Perfect Season

by Tim Green

  In the huddle, his offensive linemen were gasping for air. They were tired, and they’d begun to break down in the fourth quarter, letting the defense swarm him so that he’d been sacked three times. Normally, Troy wouldn’t have needed to look at the card, but with so much at stake he didn’t trust his memory. He tugged the card free from his pants, glanced at the final play, then looked up at his line and saw the hunger in their eyes.

  “Give me time, guys. I need time, or it won’t work.” Troy took a gulp of air. “Chuku, you get deep, then come back. I’m putting this thing on your back shoulder in the corner of the end zone. Just be there. Trips Right, Roll Right, Seven Twenty-Nine Comeback, on one. Ready . . .”

  They broke the huddle with a roar. At the line, the Lawton noseguard was huffing and puffing and too tired to threaten Troy. Troy took the snap and rolled right. Levi and Spencer broke to the inside. Chuku burst upfield toward the deep zone. Troy rolled right, into the open space. His line battled the Lawton defenders with grunts and bellows of rage. Pads crashed. Sweat sprayed into the air in great gusts.

  From the corner of his eye, Troy saw the middle linebacker streaking toward him, blitzing up through the middle of the line, untouched by a blocker. He needed time, but he wasn’t going to get it. Chuku was only halfway to the end zone. It was impossible. He couldn’t throw the pass. It was just too soon.

  In the instant before the linebacker hit him, Troy saw it all in his mind. He saw the glory of a championship: newspaper articles, TV interviews, admiring faces in the hallways at school, melting into a muddle of disappointment and ridicule. Yes, they’d mock him now. That’s how it worked.

  It burned.

  The linebacker hit him so hard, the impact lifted him up and spun him around.

  There was nothing—and no one—to break his fall.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  TROY HAD NO IDEA how he did it.

  He just did it.

  His hand broke the fall and the shock of pain in his shoulder flashed like lightning in his brain. Still, the momentum whipped his legs into a cartwheel, so that one foot landed and the other swung around and left him facing the opposite way. He spun, cranking his hips around, and saw more defenders surging toward him. His eyes found Chuku, right where he should be. Troy set his feet and fired the ball.

  As they’d practiced time and again for the past several weeks, Chuku broke back at the last instant and snatched the ball.

  Touchdown.

  Game over.

  Big Nick Lee bear-hugged Troy, lifting him off his feet. The rest of the line raised him up and they carried him to the end zone, where they picked up Chuku, too, dancing and cheering, laughing and crying.

  It felt like something special.

  It felt like it was just the beginning.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ADVIL AND EXCITEMENT MADE Troy forget about his pain. His first win as a varsity quarterback lifted him like a magic carpet. Cheering and backslapping and laughter carried him through a night that ended with a dozen teammates, parents, and coaches crowded around the TV in Troy’s living room to watch high school football highlights and interviews on the eleven o’clock news. Troy and Chuku stood close as they watched, jostling each other and kidding about who looked better on TV.

  Even Chuku’s dad beamed with pride at the sight of his son and Troy connecting on touchdown pass after touchdown pass. When the highlights ended, the sports announcer’s face came back on with a big picture of Chuku frozen in laughter on the screen behind the announcer’s desk.

  “And get this,” the announcer said. “When I asked Chuku Moore if he had a nickname, he told me he and his friend quarterback Troy White are the Killer Kombo, combo with a k.”

  The news anchor, a pretty, dark-haired woman who sat beside him, had a laugh before they went to a commercial. Everyone around the living room cheered. Troy blushed, but Chuku ate it with a spoon.

  When the excitement waned, Troy took out his phone and texted Tate in San Diego. He wanted to share the joy of the evening, and also to ask about her dad. Tate texted him right back and replied that her dad was no better, but she was happy for Troy because she knew what the win meant to him. When everyone finally left, Troy’s mom told him to go to bed while she and Seth cleaned up.

  His mom put her hand on Troy’s cheek. “I’m so proud.”

  Troy went up, dropped into his bed, and didn’t move until nine thirty the next morning, when his mom woke him.

  “It’s time,” she said. Her whisper was quiet but businesslike, with no room for complaints.

  Troy had to think where he was, not in their cabin outside Atlanta but in New Jersey, where they’d just won a huge game and made believers of everyone. The muscles in his face tightened with joy.

  “Time for what?” Troy rubbed his eyes and pressed his temples. His body felt like a punching bag. Soreness polluted his legs, back, head, and neck. He sat up and felt his shoulder.

  “Is it bothering you that much?” His mother studied him from above.

  “No.” Troy shook his head. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little achy all over.”

  His mom sighed. “I hate this part of it. It’s not junior league, is it?”

  “Nope.” Pride flooded Troy.

  “The charter leaves at noon. It’s a half hour to Newark.” His mom walked out of his room. He heard her footsteps on the stairs. “Breakfast in ten, pack your bag!”

  After swallowing some more Advil, Troy used the bathroom, then pulled on a hat and some clothes, threw more clothes in his duffel bag, and crept downstairs. He’d forgotten all about the Jets and their opening game on the road in Miami. The breakfast table had been set. Resting on the checkered cloth was the morning newspaper.

  “There’s a picture in the paper.” Troy’s mom didn’t look up from her frying pan on the stove. “Nice, huh?”

  Troy studied the full-color shot of him on one leg, spinning to stay upright and make the final touchdown pass. Above the article in bold letters across page five of the sports section were the words: SUMMIT WIN PURE GENIUS.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, right?” His mom slipped two fried eggs onto a plate, then a third onto another plate for her before bringing them to the table. “Eat up.”

  “I won’t. It’s an awesome picture, though.”

  “That it is.” His mom dipped her toast in egg yolk. “How’s the shoulder now?”

  Troy forced a laugh. “I’m sore all over. The Advil will kick in.”

  His mom shook her head. “I told you, you should have kept playing soccer. You were a great soccer player.”

  Troy sighed but said nothing. He’d heard it all before.

  “I saw your ball out in the yard.” His mom looked past him and out the window. “You better not leave it. It’s supposed to rain.”

  Troy finished eating, cleaned off his plate, and loaded it into the dishwasher. He limped out onto the back porch and spotted the ball. He retrieved it and climbed back up onto the porch, stopping before he went inside to study the spiderweb in the window. Strung up in its middle hung what looked like two white cocoons. He looked closer. One might have been a housefly, the other a moth, dead and wrapped in webbing so that their killer could feast on their fluids at a later time.

  The spider was nowhere. He checked the hole in the casing where he knew it hid. Empty. Not knowing where it was sent a little chill down his spine. Maybe it wasn’t the spider that was creeping him out. Maybe it was the idea of his father, out there somewhere.

  He stepped away from the window and heard his mom calling him from inside.

  “Coming!” he called.

  This was the first time he wasn’t excited about going to an NFL game to help his team win. He sucked in a quick breath. He wasn’t just not excited.

  He was dreading it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  AFTER HAVING SPENT AN entire season with the Atlanta Falcons, riding on a charter flight with an NFL team was as natural to Troy as taking the school bus
. He sat next to his mom in the front of the plane with the other people who made up the support staff for the team. The players sat in the back. Thane stopped on his way past.

  “Hey, Troy. Sorry we didn’t come over for the party after. Two nights before a game is the most important sleep you get, so I had to turn in. That was some game you played last night.” Thane held out a fist for Troy to bump.

  Troy’s mouth dropped open. He was still so excited by the big win that he hadn’t even considered what he’d say to his older cousin. In that moment, he wanted to tell Thane that if he’d let Ty play at Summit, Troy likely wouldn’t have his shoulder injury. But that wasn’t fair and he knew it. Besides, how many high school quarterbacks got congratulated for their performance by an NFL player?

  “Thanks.” Troy forced a smile and bumped fists. “When’s Ty’s first game?”

  “Thursday,” Thane said. “He’s playing on the eighth-grade team. He’s looking good.”

  “He is good,” Troy said, unable to keep the sharpness out of his voice.

  “Well, hopefully we’ll get you guys together next year,” Thane said. “It’d be a great connection.”

  Thane gave Troy’s mom a friendly handshake and he kept going toward the back. If Thane knew Troy was miffed, he sure didn’t show it.

  “I told him we were a good connection, but he wouldn’t listen.” Troy watched Thane go.

  “You’re not still mad about all that?” his mom asked.

  “I am, a little.” Troy broke out into a grin. “But winning like we did sure helps.”

  Troy watched the seats ahead as the coaching staff filled up the first-class cabin. When the plane backed away from the gate, Troy asked his mom in a whisper where the owner was.

  “Probably taking his own plane,” she said, then returned to her magazine.

  “Good.” The word slipped out of Troy’s mouth.

  His mother gave Troy’s hand a pat.

  Troy thought about Mr. Cole, zipping down to Miami in his private plane. Troy rode on the owner’s plane back when the Jets were trying to sign him to a contract, back when Troy’s father was in the picture. His mother looked over at him and—as if she knew what he was thinking—took his hand and gave it a loving squeeze. Troy forced a smile and remembered the briefest of times when he had both a father and a mother in his life. He reached into his bag for his book and dipped his head into it so he wouldn’t have to talk.

  “Excited?”

  Troy looked up at his mom. “Excuse me?”

  “Are you excited?”

  Troy stared at her for a beat and lowered his voice. “Mom, I’m not even getting paid.”

  “Well, you got paid.” She wore a sad smile.

  Troy just shook his head.

  “Come on, Troy.” She touched his arm. “I remember a day when you dreamed of doing this. Remember showing Seth during that Monday night football game? You were dying to do this.”

  “Mom, that was for the Falcons. They’re my team, Mom. This is a job and the money is gone. I know that’s not the team’s fault, but it’s not my fault how I feel. I want to play football, not predict it.”

  She didn’t seem to have anything more to say, and Troy retreated, gratefully, into his book. He read on the plane, the bus, and in his hotel room to pass the rest of the day.

  One thing the Jets did insist on was that Troy attend the defensive meetings the night before the game. Even though they were asking him to help Coach Crosley, the offensive coordinator, too, his main focus was helping the Jets’ defense by predicting their opponent’s offensive plays, and that’s why they wanted him in the defensive meetings. His mother brought him down to the meeting room and left him in the front row sitting next to Antonio Cromartie. He turned around and waved to Chuku’s dad, who waved back but was all business.

  “Hey, it’s the genius,” Antonio said.

  David Harris and Antonio Cromartie held out fists for Troy to bump. Troy appreciated them being so friendly, but he couldn’t help comparing it to the thrill he had when he helped Seth and the Falcons. Those were players he followed with his gramps since the time he could talk. These guys were sure nice—and talented—but it was vastly different from mixing with his childhood heroes.

  Coach Kollar, the defensive coordinator, came in and gave Troy a curious look before addressing the team. The coach went over the defenses they’d play the next day, then put on some Dolphins film from the game when the Jets played them the year before. The Miami team hadn’t changed dramatically, so the film would give the players one last example of what their opponents should look like tomorrow.

  Instead of ignoring the screen, Troy decided he’d try to get a feel for what was happening. It was something he didn’t have to do for the Falcons last season, but he’d seen every Falcons game there was to see. The Jets were something new, so even though he’d watched lots of their game films, he figured this one could help him get the job done tomorrow. After a dozen or so plays he began to try to predict the coming plays in his head. The first guess was wrong. So was the second, and the third. Ten more plays went by—plenty now for him to have a feel for what was happening, and still, nothing.

  An alarm went off in his head.

  He didn’t realize he was tapping his foot until Antonio Cromartie leaned over and asked him if he was okay.

  “Yeah,” Troy said. “I’m good.”

  “Relax, little man,” Antonio said. “It’s not your neck they’re gonna try to break tomorrow, just mine.”

  Troy forced a grin at the joke. He wasn’t worried about Cromartie or the Dolphins.

  What worried Troy was the Jets’ owner, and that dark scowl when he found out that his team’s fifteen-million-dollar secret weapon was broken.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  TROY SAT NEXT TO Coach Kollar on the bus ride to the stadium the next morning. He wore official Jets clothing the team had given him: shorts, a cap, and a collared shirt. The coach shed the wrapper from a stick of Big Red gum, then attacked it with his teeth before offering Troy a stick. Troy’s mom sat behind them next to Thane.

  “So, you’re just going to tell me what the play is? That’s how it works?” Coach Kollar shook his tan, shaved head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

  “Once I know,” Troy said.

  “It won’t do me any good if I have to wait until they get to the line.”

  “I should know when I see what personnel group they run into the huddle. Sometimes it may be when they’re coming to the line. Usually before.” Troy jammed his hands into his armpits. “Once I get a feel for everything.”

  “I heard about that.” Coach Kollar spoke as fast as he chewed. “The whole thing is unbelievable, really. How long does it take?”

  “Depends on the game. I’ve had it happen halfway through the first series on a long drive.” Troy bit his lip. “Once it wasn’t until late in the second quarter.”

  “Any rhyme or reason to that?” the coach asked.

  Troy rubbed the back of his head. “Not really.”

  “Well, I’ll call it my way until you start telling me the plays. Once the light goes on, it doesn’t go out, right?”

  “It never has before.” Troy was very close to confessing his fears, but when the brakes hissed and they came to a stop inside the stadium, Mr. Cole stepped up into the bus, found Troy with his eyes, and motioned for Troy to follow him.

  “See you out there,” Troy said to the coach as he left his seat.

  Troy’s mom signaled for him to go ahead. “I’ll be up in the box. Have fun.”

  Troy looked to see if she was joking, but she smiled and blew him a kiss.

  Outside the bus, Troy walked beside the owner through the cool concrete tunnel and out into the muggy air of Florida’s midday heat. Wet grass baked beneath their feet. Only a handful of Dolphins players stretched or stood on their end of the field. Troy looked around the stadium. Seats stretched for the sky. At its brim, a necklace of green and orange pennants snapped in the wind.r />
  The owner wore a dark suit with sleek leather shoes. Cuff links and a silver watch glittered below his suit coat sleeves. He looked calm and cool, even in the heat. The intensity of his stare made Troy uncomfortable even in good circumstances. Today it made Troy stuff his hands in his pockets and shift his weight from one foot to the other.

  The owner shaded his eyes with one hand and looked around. “Last time you were here, you helped the Falcons win the Super Bowl. Lots of good luck for you in this place, right?”

  Troy swallowed.

  “Nervous?” the owner asked.

  “It always happens.” Troy looked up into the luxury boxes for any sign of his mom.

  “Good.” Mr. Cole put a hand on Troy’s shoulder. His grip tightened until Troy looked at him. “Means you care. You’ve got to care about what you do to really do it well. Don’t you think?”

  “I care a lot.” Troy nodded, hoping to make up for the false ring in his tone. “I want to win. This means as much to me as . . . my own team.”

  Troy looked down and scuffed the grass, because his words continued to sound off-key.

  The owner seemed to read his mind. “I read about that . . . Friday night, I mean. Big win for Summit. Seth Halloway’s coaching, right?”

  “He coached my junior league team in Georgia.” Troy shaded his eyes and looked up at the owner, thinking he might lobby for Seth to get hired one day by the Jets. “We won the whole state. He wants to coach in the pros, but Seth says he’s not afraid to start at the bottom.”

  “One thing jumped out at me, though.” The owner’s mouth twisted into a curious smile. “I was surprised to see that other team scoring on you guys at all. I’m sure Seth couldn’t come up with five million dollars, but I thought you might give him a discount, you know, to let him know what the other team was going to run on offense.”

  The owner’s words startled Troy. It was as if Mr. Cole knew Troy’s dark secret, and that wasn’t good.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN