Chapter 10

Soon, Free Quinn NovakT-shirts, mugs, banners, and parties began cropping up around New York. Others tweeted, Instagram-ed, Facebook-ed, blogged, and—oh, yes—wrote about him, or Brenna writing about him. He became a cause célèbre even among those who knew nothing of football.

It wasn’t the kind of fame he wanted—to be known for who he was rather than what he did. But he could hardly complain when the perks and endorsements that came his way helped others, including the orphans back in Indonesia. Then came the backlash.

“I want that bitch muzzled,” he overheard Smalley say to two men in one of the “catacombs”—the yellow-green and blue cinder-block tunnels that snaked through the bowels of the stadium. “I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

Alarmed, Quinn texted her.

Don’t worry (lol), she texted back. I can take care of myself