Perfect Season (14 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

AFTER HAVING SPENT AN
entire season with the Atlanta Falcons, riding on a charter flight with an NFL team was as natural to Troy as taking the school bus. He sat next to his mom in the front of the plane with the other people who made up the support staff for the team. The players sat in the back. Thane stopped on his way past.

“Hey, Troy. Sorry we didn't come over for the party after. Two nights before a game is the most important sleep you get, so I had to turn in. That was some game you played last night.” Thane held out a fist for Troy to bump.

Troy's mouth dropped open. He was still so excited by the big win that he hadn't even considered what he'd say to his older cousin. In that moment, he wanted to tell Thane that if he'd let Ty play at Summit, Troy likely wouldn't
have
his shoulder injury. But that wasn't fair and he knew it. Besides, how many high school quarterbacks got congratulated for their performance by an NFL player?

“Thanks.” Troy forced a smile and bumped fists. “When's Ty's first game?”

“Thursday,” Thane said. “He's playing on the eighth-grade team. He's looking good.”

“He
is
good,” Troy said, unable to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

“Well, hopefully we'll get you guys together next year,” Thane said. “It'd be a great connection.”

Thane gave Troy's mom a friendly handshake and he kept going toward the back. If Thane knew Troy was miffed, he sure didn't show it.

“I told him we were a good connection, but he wouldn't listen.” Troy watched Thane go.

“You're not still mad about all that?” his mom asked.

“I am, a little.” Troy broke out into a grin. “But winning like we did sure helps.”

Troy watched the seats ahead as the coaching staff filled up the first-class cabin. When the plane backed away from the gate, Troy asked his mom in a whisper where the owner was.

“Probably taking his own plane,” she said, then returned to her magazine.

“Good.” The word slipped out of Troy's mouth.

His mother gave Troy's hand a pat.

Troy thought about Mr. Cole, zipping down to Miami in his private plane. Troy rode on the owner's plane back when the Jets were trying to sign him to a contract, back when Troy's father was in the picture. His mother looked over at him and—as if she knew what he was thinking—took his hand and gave it a loving squeeze. Troy forced a smile and remembered the briefest of times when he had both a father and a mother in his life. He reached into his bag for his book and dipped his head into it so he wouldn't have to talk.

“Excited?”

Troy looked up at his mom. “Excuse me?”

“Are you excited?”

Troy stared at her for a beat and lowered his voice. “Mom, I'm not even getting paid.”

“Well, you
got
paid.” She wore a sad smile.

Troy just shook his head.

“Come on, Troy.” She touched his arm. “I remember a day when you dreamed of doing this. Remember showing Seth during that Monday night football game? You were dying to do this.”

“Mom, that was for the
Falcons.
They're my team, Mom. This is a job and the money is
gone.
I know that's not the team's fault, but it's not my fault how I feel. I want to
play
football, not predict it.”

She didn't seem to have anything more to say, and Troy retreated, gratefully, into his book. He read on the plane, the bus, and in his hotel room to pass the rest of the day.

One thing the Jets did insist on was that Troy attend the defensive meetings the night before the game. Even though they were asking him to help Coach Crosley, the offensive coordinator, too, his main focus was helping the Jets' defense by predicting their opponent's offensive plays, and that's why they wanted him in the defensive meetings. His mother brought him down to the meeting room and left him in the front row sitting next to Antonio Cromartie. He turned around and waved to Chuku's dad, who waved back but was all business.

“Hey, it's the genius,” Antonio said.

David Harris and Antonio Cromartie held out fists for Troy to bump. Troy appreciated them being so friendly, but he couldn't help comparing it to the thrill he had when he helped Seth and the Falcons. Those were players he followed with his gramps since the time he could talk. These guys were sure nice—and talented—but it was vastly different from mixing with his childhood heroes.

Coach Kollar, the defensive coordinator, came in and gave Troy a curious look before addressing the team. The coach went over the defenses they'd play the next day, then put on some Dolphins film from the game when the Jets played them the year before. The Miami team hadn't changed dramatically, so the film would give the players one last example of what their opponents should look like tomorrow.

Instead of ignoring the screen, Troy decided he'd try to get a feel for what was happening. It was something he didn't have to do for the Falcons last season, but he'd seen every Falcons game there was to see. The Jets were something new, so even though he'd watched lots of their game films, he figured this one could help him get the job done tomorrow. After a dozen or so plays he began to try to predict the coming plays in his head. The first guess was wrong. So was the second, and the third. Ten more plays went by—plenty now for him to have a feel for what was happening, and still, nothing.

An alarm went off in his head.

He didn't realize he was tapping his foot until Antonio Cromartie leaned over and asked him if he was okay.

“Yeah,” Troy said. “I'm good.”

“Relax, little man,” Antonio said. “It's not your neck they're gonna try to break tomorrow, just mine.”

Troy forced a grin at the joke. He wasn't worried about Cromartie or the Dolphins.

What worried Troy was the Jets' owner, and that dark scowl when he found out that his team's fifteen-million-dollar secret weapon was broken.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

TROY SAT NEXT TO
Coach Kollar on the bus ride to the stadium the next morning. He wore official Jets clothing the team had given him: shorts, a cap, and a collared shirt. The coach shed the wrapper from a stick of Big Red gum, then attacked it with his teeth before offering Troy a stick. Troy's mom sat behind them next to Thane.

“So, you're just going to tell me what the play is? That's how it works?” Coach Kollar shook his tan, shaved head as if he still couldn't believe it.

“Once I know,” Troy said.

“It won't do me any good if I have to wait until they get to the line.”

“I should know when I see what personnel group they run into the huddle. Sometimes it may be when they're coming to the line. Usually before.” Troy jammed his hands into his armpits. “Once I get a feel for everything.”

“I heard about that.” Coach Kollar spoke as fast as he chewed. “The whole thing is unbelievable, really. How long does it take?”

“Depends on the game. I've had it happen halfway through the first series on a long drive.” Troy bit his lip. “Once it wasn't until late in the second quarter.”

“Any rhyme or reason to
that
?” the coach asked.

Troy rubbed the back of his head. “Not really.”

“Well, I'll call it my way until you start telling me the plays. Once the light goes on, it doesn't go out, right?”

“It never has before.” Troy was very close to confessing his fears, but when the brakes hissed and they came to a stop inside the stadium, Mr. Cole stepped up into the bus, found Troy with his eyes, and motioned for Troy to follow him.

“See you out there,” Troy said to the coach as he left his seat.

Troy's mom signaled for him to go ahead. “I'll be up in the box. Have fun.”

Troy looked to see if she was joking, but she smiled and blew him a kiss.

Outside the bus, Troy walked beside the owner through the cool concrete tunnel and out into the muggy air of Florida's midday heat. Wet grass baked beneath their feet. Only a handful of Dolphins players stretched or stood on their end of the field. Troy looked around the stadium. Seats stretched for the sky. At its brim, a necklace of green and orange pennants snapped in the wind.

The owner wore a dark suit with sleek leather shoes. Cuff links and a silver watch glittered below his suit coat sleeves. He looked calm and cool, even in the heat. The intensity of his stare made Troy uncomfortable even in good circumstances. Today it made Troy stuff his hands in his pockets and shift his weight from one foot to the other.

The owner shaded his eyes with one hand and looked around. “Last time you were here, you helped the Falcons win the Super Bowl. Lots of good luck for you in this place, right?”

Troy swallowed.

“Nervous?” the owner asked.

“It always happens.” Troy looked up into the luxury boxes for any sign of his mom.

“Good.” Mr. Cole put a hand on Troy's shoulder. His grip tightened until Troy looked at him. “Means you care. You've got to care about what you do to really do it well. Don't you think?”

“I care a lot.” Troy nodded, hoping to make up for the false ring in his tone. “I want to win. This means as much to me as . . . my own team.”

Troy looked down and scuffed the grass, because his words continued to sound off-key.

The owner seemed to read his mind. “I read about that . . . Friday night, I mean. Big win for Summit. Seth Halloway's coaching, right?”

“He coached my junior league team in Georgia.” Troy shaded his eyes and looked up at the owner, thinking he might lobby for Seth to get hired one day by the Jets. “We won the whole state. He wants to coach in the pros, but Seth says he's not afraid to start at the bottom.”

“One thing jumped out at me, though.” The owner's mouth twisted into a curious smile. “I was surprised to see that other team scoring on you guys at all. I'm sure Seth couldn't come up with five million dollars, but I thought you might give him a discount, you know, to let him know what the other team was going to run on offense.”

The owner's words startled Troy. It was as if Mr. Cole knew Troy's dark secret, and that wasn't good.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

TROY'S MIND SPUN LIKE
a blender and spit out a story quick as a blink. “Yeah, well, it's a whole new system for everyone and the coaching at Summit before was pretty stinky. It's hard for these guys just to get the signals right. We're working on it, though. Seth says he'd rather have everyone lined up for sure than guys scrambling like a fire drill at the last second and leaving a big hole in the defense.”

Mr. Cole looked at him for what seemed like a very long time, even though it was no more than a brief pause, before he nodded. “That makes sense. Well, have fun today. I can't imagine making a quarter-million dollars a week at the age of thirteen. I thought it was a fortune when I earned my first six-figure salary after law school.”

“You were a lawyer?” Troy asked, thinking of his own father.

Mr. Cole gave him a funny look. “In another life. Oh, and I'm sure you've figured out that I've used what influence I have to keep the media off your front porch and from haunting the school yard, but after the game today, I think it's only fair if you talk at the press conference. It's in your contract, but I wanted to ask anyway. You okay with that?”

It suddenly felt hard for Troy to breathe, but he managed a nod and grunted in a way that promised he'd be there.

“Excellent. Well, up to the box.”

The owner walked away, leaving Troy to stand alone in the bench area until Coach Kollar wandered out and slapped him on the back. “Stay close, buddy.”

Troy stayed close, following Coach Kollar around through warm-ups, in the locker room for the head coach's pregame speech, and finally out into the packed stadium for the big game.

The Jets earned boos from the crowd as they sprinted out onto the field. Troy clenched his hands and worked at his gum, wanting the whole thing to begin already. His mom called his cell phone and directed his attention to the luxury box where she sat just two seats behind the owner. Troy waved up at her and Mr. Cole raised a hand before giving him a thumbs-up.

Troy said good-bye to his mom on the phone, but then, in a growing state of panic, he got Tate on the line.

“How's your dad?” Troy couldn't keep the tremble out of his voice.

“Same.” Tate's voice was flat, but then she came to life. “Hey, aren't you getting ready for the Jets game?”

“I'm on the sideline right now.” Troy covered his mouth and the phone with his other hand, speaking softly. “Tate, I don't know if I can do it.”

“Try to relax. What's the worst thing that can happen?”

“They find me floating in the Passaic River?”

“Stop. You're talking about an NFL owner, not some mobster.”

“This guy is scary. I've got a contract to call the plays for his team and he paid me five million dollars to sign it—which is already gone thanks to my father.”

“Just . . . I don't know. It'll work out,” Tate said.

“How do you know, Tate?”

“I don't know, Troy, but I'll be watching. They have Direct TV in my dad's room. He still can't talk, but my mom says she knows he's happy when football is on.”

Troy went quiet. When he thought of Tate's dad, it made him feel a little guilty for making such a fuss.

“Anyway,” Tate said, “I'll be watching . . . Good luck.”

The players lined up along the sideline and took off their helmets. The crowd stood for the national anthem.

Troy fumbled with his phone and spoke into it before hanging up. “Thanks, Tate. I think I'm gonna need it.”