by Tim Green
“You know about Kellen, then?”
Izzy opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “If I win with this court thing—or whatever it is—I’ll get him on the roster.”
I could see from the corner of my eye that Coach Cowan was trying not to smile, and I wondered if it was because he was happy or if he didn’t think that was going to happen.
“Let’s hope you do, then,” he said as we turned into the driveway of a small ranch jammed into a row of houses in a dusty neighborhood just across the tollway. “Well, this is the address.”
We got out and I heard the thunder of jet engines and the sharp smell of fuel as a plane took off from Love Airfield, which was only a few blocks away. I eyed the houses up and down the street and noted the peeling paint and rust-stained garage doors. While Coach Hubbard’s house was no more than ten miles away, it was in a neighborhood that was totally different from mine and Izzy’s.
Coach Hubbard’s wife was as skinny as he was big, but she had a giant baby on her hip who had jet-black hair like hers. She looked me over and said, “Wow, you are little.”
Obviously she wasn’t my new favorite person.
Beyond her rough words, I couldn’t help staring at the green-and-orange tattoos all over her pale arms and shoulders.
She led us through a kitchen, where pots and pans overflowed from the sink and every kind of spill you could imagine decorated the walls, from baby formula to gravy.
“He’s cute.” Izzy tickled the roll beneath the baby’s chin and the baby giggled and spit.
That won us a smile from Mrs. Hubbard before she shoved open a screen door in the back. She waited until it finished creaking before she spoke. “Robert’s in his man cave. You can go on out back.”
Izzy hesitated at the sound of a man cave, but Mrs. Hubbard said, “Go ahead. Robert gives you any guff, you tell him I sent you. That’ll cool his jets.”
I almost asked who Robert was, but knew it had to be my coach. I let Coach Cowan lead. We marched across a dry dirt yard littered with engine parts toward what looked like an overgrown tool shed snuggled up in a nest of crabgrass. The battered stockade fence behind it might have held up the shed, or the shed might have held up the fence. Both looked capable of collapse. Coach Cowan had to bend his head to get in through the man cave’s doorway. I was fine, of course, as was Izzy. It was dark inside except for a flat-screen TV that glowed with some game tap frozen midplay.
As my eyes adjusted and I saw the walls, I knew my plan to overcome the Simpkin clan could never fail.
56
Covering every inch of wood paneling, shelf, or tabletop were Cowboys posters, blankets, pillows, memorabilia, and trinkets, like key chains, bobbleheads, and coffee mugs. Coach Hubbard even wore a Cowboys T-shirt. It was a shrine to my team. America’s team.
Coach Hubbard sat in a musty recliner draped in a Cowboys blue-and-silver blanket. He set aside his remote and struggled to get up so he could shake hands with Coach Cowan.
“Can I get you a beer, Coach?” Coach Hubbard nodded proudly at his bar at the other end of the narrow room.
As my eyes adjusted, I realized that perched on three of the bar stools were characters who might have been from the space-bar scene in Star Wars: a giant bear man with a full black beard, a short round man with frog eyes and a bald head, and a skinny man, freckle-faced with red hair and buck teeth. Each wore Cowboys shirts and caps. Coach Cowan blinked at the crew for a moment. Each of them raised his can of beer in a wide-eyed, silent toast to the Cowboys coach.
“Oh, uh, I don’t drink beer,” Coach Cowan replied. “Thanks, though.”
Coach Hubbard scowled beneath his bright-blue backward Ben Sauer Football cap—the only non-Cowboys thing apparently allowed in the man cave—and uttered a single word heavy with disappointment. “Oh.”
The skinny man stood and held up his phone. “Uh, Coach? Mind if we get a picture with ya?”
“That I can do.” Coach Cowan’s smile saved the day.
They crowded around him, taking selfies and then having me and Izzy use each of their phones to do group shots.
“Hey,” said the bear with the thick black beard, “can we get the kid in one of these?”
“The kid owner?” The froggy man’s tongue snaked out of his mouth to lick his lips before disappearing in a snap. “That’s a great idea. Okay, kid?”
I shrugged and glanced at Izzy, who raised her eyebrows, before I got into the shot. I admit, it felt pretty good to be part of the excitement and no doubt, Coach Hubbard’s buddies were excited. They shared their shots and tweeted them madly to friends and followers. (Though who’d follow them I couldn’t even imagine.)
“So? You’ve got some game film?” Coach Cowan nodded at the big projection screen on the wall, and his voice had that little electric current of excitement in it.
“It’s our win from this morning.” Coach Hubbard swelled with pride, scooped up the remote, and pointed at the frozen players on the screen. “Used your spread. I was just telling my boys here how the game isn’t just about blocking and tackling anymore. Not on certain levels, anyway.”
Coach Cowan reached for the remote. “May I?”
Coach Hubbard blustered as he surrendered it. “Coach, it’s an honor.”
Coach Cowan plunked himself down in a wooden chair next to the recliner and began advancing the tape, then rewinding it quickly, back and forth. He did this for several minutes, burning through half a dozen plays before he spoke. “Did they stay in this zone on you?”
“Yeah. Can you believe that? It’s like they never saw a spread before.” Coach Hubbard chuckled and sank down into his chair before looking back at his posse, who had reluctantly returned to their bar stools. “You guys see okay?”
“Oh, sure,” they all said at the same time, nodding in agreement and drinking their beer.
The skinny guy was secretly positioning his phone alongside his beer can to snap yet another picture of Coach Cowan’s glowing face. Coach Cowan paid no attention if he saw it. He was dialed in on the game film, running it and rewinding it, fast, over and over. It was hard for even me to keep up, and I had played in the game.
“Yeah,” Coach Cowan said, pointing at the screen, “but the next guy—if he watches this film, anyway—you know what he’s gonna do, right?”
“Play man free,” Izzy said, her face also intent on the film. “And, yes, their coaches will be watching this film, if they haven’t already.”
No one said a word. Coach Cowan looked back at Izzy. Who ever heard of a girl knowing about man-to-man coverage with a free safety in the deep zone and knowing the terminology to call it “man-free zone”? I wanted to melt.
“Oh,” Izzy said, looking around the man cave. “Sorry?”
Coach Cowan broke out into a grin that put everyone at ease. “Don’t be sorry. You’re absolutely right. They’re gonna play some man free for sure. You gotta be ready for that, Coach. I mean, if the next team is any good and have cornerbacks fast enough to play man coverage. Are they?”
Coach Hubbard snorted. “The team we play next week is as good as it gets. They haven’t lost in five years.”
“You haven’t beaten them in five years?” Coach Cowan froze the tape to look at Coach Hubbard.
“No one has beaten them in five years.” Coach Hubbard looked kind of offended.
Coach Cowan bit his lip. “Well, can you show me their film? Maybe I can give you some ideas.”
Coach Hubbard struggled out of his chair, chuckling and trembling as he put a new disc in his player. “Coach, if you’d do that, I would owe you big time.”
Coach Cowan gave me and Izzy a secret wink and said, “That sounds good.”
Coach Hubbard started the film, still chuckling. “Eiland isn’t gonna know what hit them, I can tell you that.”
“Eiland?” Coach Cowan’s face dropped and even in the light of the screen I could see that it had lost some of its color. “Wait, that’s Dillon Peebles’s team?”
&
nbsp; “Well, yeah,” Coach Hubbard said. “He’s their best player.”
Coach Cowan was on his feet quick and he gently set the remote down on the chair he’d been sitting in. “Uh, okay. Well, I better go on that note.”
“Wait, why? You can’t give us just a couple ideas?” Coach Hubbard looked like he might cry.
Coach Cowan shook his head. “No way. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Everything crumbled right then and there, my entire plan of making the spread offense a weapon so potent that Coach Hubbard just couldn’t cave in to the Simpkins.
Coach Cowan turned to me. “Sorry, Ryan. I can’t do something directly against Dillon Peebles. If his mom wins this case, she’ll be my boss. I had no idea. Come on, guys. We’d better go.”
57
Even as we walked toward the street, people were approaching, neighbors and friends of the Hubbards on the street, snapping off pictures of Coach Cowan. A couple kids ran up with footballs to be signed. Coach Cowan signed them as we walked and got into his SUV, firing up the big engine and waving people off as they knocked on his window.
“Sorry.” He shouted through the glass. “Gotta go.”
They were like zombies, pouring in on us from every direction.
“Hey!” some guy shouted, pointing at me through the window. “It’s the kid owner!”
Coach put the SUV into gear and eased away. My disappointment was so great I couldn’t even speak until we crossed over the sunken tollway.
“You said you’d help.” My tone of voice made what he’d done sound like a major crime.
“Oh, no. I like you, Ryan, and I like your mom, but I’m not ending my career with the Cowboys so you can star in a middle-school football game. No way.”
“Ending your career?” I was hot. “I could save your career!”
“Whoa, settle down.” Coach Cowan shook his head. “Ryan, the Vegas odds of you having control of the team are five to one.”
“Vegas odds? What are you talking about?” I shook my head in frustration.
“Betting,” Izzy explained from the backseat. “They bet on everything in Vegas.”
“You heard those people,” Coach Cowan said. “That ‘kid owner’ thing is catching on, whoever that kid ends up being. People are talking. They’re laying odds on who’ll end up with the team, you or your half brother.”
Coach Cowan glanced over and saw my frown. “Look, Ryan, can you imagine if Hubbard’s friends start tweeting about me giving Ben Sauer Middle a game plan to beat your half brother? It’d be on SportsCenter by seven.”
I knew now what he was afraid of, and I didn’t blame him. Jasmine and Dillon? They’d fire Coach Cowan in three seconds for sure if he helped me.
“But they say there’s a chance Jasmine and Dillon might lose, that this injunction is going to go away.” I tried not to beg, but it was hard. “I heard that on SportsCenter.”
He shook his head. “Too risky, Ryan. Plus, if you win, you’ll keep me as head coach anyway.”
“I might not, you know.” I flared my nostrils at him even though I knew he was right.
“Yes, you will.” He spoke with absolute certainty as he turned the SUV in through our front gates. “You are a good kid. You believe the same things I do because it’s your life, brains over brawn. Besides, just because I can’t help you, it doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Well, it will when I explain.” He pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine, but didn’t get out.
I let my own hand drop away from the door handle. “I’m all ears.”
58
“You understand why I can’t have your coach and his buddies getting all giddy about me giving him a game plan, right?” Coach Cowan asked.
I would only shrug.
He huffed. “Look, I can give him a plan, but not there in the land of Cowboy fever. I had to do what I did so they’ll tell all their friends what a jerk I was and how I wouldn’t help Coach Hubbard. That way, I’ll be safe if you don’t win this court thing.”
“You probably won’t be safe anyway.” Izzy couldn’t help chiming in from the backseat, and when we both turned, she held her hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying.”
“She’s right,” I said. “Hamhock is probably out there somewhere right now, giving Dillon a foot massage.”
Izzy snorted a little laugh and it made me smile.
“Safer than if I’m seen as the guy who sided with you,” Coach Cowan said. “The truth is, you’d be the best owner for this team. I know you care about the team. Dillon? I think he and his mom don’t care much about anything but themselves. I think your dad would be proud of you, Ryan.”
“Okay.” I was still doubtful, but bursting with pride at the mention of my dad. “So how do you help?”
“We let the dust settle, then ask him to come over here. I watch the tape—it’ll take me all of half an hour—and I give him a handful of plays you all can practice this week that’ll shred this Eiland offense.”
“Shred . . .” I let the word hang on my lips so I could savor it.
“Can your coach keep a secret?”
“If you asked him to be a blocking dummy for the Cowboys, I think he’d do it. He’s sure going to keep a secret if you ask him to.”
“He’ll be able to contain himself?” Coach Cowan asked.
“Coach Hubbard likes the spread and I think he’s like all you coaches . . .”
Coach Cowan raised an eyebrow.
“He wants to be in charge. It’s his team and he’s not going to want people to know the game plan came from you. You’re pretty safe with Coach Hubbard.” I opened the door and got down.
We went inside and I think Coach Cowan went over his plan to secretly help Coach Hubbard with my mom. The two of them stayed inside for a few minutes together talking, while Izzy and I went outside and sat on the big wicker couch under the shade of the trellis next to the pool.
Izzy fanned her fingers out to look at her nails. “I probably should have gone with your mom and gotten my nails done. We barely got to watch any film.”
“Nails? I’m surprised to hear you talk like that,” I said. “Who cares about fingernails?”
“Ryan, a girl can be an athlete and still wear a dress or get her fingernails done. People can be a lot of things at once. Don’t you know that?” She stared at me and never looked so pretty, so even though I wasn’t totally sure, I gave her a nod.
She smiled, and I put my hands behind my head and sat back with my feet up, just enjoying her company.
“You know,” she said, “you don’t have to compete with Dillon Peebles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I sat up to study her face.
She adjusted her sunglasses without letting me see her eyes. “Eiland hasn’t lost in five years. There are things at work here a lot bigger than you. Just don’t put so much pressure on yourself, that’s all.”
“He’s a creep and a jerk,” I said.
“Ryan, you don’t even know him. All you know is that his mom wants the Cowboys. If you guys met under different circumstances, you might be friends. Maybe Dillon isn’t really that bad.”
I wanted to pull the hair out of my head. Me and Dillon, friends? I loved the way Izzy was so nice and forgiving with me, but saw no reason why she had to be that way with a jerk like Dillon. “Well, I want to beat Eiland, Dillon or no Dillon.”
“Okay,” she said. “That I get. Just don’t make it you versus him. You’re better than that.”
I felt a hot spring in my stomach. “What’s that mean?”
She shrugged. “You’re you and that’s all you need to be. For me, anyway. Jackson, too. Hey, where is Jackson?”
“Huh?” I couldn’t help stuttering. “I . . . I don’t know. I never heard back from him.”
Suddenly, her smile melted into a dark scowl. She pulled her sunglasses down on her nose so she could peer over their tops.
“What?” I said.
“Ryan,” she said, “did you lie to me about texting Jackson to ask him over?”
59
I took a breath, kind of annoyed that I’d been caught and had to explain myself, but knowing deep down I was wrong and also not wanting to sour our friendship over it. “I’m sorry. I guess I just felt like being alone with you. You know, so we could . . . talk.”
She sharpened her focus on me and I felt like she could see right into my mind. Even if she could see, though, I don’t know what she would see. My mind was a jumble of all kinds of things. I liked Izzy, not just as a friend, but maybe something more. Even admitting the possibility of that made me shake like a wet dog.
“Is this about the bonfire?” She seemed suddenly forgiving and excited.
I knew about the bonfire. Everyone in school was talking about it. Every year the student council put on a bonfire event after the Eiland game. It was a tradition. But, despite talking to Jackson about it a couple times, I hadn’t been thinking seriously about even going, let alone with a date. The way Izzy was looking at me, though, let me know I’d better do something or she’d be upset. Besides, it was a good way to explain my behavior toward Jackson. I really didn’t want to tell her I was jealous of the attention he’d gotten after the game.
“Well, sort of.”
Izzy blushed and looked down with a shrug. “Are you, like, asking me?”
I had no idea where to go from there and I really didn’t deserve a quick and easy escape, but my phone rang and it was Jackson.
“Where’ve you been? I, like, texted you five times,” said Jackson.
“Yeah, I got a lot going on. Sorry. Hey, awesome game.” I wanted Izzy to see me being a stand-up guy.
“Thanks to you, dude. I still can’t believe Coach Hubbard’s letting me run the ball. . . . So, what is up?”
“I’m trying to keep the spread offense alive here, Jackson. I got Coach Hubbard hopefully coming over to meet with Coach Cowan.”
Jackson whistled over the phone. “Dude, you own Coach Cowan, right?”
