by Tim Green
“You hurt your shoulder Friday night. You’re in some pain. Distracted.” His mom threw her hands up. “I don’t know, but don’t tell them you don’t care. Just say you’re trying. I know it’s hard, but let’s just get it done and over with. They’ll hound you anyway if you don’t give them something. Come on. You can’t run from it.”
Troy looked at her suspiciously, wondering if she’d spoken to Tate.
His mom walked with him past the locker room and farther into the concrete tunnel toward the media interview room. With the PR guy beside him, Troy stepped into the crowded room and up onto the dais with a huge green-and-white Jets banner behind him. Cameras flashed. Red lights blinked on. An excited murmur rose up like an angry mob as the reporters fired questions. Troy gripped the edges of the podium. Ritchie Anderson adjusted the microphone and held up his hands.
“Stop! Just stop!” Anderson scowled at them. “One question at a time, or this is over. I want to start out by saying on behalf of the team that Troy was unable to assist the coaching staff in today’s game. We are hopeful that will change between now and next week. This is going to be very brief, so I apologize to you in advance because only a couple of you will get to ask questions. Now, Mike Lupica.”
All eyes turned to the ESPN and New York Daily News commentator.
“Troy, when you helped the Falcons win the Super Bowl, I called it magic. What happened? Is the magic gone?”
Troy swallowed. “I don’t . . . I don’t think so.”
Lupica stared.
“I don’t know,” Troy said. “Maybe.”
“What happened?” Lupica asked. “Is it possible you’re just outgrowing this genius thing? You look like you’re five or six inches taller than you were at the Super Bowl,” Lupica said.
Troy glanced at his mom but got no help. He leaned into the microphone. “I don’t think so. Maybe. I got hurt in my own football game on Friday night. My shoulder. It’s bothering me. Maybe that’s it.”
Murmurs rose like a fast tide.
Anderson held up his hands, then pointed. “Pam Oliver.”
The Fox NFL reporter wore a sad look and it seemed to Troy as though, besides his mother, she was the only person in the room who actually cared about him.
“If playing football is making it . . . hard for you to do your genius thing . . . well, will you stop playing?”
“I hope I can do both.” Troy rubbed the back of his head. “But playing football is my dream. One day all the way up to the NFL if I can. I mean, you can’t get to the NFL if you don’t play in high school. That’s step one. Helping the Jets win games is . . . well, it’s a job, not a dream.”
The room exploded with questions. The PR guy held up his hands, but it didn’t work. Troy couldn’t have answered another question if he wanted to. Anderson and his mom escorted him out of the room and he bumped into Greg McElroy, who was on his way in. Troy stumbled, but McElroy caught him and held him up straight. “You okay?”
“Thanks,” Troy said.
McElroy glanced into the media room and chuckled. “Thanks for the distraction.”
“Huh?”
“No one’s gonna be asking me about my two picks today.”
“Oh,” Troy said.
“It’ll work out.” McElroy pointed up and flicked his eyes at the ceiling. “He’s got your back.”
Before Troy could reply, McElroy waded into the storm of reporters and the room grew quiet. Troy’s mom took him by the arm and led him past the locker room.
He followed her march through the stadium tunnel and outside. Instead of leading him to one of the players’ buses, his mom steered him toward a long black limousine whose rear door she swung open for him.
“Whose is this?” Troy asked. “Where are we going?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A VOICE CAME FROM inside the limousine. “I thought it might be easier for you to ride back with me. Get in, Troy.”
Troy recognized the owner’s voice. He hesitated because Mr. Cole was the last person he wanted to see. His mom waved him on and he slipped inside. The bright sunshine left him seeing only dark shadows and vague shapes inside the back of the cool, dark car. His mom got in beside him and closed the door. The owner’s expressionless face began to materialize before him as his eyes adjusted.
The limo pulled out of the lot behind two police cars with their lights flashing. They quickly slid into an empty lane meant for emergency traffic, whisking past the long line of cars waiting to exit the stadium and pulling out onto the open highway.
The owner removed three bottles of water from a small refrigerator, offering one to Troy and his mom before cracking open his own and taking a swig. Mr. Cole sat studying the water bottle. Finally, he sighed and lowered it into his lap.
“Look, Troy, I heard what you said in there.”
Troy held the owner’s gaze and swallowed hard.
“Do you remember when we talked about how you could help this team? I took a huge chance. I outbid everyone else before the bidding even started, and there was a lot of excitement when I gave you a contract. The team hasn’t won a championship since the sixties. Getting it this year is our dream. It should be yours.”
“Are you going to fire me?” Troy gripped his water bottle so that the plastic crackled.
“Are you going to stop playing high school football so I can at least get my money’s worth out of you?” the owner asked, his voice suddenly like steel.
Troy’s mom cleared her throat. “Mr. Cole, my son wants to play football.”
The owner looked as if he was holding back laughter. “In your wildest dreams, did you ever imagine fifteen million dollars?”
Mr. Cole’s tone made Troy hot and without thinking, he said, “I did. Peyton Manning makes a lot more than that.”
The owner finished his laugh. “Peyton Manning? Is that who you are?”
“Maybe.” Troy glared at him. “I’ll make millions playing football.”
“You like to talk about contracts.” Troy’s mom turned her mouth into a flat line and fired up her eyes before she continued. “Troy’s got one and nothing in it says he can’t play football. I’m not going to stop him, and neither are you.”
Troy’s heart swelled with love for his mom.
The owner stewed on that while they rode in silence to a private airport. The limo pulled out onto the tarmac and they all got out, stiff and quiet, right beside a big white jet. A flight attendant in a dark blue uniform led Troy and his mom up the stairs, through one compartment into another in the back the size of a living room, where a leather couch and chairs faced a big flatscreen TV.
“Just let me know if you’d like sandwiches or drinks,” the flight attendant said.
Mr. Cole stayed in the front room by himself. When they took off, the jet seemed to go almost straight up. Troy’s mom gripped his hand as the force pushed them into the backs of their leather chairs.
After they leveled out, Mr. Cole appeared in the doorway leading to his area. In his hand was a green bottle of sparkling water. Whatever dark thoughts he’d been brooding on seemed to have vanished.
“I’m used to getting what I want, so you’ll have to excuse me. I hope I wasn’t rude. You’re right about the contract.” He smiled and pointed at Troy’s mom with his bottle. “It also says that after the first season the contract can be nullified if there is a failure to perform. The lawyers will have fun arguing over that clause if it comes to that. Let’s hope it won’t. I will say, though, that I know about your current financial situation and your issues with the IRS and Troy’s father. So, no, I can’t make you stop playing football, but if you can’t perform . . . well, it won’t be good for anyone, will it?”
Before Troy or his mom could say anything, the owner slipped away.
When they landed at the airfield in Morristown, Mr. Cole was gone before they left the plane. A car waited for them on the tarmac and the driver headed toward Summit.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
TROY
AND HIS MOM had dinner together alone. Seth was with his coaching staff working out the Summit game plan for next Friday night. Tate landed at Newark Airport late and fell asleep on the way home in the car. The next day, Troy’s shoulder felt a bit better and that was a relief. The kids at school cheered when they saw Troy and thanked him for the big win.
During lunch, Chuku dragged Troy up on the stage at the far end of the cafeteria and with his mouth so close to the microphone that it boomed through the room he announced that Troy was the savior of Summit. The entire cafeteria broke out into applause and Troy pulled away, blushing and returning to his seat, even though Chuku proceeded to bow like a boxing champion after a big fight and drone on about how their team was on a mission and the Killer Kombo couldn’t be stopped. Troy wasn’t sure who’d turned the microphone on for Chuku, but the principal was the one to turn it off, even though she did it with a smile, accepting a hug from Chuku.
Everything was positive, but Troy had a feeling some of the older players might not be so happy about Chuku’s show, especially Grant Reed. When Troy walked into the locker room after school it didn’t surprise him to hear Grant Reed’s loud voice. It took Troy a minute, though, to realize he was being made fun of by the older player and that it was about his failure with the Jets in Miami.
“Ha haa!” Reed’s eyebrows danced and he acted as if he was surprised to see Troy. “You’re not as smart as you think, are you? What happened in Miami? I thought you were a football genius? That’s what you call yourself, right?”
Troy bit his lip and kept pulling on his pads. Thankfully, Chance Bryant appeared from around the lockers. Chance had all his pads on already and his hands were taped like a fighter’s. He hammered a locker with one of his fists.
“Who farted?” His voice was mean and serious. The locker room got quiet, and Chance spoke in a low growl. “Oh, that wasn’t a fart. That was you, Reed . . . talking.”
Grant Reed drew in a breath and puffed up his chest. He was about to say something when Chance took three quick steps, closed the gap, and lifted Grant Reed up off his feet with a single handful of shirt.
Chance banged him up against a locker, put his face close, and whispered through his sneer, “I want to win a championship, you got that? I want to play football in college, and you’re not gonna be the reason it doesn’t happen. You got that? You’re a captain. This kid is our quarterback. We just beat a team we haven’t beaten since your daddy was in diapers. I want to keep winning. So you just leave my man here alone.”
Reed opened his mouth. “I—”
“No.” Chance shook him, banging Reed’s head into the locker again. “Don’t even try to explain, Grant. You just leave him alone or the next time you won’t even see me coming. You got that?”
Reed just stared, but Troy could see that the light had gone out in his blue eyes.
“Nod if you got that,” Chance said, slow and mean.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
REED NODDED.
Chance dropped him and stalked away.
Troy had to bite down on his lip to keep from grinning, and that was the last anyone mentioned anything about the Jets or any of the painful stories in the newspapers about Troy losing his magic.
Before practice, Seth approached Troy during stretching and asked how he was feeling.
“Good to go,” Troy said. “Shoulder is much better. It only hurts a little. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, your mom called and told me you were feeling a lot better, but I wasn’t talking about your shoulder. I meant, you know, all this business with the Jets . . .”
“I’m fine, Seth.” Troy buckled up his chinstrap. “I mean it. Really.”
“Nice,” Seth said, and walked away clapping his hands. “Let’s go Summit Centurions! We got Morristown this week and we will crush them!”
Practice ran hot and fast with players still feeding off the excitement of beating a team like Lawton. The coaches stayed on them, though, and the theme for the week became one of not letting up. No one tried to pretend that Morristown was anything close to Lawton, but it was thrilling to go to the game as a championship-caliber team and stomping someone the way Summit had been stomped for so many years.
Practice that whole week went well, and between that, school, and the dinners that he, Seth, his mom, and Tate would have later in the evenings, the week flew by. Troy was obsessed with Morristown. After beating Lawton, the Summit team and coaches knew they could beat anyone. That made some of the players dream—dream and even talk—about the chances of going undefeated, a perfect season.
Troy forced the Jets and his deal with Mr. Cole to a back corner of his mind, and even his mom agreed that it was the best way to handle the whole thing. She stood behind Troy’s decision to focus on his own football team, even if it meant the end of his NFL contract.
“We lived in that tiny cabin for twelve years,” his mom had said. “I don’t see any reason we can’t live there for twelve more.”
“Or this place.” Troy had no intention of moving.
“Or this place,” she had said.
“Then, after that,” Troy had replied, “I’ll sign a huge NFL contract and buy you a place in the Cotton Wood Country Club.”
“Or maybe you’ll be in law school.” His mother never could help herself from quickly bringing Troy down to earth.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
THE FRIDAY NIGHT CROWD for Morristown was even bigger than it had been for Lawton. The smell of sizzling hot dogs floated up from the concession stand in thick clouds. Banners and pom-poms appeared like dormant wildflowers after a desert rain, waving over the throng of fans dressed in gold and blue. Many of the Summit residents wanted to see if the football team was for real, and a lot of outsiders came with hopes of seeing Troy and Chuku play brilliantly. He figured there might be a grump here or there who wanted to see if he’d fall on his face the same way he had for the Jets last Sunday, but he sensed that the crowd was firmly behind him.
Troy stood on the edge of the field in his equipment and drank in the crowd like an actor peering from behind the curtain before a big show. His mind skipped a beat when he saw the tall man in the suit again, the one with the surveyors on the field his first day at the school. For the second game in a row he was wearing a suit. This time, instead of talking with Mr. Biondi, he had someone next to him who looked familiar.
The tall man suddenly pointed behind Troy. Troy turned and saw Chuku coming down the steps. He looked back to the stands. The man next to the tall man was chunky with a thick gray . . . mustache.
“The UPS guy,” Troy spoke under his breath. Baffled and slightly alarmed by seeing the two of them together, he began to scan the crowd again. Tate had gotten a text from Ty saying he might come with Thane. Might. Troy spotted Tate, but she was sitting alone with his mom. He wondered if his failure with the Jets had anything to do with his cousins not showing up.
Either way, people spilled out of the bleachers and onto the grass outside the fence surrounding the field. The night was room temperature, and anticipation crackled in the air. It reminded Troy of the Helena concert, lots of happy talk and laughter, but plenty of anticipation to see a big show.
The difference for Troy was that now he felt it running through him, not just around him.
“I’m the quarterback.” He whispered the words inside his helmet so only he could hear. Still, they sent a shiver through his frame.
On the way out to the field, Seth put a hand on Troy’s shoulder pad and pointed to the crowd. “Football is officially alive and well in Summit. We keep doing this, they’re gonna have to build a new stadium. Did you know they were talking about tearing this down and just folding the program?”
Troy laughed out loud. “Tell ’em to save up their money. It’s gonna have to be twice the size.”
“I’ll let the school board know.” Seth slapped Troy on the back. “Hey, enjoy yourself out here tonight. We are gonna bury these guys. I want all the backups in the game halfway through t
he third quarter. I want everyone to play.”
The team ran like a high-performance engine during warm-ups, with Troy connecting to Chuku, Levi, or Spencer on every single throw. The receivers’ feet were quick and precise and their hands sure. Their running back, Jentry Hood, had a spring in his step that promised touchdowns. Troy’s head had cleared completely, so he was feeling razor sharp.
He roared with the rest of the team when Seth gathered them in the team room and said, “Let’s go out there and smash Morristown! Right now! Let’s go!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
SMASH MORRISTOWN IS EXACTLY what they did. Troy and his teammates played with fury, and by the final minutes of the third quarter, the score was 70–12 and the Morristown players just wanted it to end. When the backups went in, Seth found Troy on the sideline and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Nice win, buddy. Everybody plays. You did it.”
Troy looked up. “You did it, Seth. You made this all happen.”
Seth gave Troy a one-armed squeeze. “You’re the one throwing touchdown passes.”
Troy shook his head. He knew Seth was modest. He’d been that way as a player, always talking about what his teammates did instead of himself. “You moved up here from Atlanta. You’ve got a huge mansion and now you’re living in some crummy apartment in Summit.”
“Hey, it’s got running water and electricity,” Seth said.
“Your game room is bigger than the entire apartment,” Troy said. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate it. I think all these guys do. This is . . . amazing.”
Seth looked out over the field and his eyes glazed over with a dreamy look. “You know, buddy, I’m with you on that. This is amazing. I love it.”
“Let’s just hope we can keep it up.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
TWO DAYS LATER, THE Jets played at home against the Bengals.
