You hauled your suitcase off the belt, the wheels clicking over the tile floor as you followed the signs for ground transportation. The automatic doors slid open, releasing a wall of humid Ohio summer air. It was a different heat than Louisiana’s—heavier, less forgiving.

He popped the trunk. You hefted your bag inside, the solid thump of the closure feeling final. You slid into the passenger seat. The air conditioning was on full blast, a welcome shock.

He didn’t wait for an answer, already merging onto the highway that would take you north, away from the city and toward the suburban sprawl where the team’s brass and many of its players lived.

He drove with the focused intensity of a man running a two-minute drill, hands at ten and two, eyes constantly scanning mirrors. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of tires on asphalt.

He snorted, a short, humorless sound.

The skyline of Cincinnati receded in the rearview mirror, replaced by exits for shopping centers and corporate parks. He took an off-ramp, navigating a series of winding roads lined with mature trees and large, set-back houses.

He turned into a driveway of a sizable two-story brick colonial. The lawn was impeccably green. It looked like a stock photo for “Successful NFL Coach’s Residence.” He killed the engine.

He got out, grabbing your suitcase from the trunk before you could protest. He headed for the front door, keys jangling.

He unlocked the door, pushing it open into a cool, dark foyer. The house smelled of new paint and fresh carpet.