Perfect Season

by Tim Green

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  TROY TOLD TATE TO ride in front with his mom. He didn’t talk on the way to the Jets stadium. Tate and his mom left him outside the Jets locker room. When he looked back, his mom gave him an anxious wave. “We’ll see you after. Good luck, Troy.”

  Tate gave him a wink, clicked her tongue, and gave a thumbs-up.

  Troy nodded and stepped past the two state troopers, entering the locker room. Players moved about in quiet preparation, some listening to music with headsets, others reading the Bible or simply sitting with their heads in their hands. Troy didn’t say anything to anyone.

  Mr. Cole was talking to Mark Sanchez and smiled and waved at Troy from across the locker room, but his gestures held no hope or expectations. It was a smile born from politeness. Thane stood at his locker, dressed in only his lower pads. The muscles in his naked torso rippled as he bound his wrists with tape. Troy was going to walk right past him, not wanting to interrupt his game preparation.

  Thane must have sensed he was there. He looked up from taping his wrists and playfully grabbed the back of Troy’s neck. “Ty told me you guys won again Friday night. Nice work.”

  Troy looked around and leaned close to his cousin. “It worked.”

  “It worked?”

  Troy nodded. “I called the other team’s plays Friday.”

  “So it’s back? You’re good to go?”

  Troy winced. “I don’t know for sure. Don’t say anything, okay?”

  “I won’t. We could sure use it, though. We lose this and we’re out of the playoffs.” Thane began taping his wrists again.

  “I know. I’ll try. Um . . . Thane?”

  Thane looked up. “Yeah?”

  “I just want you to know that . . . well, part of the reason I think I couldn’t do it—the genius thing—was because I . . . well, I didn’t really care. And, honestly, I was pretty mad at you about the thing with Ty. I really wanted to play with him.”

  Thane smiled. “I know.”

  “You knew?” Troy felt his mouth drop. “But . . . you just kept being nice to me.”

  “Hey.” Thane reached out and gripped Troy’s shoulder. “You’re family. You’ve been through a lot. I felt terrible about the whole thing. I wish your mom would have just let me pay for St. Stephen’s for you, but I get why she didn’t. She’s a great girl, your mom, and you’re pretty special, too.”

  Troy felt a trembling warmth spread through him and he sniffed to keep tears from flooding his eyes. “Thanks, Thane.”

  “Good luck today, buddy.” Thane winked at him and went back to his tape.

  Troy left his cousin and sat down dutifully in the coaches’ meeting room in the back corner. The coaches were clustered around their greaseboards, making last-minute adjustments and talking about the depth chart, who was hurt, how bad, and what they’d do to replace them if they couldn’t continue playing.

  Troy might as well have been in a bubble. No one spoke to him. No one came near him. He wandered out onto the sideline like a ghost, invisible to everyone—the crowd, the cameras, the New England Patriots, and even his own team, the Jets. As the national anthem played, he stood with a Jets cap over his heart and for some reason the music stirred something inside him. Maybe it was a country born out of a desperate band of good people who believed in themselves.

  Those thoughts held him in a trance, despite all the growls and war cries and pad-smacking around him. New England won the coin toss and received the ball. Troy watched Tom Brady drop back and throw a hitch pass to his outside receiver. The next play, they ran a zone run off-tackle for a first down. Coach Kollar didn’t even look Troy’s way. Troy ached inside. He wanted this. He wanted to help. He had to help. He wanted to help Thane and the team. But if the Jets lost this game, it was over for him. This was his last chance and he knew it.

  The Patriots broke their huddle. Tom Brady stepped to the line.

  Troy took a deep breath.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  “Z COMEBACK WITH A Y corner.” Troy said it out loud, but no one heard.

  Brady took the snap and dropped back. The Z did a comeback. Brady pump-faked to him. Antonio Cromartie jumped the Z and the Y came open on the corner route behind him. Brady threw a strike and the Patriots gained twenty-three yards, crossing into Jets territory. The crowd booed.

  Troy moved closer to Coach Kollar, who was yelling into his headset about the safety who should have kept outside position on the last play. Troy tapped him on the arm. Coach Kollar was caught up in his yelling and deciding the next defense to run. Troy watched the Patriots send a wide receiver out onto the field and the tight end run to the sideline. Coach Kollar signaled in the play he wanted. Brady broke the huddle. Troy saw three wide receivers to one side and the running back offset.

  “Coach!” Troy grabbed his arm and wouldn’t let go. “Backside screen.”

  Coach Kollar glared at Troy. “Someone get this kid out of here!”

  A 350-pound backup lineman lifted Troy off his feet and carried him out of the coaching box, back toward the bench.

  Troy shouted, “Coach! Backside screen!”

  Coach Kollar heard him, and when the Patriots ran a backside screen for another first down, the coach turned and found Troy with his dark, close-set eyes. He wore an angry scowl and he gritted his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw flexed.

  “Get him back here. Now.”

  No one touched Troy, but the players and staff parted to make a clear laneway for him to walk back into the coaching box between the bench area and the sideline.

  “You . . .” Kollar’s eyebrows nearly met above his nose. “You know?”

  “I think so.” Troy turned his attention to the field. Two tight ends came on, along with a fullback, replacing three wide receivers who jogged off. “Weakside counter.”

  “Weakside counter?” Coach Kollar’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his cap. “They don’t run a weakside counter.”

  Troy shrugged. “Weakside counter.”

  Coach Kollar bit his lip. He signaled a play into David Harris, then shouted, “Harris! Play signal! Play signal!”

  Coach Kollar then held out his arm with his hand pointing down to signal weak side run. He made a zigzag with his finger in the air to signal counter. Troy could see David Harris’s confusion through his face mask.

  “Do it! Be there!” Coach Kollar screamed hard enough to make a vein jump out in his neck.

  Harris nodded, called the defense as the Patriots broke the huddle. The defense lined up. The Patriots set up in a strong I formation with a pair of tight ends to the strong side. Brady took the snap. The entire Patriots team went left, but he handed the ball off to the back, darting back to the right on the counter.

  David Harris was already there, waiting. He lowered his shoulder pads and blasted the runner, lifting him up off his feet and driving him backward and then into the turf. The crowd went wild.

  Coach Kollar went wild, too, pumping his fist in the air before he grabbed Troy and hugged him, howling.

  “Coach. Coach.” Troy pointed at the Patriots, who were hurrying players on and off the field. Brady wasn’t even huddling his team; he was calling the play at the line.

  “What do they got?” Coach Kollar stood rigid, staring out at the field.

  “ZX cross with a Y hook,” Troy said.

  Kollar signaled and shouted to David Harris. The Jets’ defense scrambled for their positions.

  “Bait the hook, Harris!” Coach Kollar hollered. “Bait the hook!”

  Even Troy knew Harris would lay off the hook, making it seem wide open, to bait Tom Brady into throwing it. Whether Harris could pick it off was another story.

  Brady dropped back. The Jets’ D line, knowing from the signals that it was a pass, got quick pressure on Brady. The Patriots quarterback saw the open hook and fired. Harris stepped in front of it, just a split second too late to catch it, but enough to tip it into the air. Antonio Cromartie went for it, scooped it
out of the sky, and took off like a real jet for the end zone.

  The Jets were on top, 21–3, by halftime. Mr. Cole met Troy outside the locker room, along with Troy’s mom and Tate. They all hugged him. Troy’s mom had tears in her eyes.

  Mr. Cole stuck out a hand for Troy to shake. “Glad the genius is back.”

  The Jets won, 45–10.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR

  TROY AND TATE STAYED up as late as they could, watching from Troy’s window, hoping his father would appear in the front lawn with the papers they needed in hand. When he woke the next morning, Tate was gone, and he was fully dressed on top of his bed. He got up quick, checked out the window for good measure, then changed and went downstairs, trying not to act as jittery as he felt.

  School was a nightmare. At football practice, Troy felt like a zombie. Seth was distracted, and Troy wasn’t surprised. At dinner that night, Troy asked if he and Tate could go with Seth to court the next day.

  Seth put down his fork and looked at Troy’s mom. “It impacts him as much as anyone.”

  “We don’t have anything, Seth,” Troy’s mom said. “I don’t see how you can win. I just don’t, and they’ve got school.”

  “We’ve got a shot,” Seth said. “I just wish . . .”

  “We all do.” Troy’s mom looked down at her plate. “But I’ve talked to everyone who’ll listen and tried to get someone to say something. I’ve got nothing, and we can’t prove anything.”

  Troy and Tate stayed up again that night. When Troy saw headlights flash on the street, he grabbed Tate’s arm.

  “It’s him!”

  “How do you know?” Tate asked.

  “No one comes down here. It has to be him.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

  EXCITEMENT SWELLED INSIDE TROY until the car turned into their driveway. That puzzled him. When the car backed out and headed back down the street, Troy’s fifty-fifty shrank to nothing.

  Troy felt like throwing up, partly from nerves about court, but partly because his father had let him down, again.

  “I’m so stupid.”

  Tate sat up and scratched her head. “Why?”

  “My father.” Troy spit the word like a nasty goober.

  “It wasn’t much time,” Tate said. “We don’t know what happened. It’s not over. We still have a chance.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING TROY stomped into the bathroom, took a shower, and put on some church clothes.

  Downstairs, Tate and his mom had already started breakfast. His mom wore a suit, Tate a dress.

  “Like we’re going to a funeral.” Troy slouched down in his chair with no intention of eating. “My funeral.”

  “Why so glum?” his mom asked. “We have a chance.”

  Tate raised a hand. “That’s what I said.”

  “See?” his mom said.

  “And I texted Chuku. He’s coming with his dad.” Tate forced a smile. “Moral support.”

  Troy wasn’t buying any of it. He had a bad feeling, but he wasn’t going to say that to them. He rode to the courthouse in silence.

  “I think that’s it.” Troy’s mom pointed to a white tower connected to what looked like a small Greek temple when they turned into the downtown area of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Troy and Tate hopped out of the car after his mom parked in a spot on the street.

  Seth stood in front of the courthouse with Chuku and his dad, who looked somehow even more intimidating in a suit. They all shook hands.

  Troy’s mom used two hands to shake with Chuku’s dad. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  “It’s insulting.” Chuku’s dad spoke in a growl. “Why is it that they think my son can be bought? He’s black, right? He’ll jump through hoops for a football jersey or a pair of sneakers?”

  “The whole thing is insulting.” Troy’s mom leveled a glare at the courthouse itself.

  Troy wanted to throw up. He couldn’t let go of the funeral thing and it didn’t help that Chuku’s gleaming smile was locked up behind a serious frown. What Troy needed from Chuku was a silly grin and a joke about how Troy’s collar was too tight and to loosen up, dawg.

  Troy looked at his friend, willing him to see what it was Troy needed, because surely he couldn’t ask.

  Instead, Chuku sighed and shook his head until his dad clapped a thick hand on his shoulder and they all walked up the steps together. At the top, several TV reporters waited with their cameras. Seth held up a hand and told them all, “No comment.” Troy’s mom did the same for him. They passed through the metal detectors together, leaving the cameras behind.

  “That’s why the judge is hearing the arguments in his chambers,” Seth said. “He didn’t want the media to turn this into a circus.”

  Ellen Eagen met them outside the judge’s chambers and shook everyone’s hands. She had dark hair, like her suit. Her big brown eyes swam with worry, even though she kept her wiry frame upright, like her chin. The judge had a long conference table in a room whose walls were packed with beige, musty-smelling bound books. Seth’s team sat on one side of the table, two lawyers for the league along with the league president sat opposite them, and the judge sat at the head of the table wearing a suit beneath his robes.

  The head of the league had a boiled lobster face with silver hair pushed straight back. His name was Ratachecz.

  Chuku sat between Troy and Tate, with Ty on the other side of her. Tate leaned forward and whispered to Troy and Chuku, “Rat-a-checks, he looks like a rat.”

  Troy looked to see whether Chuku would crack a smile at that, but was only disappointed. He’d never seen Chuku so stiff.

  When the door to the chambers opened suddenly everyone turned to see who it was.

  Troy gasped.

  He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

  THE TALL MAN WALKED in wearing the same dark suit he always wore and sat down beside the league director, the rat. The tall man towered over everyone, even in his seat.

  The league director cleared his throat. “Your honor, this is Mr. Sommes. Mr. Sommes is the Summit school district’s business manager. He has been instrumental in providing information to the league during this investigation, which we think adds even more credibility to our right to suspend the Summit football team.”

  Troy couldn’t even speak. Everything started happening, and he felt as if there was no way he could stop it. Tate wasn’t looking at him and he couldn’t lean across Chuku to whisper to her about the tall man now that the hearing had begun. Troy boiled inside because he knew she’d be able to think of something. There he sat, useless as the league presented its information. Troy had trouble following the arguments as the lawyers cited different points of law and linked them to past cases they claimed were similar.

  When they spoke about Chuku and the supposed “payoff,” one of the lawyers cleared his throat and quoted the UPS man. “Your honor, we know a payment was made. If you read the statement of Mr. Bartleson, the UPS driver, which I’ve highlighted in our answer, and I quote, ‘These belong to my man, Chuku Moore, payment in full,’ end quote, you’ll see it’s irrefutable.”

  Troy’s stomach sloshed like a barrel of acid, ready to burst. Chuku’s dad looked like a stone monument titled ANGER. Chuku himself seemed to have lost all the color in his face. Troy swallowed down some sour bile and shook his head. Tate leaned forward and across Chuku’s stony gaze she managed a look of kindness.

  It didn’t matter. This was all his fault, and he knew it.

  Then it was Ellen Eagen’s turn. She used many of the same twisted and puzzling terms and words the other lawyers had, and by the time she finished Troy had no idea where they stood.

  Finally, the judge cleared his throat. “Before I close arguments, I have to ask you, Ms. Eagen, does your client, Mr. Halloway, have any evidence regarding the assertions of intentional malice?”

  Ellen Eagen looked over at Seth and the rest of them and sighed. “Your ho
nor, we would like to bring to the court’s attention what we think is happening here.”

  “Because my son never took nothing to play football.” Mr. Moore’ voice cast an almost terrifying silence over the room.

  Troy kept his eyes straight ahead.

  The judge held up a hand. He spoke gently but firmly. “Mr. Moore, I know it doesn’t always seem fair, but I have to follow the law. Now, Ms. Eagen, I asked for evidence, not speculation.”

  The room went quiet again.

  Troy’s mind spun and buzzed and then suddenly, everything began to float. It felt like a football play, complex and inexplicable, but to Troy . . . he just knew.

  Troy stood up and pointed his finger at the tall man.

  “He’s our evidence.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

  “WHY DON’T YOU ASK him?” Troy blurted out the question, continuing to point at the man.

  Everyone looked at him with surprise.

  “For . . . what?” Ellen Eagen asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Seth asked.

  “Malice,” Troy said. “Intentional malice.”

  The tall man stood up and glowered. “That’s enough from you. You’re a kid.”

  Troy plowed on. “You’re the one behind it all. You talked to the UPS man. You tricked the Dennaro kid into saying something stupid, just the same way you tricked Grant Reed by bringing him down to the office and making him feel that he had to talk.”

  “That’s all easily explained.” The tall man looked to the judge. “I was helping the league. They asked me to help.”

  “Who asked who?” Troy raised his voice and pointed to the league director. “Did you ask him? No, the league didn’t ask him to investigate Summit football; he came to you.”

  Troy saw the men on the other side of the table falter, but he didn’t need it for confidence; he already knew. “But why? Why would he do that? Why would he report on his own football team?”