Perfect Season (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHUKU'S SIGNED JULIO JONES
and Matt Ryan game jerseys arrived the next day at Troy's house. With Tate looking over his shoulder, Troy tore open the box and pulled out the Julio jersey before he noticed that the chunky UPS man was holding out a pen, waiting for him to sign for the package. Troy took it and scribbled his name on the paper attached to the clipboard.

The UPS man's gray handlebar mustache twitched as he spoke. “That's some jersey. Signed and everything, huh.”

“Game-worn. Matt Ryan, too.” Troy held up the second jersey, proud of his work. “You know Seth Halloway, the Falcons' linebacker?”

“Yeah, he's the coach here now. I saw that in the paper.”

“He got these from the team. Everyone in Atlanta loves Seth.”

“You're a lucky guy.” The UPS man nodded at the jerseys. “The real thing.”

“Yeah, they are the real deal.” Troy admired it. “Not for me, though I wish they were. No, these belong to my man Chuku Moore, payment in full.”

“Well,” the UPS man said as he put the pen into the shirt pocket of his brown uniform and turned to go, “it's a good day to be Chuku Moore, then, right?”

Troy thanked the driver and went inside. The truck ground its gears and trundled off down the street.

“Why did you say that?” Tate asked.

“What?”

“‘Payment in full.' I don't know, Troy.” Tate shook her head. “That didn't sound good.”

Troy snorted. “Payment from
me
to Chuku.”

“I know that,” Tate said, “and you know that, but
that guy
doesn't.”

“You know, Tate.” Troy growled a bit. “Sometimes you just overthink things. You think that guy even knows who Chuku Moore is?”

“Not now he doesn't,” she said. “But if what you want to happen really happens—I mean, you guys turning this football team around—everyone in this town is going to know Chuku Moore.”

Troy bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying something mean. After all, Tate had her father to worry about. Still, it made him mad.

It made him mad because he knew Tate was right.

He'd been stupid.

CHAPTER FORTY

THAT EVENING THEY DIDN'T
have practice. It was a good thing because it was the night of the Helena concert. Tate had tried to convince Troy to take Ty instead of her, but Troy just wasn't going to do that. He hadn't even spoken to his cousin since the day at the beach.

“You guys are going to have to talk. The whole thing is tearing Ty up. You guys are family, Troy.” Tate held up her phone as if Ty were on the other end of the line.

It annoyed Troy, the amount of texting back and forth Tate did with Ty. In a way he felt that Ty didn't deserve to be friends with Tate all the time if he wasn't even going to the same school as the rest of them. Wasn't Ty a traitor? He opened his mouth to say so but realized it would sound pretty dumb.

Instead, he shrugged. “I don't think he cares all that much. If he did, his brother could get him in, trust me. Besides, none of that matters to my mom. No way is she going to let me go without you, Tate. You know that. You're not just my best friend, you're our guest.”

That ended it, but Troy knew Tate would try again to get him together with Ty. That's just how she was.

Chuku and his dad picked up Troy and Tate in the big white Mercedes. Chuku turned around in the front seat and flashed the tickets and backstage passes like a winning poker hand. Troy handed over the signed jerseys and Chuku handed him and Tate two of the tickets and passes Mr. Cole had given to Troy in the first place. It was a relief for Troy to have them back in his own hands.

Chuku tugged the Julio Jones jersey on over his T-shirt and jeans and stuffed the Matt Ryan jersey under the front seat. “Awesome. I don't know if I should tell you this, but I was going to invite you anyway.”

“What?” Troy's stomach squirmed because he thought of what he'd said to the delivery man.

“You're my quarterback, dude.” Chuku grinned back at Troy. “And I wouldn't hang you out to dry with the team owner. I'm not that guy. What? Why so glum? It was no big deal for you to get these, right?”

“No,” Troy said, “it was easy. Happy to do it.”

“What are friends for, right?” Chuku turned back around.

Troy didn't want to do it, but he couldn't resist looking over at Tate. She wore a frown and Troy looked away.

The parking pass that came with the tickets let them drive right underneath Yankee Stadium. They passed through several security checkpoints and a metal detector before arriving backstage in a greenroom the size of a small warehouse. Silky drapes covered the walls and comfortable leather couches and chairs rested in groups atop thick rugs. Clusters of fat candles flickered and glowed on every tabletop. Off to one side was a huge buffet, but waiters and waitresses dressed in white shirts roamed through the throng of people with silver trays covered with drinks and food. In the center of it all sat Helena, surrounded by a dozen people. Mr. Cole sat next to her, holding her hand and looking at her like a bedazzled schoolboy.

It was the first time Troy ever remembered seeing the owner look relaxed and happy. When Mr. Cole saw the four of them, he waved them over and introduced them to the megastar. Helena was polite but quiet. She wore her long blond hair in a thick braid. She softly praised Mr. Moore for making the team, then turned to Troy.

“So, you're the one who helped the Falcons win the Super Bowl?” Her big eyes seemed to hold the power of the universe and her smile, its light.

“I . . . kind of.” Troy lost his ability to speak.

“Oh, good.” She touched his arm. “I know you'll do it again for the Jets this year, right?”

“He sure will.” Tate stepped forward and extended a hand to shake. “Tate McGreer, ma'am.”

Helena laughed. “You're a spitfire.”

“I played football with Troy until last year. I've seen what he can do.” Tate beamed at the star singer. “I was the kicker, but you can ask Troy. I made some tackles of my own on the kickoffs. My mom's making me be a young lady now, though, so I'm playing soccer.”

“I bet the boys are happy you're not out there, knocking them down.” Helena grinned at Chuku. “Right?”

“She'd have to catch me to knock
me
down.” Chuku thumped his chest, then took out his iPhone. “How about a picture? It'll be worth something someday.”

Mr. Cole seemed surprised. “It's worth a lot right now.”

“I mean for Helena, Mr. Cole.” Chuku grinned. “No offense, but when I'm an NFL star with my own reality TV show, just like T.O., she can say she knew me when.”

Mr. Moore rolled his eyes but Mr. Cole only laughed.

Not for the first time Troy wished he had Chuku's easy ability to charm people.

“Helena? You hear that? You better get one while you can,” the owner said.

Helena smiled and stood up in her long white dress to take a picture with Chuku, then Troy, then Tate, and finally with Mr. Moore and Seth Cole and all of them together, before a man wearing all black with a wireless headset came fretting into their midst and hustled her off to get into her costume.

They watched her go with the NFL owner hurrying along beside her.

“Wow,” Tate said. “I can't believe that really just happened.”

“Stick with us.” Chuku put an arm around Troy's neck. “This is just the beginning for the Killer Kombo.”

Mr. Moore snorted and shook his head. “Come on. Let's get some food. All this bologna is making me hungry.”

Troy piled a plate with lamb chops, ribs, and French fries. They ate at a cocktail table standing up and watched the swirl of people moving through and around the big room before Mr. Moore looked at his watch and said they better get to their seats.

They walked down some stairs next to the stage, through a throng of security guards, and sat in the front row. When Helena came out, the roar of the crowd reminded Troy of the Super Bowl. He and Tate plugged their ears, nudged each other, and shared a quick high five.

The night flew by. Like everyone else, they sang along with Helena's most popular songs—and by the time it was over and they were walking down into the parking garage with their ears ringing from the noise, it seemed to Troy as if the whole thing was worth it, no matter what trouble might come down the line.

That's what Troy said to Tate after Chuku and his dad dropped them off, and they waved good-bye, shouting thank-yous from the front porch.

“What do you mean?” Tate asked as the Mercedes taillights disappeared up the street.

Troy shrugged. “It was just so awesome, I can't imagine any trouble big enough to not be worth all that. That was once in a lifetime. I mean . . . Helena. We met her. She called you a spitfire.”

“Tonight was great,” Tate said, “but don't say that.”

“Why?”

“I've just got a feeling those tickets are going to end up costing a lot more than you think.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

TROY DIDN'T LIKE WHERE
the conversation was going. He opened the door without a sound and stepped inside, stopping in the hallway outside the kitchen, where he heard Seth and his mom talking. He knew he should announce himself, but there was something about their voices—maybe it was their hushed tone, maybe it was a slight strain of their words. Whatever it was, he held a finger to his lips, signaling Tate to be quiet, and stood in the hallway, listening.

“Are you sure?” His mother's voice sounded almost alarmed.

“Pretty much,” Seth said, grim.

“I can't even believe this,” his mother said. “What about Troy?”

“What about him?”

There was a silence that made Troy worry they either heard or sensed his presence. He slowly turned and began to silently lead Tate back out the front door, planning to reenter the house noisily to erase suspicion. Then his mother spoke.

“I just think . . . shouldn't we tell him?”

“No, don't do that,” Seth said. “Let's see how it plays out. We might be making a big deal out of nothing.”

Troy's stomach pushed up, crowding his throat and nearly choking him. He thought of the things he'd done wrong lately and their consequences. Nothing jumped to mind that would make them talk like this. The jersey thing with Chuku was kind of a mistake, but nothing that should make them act like this.

Whatever it was, Troy wanted to know. The uncertainty was killing him. He felt his legs coiling to move on their own, ready to burst into the kitchen so he could demand to know what in the world they were talking about.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

TROY'S LEGS GREW WEAK
instead. Growing up in their tiny cabin back in the pine woods outside Atlanta, he had learned well the lesson of privacy. His mother would erupt like a volcano if she knew he had stood there in the dark hall, listening. So, instead of going forward, he backed up, leading Tate, stepping softly, and letting them back out through the screen door. He took a breath of the night air. Tate stared at him and shook her head with disapproval.

“Just trust me,” Troy whispered to Tate before he swung open the door, let it bang behind him, and shouted, “Mom! We're home.”

He walked straight to the kitchen door with Tate in tow, swinging it open as well and finding Seth and his mom where he already knew they'd be, sitting at the table with mugs of steaming tea. A plate with nothing but coffee cake crumbs rested between them.

“How was it?” his mom asked.

“Great!” Tate said.

“Awesome. Didn't you get my text?” Troy reached into the fridge for a couple of sodas, handing one to Tate.

“Yes, I got the picture.” His mom tapped her phone. “Amazing. She looks beautiful.”

“I guess,” Troy said, sitting down at the table.

“Not more beautiful than your mom, though,” Seth said.

“Please.” His mom flicked Seth's arm.

“I'm serious.” Seth flicked her right back.

“He's right, Mom.” Troy raised his soda can her way. He knew enough to get in on a good thing.

“I'm in on that,” Tate said.

“Okay, thank you all. Enough now,” she said. “I'm glad you enjoyed the concert. It was very nice of Mr. Cole.”

“Yeah, thanks, Seth,” Troy said.

“What did Seth do?” his mom asked.

Tate stared hard at the soda bottle she clutched with both hands.

Troy never told his mom about how he'd lost the tickets on a bet with Chuku, or how he'd relied on Seth to get him the jerseys to trade back for the tickets. She wouldn't appreciate either of those things, and it had been a mistake for him to slip and thank Seth. Still, Troy had another gift besides being able to predict plays in the NFL. Maybe it was connected. He sometimes thought so. Whatever the source, he could process information instantly and come up with—well, he didn't like to call them lies; they were more like stories, because they weren't really harmful if you took the time to consider all the facts.

Whatever you called it, Troy didn't even blink before the words were gushing from his mouth. “If it wasn't for Seth in the very beginning, none of these things would ever have happened.”

His mom pressed her lips together and nodded at the truth of it. Seth was the one who believed in Troy's ability and brought his talent to the Falcons' coaches, insisting they give him a chance, even when it put his own career in danger.

“Was there something else?” Troy's mom stared hard at him.

“No, just thanks.” Troy returned her gaze, knowing that any sign of weakness would alert her to the fact that he was telling a . . . story.

“And I want to thank you, too, Troy, since we're all being so grateful,” Seth said. “The way you've handled yourself with the older kids hasn't been easy, but I'm glad you trust me. It'll all work out.”

“Everything will, right?” Troy laid the question in there innocently, then watched the unspoken words bounce back and forth between his mom and Seth.

Whatever it was they were hiding, it didn't have anything to do with Troy playing quarterback—of that he was certain. The trouble was, it was killing him not to know where some problem was lying in wait for him, a problem so disturbing that they didn't even want him to know about it.

Finally his mom spoke. “Everything always works out the way it should.”

Troy spoke low, recalling his words with the owner. “Mr. Cole says destiny is written in the animals of time. What's that mean?”

“The
annals
of time,” his mom said. “Annals are the record books. He means the history for what's going to happen—in the future—is already written someplace and you can't change what's meant to be.”

“You believe that?” Seth scrunched up his forehead.

“Most of the time.” She stood and began clearing the table.

Seth got up, stretched, and looked at his watch. “Yup, it's getting late. Troy, see you tomorrow at practice?”

“Seven o'clock, but I'll get there a little early to take some extra snaps with Big Nick Lee.”

“Tate, will I see you there?” Seth asked.

“I was gonna bring a soccer ball and work on my left foot. I saw that grass field out behind the school. You think that would be okay?” Tate asked.

“If not, you can use the turf. I know the goals are behind the school, but it'll be better than nothing if the soccer fields are being used.”

“Thanks, Seth.” Tate raised her bottle toward him.

“You got it,” Seth said. “Tessa, lunch at Barelli's tomorrow? One o'clock?”

“That works for me.” Troy's mom gave Seth a light kiss and watched him go before she finished cleaning up the sink and putting their mugs into the dishwasher.

Troy glanced at Tate, then turned the soda bottle in his hands, reading the numbers on the label. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I heard that John Madden once said winning was the world's best deodorant.”

“What?”

“You know, if you win, it takes away the stink of something, no matter how bad it is.”

“Was that on your video game or something?” she asked.

Troy laughed. “Nah, I heard it on ESPN Classics. They did this thing on famous coaches. You should've seen the funny commercials he did.”

“The one in the bowling alley?” Tate asked. “That's funny.”

“What's your point?” Troy's mom crossed the kitchen and put her hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the muscles there.

“Just that winning fixes things, right? I mean, when you win, people forget about a lot of other stuff, the stinky stuff.”

“Well, winning certainly helps . . . except when it doesn't.” She gave his neck a final squeeze. “Come on, it's late. Let's get you two up.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Troy followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

She stopped at the top step and looked back at him and Tate, her face pale and almost ghostly in the gloom. “It means that sometimes when you win, people are gunning for you even more.”

Troy's mom left them, and he looked at Tate. She shook her head and it made him feel as if all he could ever do was dig himself deeper and deeper. It reminded him of someone else.

It reminded him of his own father.