the Big Time (2010) (11 page)

FROM INSIDE THE TERMINAL,
Troy eyed the flailing mob through two big glass doors.

“What do we do?” Troy asked.

His father looked up from the BlackBerry he'd been working with since they walked inside. Holding it forth, he said, “Here's what we do. We say nothing. I'll push through that mob like a lead blocker. You tuck in behind me, and I'll get you into the limo. I just got a text here that says we might be doing the David Letterman show. How's that sound?”

“What?” Troy said, choking with nerves and uncertain if it was because of the crowd outside or the thought of appearing on
Letterman
.

“Yeah,” his father said, pumping a fist, “I got them. This is so big, the entire country will be watching.
Everyone will be talking. It's more than sports. It's the lifeblood of America. You'll be a superstar.”

“The big time?” Troy asked.

“Oh yeah,” his father said.

Troy hesitated, glancing at the crowd, and said, “But you got all these reporters to come here, right? How can we just push past them without talking?”

“Believe me,” his father said, “they'll get over it. They're used to it. They know the game. They'll all have a shot of you pushing through the crowd and saying nothing. It'll yank their chains. But trust me, it'll make tonight even bigger.”

“Should I at least say that I'm sorry?” Troy said, worrying.

His father swatted the air and said, “Naw. Come on. Follow me. Don't worry. These maggots will get over it.”

The word “maggots” startled Troy, but his father gave him a wink and a nod, and he couldn't do anything other than follow him as instructed, actually gripping a handful of his father's shirt as they burst out of the terminal and pushed through the mob and into the waiting limousine.

Once Troy was inside, his father turned to the angry crowd and held up both hands to speak.

“Hey,” his father said, “I'm sorry about the rush, but you folks know Seth Cole and his reputation. We're late to meet him, and this is shaping up to be an
eight-figure deal. The team that signs Troy White is guaranteed to be the next NFL dynasty, and you can quote me on that.”

Troy's father seemed to enjoy slamming the door shut on the questions that rained down on him. He smacked the lock down and barked at the driver to get going. Troy turned around to watch as a handful of cameramen scrambled after the limo, filming their departure from the airport. As they approached the Lincoln Tunnel, Troy gasped at the sight of New York City up close. From the plane he had no idea how big things really were.

Then the limo twisted around and dipped into the tunnel, which seemed to run forever beneath the Hudson River. When they emerged into the canyon of buildings, Troy was amazed. He twisted his neck so he could look up, catching sight of only random patches of sky.

“It's so big,” Troy said as they drove on and on, into the heart of the city, up Sixth Avenue and toward the spindly, bare branches of the trees in Central Park. Through the park they went, and Troy couldn't keep his jaw from dropping at the mystery of so many trees in the middle of a city that seemed to never end. He had so many questions, but his father was intent on the BlackBerry, where his thumbs flickered like the mouth parts of a feeding crayfish.

When they came out of the park, the car took a right
onto Fifth Avenue and cruised down several blocks until they came to a mansion with cast-iron gates and a decorative fence. Its magnificence reminded Troy of something he'd see in a Social Studies book about European kings and queens.

“This is a house?” Troy asked.

His father looked up from his BlackBerry, squinted his eyes at the fountain spraying water from the center of the circular drive, and said, “It's Seth Cole's house. I don't know if it's a home. ‘The owner without a soul,' they call him.”

“Sounds scary,” Troy said.

“He blows his nose on hundred-dollar bills,” his father said. “Money means nothing to him.”

“So, he'll outbid everyone?” Troy asked.

“That's the plan.”

For the first time, Troy realized that if all this really happened, he and his mom would no longer be living in the small saltbox tucked into the pinewoods on the outskirts of Atlanta. They might be living in a big house like Seth Halloway's, and it might not be in Atlanta at all. Tate and Nathan wouldn't be going with him, nor would Seth Halloway.

Troy swallowed hard. He thought about suggesting that if Mr. Langan could come close to what the Jets owner offered, maybe he should stay where he was, but the words didn't come out. A man in a suit and ascot tie
marched down the front steps of the mansion to open the limousine's door. Inside they went, through a grand entrance and up a staircase as wide as Troy's driveway back home. Their feet fell silent on thick rugs, the kind Troy knew people called Oriental. The silent man in the suit showed them into a large room with walls and ceiling that looked like a checkerboard of gleaming golden wood. The shine of the wood, like the luster of every lamp, leather cushion, and book binding, reminded Troy of the Falcons' executive offices and the times he'd met with Mr. Langan. Everything was spotless, rich, and elegant. At one end of the rectangular room was a broad desk facing out. They sat on a long leather coach perpendicular to the desk in the middle of the room and facing the tall windows. The man in the suit fidgeted with some switches on the wall, and panels slid down over the windows, blocking out the light, while a screen the size of Troy's front porch hummed down from out of the ceiling.

Troy looked around as the lights dimmed. The image of a football game—frozen in time but as clear and sharp as if he and his father were sitting in the Jets' stadium—appeared on the screen, and there they sat, whispering.

“He wants me to predict the plays?” Troy asked.

“I told you,” his father said. “You need to show him what you can do is all. Why? Nervous?”

“A little,” Troy said, looking around the room and noticing for the first time a stuffed polar bear standing ten feet tall in the corner of the room behind them. Its fangs and claws were bared and ready to strike.

“Well, this can't be as much pressure as when you were at the dome on Sunday with the Falcons down by two touchdowns,” his father said.

“I guess,” Troy said.

“Remember the sharks?” his father asked in a low voice. “Don't worry, I'm right here with you.”

Troy didn't get the chance to respond because a door behind the desk opened and a slim man wearing an olive green suit entered the room. His probing eyes locked onto Troy's. Without blinking or looking away, the owner crossed the carpet and offered his hand. Troy, like his father, stood up to greet the Jets' famous but mysterious owner.

“Seth Cole,” Troy's father said in a friendly way, “it's a pleasure to meet you.”

Troy felt a surge of pride as his father stood toe-to-toe with Seth Cole, matching his intense stare and firm handshake.

“The pleasure will be mine,” Seth Cole said with a doubtful smile, “if this young man can do everything the papers say he can do. I don't believe the papers, though. My past life taught me that. They're billboards, and you can buy them like ad space.”

“And still, they sometimes prove to be incredibly
accurate,” Troy's dad said to Seth Cole before he snuck a wink at Troy.

Seth Cole scooped up a remote from the lamp table next to the leather couch and said, “Let's see.”

SETH COLE SAT DOWN
so that Troy was seated between the owner and Drew. The owner pointed the remote and the Jets' defense—suspended in the middle of a New England Patriots pass play—went into action. Seth Cole let four plays run without stopping before he said, “Well?”

Troy cleared his throat and said, “It's like the weatherman. I see patterns, and then I know what the plays will be.”

“But it takes time for the patterns to emerge,” the Jets' owner said, nodding. “Yes, I know. I told you; I've read the papers. So, I don't see why a team—with the right technology—couldn't break the patterns and render you next to worthless.”

Troy's stomach knotted up, and Troy looked at his
father. Drew put a strong hand on Troy's shoulder and held it tight.

“Having played a little football myself,” his father said, “I can tell you that if you break certain patterns, then you'll lose for sure. If it's third down and you've got ten yards to go, for instance, you better pass or the odds of getting a first down are about one in thirty.”

“Well put,” the owner said, and he ran another play.

“Strong side draw,” Troy said, the knowledge coming to him before Seth Cole could advance to the next play.

The Patriots ran a strong side draw.

“Deep post to Randy Moss,” Troy said, and they ran it.

“Weak side inside trap,” Troy said.

When the Patriots ran the play Troy called, Seth Cole flicked off the video. They sat in total darkness for a minute, and Troy shifted in his seat.

The owner cleared his throat and said, “People are uncomfortable with situations they're not used to. That's human nature. Sitting in the dark, for instance. Something that for me is as natural as sitting under the noon sun. Are you uncomfortable, Troy?”

Troy hesitated, glancing at the blackness where his father sat before he said, “A little. I guess.”

“Yes,” the owner said, “I'd think a lot. And I'm going to ask you to do something you haven't done before, too. Because if I'm going to invest the kind of money I think
you're asking for, I don't want to pay it to someone who can't adjust. In life, things never stay the same. In football, you have to adjust quickly, even when you're under pressure.”

“Okay,” Troy said after another moment of silence.

“Good,” the owner said.

Troy heard a click, and the screen glowed to life, showing a frozen picture of the Jets. It didn't take Troy more than a half second to recognize that the difference was that now the screen showed the Jets' offense.

“We have what a lot of people are calling the best young offensive weapon in the game,” the owner said.

“Thane Lewis?” Troy asked.

“Yes,” the owner said, “and if I'm going to pay you a fortune to work for my team, I want to take advantage of that talent. I've been thinking about your ability, and I'd like to see if it works for both sides of the ball. I know defenses react to what they see on the offense; but without motion, I'm wondering if you can predict what coverage a defense is in, and if you could signal something like that in to a player like Thane Lewis. If he knew the coverage, I don't think there's a defense in the league that could stop him. Could you read a defense like that?”

Troy had to stick his hands under his legs to keep from jumping out of his seat and shouting. A thrill shot through him, and he nodded his head.

“I know I can,” he said.

“You know?” The owner's voice was laced with amusement.

“I play football, Mr. Cole,” Troy said.

“I heard that.”

“I play quarterback,” Troy added. “We just won the state championship on Saturday. A lot of it is because I know exactly what the coverage is going to be when I step up to the line. I can throw it, too.”

“So, why haven't the Falcons used you to help their offense?” Seth Cole asked. “Or have they?”

“No,” Troy said. “I guess nobody really thought about it. Seth—not you, Mr. Cole, but Seth Halloway—he's the one who got the team to even give me a chance, and he's their middle linebacker. So I just have been helping the defense.”

“Then let's see if you can help the Jets' offense,” the owner said.

Troy turned his attention to the screen. Three plays later, he began to call the defensive coverage. The owner let him go for five plays before he pressed another button that brought up the lights. His eyes bore into Troy's, and a pleasant smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

“I like it. I like it very much,” he said, then turned to Troy's dad. “How much?”

Troy's father scratched his chin and, without dropping the owner's gaze, said, “The Falcons are talking eight figures over three years.”

“Ten million over three years?” Seth Cole said, his eyebrows disappearing beneath the eaves of dark hair.

“At a minimum,” Troy's father said. “Eight figures is the range.”

“Will they give you fifteen?” Seth Cole asked.

“Maybe,” Troy's father said.

“No. They won't,” Seth Cole said, grinning and shaking his head.

“I can't say,” Troy's father said.

“I will.”

“You will what?” his father asked.

“Give you fifteen million,” Seth Cole said, glancing at Troy, “for three years. But I have to have an option for three more years at twenty, with a right of first refusal after that.”

Troy's head spun. The room seemed to float around him. It was all so big, so fast. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking about G Money's pool.

“How much up front?” Troy heard his father ask.

“How much do you want?” Seth Cole said.

“Ten,” Troy's father said.

Seth Cole burst into a short fit of laughter before he took a breath and said, “Five million up front, but you don't leave this room without agreeing to the deal. Do you have the authority?”

“Yes, his mother agreed to follow my lead on this,” Troy's dad said. “I'll need her signature, though. She's his legal guardian, but she's trusting me to cut the deal.”

“Very good,” the owner said.

“But I can't just agree to something without considering all the options,” Troy's father said.

The owner stared for a moment, his eyes sweeping across Troy's father's face as if he were reading a book.

“His mother agreed to follow your lead. You can do anything you want,” Seth Cole said, his voice soft but deadly serious. “You're the agent. You're the lawyer. You're the
father
.”

“How did you know that?” Troy asked, unable to stop himself.

Seth Cole looked at Troy with empty eyes. “I'm an investor. I make it my business.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Troy's father said, “Well, I really can't—”

Seth Cole stood abruptly and shook Troy's hand. “Very nice to meet you, Troy. I wish you the best of luck. Drew, maybe next time.”

Seth Cole shook Troy's father's hand and slipped away, striding for the door behind the desk. Troy looked at his father and saw the anguish on his face.

“Wait!” Troy's father said.

But Seth Cole kept going.