Well, that was his name, right? Chelsea was Troy’s sister. And that meant Charlie was Troy’s dad.
Didn’t it figure? A jerk like Troy got the world’s greatest natural athlete for a father. Comrade Stalin’s sport of choice was barking orders at people, aided by a bullhorn voice and the unshakable belief that he was right about every subject, one hundred percent of the time.
Come to think of it, Stalin could probably take a few lessons from Chelsea. She wasn’t exactly a charm school graduate, and she was pushy enough to make her father late for his own prank. Troy was obviously a major idiot, so if Mrs. Popovich was anything like her kids, no wonder Charlie was a little unfocused.
Marcus’s brow clouded. That still didn’t explain the shove. Sure, Charlie was a physical guy, but that was no friendly straight-arm. That was a genuine get-out-of-my-face. A few seconds later he was the same old Charlie, but at that moment he’d been a stranger—and not a very pleasant one at that.
Charlie Popovich—why did that name sound familiar? Football familiar…
Chelsea’s words came back to him: You have no clue who you’re dealing with.
Maybe it was time to get a clue.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Google churned up more than 46,000 hits on the keywords Charlie Popovich.
Marcus sat forward in his desk chair. After the hours he’d spent wondering about the mysterious Charlie, he’d never expected the guy’s life story to be so easy to find. Eagerly, he clicked on the top link.
It was an article from the sports section of the Cincinnati Inquirer of February 18, 1991:
* * *
BENGALS’ “KING OF POP” HANGS UP CLEATS
Charlie Popovich has informed the Cincinnati Bengals organization of his retirement at age 36 after fourteen seasons, seven of those with the Bengals. The six-foot-three, 235-pound linebacker was credited with 1,097 career tackles, including 754 solo stops, 22.5 sacks, and seven interceptions.
Originally selected by the San Diego Chargers in the 1977 NFL draft, the King of Pop soon became known throughout the league as a tenacious defender with a relish for intense physical contact. At the same time, Popovich developed a reputation both in San Diego and Cincinnati as a locker-room prankster, making him beloved and often feared by teammates and coaches alike....
* * *
Marcus exhaled sharply and realized he’d been holding his breath. Unbelievable. For the past three weeks, he’d been bashing heads with a former NFL linebacker! The King of Pop! Not a superstar, exactly, but a solid player with a fourteen-year career.
I should have known, Marcus thought. No wonder Charlie was still such an athletic force. No wonder he could dish out hits like cluster bombs, even at his age. Marcus did the math. The veteran was in his mid-fifties by now. This also explained why Charlie had so much free time in the middle of the day. He wasn’t unemployed; he was retired. And probably pretty flush, too. The money in pro sports wasn’t as huge as it was today, but even in the seventies and eighties, NFL players were pretty well paid.
Enough to splurge for half a car window, that’s for sure.
Marcus browsed through the other links. Most were just game coverage, with the occasional mention of a play Charlie had been involved in. There were a few articles about charity work he’d done in San Diego and Cincinnati, as well as a Sports Illustrated piece: “Rookies to Watch in 1977.” Marcus drank it all in, mesmerized. Charlie had never made a Pro Bowl, but he had started for most of his fourteen seasons and had always found a way to be an impact player.
There was a picture of him in action, circa 1983. He was in full flight, his body parallel to the turf, tackling Joe Theismann of the Washington Redskins. The impact of the collision had knocked Charlie’s helmet clean off. The photograph captured it in midair two feet behind him, revealing a face Marcus would have recognized anywhere. Charlie was younger, the tousled hair black instead of salt and pepper, but the sharp eyes and laser-focus concentration were unmistakable. The guy might have aged a quarter century, but his love of competition hadn’t faded one bit.
Sometimes you actually hear it go pop! There was little question that the tackle in the photograph had been one of those times. Marcus heard it, too, and felt the devastating collision he’d experienced so many times in his encounters with Charlie.
He closed the computer’s browser and leaned back in his chair. All this time he’d been training one-on-one with a real NFL veteran, and he’d been too clueless to know it. He couldn’t wait to get back to Three Alarm Park—to get hit again like Joe Theismann and countless other players from the seventies and eighties.
He couldn’t wait for his next pop.
“This is your huddle, Jordan!” the coach bellowed from the sidelines. “You’ve got to take charge!”
Barker was always raving about the role of quarterback as field general, but Marcus knew better. As Ron had put it, “To these guys, you’re never going to be any more than a buck private on recruiting day.”
Of course, Ron himself was part of that elite group, but at least the halfback was pretty cool about it—which was more than you could say for most of the Raiders, and a hell of a lot more than you could say for Troy.
The snap was lame and mistimed, but Marcus had gotten good at controlling it. One benefit of being toe jam, thought Marcus, is that you learn to handle adversity.
The offensive line evaporated in a heartbeat, and pass rushers were after him. His teammates never offered him any protection, but when it came to tackling him, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
“You’re dropping back too far, Jordan!” brayed the coach.
No, I’m fleeing for my life! he thought, scrambling madly. But Barker was right. He was going to take a shot anyway. The only question was, could he do his job before he got slammed?
Caught in the crosshairs of the charging linebacker, he squared up and threw. The defender struck just at the moment of release, with Marcus’s arm extended, his body exposed and vulnerable. The collision drove him backward, sprawling.
As he hit the turf, it came to him: This was nothing! If that had been Charlie, he’d be five yards away, still vibrating, waiting for the fireworks display in his brain to come into focus. He scrambled up to see Luke, the intended receiver, running downfield with the ball.
Barker blew the whistle, and the play broke up amid a smattering of applause from the handful of students in the bleachers.
“Next time, try not to run like a scared rabbit first,” he grunted.
“Got it. Thanks, Coach.” There was a compliment hidden in there somewhere, even if it was unspoken.
Marcus felt a slap on his shoulder pads and turned to peer into the faceguard of the linebacker who had decked him.
“I should have pulled up,” the kid said apologetically. “My bad.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marcus told him. “Nice tackle.”
At the Gatorade bucket, he found himself next to Troy. He had little contact with Number Seven during practice, and it wasn’t because the two of them couldn’t stand each other. Generally, Troy trained with the offensive starters, while Marcus took most of his snaps with his fellow backups. Marcus also worked out with the defensive backs. Troy had no official second job, although Ron said the coach used him on special teams here and there.
“Guess I was the only person in town who didn’t know who your dad is,” Marcus offered.
Troy cast him a look of distaste. “Yeah, I heard you two are playmates.”
Marcus bristled. “I’m just trying to tell you what a great guy he is. The stuff he’s taught me about football is pure gold.”
“He’s not your coach,” Troy told him. “He’s not your friend. Stay away from him.”
“Shouldn’t that be Charlie’s call?” Marcus demanded.
“Charlie’s call.” Troy laughed bitterly. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“You talk like I’m a stalker! It’s totally random that I met your old man. But you know what? I’
m glad it happened, because just about everybody else in this town treats me like crap—especially you! God knows how someone as cool as Charlie wound up with two kids like you and Miss Congeniality!” And he stormed off, fuming.
After practice, Marcus was certain he was about to be fed to the locker-room toilet. But Troy kept his anger to himself. A few of the players even complimented Marcus on a good workout. Maybe freedom of speech wasn’t dead on this team after all.
He was toweling his hair dry after the shower when he heard the rustling of pom-poms outside the locker hut. He hoisted himself up to the transom window and peered down.
Alyssa. Every time he found himself lamenting the move from Kansas, she was his go-to thought. There was nobody like Alyssa at his old school, nobody even close. Stalin there, Alyssa here—it was all the marketing campaign the Kennesaw Chamber of Commerce could’ve asked for.
He was about to call down to her when a figure approached. Troy.
“You’re here late.”
“You looked good today,” Alyssa praised him. “Nice mobility in the pocket.”
Marcus felt an odd twinge of jealousy. He’d thought he was the sole recipient of her scouting reports.
“Do you ever turn it off?” Troy asked in annoyance.
“What, in football season?”
He sighed. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
“That’s okay. I’ll hang out.”
The great Troy Popovich wasn’t used to being told no, even by his ex.
“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”
“Who?” she asked innocently.
“I’m not a moron, Lyss! He’s the only guy left in the locker room!”
She bristled. “He has a name, Troy. So what if I’m going with Marcus?”
“Is this supposed to be revenge or something?” he demanded.
“No. I like the guy. The fact that it bugs you is really just a bonus.” She shrugged. “I’m a sucker for an arm. Worked for you, remember?”
“He’s nothing,” Troy scoffed.
“Watch him sometime,” Alyssa urged. “You were raw at the beginning of last year, too. Marcus is the real deal.”
Apparently, Troy wasn’t in the mood for a quarterback comparison. He was gone by the time Marcus dressed and dashed outside.
Alyssa wrapped Marcus’s arm around her waist and started in the direction of the school. “You’re driving me home on your mean set of wheels.”
“Where do you live?”
“Why do guys have to be so practical? It’s not the destination, it’s the journey. Although,” she added skeptically, “the Barney-Davidson doesn’t give us much room to work with.”
They walked in lockstep for a while, like a slow-motion three-legged race. Then Marcus asked, “Why is Troy so weird about Charlie?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re obviously a newbie at this boyfriend-girlfriend thing. Basically, you’re supposed to be getting me all hot and bothered. So why don’t you try a new topic?”
But Marcus was determined to learn the truth. “It can’t just be that Troy hates me, because Chelsea’s the same way. What’s up with that family?”
Alyssa was impatient. “I can’t think of anybody who doesn’t have issues with their parents. Don’t you?”
“Sure. Half the reason I’m here is to get away from my dad. But this is different. Charlie’s not just an NFL vet, he’s awesome. If he was my father, I’d want the whole world to know. But with those two, it’s almost like he’s a deep, dark secret.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” she told him. “Troy worships his dad.”
“At tryouts, he nearly bit Kevin’s head off for even mentioning the guy.”
“It wasn’t always that way,” she explained. “Troy and Charlie used to be closer than close—watching football, talking football, playing football. I don’t know what changed. Maybe this perfect-season stuff has something to do with it. It’s a lot of anxiety for the team—especially Troy.”
“Right,” Marcus said sarcastically. “What’s a fourteen-year NFL career compared with setting a record in high school?”
She laughed. “He’s not your favorite person. I get that. But he isn’t Darth Vader either. Show a little gratitude. If Troy didn’t go all hermit, you wouldn’t be here with moi.” She tightened her hold on his midsection.
They rounded the corner of the building, and the parking lot came into view. Marcus’s anticipation of the next hour popped like a soap bubble. Perched on the Vespa’s seat was Officer Deluca.
He said, “The Sugar Plum Fairy, I presume.”
As it turned out, Marcus was still able to give Alyssa a lift home that day—in the back of the squad car that was taking him in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Barbara Jordan arrived at the police station to be greeted by a familiar sight—her son being interrogated by Officer Deluca.
“Sorry to drag you down here,” the cop apologized. “I loved your shots of the firehouse fundraiser. The Advocate used to print pictures of fingers and thumbs. Nice to know the town paper is stepping up.”
“Thank you.” She smiled politely, then wheeled toward her son. “Marcus, what’s this all about?”
Marcus remained silent, so Deluca filled Mrs. Jordan in on the details of the sugaring of K.O. Pest Control, including some colorful descriptions of “a writhing mountain of insects a foot deep,” and “a creeping, buzzing, chirping sound you hear in your innards.”
Marcus spoke up at last. “It wasn’t all me, Mom. I was just helping the main guy who did it.”
The officer nodded understandingly. “See, I believe that. But you’ve got to give me a name. Unless I know the identity of this ‘main guy,’ you’re him.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Was it the girl?” Deluca probed. “She’s a cute one—is that who you’re covering for?”
“No—definitely not Alyssa.”
Mrs. Jordan regarded her son sternly. “Marcus, you’re protecting someone who’s letting you take the blame. And I’m assuming it’s the same boy who stuck us with the entire cost of that window.”
Marcus set his jaw and said nothing. Who would believe the truth—that the “boy” in question was actually the town celebrity, a middle-aged man with two kids in high school? Not to mention that if he ratted Charlie out, the training sessions in the park, which had done so much to elevate Marcus’s play, would be ancient history. No, better to keep quiet.
“Don’t be stupid,” Deluca argued. “If I don’t have another name, I’ve got no choice in the matter. You’ll have to take the whole rap.”
“What exactly is this rap you’re talking about?” Mrs. Jordan asked.
He sighed heavily. “In this case, probably nothing. But only because Mr. Oliver is an exterminator. The last thing he wants is to show the whole town that he can’t handle a few bugs—or a few million. You can see his problem. Now, here’s your problem, Marcus. You’ve paid for the window, and you seem to have lucked out on this one. I know you’re new in town, but that’s all the free ride you get in Kennesaw. Anything else happens—if Mr. Oliver so much as stubs his toe and you’re responsible—you’re looking at arrest, prosecution, the whole nine yards. Don’t think that just because this guy is a square peg, he doesn’t get the full protection of the law. Stay away from him.”
“He will. That’s something I personally guarantee,” Marcus’s mother said, narrowing her eyes at her son. “Even if I have to nail him to his bed.”
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Jordan.” Deluca turned to Marcus. “And you I never want to see again.”
“You won’t have any more problems with me,” Marcus promised.
For the second time, Mrs. Jordan drove her son from the police station to his Vespa so he could follow her home.
When they arrived at the parking lot, he reached for the handle, but she hit the lock button and regarded him seriously. “All right, I want the truth. Is it this girl? Is that why you won’t tell me what�
��s going on—you don’t want me to know you’ve got a girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Marcus assured her. “At least not yet. You’re way off base. Alyssa has nothing to do with all this.”
“Then who does?” she persisted.
“I have to protect this guy’s privacy. Don’t worry—he’s not a gang member or a drug dealer or anything like that. To be honest, I don’t know too much about him.”
Just that he’s an NFL veteran whose teenage children treat him like a child. True, Charlie wasn’t the most mature fifty-four-year-old. But that didn’t explain everything.
Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER NINE
Left cornerback.
Coach Barker gave him the news just a few minutes before kickoff. “I told you we’re deep. We need help in the backfield, and that’s where I’m putting you.”
Marcus nodded. “That’s great, Coach.” It wasn’t, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He’d been urged to take a starring role on the JV, and this was what he’d opted for.
The home crowd, packed into the bleachers in blatant defiance of the fire marshal’s regulations, was raucously appreciative of their defending champs. No wonder Troy thought he was God’s gift. Every Saturday afternoon, the whole town turned out to scream it at him.
As the opening ovation began to die down, a familiar foghorn voice swelled above all the others. Marcus turned sharply in its direction. Charlie. Of course Troy’s father would be there to cheer his son on. Beside him stood a slim, attractive blond woman—Mrs. Popovich? So that was who flitted around town, paying off Charlie’s bills for Gatorade, bandages, and sugar products. She was probably the person to talk to about $155 for half a car window.
His mind traveled back to Three Alarm Park the other day—his first meeting with Charlie after learning his practice partner’s NFL credentials. The man had seemed so flustered at being identified as the King of Pop that Marcus had honestly wondered if he had the wrong person.
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