Perfect Season (24 page)
Authors: Tim Green
HIS FATHER'S HEAD WENT
up and down like the paint-can shaker Troy had seen in Home Depot one time. “I told you you'd need me. I had a feeling, especially when I started reading about all this recruiting stuff and the league suspending you guys and then Seth Halloway fighting them and getting a TRO. That's how you handle these rats. You sue 'em.”
“You said you had someone at the FBI,” Troy said.
“You don't stay two steps ahead of the law without friends. Guy I played with at 'Bama. He's a special agent in charge, pretty high up.”
“Couldn't he get in trouble?” Troy didn't want to get sidetracked, but the question just popped out.
“Troy, I know I've made a mess of some things, but I never hurt anyone. He knows that. Sometimes good people . . . they just get sideways with the law. Bankers and lawyers and CEOs, the good ones all play the edge, and the lucky ones end up rich. They're just lucky. Not me. I used up all my luck when I met your mom.”
“But you wouldn't even marry her.” Troy tried to tamp down the scolding sound of his voice.
His father looked at him for a long moment. “I told you, I didn't know about you. I was going through some things. The luck was because I got you, a son. I always dreamed I'd have a son, and look at you. You guys could have a perfect season. You're not even in high school.”
Troy felt the blush on his cheeks. Part of him doubted the full truthfulness of his father's wordsâhe thought of his own slick way of telling talesâbut he couldn't help basking in their warmth. “So, this development company called Maple Creek wants Summit to get suspended so the program gets canceled. If that happens, the football stadium gets sold to them so they can build a shopping center. Everything was all set and going their way until I showed up and got Seth to coach the team.”
Troy's dad put a hand on his arm to interrupt Troy so he could speak. “And then you and Seth and this Moore kid started lighting people up and everyone's talking about Summit football now. No one's going to shut down a championship program with half the town coming out to the games.”
“You've been there?” Troy asked.
His father smiled. “So, how can I help?”
“Tateâyou remember Tate, her father got into a bad accident in San Diego, her mother's out there, and she's staying with usâshe's real smart. She did all this research. The notes from the meetings of the town planning board are all online. She found the name for the company behind the developmentâMaple Creek. She thinks if we could get someone from the IRS or the FBI to check into their tax returns that maybe we can find some kind of payoff. If we find a payoff, then the court will realize the whole thing with recruitingâwhich is a lie, but that's another storyâis just because these people are crooked. That's intentional malice. That's what we need to show.”
Troy finally took a breath and studied his father's face.
“So I use my contact at the FBI to look into Maple Creek's bank accounts and tax returns to see who's getting paid off?” Troy's father raised an eyebrow. “I can do that.”
“Really? It's that simple?” Troy just stared.
“Really.” His father snapped his fingers. “I got it.”
Troy wanted to hug his father, so he did. The grip was so warm and strong that it brought tears to Troy's eyes. He looked away when they separated.
“What's wrong?” his father asked.
Troy sniffed. “Nothing. I'm happy. I appreciate you helping me.”
“But . . .”
“I just wonder what it would have been like, that's all.” Troy tried to look at his father's face, but knew if he did he'd start bawling, and this was no time for that. He tried to make his voice sound rough. “When can you get this stuff?”
“Give me a few days.”
“Dad, the judge hears the arguments Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” Troy's dad frowned. “Troy . . . that's not much time. It's the weekend.”
Troy's heart sank.
“I'll do my best, really.” Troy's dad forced a smile.
“Can you give me a phone number?”
His father gave Troy a worried look.
“For Sam Christian?” For some reason, Troy felt short of breath. “I won't give it to anyone and I'll use it only if I really need you.”
“Here, I'll text it to you.” His father sent the contact and Troy's phone buzzed.
Troy added the contact to his phone. “Okay. Thanks. I better go.”
Troy popped open the door and his father moved to get out, too. “No, don't. I don't want Mom to see you. I'm good. I'm warm now.”
Troy stood outside the car but bent down so that his head was inside. “Thanks. Really. I appreciate it, whether you can get it in time or not.”
His father held out a hand and Troy shook it.
“I told you I'd be here for you,” his father said.
Troy shut the door and retreated toward the house. Behind him, in the blackness, he heard the engine growl and the clatter of stones as his father rolled down the street into the night. And, despite the warm feelings and the kind words, as he slipped back inside their rented home Troy knew the odds were fifty-fifty at best whether he'd ever even see the man again.
THE NEXT DAY, TROY
saw the doctor and Ms. McLean early in the morning. In the end, even Troy's mom agreed that he was fine and on the drive home, Troy's mom said, “I'm sorry I made you sit, but I think it was the right thing, Troy. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I let you go in and something happened. You understand, right?”
Troy felt as if he was ready to burst. He wanted so badly to tell his mom about how his father just might be going to save the day. Instead, he nodded vigorously. “That's okay, Mom. It all worked out. We won the game, and I got a good feeling about the court.”
“You do?” Her eyebrows shot up and she glanced over at him.
“I just got a feeling, Mom.” Troy looked out the side window to keep her from reading his thoughts. “If I can do what I did last night for the Jets tomorrow, do you know how many of our problems will be solved?” Troy clenched both his fists.
“Do you really think you'll be able to help?”
Troy thought for a minute, then spoke quietly and slowly. “I think what happened was I didn't really
care
about the Jets. That's what happened last night. I wanted it so bad, and all of a sudden, it was just there. I didn't care if the Jets won or lost. I was getting paid to do a job, and I just got into a slump. Last night, I think I figured it out. And I
want
the Jets to win, Mom. I want it
bad.
”
“As much as the game last night?” she asked.
Troy frowned at her. “I don't know about
that
much, but pretty bad. I don't want to let those players down. And I want to be here, not just for the next four weeks, but for the next four
years.
So yeah, I want it pretty bad.”
“Well.” His mom turned the VW Bug onto their street. “We'll see tomorrow.”
TROY TOLD TATE TO
ride in front with his mom. He didn't talk on the way to the Jets stadium. Tate and his mom left him outside the Jets locker room. When he looked back, his mom gave him an anxious wave. “We'll see you after. Good luck, Troy.”
Tate gave him a wink, clicked her tongue, and gave a thumbs-up.
Troy nodded and stepped past the two state troopers, entering the locker room. Players moved about in quiet preparation, some listening to music with headsets, others reading the Bible or simply sitting with their heads in their hands. Troy didn't say anything to anyone.
Mr. Cole was talking to Mark Sanchez and smiled and waved at Troy from across the locker room, but his gestures held no hope or expectations. It was a smile born from politeness. Thane stood at his locker, dressed in only his lower pads. The muscles in his naked torso rippled as he bound his wrists with tape. Troy was going to walk right past him, not wanting to interrupt his game preparation.
Thane must have sensed he was there. He looked up from taping his wrists and playfully grabbed the back of Troy's neck. “Ty told me you guys won again Friday night. Nice work.”
Troy looked around and leaned close to his cousin. “It worked.”
“It worked?”
Troy nodded. “I called the other team's plays Friday.”
“So it's back? You're good to go?”
Troy winced. “I don't know for sure. Don't say anything, okay?”
“I won't. We could sure use it, though. We lose this and we're out of the playoffs.” Thane began taping his wrists again.
“I know. I'll try. Um . . . Thane?”
Thane looked up. “Yeah?”
“I just want you to know that . . . well, part of the reason I think I
couldn't
do itâthe genius thingâwas because I . . . well, I didn't really care. And, honestly, I was pretty mad at you about the thing with Ty. I really wanted to play with him.”
Thane smiled. “I know.”
“You knew?” Troy felt his mouth drop. “But . . . you just kept being nice to me.”
“Hey.” Thane reached out and gripped Troy's shoulder. “You're family. You've been through a lot. I felt terrible about the whole thing. I wish your mom would have just let me pay for St. Stephen's for you, but I get why she didn't. She's a great girl, your mom, and you're pretty special, too.”
Troy felt a trembling warmth spread through him and he sniffed to keep tears from flooding his eyes. “Thanks, Thane.”
“Good luck today, buddy.” Thane winked at him and went back to his tape.
Troy left his cousin and sat down dutifully in the coaches' meeting room in the back corner. The coaches were clustered around their greaseboards, making last-minute adjustments and talking about the depth chart, who was hurt, how bad, and what they'd do to replace them if they couldn't continue playing.
Troy might as well have been in a bubble. No one spoke to him. No one came near him. He wandered out onto the sideline like a ghost, invisible to everyoneâthe crowd, the cameras, the New England Patriots, and even his own team, the Jets. As the national anthem played, he stood with a Jets cap over his heart and for some reason the music stirred something inside him. Maybe it was a country born out of a desperate band of good people who believed in themselves.
Those thoughts held him in a trance, despite all the growls and war cries and pad-smacking around him. New England won the coin toss and received the ball. Troy watched Tom Brady drop back and throw a hitch pass to his outside receiver. The next play, they ran a zone run off-tackle for a first down. Coach Kollar didn't even look Troy's way. Troy ached inside. He wanted this. He wanted to help. He
had
to help. He wanted to help Thane and the team. But if the Jets lost this game, it was over for him. This was his last chance and he knew it.
The Patriots broke their huddle. Tom Brady stepped to the line.
Troy took a deep breath.
“Z COMEBACK WITH A
Y corner.” Troy said it out loud, but no one heard.
Brady took the snap and dropped back. The Z did a comeback. Brady pump-faked to him. Antonio Cromartie jumped the Z and the Y came open on the corner route behind him. Brady threw a strike and the Patriots gained twenty-three yards, crossing into Jets territory. The crowd booed.
Troy moved closer to Coach Kollar, who was yelling into his headset about the safety who should have kept outside position on the last play. Troy tapped him on the arm. Coach Kollar was caught up in his yelling and deciding the next defense to run. Troy watched the Patriots send a wide receiver out onto the field and the tight end run to the sideline. Coach Kollar signaled in the play he wanted. Brady broke the huddle. Troy saw three wide receivers to one side and the running back offset.
“Coach!” Troy grabbed his arm and wouldn't let go. “Backside screen.”
Coach Kollar glared at Troy. “Someone get this kid out of here!”
A 350-pound backup lineman lifted Troy off his feet and carried him out of the coaching box, back toward the bench.
Troy shouted, “Coach! Backside screen!”
Coach Kollar heard him, and when the Patriots ran a backside screen for another first down, the coach turned and found Troy with his dark, close-set eyes. He wore an angry scowl and he gritted his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw flexed.
“Get him back here. Now.”
No one touched Troy, but the players and staff parted to make a clear laneway for him to walk back into the coaching box between the bench area and the sideline.
“You . . .” Kollar's eyebrows nearly met above his nose. “You know?”
“I think so.” Troy turned his attention to the field. Two tight ends came on, along with a fullback, replacing three wide receivers who jogged off. “Weakside counter.”
“Weakside counter?” Coach Kollar's eyebrows disappeared beneath his cap. “They don't run a weakside counter.”
Troy shrugged. “Weakside counter.”
Coach Kollar bit his lip. He signaled a play into David Harris, then shouted, “Harris! Play signal! Play signal!”
Coach Kollar then held out his arm with his hand pointing down to signal weak side run. He made a zigzag with his finger in the air to signal counter. Troy could see David Harris's confusion through his face mask.
“Do it! Be there!” Coach Kollar screamed hard enough to make a vein jump out in his neck.
Harris nodded, called the defense as the Patriots broke the huddle. The defense lined up. The Patriots set up in a strong I formation with a pair of tight ends to the strong side. Brady took the snap. The entire Patriots team went left, but he handed the ball off to the back, darting back to the right on the counter.
David Harris was already there, waiting. He lowered his shoulder pads and blasted the runner, lifting him up off his feet and driving him backward and then into the turf. The crowd went wild.
Coach Kollar went wild, too, pumping his fist in the air before he grabbed Troy and hugged him, howling.
“Coach. Coach.” Troy pointed at the Patriots, who were hurrying players on and off the field. Brady wasn't even huddling his team; he was calling the play at the line.
“What do they got?” Coach Kollar stood rigid, staring out at the field.
“ZX cross with a Y hook,” Troy said.
Kollar signaled and shouted to David Harris. The Jets' defense scrambled for their positions.
“Bait the hook, Harris!” Coach Kollar hollered. “Bait the hook!”
Even Troy knew Harris would lay off the hook, making it seem wide open, to bait Tom Brady into throwing it. Whether Harris could pick it off was another story.
Brady dropped back. The Jets' D line, knowing from the signals that it was a pass, got quick pressure on Brady. The Patriots quarterback saw the open hook and fired. Harris stepped in front of it, just a split second too late to catch it, but enough to tip it into the air. Antonio Cromartie went for it, scooped it out of the sky, and took off like a real jet for the end zone.
The Jets were on top, 21â3, by halftime. Mr. Cole met Troy outside the locker room, along with Troy's mom and Tate. They all hugged him. Troy's mom had tears in her eyes.
Mr. Cole stuck out a hand for Troy to shake. “Glad the genius is back.”
The Jets won, 45â10.
