Football Champ (3 page)

“
WHAT DO YOU MEAN
,
no football practice?” Tate asked on Monday, pounding a fist on the lunch table and glaring at Troy with her big brown eyes. “This is the
playoffs
, the semifinals. We win Saturday and we go to the
state championship
. We have to practice.”

Troy stuffed the rest of his ham sandwich into his mouth, chewed, and said, “My mom called the office, and we have to meet with Mr. Langan at seven o’clock tonight. Me, my mom, and Seth, too. It’s important,” Troy added, thinking about the ten thousand dollars a week the team was supposed to pay him, Seth’s career, and his mom’s job.

“Well, we can’t have practice without our star quarterback and our head coach,” Nathan said, filling his
own mouth with Doritos and crunching loudly. Nathan was the biggest kid in Troy’s grade and the anchor of the Duluth Tigers’ line. Troy and Tate also played for the junior league team.

Jamie Renfro, a tall boy with dark curly hair, stopped behind Nathan with a lunch tray in his hands.

“
Star
quarterback?” Jamie said with a mean smile. “You guys are a joke. You got lucky just to be
in
the playoffs, and even luckier to steal a couple games, but your luck just ran out. The Dunwoody Dragons are going to eat you for a snack on Saturday.”

“Snack on this,” Nathan said, opening his mouth to reveal a smelly glob of chewed-up Doritos, letting it fall into his open palm, and offering it up to Jamie.

Jamie’s eyes went wide and he retched like he might throw up.

“You’re sick,” Jamie said, walking away with a hand on his stomach.

“He’s just jealous,” Tate said, watching Jamie go, “but you are kind of sick.”

“So? His dad shouldn’t have quit as our coach before the last regular-season game,” Nathan said as the glob slipped from his hand and plopped to the floor.

“Gross,” Tate said.

Nathan’s eyes went wide. He ran a hand over the stubble of his crew cut, scooped up the blob, and popped it back into his mouth with the rest of the mess.

“Two-second rule,” Nathan said, talking through his
food, this time keeping it in his mouth.

“Two-second rule?” Tate said.

Troy shook his head and said, “If it’s not on the floor for more than two seconds, you can pick it up and eat it.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tate said, her face rumpled in disgust.

“It’s a good thing Mr. Renfro did quit,” Troy said. “Otherwise Seth wouldn’t be our coach and we wouldn’t have beaten anyone. We
were
lucky to get into the playoffs when Norcross got disqualified, but after that, it’s been all Seth.”

“And you, too,” Tate said. “Seth changed things around and made us a lot better, but Jamie couldn’t have thrown all the touchdown passes you’ve thrown in the past three weeks. Good thing he walked away with his dad.”

“It’s been
all
of us,” Troy said to Tate. “You’re the best kicker in the state, and Nathan’s a monster.”

“I like that,” Nathan said, grinning large. “
The Monster
. Did you guys know that this is the first time Duluth has ever had a team make it this far?”

“That’s why there’s been, like, two thousand people at our games,” Tate said. “Everyone’s talking about us. We win Saturday and we get to play for the championship. You want to be a champ, don’t you?”

“Sheesh, I’ve never been a champ in anything,” Nathan said, running his hand over his crew cut again.
“How come you can’t meet with Mr. Langan earlier?”

“He stayed in Chicago on business,” Troy said. “He won’t be back until seven. My mom and Seth are pretty nervous about this Peele guy.”

On the bus ride to school that morning, Troy had already told them everything that happened over the weekend, filling in the blanks while walking the halls between classes.

“I think it would be awesome to have this guy do a big spread on you in the newspaper,” Nathan said. “Maybe a color photo or something? Fame is fame. Look at all the pop stars.”

“Nathan,” Tate said, quiet, but serious, “half the pop stars’ lives are like train wrecks.”

“Well, they drive nice cars,” Nathan said.

Tate rolled her eyes.

“It’s just one practice,” Troy said. “It won’t kill us.”

“But the Dunwoody Dragons might kill us,” Tate said. “I heard Jamie talking in gym class right before lunch. His cousin plays on that team. He’s six feet tall.”

“Six feet?” Nathan said through his food.

“If he’s as bad as Jamie, we’ll be all set,” Troy said.

“If he’s as mean as Jamie and that big and he plays on their defensive line,” Nathan said, “you better be ready to scramble.”

“You’re not going to protect me?” Troy asked. “What is that?”

“I’ll try—hit him low in the knees—but six feet?
Sheesh,” Nathan said, swiping his hand over his bristles of hair.

“I’m more worried about our playbook,” Tate said, “and Jamie’s father giving it to the Dunwoody coaches.”

“Our playbook?” Troy said, alarmed. “That’s cheating. Even with Seth changing things up, we use the same number system, and half the plays we run I call at the line. If they get our playbook, we won’t stand a chance. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh?” Tate said, raising her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t he? Wait till I tell you what else I heard.”

TROY AND NATHAN LEANED
toward her.

“Sara Parks told Jamie in front of everyone that he and his dad were rotten to root for Dunwoody when we all live in Duluth,” Tate said. “So then Jamie went all red, told her that his dad made the playbook and he could do what he wanted with it. He said if Seth Halloway wanted to have a team, he could make up his own playbook.”

“But Seth has us running some new plays,” Nathan said.

“We run a lot of old ones, though,” Troy said, scowling and balling up the cellophane from his sandwich. “You can’t learn all new plays in a week or two.
He’s
the one who quit on the team.

“We’ll have to change our calls. It’ll be like learning
a whole new language. If we don’t, they’ll know where the ball is going every time we call a play at the line.”

Nathan frowned and said, “Yeah, didn’t you call the play at the line last week on, like, every touchdown?”

“That’s because he can read the defenses,” Tate said. “Have you been paying attention to everything going on here for the past month? The Falcons hired him because he can predict plays. He knows what the other team is going to do.”

“That’s in the NFL, though,” Nathan said, scratching at his crew cut.

“Football is football,” Tate said.

“Sheesh, now I got a girl telling me about football,” Nathan said, plastering his hand over his face.

“Not just a girl,” Troy said. “A girl who won the punt, pass, and kick contest against the boys, and a girl who kicked the winning field goal that got us into the playoffs after some big lug—I won’t say his name—got a holding penalty that kept us out of the end zone.”

“Hey, that was an aggressive mistake,” Nathan said.

“Don’t worry,” Tate said to Troy, “he doesn’t mean it.”

“How could somebody be that low?” Troy asked.

“Who’s low?” Nathan said.

“No, not you,” Troy said. “I’m talking about Mr. Renfro giving our playbook away.”

“Because the only person who hates you more than Jamie Renfro,” Tate said, “is his father.”

“And I bet he hates Seth even more,” Nathan said.

“Like you said,” Troy said, “he shouldn’t have quit the team.”

“He thought he was getting back at us by making us forfeit after Tate’s mom complained to the league about all his screaming and yelling,” Nathan said, “but we got the last laugh.”

“Then let’s work on it after school,” Tate said. “We can go through the plays we run the most and start changing the names. And Troy, you can change the hot calls. We can write it all down and give it to Seth so he doesn’t have to worry about it. He can just coach us on the football stuff.”

“Great idea,” Troy said, smiling at her. “We can go to my house.”

“And I’ll make the dip,” Nathan said.

“Dip?” Troy asked.

“For chips and dip,” Nathan said. “I love those blue corn things your mom buys, and I got a new recipe: sour cream, garlic, chives, and Tabasco sauce. A man’s gotta eat, you know.”

When the school bus dropped them off, Troy and his friends walked the long dirt road to the small saltbox house where he lived with his mom, in a stand of towering pines by the railroad tracks. The gritty red clay lot in front where his mom parked the car stood empty except for a scattering of pine needles too stubborn for the wind. The old tire Troy used as a target for throwing
footballs drifted gently back and forth in the pleasant November breeze, and the sky overhead blinded them with the brilliance of its blue.

Inside, Troy raided the fridge for sodas and Nathan made what he’d begun calling his “famous” dip. Together they completed the changes to the playbook by the time Troy’s mom returned home from work. She looked tired, but she smiled and talked to Nathan and Tate, offering them more sodas as if she hadn’t a care in the world. After a few minutes, Troy’s friends left, circling around back where a path led down through the pines to the tracks that allowed them to walk a straight shot to the Pine Grove Apartments, where they both lived.

When they’d gone, Troy’s mom slumped down at the kitchen table and let go a sigh.

“What’s going on?” Troy asked.

“I hate to lie, that’s all,” his mom said, dropping her face into one hand and rubbing her eyes. “In the morning, I set up interviews about the potential playoff run and how Coach McFadden’s job might be saved. I didn’t even see Peele. Then, about an hour after lunch, he showed up, limping around and talking about a kid who he knows is with the team who stomped on his foot. I told him I had nothing more to say.”

Troy studied his mom, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail, her thin fingers curled around the edges of her pretty face. He knew her well, just as she knew him well, so instead of asking, he just waited. Finally, she spoke.

“So, of course,” she said, “Peele went to my boss, Cecilia Fetters.”

“And she doesn’t know about me, right?”

“No,” his mom said, “she thinks you’re a ball boy like everyone else outside the players and coaches, and that’s why I feel so bad, because I
hate
to lie.”

“But if you told Mr. Langan you wouldn’t say anything about me to anyone, then you couldn’t break your promise to him,” Troy said.

“So, I lied,” his mom said, “which I hate to do.”

“I guess sometimes you kind of have to,” Troy said.

His mom shook her head.

“Just when everything was going great for you, me, and Seth,” Troy said, slumping down in a chair beside her. “The Falcons on a playoff run? The Tigers in the semifinals of the state championship? Now this mess, and we’ve got to meet with Mr. Langan when we should be practicing. Why does some reporter have to ruin it all?”

His mom just kept slowly shaking her head, then perked up suddenly and said, “Oh, I forgot. Here.”

From her purse, she removed a long white envelope and handed it to Troy.

“What is it?”

“Look inside,” she said. “I know
this
will cheer you up.”

TROY WORMED HIS FINGER
into the opening and split open the envelope. He fished out the check and sucked in his breath.

The numbers jumped out at him.

Ten thousand dollars.

“Wow,” he said, glancing up at his mom and sharing her smile. “It’s real.”

“Of course it’s real,” his mom said. “That’s why I wanted you to see it instead of doing that direct deposit thing.”

Troy had already earned twenty thousand dollars for the first two games he worked, but the money had gone straight into his bank account.

“I like seeing it like this!” he said. “That’s a lot of zeros and a lot of money.”

“And not a bad deal for the team, either,” his mom said. “Ten thousand dollars per win? People would pay a lot more.”

“You think we should ask for more?” Troy asked.

“No, I’m just saying,” she said. “A deal’s a deal. The whole thing is pretty unusual. I’m just glad Mr. Langan agreed to try it out.”

“But this will be gone, too,” Troy said. “If Peele messes everything up.”

“That
won’t be gone,” she said. “That’s yours, and we’re putting it in the bank with the rest of it. You earned it, and no one can take it away. That can pay for two or three years of college at a nice state school if we invest it right. After a couple more weeks, your education will be taken care of, Troy. It’s a big thing. It’s worth a little trouble along the way, believe me.”

Troy studied the number, thinking of everything his mom had done for him without the help of a husband, then looked up at her and said, “I thought maybe you could do something with the money, Mom. I’m gonna get a football scholarship. I won’t need this. I thought maybe you could buy yourself a new car, or even get a bigger house.”

Troy’s mom reached out and gripped his hand. Her eyes got shiny and a small smile bloomed on her face.

“You are so sweet,” she said quietly, “but I don’t need anything. This house, it’s small, but I like it.”

“I like it, too,” Troy said. “I didn’t mean that, but
you deserve it. I see other moms with expensive cars and diamonds and all that. Jamie Renfro’s mom drives around in a Jaguar and she doesn’t even have a job. You’re the best. I should get you things.”

“Honey, I don’t care what car I drive or jewelry I wear,” his mom said, holding up her other hand. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but we’ll save this for college, in case you get a knee injury or something and the football thing doesn’t work out. Or even if it does, you can buy a car for yourself. Believe it or not, it won’t be long before you’ll want one.”

“Will you let me get you all that stuff if I sign a big NFL contract?” Troy asked.

She smiled and messed his hair. “Okay, that’s a deal.”

Troy grinned and said, “Maybe I’ll save up for a Mustang. How much is a Mustang, anyway?”

“More than thirty thousand,” his mom said, standing. “Let’s get going. We can stop on the way and have a burger or pizza or something.”

“How about I buy?” Troy said, waggling his eyebrows and snapping the check.

Troy liked Whoppers with cheese, and that’s what they had before heading out to the Falcons complex. Seth was still there; he’d spent the afternoon getting treatment on his bad knee and lifting weights, and he met them at the side entrance where the staff and players came and went. He wore street clothes, but two bags
of ice had been wrapped with an Ace bandage around the outside of his jeans. Troy’s mom handed Seth a bag of cheeseburgers, and he started eating one as they walked through the halls and upstairs to the executive offices.

Action photographs of the team’s star players lined the walls. In one, Seth stared out at them, his eyes wide, his mouth twisted into a snarl behind the metal cage of his face mask.

“Doesn’t even look like you,” Troy said, pointing up at the picture. “Too mean.”

Seth widened his green eyes and bared his teeth, growling.

“Better,” Troy said, laughing.

“Live clean, play mean,” Seth said, letting his face return to its normal mask of pleasant calm.

Angie, Mr. Langan’s assistant, showed them into the owner’s office, sitting them down on the leather couch and telling them she expected Mr. Langan any minute. Seth spread his food out on the coffee table and kept digging into the burgers, washing them down with a bottle of water.

“I almost forgot,” Troy said, tugging a folded piece of notebook paper from his pocket and handing it to Seth. “Jamie Renfro has a cousin who plays for Dunwoody. We heard his dad is giving them our playbook.”

“You’re kidding,” Seth said.

Troy shook his head. “Tate and Nathan and I
renamed our plays and all the hot routes, even the stunts on the defensive line.”

“So they won’t know what we’re doing,” Seth said, studying the piece of paper. “This is great.”

Troy grinned at his mom. Seth ate and nodded as he studied their work. He was just wiping his mouth on a napkin and stuffing the last of his garbage into the bag when Mr. Langan came through the door. He shook hands with them all, including Troy, before sitting down in a leather wingback chair and crossing his legs. The owner’s hair was short, neatly cut, and sprinkled with gray. His tan, lean face had a pleasant, almost sleepy look, except for the green eyes, as churning and alive as whirlpools.

“Where are we?” he asked.

As Troy’s mom explained what had happened, Mr. Langan’s face remained impassive. The only expression that disturbed it was a small smile and a flicker of his eyes when he heard about Troy stomping Peele’s foot.

When she finished, he made a steeple of his fingertips and rested them against his mouth. Finally, he broke the steeple and said, “I was afraid of this.”

“None of us said anything,” Seth said.

Mr. Langan shook his head and said, “No, I didn’t think you would, and I’m sure coaches McFadden and Mora didn’t say anything, either. They have more to gain from this than anyone. I just didn’t know how long we could go before someone started asking questions.
You know when the Bears ran that slant play at the end of the game? The ball’s snapped and you just run right to the spot before the receiver even gets there and you pick it off? Well, that kind of jumps out at people.”

“I’ve made plenty of plays just like that,” Seth said.

Mr. Langan considered him a moment before he said, “Ten years ago, you made those plays. But that’s neither here nor there. Peele suspects something, and we have to deal with it. What I want to do is keep this under wraps as long as we can. We need to figure out a way to get Troy’s input during the game
without
him being on the sideline.”

“That’s easy,” Seth said. “We did that before, when we played the Raiders.”

“Yes, you did,” Mr. Langan said, “but no one was looking for Troy then. This will be different. Peele’s not dumb.”

“But Peele thinks we’re somehow stealing the plays from the other team,” Troy’s mom said. “He thinks Troy is just the way we get the message to Coach Mora, not how we get the message about
what to do
.”

“So if we take Troy out of the equation,” the owner said, “Peele will have to find evidence that we’re stealing the other teams’ plays. Since we’re not doing that, he’s out of luck. If we keep Troy out of Peele’s way, he’ll never figure out what we’re doing.”

“But Mr. Langan,” Troy said, his voice bursting with frustration, “we’re not doing anything
wrong.
”

“But we’re doing something different,” Mr. Langan said, “something people are going to have a hard time explaining, and, believe it or not, doing something
different
scares people and gets them a lot more riled up than doing something
wrong
. People do the wrong thing every day.

“As long as we can keep Peele from finding out that you are our football genius, we can just keep marching toward the playoffs.”

“What if he does find out?” Troy said, unable to keep from asking the question. He couldn’t help thinking of Nathan’s words about Peele doing a big spread on him in the newspaper—about fame and pop stars and the nice cars that famous people drive. Tate’s voice came into his mind as well, talking about their lives being train wrecks, but that wasn’t true about
everyone
famous. Some famous people had it all, and lots of famous people were loved by everyone, even people they didn’t know.

Maybe even a father they didn’t know.

Mr. Langan returned the steeple of fingers to his mouth for a minute before he looked at Troy and said, “If Peele can prove you’re helping us call the plays, then we’ll go to the NFL and see what they think.”

“That’s not so bad,” Troy’s mom said.

Mr. Langan gave a painful smile and said, “It’s not good, either, though. First of all, we would have to stop using Troy while the league figures out how they want
to handle it, and second, while they might not say we’ve done anything wrong, I know my fellow owners pretty well. If we’ve got something that helps us win, something that they don’t have? Even if it’s not against the rules? They might make up some new rules.”

“So we’re okay as long as Troy doesn’t get caught?” Seth asked.

“That’s right,” Mr. Langan said. “Just don’t get caught.”