he had two national championships under his belt and a reputation for fashioning winning teams out of losers. Celebrated for his ability to turn green young men into effective gladiators as well as for giving rich boosters something to open up their wallets for, by all accounts he was on top of the world.
    Then a second-string quarterback said something Bennato didn’t like, and Bennato grabbed him by the throat, an action that was only remarkable for the fact that it was captured on national TV. The very same people who stood up and cheered when the players knocked each other down and ground their opponents’ faces into the mud recoiled in horror at this display of violence. The boy’s family sued. The university, eager to avoid the publicity of a trial, pressured Bennato to avoid the courtroom at any cost. The ensuing settlement forced him into bankruptcy while the scandal sent him into obscurity—which is where he remained until four years later when Beau Rendell offered him a coaching job.
    “Who are you?” demanded Bennato, setting down his glass and apparently realizing for the first time that he was not alone in Beau Rendell’s kitchen.
    “Kate Millholland,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m a friend of Chrissy and Jeff’s.”
    “Tony Bennato,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a rough tug. “If you’re a friend of Chrissy’s, then maybe you should be the one to go upstairs and give her this,” he continued, pulling out a business envelope bearing the Monarchs logo and handing it to me.
    “What is it?” I demanded, lifting the flap and looking inside. It was full of small white tablets, dozens of them.
    “Sleeping pills. The team doctor wants Jeff to take two of them now. The rest are for later.”
    “He doesn’t need them,” I said, handing the envelope back to the coach.
    “You don’t understand—” protested Bennato, refusing to take them back.
    “Yes, I do,” I cut in. “Sleeping won’t help anything.” I knew what I was talking about. If I’d taken every sleeping pill that was pushed on me after Russell died, I would have been out longer than Sleeping Beauty.
    “You’re not listening to me,” protested Coach impatiently. “He has to take them.”
    “He’ll be fine now that he’s with Chrissy.”
    “I’m not concerned about whether he’s fine or not,” snapped Bennato. “The cops are going to be here pretty soon, and when they show up, I think it’ll be better for everybody if Jeff’s sound asleep.”
    “Why do you say that?” I demanded, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
    “Let’s just say that things got a little out of hand at the stadium.”
    “In what way?”
    “I was in the front office when they found him. Beau said he wanted to see me about something so I left practice and went upstairs. When I got there the security guard had just found him.”
    “Where was he?”
    “Lying at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his office. I guess the guard was making his normal rounds and literally stumbled upon him lying in the dark on the D concourse.”
    “Dead?”
    “Probably, but there was no way of knowing at the time! The security guard called the paramedics and I went and got the team doctor out of the training room.”
    “Where was Jeff?”
    “At first we couldn’t find him. We turned the place inside out, looking for him. It turns out he was in the john washing his hands.”
    “So when did things get out of hand?” I asked.
    “When we told him about what had happened to his father.”
    “Why? How did he take it?”
    “He went berserk,” replied Bennato with no attempt to conceal his distaste.
    “What do you mean?”
    “He ran downstairs to where the paramedics were working on Beau, yanked them off of him, and shoved them aside. Then he grabbed his father by the front of his shirt and started shaking him.”
    “Maybe he was trying to revive him,” I suggested.
    “I don’t think so,” replied Bennato, taking another sip