by Tim Green
“You’re my quarterback, dude.” Chuku grinned back at Troy. “And I wouldn’t hang you out to dry with the team owner. I’m not that guy. What? Why so glum? It was no big deal for you to get these, right?”
“No,” Troy said, “it was easy. Happy to do it.”
“What are friends for, right?” Chuku turned back around.
Troy didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t resist looking over at Tate. She wore a frown and Troy looked away.
The parking pass that came with the tickets let them drive right underneath Yankee Stadium. They passed through several security checkpoints and a metal detector before arriving backstage in a greenroom the size of a small warehouse. Silky drapes covered the walls and comfortable leather couches and chairs rested in groups atop thick rugs. Clusters of fat candles flickered and glowed on every tabletop. Off to one side was a huge buffet, but waiters and waitresses dressed in white shirts roamed through the throng of people with silver trays covered with drinks and food. In the center of it all sat Helena, surrounded by a dozen people. Mr. Cole sat next to her, holding her hand and looking at her like a bedazzled schoolboy.
It was the first time Troy ever remembered seeing the owner look relaxed and happy. When Mr. Cole saw the four of them, he waved them over and introduced them to the megastar. Helena was polite but quiet. She wore her long blond hair in a thick braid. She softly praised Mr. Moore for making the team, then turned to Troy.
“So, you’re the one who helped the Falcons win the Super Bowl?” Her big eyes seemed to hold the power of the universe and her smile, its light.
“I . . . kind of.” Troy lost his ability to speak.
“Oh, good.” She touched his arm. “I know you’ll do it again for the Jets this year, right?”
“He sure will.” Tate stepped forward and extended a hand to shake. “Tate McGreer, ma’am.”
Helena laughed. “You’re a spitfire.”
“I played football with Troy until last year. I’ve seen what he can do.” Tate beamed at the star singer. “I was the kicker, but you can ask Troy. I made some tackles of my own on the kickoffs. My mom’s making me be a young lady now, though, so I’m playing soccer.”
“I bet the boys are happy you’re not out there, knocking them down.” Helena grinned at Chuku. “Right?”
“She’d have to catch me to knock me down.” Chuku thumped his chest, then took out his iPhone. “How about a picture? It’ll be worth something someday.”
Mr. Cole seemed surprised. “It’s worth a lot right now.”
“I mean for Helena, Mr. Cole.” Chuku grinned. “No offense, but when I’m an NFL star with my own reality TV show, just like T.O., she can say she knew me when.”
Mr. Moore rolled his eyes but Mr. Cole only laughed.
Not for the first time Troy wished he had Chuku’s easy ability to charm people.
“Helena? You hear that? You better get one while you can,” the owner said.
Helena smiled and stood up in her long white dress to take a picture with Chuku, then Troy, then Tate, and finally with Mr. Moore and Seth Cole and all of them together, before a man wearing all black with a wireless headset came fretting into their midst and hustled her off to get into her costume.
They watched her go with the NFL owner hurrying along beside her.
“Wow,” Tate said. “I can’t believe that really just happened.”
“Stick with us.” Chuku put an arm around Troy’s neck. “This is just the beginning for the Killer Kombo.”
Mr. Moore snorted and shook his head. “Come on. Let’s get some food. All this bologna is making me hungry.”
Troy piled a plate with lamb chops, ribs, and French fries. They ate at a cocktail table standing up and watched the swirl of people moving through and around the big room before Mr. Moore looked at his watch and said they better get to their seats.
They walked down some stairs next to the stage, through a throng of security guards, and sat in the front row. When Helena came out, the roar of the crowd reminded Troy of the Super Bowl. He and Tate plugged their ears, nudged each other, and shared a quick high five.
The night flew by. Like everyone else, they sang along with Helena’s most popular songs—and by the time it was over and they were walking down into the parking garage with their ears ringing from the noise, it seemed to Troy as if the whole thing was worth it, no matter what trouble might come down the line.
That’s what Troy said to Tate after Chuku and his dad dropped them off, and they waved good-bye, shouting thank-yous from the front porch.
“What do you mean?” Tate asked as the Mercedes taillights disappeared up the street.
Troy shrugged. “It was just so awesome, I can’t imagine any trouble big enough to not be worth all that. That was once in a lifetime. I mean . . . Helena. We met her. She called you a spitfire.”
“Tonight was great,” Tate said, “but don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“I’ve just got a feeling those tickets are going to end up costing a lot more than you think.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
TROY DIDN’T LIKE WHERE the conversation was going. He opened the door without a sound and stepped inside, stopping in the hallway outside the kitchen, where he heard Seth and his mom talking. He knew he should announce himself, but there was something about their voices—maybe it was their hushed tone, maybe it was a slight strain of their words. Whatever it was, he held a finger to his lips, signaling Tate to be quiet, and stood in the hallway, listening.
“Are you sure?” His mother’s voice sounded almost alarmed.
“Pretty much,” Seth said, grim.
“I can’t even believe this,” his mother said. “What about Troy?”
“What about him?”
There was a silence that made Troy worry they either heard or sensed his presence. He slowly turned and began to silently lead Tate back out the front door, planning to reenter the house noisily to erase suspicion. Then his mother spoke.
“I just think . . . shouldn’t we tell him?”
“No, don’t do that,” Seth said. “Let’s see how it plays out. We might be making a big deal out of nothing.”
Troy’s stomach pushed up, crowding his throat and nearly choking him. He thought of the things he’d done wrong lately and their consequences. Nothing jumped to mind that would make them talk like this. The jersey thing with Chuku was kind of a mistake, but nothing that should make them act like this.
Whatever it was, Troy wanted to know. The uncertainty was killing him. He felt his legs coiling to move on their own, ready to burst into the kitchen so he could demand to know what in the world they were talking about.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
TROY’S LEGS GREW WEAK instead. Growing up in their tiny cabin back in the pine woods outside Atlanta, he had learned well the lesson of privacy. His mother would erupt like a volcano if she knew he had stood there in the dark hall, listening. So, instead of going forward, he backed up, leading Tate, stepping softly, and letting them back out through the screen door. He took a breath of the night air. Tate stared at him and shook her head with disapproval.
“Just trust me,” Troy whispered to Tate before he swung open the door, let it bang behind him, and shouted, “Mom! We’re home.”
He walked straight to the kitchen door with Tate in tow, swinging it open as well and finding Seth and his mom where he already knew they’d be, sitting at the table with mugs of steaming tea. A plate with nothing but coffee cake crumbs rested between them.
“How was it?” his mom asked.
“Great!” Tate said.
“Awesome. Didn’t you get my text?” Troy reached into the fridge for a couple of sodas, handing one to Tate.
“Yes, I got the picture.” His mom tapped her phone. “Amazing. She looks beautiful.”
“I guess,” Troy said, sitting down at the table.
“Not more beautiful than your mom, though,” Seth said.
“Please.” His mom fli
cked Seth’s arm.
“I’m serious.” Seth flicked her right back.
“He’s right, Mom.” Troy raised his soda can her way. He knew enough to get in on a good thing.
“I’m in on that,” Tate said.
“Okay, thank you all. Enough now,” she said. “I’m glad you enjoyed the concert. It was very nice of Mr. Cole.”
“Yeah, thanks, Seth,” Troy said.
“What did Seth do?” his mom asked.
Tate stared hard at the soda bottle she clutched with both hands.
Troy never told his mom about how he’d lost the tickets on a bet with Chuku, or how he’d relied on Seth to get him the jerseys to trade back for the tickets. She wouldn’t appreciate either of those things, and it had been a mistake for him to slip and thank Seth. Still, Troy had another gift besides being able to predict plays in the NFL. Maybe it was connected. He sometimes thought so. Whatever the source, he could process information instantly and come up with—well, he didn’t like to call them lies; they were more like stories, because they weren’t really harmful if you took the time to consider all the facts.
Whatever you called it, Troy didn’t even blink before the words were gushing from his mouth. “If it wasn’t for Seth in the very beginning, none of these things would ever have happened.”
His mom pressed her lips together and nodded at the truth of it. Seth was the one who believed in Troy’s ability and brought his talent to the Falcons’ coaches, insisting they give him a chance, even when it put his own career in danger.
“Was there something else?” Troy’s mom stared hard at him.
“No, just thanks.” Troy returned her gaze, knowing that any sign of weakness would alert her to the fact that he was telling a . . . story.
“And I want to thank you, too, Troy, since we’re all being so grateful,” Seth said. “The way you’ve handled yourself with the older kids hasn’t been easy, but I’m glad you trust me. It’ll all work out.”
“Everything will, right?” Troy laid the question in there innocently, then watched the unspoken words bounce back and forth between his mom and Seth.
Whatever it was they were hiding, it didn’t have anything to do with Troy playing quarterback—of that he was certain. The trouble was, it was killing him not to know where some problem was lying in wait for him, a problem so disturbing that they didn’t even want him to know about it.
Finally his mom spoke. “Everything always works out the way it should.”
Troy spoke low, recalling his words with the owner. “Mr. Cole says destiny is written in the animals of time. What’s that mean?”
“The annals of time,” his mom said. “Annals are the record books. He means the history for what’s going to happen—in the future—is already written someplace and you can’t change what’s meant to be.”
“You believe that?” Seth scrunched up his forehead.
“Most of the time.” She stood and began clearing the table.
Seth got up, stretched, and looked at his watch. “Yup, it’s getting late. Troy, see you tomorrow at practice?”
“Seven o’clock, but I’ll get there a little early to take some extra snaps with Big Nick Lee.”
“Tate, will I see you there?” Seth asked.
“I was gonna bring a soccer ball and work on my left foot. I saw that grass field out behind the school. You think that would be okay?” Tate asked.
“If not, you can use the turf. I know the goals are behind the school, but it’ll be better than nothing if the soccer fields are being used.”
“Thanks, Seth.” Tate raised her bottle toward him.
“You got it,” Seth said. “Tessa, lunch at Barelli’s tomorrow? One o’clock?”
“That works for me.” Troy’s mom gave Seth a light kiss and watched him go before she finished cleaning up the sink and putting their mugs into the dishwasher.
Troy glanced at Tate, then turned the soda bottle in his hands, reading the numbers on the label. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I heard that John Madden once said winning was the world’s best deodorant.”
“What?”
“You know, if you win, it takes away the stink of something, no matter how bad it is.”
“Was that on your video game or something?” she asked.
Troy laughed. “Nah, I heard it on ESPN Classics. They did this thing on famous coaches. You should’ve seen the funny commercials he did.”
“The one in the bowling alley?” Tate asked. “That’s funny.”
“What’s your point?” Troy’s mom crossed the kitchen and put her hand on the back of his neck, rubbing the muscles there.
“Just that winning fixes things, right? I mean, when you win, people forget about a lot of other stuff, the stinky stuff.”
“Well, winning certainly helps . . . except when it doesn’t.” She gave his neck a final squeeze. “Come on, it’s late. Let’s get you two up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Troy followed her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
She stopped at the top step and looked back at him and Tate, her face pale and almost ghostly in the gloom. “It means that sometimes when you win, people are gunning for you even more.”
Troy’s mom left them, and he looked at Tate. She shook her head and it made him feel as if all he could ever do was dig himself deeper and deeper. It reminded him of someone else.
It reminded him of his own father.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
TROY FORGOT ABOUT HIS father.
He forgot about the UPS man.
He forgot about Thane and Ty and even Mr. Cole.
In fact, the only thing Troy did think about was Summit football, learning the offense so perfectly that he knew what every player’s job was on every play in the book. When training camp began in the NFL, it was Chuku, his teammate, and not Ty, who stayed with Troy, his mom, and Tate.
Thane hired a nanny to take care of Ty. The only one who heard from him was Tate. It seemed as if he texted her all the time. Whether they were playing Xbox together or grabbing pizza down on Main Street, Tate would regularly hunch down over her phone with her thumbs working double time. The only relief they had from her constant communication with Ty was when he had to finally go to his own football camp for St. Stephen’s middle school team.
“Why can’t they text?” Troy muttered to himself, not daring to raise his voice so she could hear him. “It’s middle school football. It’s no big deal, you know.”
Troy’s mom had enrolled Tate in Summit Middle as expected, and signed her up for the soccer team, because her father hadn’t gotten any better. The only positives were that it looked as if Tate would be with them for a while and that her father hadn’t gotten any worse, either.
Troy’s attention was almost totally focused on learning the Summit offense and perfecting the chemistry with his receivers. He never missed a Summit practice, because his only job with the Jets was to be there on game days during the regular season to inform the team’s coordinators what the opposing team’s plays would be. So even though the Jets had a month of training camp and preseason games, they had nothing to do with Troy.
Troy tried not to think about the Jets for two reasons. First, he didn’t want the distraction from his own football team, and second, because when he did think about the Jets, it made his stomach queasy. Why, he didn’t know.
On Wednesday, in the last week of training camp, a sportswriter from the Newark Star-Ledger came by to interview Seth and Troy.
The next day at breakfast, Troy sat with Chuku and Tate hunched over the sports page. He was disappointed with the article that had been written. It was mostly about Seth and his coaches and their NFL experience. The reporter stressed the unusual opportunity this coaching gave the Summit players, and cited that as the reason why the roster had gone from a paltry nineteen players the year before to just over forty for the upcoming season. He had several quotes from parents talking about how excited their kids
were to have someone like Seth coaching the team. The paper even predicted that Summit could be a playoff contender.
Troy read the article again, scouring it for any hint of Seth’s plan to make him quarterback. Seth didn’t reveal anything in the interview, though. The article even said that player positions were uncertain.
Maybe worse was comparing the size of the small piece about the Summit team to the front-page article about the Jets. The Jets had high expectations for the season, and their new football genius—Troy—was mentioned as part of the reason. It frustrated Troy. The genius thing was a novelty, something that was fun and—if his father hadn’t made a mess of things—something to make them rich, but not what he wanted to be known for.
Troy flipped back to the high school section and slurped raisin bran from a big spoon, chewing while he read about the competition. Milk dribbled down his chin when he read about St. Stephen’s. People were predicting another state title for them and it burned Troy, even though he knew it would be good for Ty.
“Try not to make so much noise when you’re eating, honey.” Troy’s mom appeared, put a hand on his shoulder, and yawned. “And use a napkin, not your sleeve. I need coffee. Good morning, kids.”
“They’re predicting we’ll have a winning season, Mom.” Troy pointed to the spot on the page.
“The Jets?” She rinsed out the parts of the coffee machine in the sink.
“No, us, Summit.”
“Remember what we say. Don’t believe something just because you read it in the paper.” She rattled a filter into the machine and began spooning out heaps of coffee. “Did Seth get here?”
Now that training camp had them practicing twice a day, Seth had taken to arriving early, having breakfast with them all, and taking him and Chuku to practice while Tate went to soccer practice.
“He texted me that he had to stop and get some Gatorade mix. Why would you even talk like that?” Troy asked in a low tone, checking to see that his friends weren’t paying attention before he went on. “I can throw the ball as good as any high school kid. You should see how good we look in practice. We’re even better with pads on.”
