the Big Time (2010) (12 page)

“
SETH,” TROY'S FATHER SAID.
“Wait! You can't.”

Seth Cole wrapped his fingers around the shiny gold doorknob and gripped it before he stopped, let it go, and turned around. The owner said nothing; he simply went to the desk and removed some papers from the drawer, then plucked a pen from its holder and strode back across the room, extending them both to Troy's dad before placing them down on the granite top of the low table in front of the couch.

“The mother will have to sign the actual contract if she's Troy's legal guardian,” Seth said, “but what I want from you—his agent—is this letter of intent. Troy should sign it, too. Because I want your word, both of you, that this is going to happen. That will do. I built my fortune on trusting people.”

“He can't start until next season,” Troy's father said. “You know that, right?”

“No,” Troy said, “I can't.”

“I understand that,” Seth Cole said. “I'll be rooting for the Falcons in the Super Bowl.”

Troy's dad examined the letter, then picked up the pen. He chuckled and shook his head and gave Troy a wink, then signed the paper. Troy, who had been holding his breath since he didn't know when, let it out. His father pushed the papers his way and handed him the pen.

“Go ahead,” his father said. “You can sign it, too. Let's do this right.”

Troy held the pen and placed his free hand flat on top of the paper, studying his father's wavy signature.

“What about my mom?” Troy said.

“If your dad says she's on board,” Seth Cole said, “I seriously doubt she's going to argue with this deal.”

“She's in the PR department for the Falcons,” Troy said.

“She won't need to work another day in her life,” Troy's dad said.

“She likes to work,” Troy said. “I want her to have a job with the team.”

“No,” Seth Cole said, his face set in stone. “I don't do that. I can have the team give her an interview, but that's all I'll promise. I can get her interviews with every one of the TV networks and half the ad agencies
on Madison Avenue, but I don't hire people to do favors. No one wins. Ever. I'm sorry.”

Troy looked up at Seth Cole, whose face remained unreadable. Seth Cole stared at Troy hard, and it was as if he could read Troy's thoughts: the fear of leaving his friends and the world he knew fighting with the wild dream of being rich, his parents a couple, and all of them living in the big time.

Troy nodded, then put pen to paper and signed his name.

“
I KNOW
LETTERMAN
ISN'T
locked in, but you don't really want me to just drop it, do you?” Troy's father asked, his face full of disbelief.

Troy felt his eyes grow moist and he looked away, ashamed for not knowing why but knowing in his heart that the only thing he wanted was to be alone with his mom. At the same time, he didn't want to disappoint his father.

“I just want to go home,” Troy said, trying to sound strong. “I've got practice tonight. I almost forgot.”

“Because I can make this thing happen, Troy. And buddy,” his father said, laughing, “you don't need practice. You don't need anything except to figure out how you're going to spend your money.”

“It's not just about the money,” Troy said.

“What are you,” his father said, “in shock or something?”

“I just don't want to go on TV,” Troy said, amazed at how quickly the notion of having the entire country see him, Troy White, on TV had turned sour. “We don't need to whip them up anymore now that we've got the deal. I just want to go home. That's all. I've got football. Can't we?”

Troy's father looked sadly down at his BlackBerry. He punched in some words, waited, then nodded his head and slowly said, “I had a lot of media lined up, but you're right; the real purpose was to hype the deal. Yeah, we can go back. It's okay. Whatever you want, Troy.”

Troy wanted to tell his father that it certainly didn't feel like whatever he wanted. It felt as if he'd been swept up in a tornado and didn't have any more say than a tattered sheet of newspaper spinning in the dust and leaves.

“Home,” Troy said, and that's where they went.

The plane ride back wasn't as magical as the ride to New York. Troy stared out the window. The afternoon sun glinted off ponds, lakes, and rivers below, leaving the impression not of golden treasure but of worthless glitter scattered carelessly in the wake of a cheap parade.

The attendant offered sandwiches to them both, but Troy's dad waved him off and Troy didn't feel hungry at all. His father worked the laptop twice as hard as
he had on the morning flight, something Troy hadn't thought possible. But even as they touched down at DeKalb Peachtree Airport, his father pounded away on the keys without looking up. Finally, though, when the big plane came to a halt, his father did look up to blink and smile and give Troy one of his winks.

“Are you writing apology emails to all the reporters?” Troy asked.

“Apologies?” his father said. “Heck, no. I'm moving money. Making deals. Communicating with my partners. Making the money is just the beginning. Now you've got to put it to work.”

“Work?” Troy said.

“Sure,” his father said. “Investments. Tax shelters. Trusts. Real estate. Hedge funds. Money is like soap. You let it sit there and the rain washes it away. Time whittles money down to nothing. You have to protect it. Inflation. Taxes. All that.”

“You do that, too?” Troy asked.

“Naw,” his father said, tapping a finger against his temple. “I'm no expert, but I know people who are. The best. Big time. All of them. I've already got one of my partners setting up an offshore corporation for us—or you, I mean.”

“Corporation?” Troy asked as they stood to go.

“Big time,” his father said.

Troy followed him out the door, thanking the flight attendant who'd been so nice and stepping into
the bright Atlanta sunshine.

When they arrived at Troy's house, his mom's car was sitting by itself in the red clay patch. Troy's dad hopped out and eagerly made for the front door, where he knocked but then went right in.

“Tessa!” he shouted. “We did it! You're rich!”

Troy's mom appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron, her face dusted with smudges of baking flour.

“I've been rich,” she said.

“Not like this you haven't,” his father said, glancing around the tiny room before putting his arms around her and hugging her and spinning her around until she finally managed to push him away, laughing.

“Okay,” she said, her laughter trailing off, “what's the offer?”

“Something too good to refuse,” his father said. “So we agreed in principle. I said that of course we had to get you to sign off, but we gave our word.”

“Your word that what?” she asked.

“That we'd do this deal,” Troy's father said. “I know I said I wouldn't, but I had to.”

“You were just to get things going,” she said, her voice sounding empty with disbelief. “To ‘whip them up,' you said, ‘get the bidding started.' We have to check with the Falcons. After everything they've done for us?”

“They'll never match it,” his father said. “Mr. Langan is rich, but he won't throw money around like this,
Tessa. Just listen. You never listen. It's more than we dreamed. It's more than I asked for. It's a fortune! Fifteen million dollars, maybe thirty-five, forty, even fifty before it's over. Who knows?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Troy, tell her,” his father said. “Tell her why we had to give him our word and kind of lock this thing down.”

Troy looked from one of his parents to the other and nodded. “Seth Cole told us either sign it or he wasn't interested.”

“I threw out the idea of eight figures, shooting for the moon,” his father said. “No one actually offered me that. I was posturing, and he, well, he just made an incredible offer. So, we did it. Don't tell me you don't see how huge this is? It's everything Troy's dreamed of, everything he deserves. And we gave our word. You can't ask us to back out on that. That's not the example you want to set for Troy. How could you be looking at me like that?”

Troy's mom wasn't smiling. She wadded her apron up tight and shook her head. Speaking softly but with a full portion of disgust, she said, “You think it's all about money? It's not. There are other things.”

“What other things are there when we're talking fifteen million?” Troy's father asked, his hands hanging limp at his sides.

“Where we
live
,” she said. “Troy's friends. My job.”

Troy's father froze, and the twisting vine of a smile grew across his face.

“Aha!” He paused. “Your job. Now I see. Your job, and maybe Seth Halloway's job, too?”

“No one said anything about Seth,” Troy's mom argued, her back straightening.

“No.” His father was quick. “No one
said
it, but there it is.”

Troy's mom bit into her lower lip and glowered at his dad.

“I knew it,” she said in barely a whisper. “Nothing ever changes. People never change. Please go.”

“Tessa,” his father said. “Don't do this. Think of Troy. Please. We don't have to like each other, but let's get along. This is just business. It's done.”

“This is
not
just business,” his mother said, waving her hands in the air. “This is my son. This is our life! Now go.”

Troy's father pursed his lips. He gave Troy a sad look, mussed his hair, gripped one shoulder, and said, “It's all right, champ. She'll get over it.”

“Don't bet on it,” his mom said.

His father didn't even flinch; and as if Troy's mom hadn't spoken, he said, “This is all gonna work out, you'll see. You're my boy, right?”

“Of course,” Troy said, liking the hand on his shoulder.

“Dad?” his father said with a smile and a wink.

“Of course, Dad,” Troy said.

Troy's mom marched behind his dad to the door, with Troy trailing. When his father opened the Porsche's door, she said, “And don't tell him it's going to ‘all work out' like you know something I don't. I don't care who promised what,
I'm
the one who has the final say. I'm going to look at what's best for Troy, and that's
not
New York.”

TROY'S MOM SLAMMED THE
door and turned to him with an angry face.

“What?” Troy asked.

His mom's anger melted away. Her face fell, hopeless and pained.

“I am so sorry,” she said, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him close.

Troy didn't know what to think, and certainly not what to say. Even though he let her hold him, he couldn't bring himself to hold her back.

Finally he asked, “Mom? Can I just go to practice?”

“Of course you can,” she said. She sniffed and let him go. “Let me fix you something first, though. I'll call Seth to tell him you're coming. We didn't even know if you'd make it back.”

“I almost didn't,” Troy said.

“I can get John Marchiano to tell us what he thinks about all this,” his mom said, digging through the refrigerator while he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. “How about spaghetti?”

“Great,” he said, “but, Mom, shouldn't we really just do this deal with the Jets?”

His mom dumped a container of cooked noodles onto a plate and doused them with sauce and meatballs from a bowl before sticking it all inside the microwave. She dusted her hands and looked at him.

“New York?” she said, her lip curled with disgust. “You really want to move to that place?”

Troy shrugged. “It's the big time, Mom. The money is huge. New York is the center of the world.”

“Don't listen to him,” his mom said, shaking her head. “Don't let him poison you, Troy.”

“No one's poisoning me, Mom,” he said. “That's his job. He's supposed to get me the best deal. Shouldn't we think about this? Think if maybe it's really the best thing?”

“What do you want, Troy?” she asked softly.

“A lot of things,” he said, his eyes finding the checkered tablecloth on the kitchen table. “I want to play in the NFL. I want to make a lot of money. I want to help the Falcons win the Super Bowl, but then I want to buy you a big new house and a fancy car.”

“I don't care about all that,” she said bitterly.

“Mom,” he said, looking up. “You asked me what I wanted. I told you.”

“I thought you and Gramps were the biggest Falcons fans on the planet,” she said, her smile weak. “You think you could be okay with helping another team?”

“I know you don't want to hear this, Mom,” Troy said, taking his seat, “but it's a business. Everyone says so, not just my dad. Seth Halloway. Mr. Langan. Everyone, Mom. It just is.”

The microwave beeped, telling them his dinner had grown hot. She took it out with a pot holder and set it on the table along with a glass and a gallon jug of milk. She went to the bread box and took out some white bread and brought that over along with the butter dish before sitting down across from him and resting her face in her hands.

“You're right,” she said. “Let's think about it. Go ahead, Troy. Eat.”

He did eat, and when he finished, he changed into his practice gear and climbed into the VW bug. When they pulled into the Georgia Tech stadium, Troy couldn't help but remember the feeling of becoming a state champ only a few days ago right there, on the same field, under the same glow of lights.

From the parking lot, Troy could see that the all-star team wore a rainbow of colors. Each player was wearing his own junior league jersey. Troy saw a wide receiver and a running back from Valdosta, the team
the Duluth Tigers had played against in the championship. One of the linemen wore the bright red of the Dunwoody Dragons, another Atlanta area team they'd defeated during the playoffs. There were lots of parents, too, since almost half of the players had to travel in from different regions all over the state.

As Troy trotted through the gates and out under the shadow of the goalposts, he heard Seth on the far end of the field calling his team together in the night air. The parents meandered toward the stands. Troy broke into a jog as Seth began passing out red pinnies to the defense and blue ones to the offense. When Troy pulled up to a stop at the back of the group, he looked expectantly at Seth.

Seth frowned at him and bent down into his bag, crumpling a blue pinnie and tossing it over the other players' heads for Troy to catch.

“You're late,” Seth said.

Troy smiled, but Seth's mouth remained a flat line until he returned to his team speech, thanking them all for coming, especially those from far away who'd be staying at the nearby Courtyard Atlanta. Seth checked his clipboard and ran through his practice plan so everyone would know what to expect for the next few days, including a big team Thanksgiving dinner at the Ritz-Carlton downtown.

Seth hadn't finished speaking before Tate and Nathan sidled up to Troy and began pumping him with
whispered questions about his absence from school and his reason for being late.

Troy only shook his head.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said. “My dad's working on a deal. That's all.”

“Come on, man,” Nathan said, leaning Troy's way but with his eyes fixed firmly on Seth. “You can't clam up on
us
. If it wasn't for us, Coach Krock would still be running the Falcons' defense and you'd be out on the street.”

“He's right, you know,” Tate said, chiming in.

Troy studied Seth's face, knowing that his mom must have let him in on the sudden trip to New York. The star linebacker had a smile plastered across his face like a piece of wallpaper, joyless and unmoving, but a smile all the same. Troy felt a pang of guilt.

“Don't you guys get it?” Troy asked, cranking his head around to glare at them. “I can't talk about it. I don't know what's going on.”

“Sheesh, don't be so grumpy,” Nathan said.

“Yeah, save it for the team from Florida,” Tate said.

“Okay,” Seth said, letting the clipboard drop to his side, “now, we're here to win this thing. I'm the head coach, and we'll do things my way. I know each one of you is a star, but forget that. For the next five days you guys are just a bunch of scrubs trying to win a starting job. Florida has been whipping our butts for the past five years. I watched the film. Our all-stars were just
that, a bunch of stars floating around in space. Well, not this year. We're a machine. We're an army. There's no favorites, no sure starters. Each one of you will win or lose a starting job on this team in the next four days based on your performance.

“Now, I had to start out with something, so I've watched some film and made some quick evaluations. Let's just line up to get this thing started. I'll call out the starting defense and the starting offense. If you're a backup, stand behind your position and pay attention as we go through our base plays. Okay…”

Seth read off the defensive players, giving Nathan the nod as starting left tackle. Tate, everyone knew, was the kicker, because they didn't even have another. When Seth called out the offensive positions, quarterback was last. Troy buckled his helmet and started to jog for his spot behind the center and the rest of the linemen who stood waiting over the ball.

“Hey,” Seth said, his voice cracking out over the field and echoing off the concrete stands, “Troy. Who said you were the starting quarterback?

“You're not.”