by Tim Green
"You don't come late and start on this team," Seth said, loud enough for the entire team to hear it. "Later on we'll see how you throw with that bad finger. For now Glenn Twitchen will start out running the offense."
Troy stared hatefully at Seth and daydreamed about telling him right then and there that he'd signed a letter of intent with the Jets--signed it--for fifteen million dollars, and that he'd never be coming back to Atlanta, or the Falcons, and that Seth's own career would be finished. That's what he dreamed of as he stood there watching Glenn Twitchen, the quarterback from Athens, play his position.
When Seth sidled up to him as the starting offense ran a series of pass plays, Troy didn't even look at him.
"Hey," Seth said under his breath, "you hang in there. I need to prove to everyone that there aren't any favorites, bring this team together."
"I couldn't care less," Troy said bitterly.
"Troy," Seth said, "this is me. Relax. You do what you normally do and you'll be the starter on Saturday. You've got to have confidence."
"They wanted me to do David Letterman tonight," Troy said. "Did you know that? If I knew you were going to pull some junk like this, I sure wouldn't have busted my tail racing back here. I wouldn't have wasted my time with all this junk."
"Hey, Troy, easy."
"Easy?" Troy said. "Is this to get me back for Sunday? The difference is that you broke down. I'm fine. My finger..."
Troy wiggled the digit in disgust. "It'll be warm after three throws."
Seth stared at him and said, "Sunday? You think I blame you? You think I'd do that?"
Troy shrugged.
"Hey," Seth said, "buddy. All this talk about the big time with your new agent and the big contract and you being the salvation of football is going to your head. You're still a kid."
Seth stalked away, letting a sharp blast fly from his whistle before he barked at the running back for bobbling a handoff. Troy unsnapped his helmet, removed it, and turned to walk away. He'd nearly reached the fifty-yard line when he heard Seth shout from across the field, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Hey, White!" Seth shouted. "Troy! You better get back here!"
Troy froze, then heard Tate's voice piping to him like a bird. "Troy! What are you doing? We need you!"
Troy hesitated, then kept going.
"Where do you think you're going, White?" Seth screamed in his ornery coaching voice.
Troy stopped and turned back, but only for a moment, to shout, "I'm going to New York!"
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
TROY SAW HIS MOM making a beeline from her seat in the stands for the gate leading from the field, and he forced air through his teeth. She met him with a scowl.
"What in the name of the good Lord are you doing?" she asked.
"Leaving," he said, trying to push past her.
"Oh, no," she said, grabbing his shoulder pad and yanking him around with surprising strength. "You march right back out there."
"This is bull!" Troy shouted, glaring up at her and twisting free from her grip. "I make him into an all-pro linebacker, but his stupid knees just can't take it. That's my fault? So he benches me? No way, Mom. I'm done with this. Border War. Who cares? I don't need the headache, and I sure don't need the scholarship money."
His mom's face got all pinched up.
"No," she said, "that's right. You've got all the money in the world if you want it now, right?"
"We've got all the money," Troy said, feeling less certain, his hand finding the edge of his thigh pad and tugging it into a more comfortable position.
"That's right," she said, "all we have to do is turn our backs on our friends, our home, the people we work with, our family, and we've got all the money in the world. That's a real nice trade-off, Troy. Really nice. I'm proud."
Troy hated her tone of voice, and he hated the look she was giving him. He looked out into the parking lot, wishing against all hope to see the orange Porsche speeding in from the street. He needed his father. His father understood. His mother was twisting things. She loved Seth; he knew that. That had to be what this was all about.
"Can I use your phone?" he asked.
"What?"
"Your phone," Troy said, holding out his hand. "I want to call my father."
"Your father?" she said, drawing out the syllables as if they were curse words.
"You don't have to drive me home," Troy said.
"You're talking crazy," she said. "Stop it."
"You stop it."
"Troy," she said, gritting her teeth.
"Then take me home," he said.
"No," she said, pointing. "You'll go back out there."
"Or what?" he asked.
His mom stepped closer to him and leaned forward so that their noses nearly touched. In a low, harsh tone she said, "If you think this is how it goes, you are sadly mistaken, mister. I allowed you to see your father. I gave him permission to represent us in this. I'm still your mother. I am your legal guardian. I call the shots. Your father abandoned you, and he abandoned me. I'm sorry. I know that hurts, but I'm not sure if he even knows the difference between what's right and what's wrong. I have my doubts."
Her voice dropped another notch and she said, "And if you think you and he have some power over me, I'll slap a restraining order on him so fast his head will spin. I'll call Seth Cole personally and tell him the deal's off no matter who promised what. I'm your mother. I can end this whole thing, send you to military school, and tell them no sports for you because you're to concentrate on your studies, so don't you ask me what I'm going to do, mister. Not ever again. Now, you get out there and practice."
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
TROY HUNG HIS HEAD.
He felt suddenly like a party balloon with a hole in its stem, the air hissing out in a steady stream.
"Okay," he said.
His mom nodded and marched for the gate leading out of the stadium.
"Where you going?" Troy asked.
"Business," she said without looking back. "You can get a ride home with Seth. I'll see you back at the house."
Troy started to protest, but she was moving fast, with her jaw set and her eyes squinted. He watched her go, then tugged his helmet on and slogged back out onto the field to take his place behind the offense, rejoining the other nonstarters.
"You get sick or something?" Seth asked, barking loud enough so everyone could hear and giving him an excuse so the whole team could put the incident behind them.
"Yes," Troy said.
"Better now?" Seth asked gruffly.
"Yes," Troy said.
Seth blasted his whistle, and the practice resumed.
When Troy finally got to run some plays, he did his best. He wasn't going to look like a big baby. If he had to stay, he'd stay and make the most of it. His finger didn't bother him much. If anything, the discomfort made him concentrate more on his form so that his passes zipped like bullets, clearly out-throwing Glenn Twitchen.
When practice ended, Troy stayed silent. He sat in the backseat of the H2, letting Nathan holler "Shotgun" and scramble into the front without a word of protest. Not even Tate could pull him free from his cloud of anger and frustration. Seth proved to be just as stubborn. He said nothing about the reason for Troy being second-string and kept equally silent on the drive home. At one point as they surged up Route 85, Tate put a hand on Troy's knee, squeezing it through the padding in his pants and offering a sympathetic smile. Still, Troy kept quiet except for the thanks he mumbled to Seth as he hopped down in front of his own house.
Tate, tireless to the end, said, "See you tomorrow, Troy."
Troy nodded and closed the door. Without looking back, he turned and ran his hand along the smooth curve of his mom's VW, then climbed the stairs. He left his helmet and shoulder pads on the porch to dry out and went inside. His mom sat reading in her corner of the living room.
She looked up from her book and said, "Hello."
"Hi," Troy said, his voice low.
"I'm not," Troy said, even though he knew he was.
"Whatever," she said, dropping her nose back into her book.
Troy stood there for a moment in his sweaty practice pants and sleeveless Under Armour T-shirt before he sighed heavily and asked, "So, did you talk to him?"
"Who?" she said without looking up. "Drew?"
"My father," he said, delighted at the way her lip curled up at the word.
"No," she said, "I didn't need to."
"I thought you said you had business," he said.
"I do. I did," she said. "It's all set."
"But you're not going to tell me," Troy said, stepping into the living room with his hands on his hips and glaring at her.
"I can tell you," she said, looking up, with her voice as cheerful as the false smile on her face. "It's no big deal. I went and talked with Bob McDonough."
"Bob McDonough?" Troy said. "What's he got to do with any of this?"
Troy knew that Bob McDonough was the head of security for Mr. Langan. A former Secret Service agent who used to guard the president, Bob McDonough would sometimes help out with legal issues involving the team's players.
"He knows people," Troy's mom said, returning her attention to the book.
"What people?" Troy asked. "What are you talking about, Mom?"
His mom sighed and stood up, closing her book and slapping it gently against her leg. "I'm talking about people in the FBI, Troy. Law enforcement people who can look into someone's background."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his stomach clenched.
"You see patterns on the football field," she said, "variables that your mind can put together like the pieces of a puzzle so that you know what's going to happen. Well, I see things, too. I know things--not about football, but about people. I see Drew and his fast car and this G Money character. I see the private jet, and I hear the smooth talk of someone who knows just what to say, how to push all the right buttons and get me to go along with his master plan, whatever that is. I see all this, and I have a sense of what's going to happen.
"You don't have to look at me like that. I'm not asking you to believe me because of what I'm sensing. That's okay. And I don't have to ask myself anymore either, what and why and who, or wonder if I'm right or wrong. Bob McDonough's friends at the FBI are going to find out."
"Find out what?" Troy asked, his voice raising in annoyance.
"What Drew is really up to," she said. "They have ways of looking into things that other people don't, ways of finding things out."
An alarm sounded in the back of Troy's mind.
"That's garbage!" he shouted. "You and Seth just want me to stay here so you can keep your jobs! You don't care about me, what I want! This is my chance at the big time. You can't just go get the FBI to start digging for dirt on my father. You can't!"
His mother patted his arm on her way past. She seemed unfazed by his rant. Heading to her bedroom, she said, "Oh, I already did."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
TROY DIDN'T SPEAK TO his mother the next morning, and she seemed okay with that. He found a seat alone on the school bus but didn't protest when Tate sat down next to him and Nathan took the seat behind them.
"So, we figured out what happened," Tate said, as cheerful as when he'd last seen her. "Seth told us."
"After he dropped you off last night," Nathan said, hanging over the back of the seat.
"And everything's going to be fine," Tate said.
Troy twisted up his lips and stared at the row of seats in front of him and the backs of the kids' heads as they jostled along.
"It's just because you were late," Nathan said, patting Troy's shoulder. "He had to set an example, with all the other kids not being from around here."
"He wants to make sure we win this thing," Tate said. "It's all coaching tactics, and you already know the offense better than anyone. So, you see? You don't have to be upset. We can just focus on winning this thing against Florida."
"And getting that fat cash," Nathan said, smacking a palm against his forehead and stroking his brush cut. "Sheesh! Ten grand."
"Well," Tate said after a few moments of silence, "this is good news, right?"
Troy sighed and said, "Not really. I don't care."
"Ha!" Nathan said, barking out his laughter. "What's the punch line? What do you mean you 'don't care'? Of course you care. It's ten grand. It's money for college. It's beating Florida for the first time in five years and impressing the college coaches. It's the big time."
"No, it's not," Troy said flatly. "That's not the big time. The big time is signing a huge contract with the New York Jets. The big time is having agents and lawyers who take care of things for you, being on TV, flying in private planes, swimming with the sharks. That's the big time, not some goofball all-star game."
Silence followed until the buzz of kids talking around them swallowed it up.
"I'm still waiting for the punch line here," Nathan said, poking Tate in the back of her neck. "What did I miss?"
Tate gripped the seat in front of her and faced forward, her mouth set in a flat line.
"You didn't miss any punch line," she said. "He's serious."
"He's what?" Nathan said. "He can't be."
"Ten thousand dollars doesn't mean anything to him," she said, her voice bitter. "And he sure doesn't care about us."
"Right, 'cause it's all about you, Tate," Troy said. "You and Nathan and your scholarships, but what about me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I can set up me and my mom for good. This is the big time for real. It's New York, the center of the whole world."
"Great," Tate said, picking up her book bag and slipping back into the seat behind Troy and alongside Nathan.
"Fine," Troy said, spitting out the word.
"Good," Tate said, then banged the seat in front of them with her hand.
Troy jumped up the second the bus came to a stop in front of the school. He hurried inside without looking back, got the things from his locker, and hurried to homeroom. Halfway through first period, he told the teacher he didn't feel well. She told him to go see the nurse. Instead of the nurse's office, Troy headed for the pay phone down by the gym, sneaking through the halls with an eye out for monitors.
He took a quarter from his pocket and dialed his father's cell phone.
"Dad," he said, "you gotta get me out of here."
"Hi, Troy," his father said, sounding as if he was still in bed. "Out of where?"
"School," Troy said. "Atlanta. My mom. All of it."
The instant the words left his mouth, Troy regretted them. He knew he was being a hothead, something his mom sometimes accused him of being and something he knew to be true. It was all so confusing, the joy of finding the father he always wanted and the thrill of being with him and the things they did, but at the same time finding himself fighting with the people he knew and truly loved: his mom, Tate, Seth, and even Nathan.
His dad said, "You don't really mean that."
Troy felt relief, like peering over the dizzying edge of the outlook railing atop Stone Mountain and pulling back to feel the sturdy granite beneath his feet.
"No," he said. "You're right. I don't."
"Good," his father said. "I'm glad."
"But my mom is making a stink about me going to the Jets," he said. "I don't think she wants me to go to New York."
Troy heard his father breathing into the phone before he said, "When your mom realizes how good it is for you, she'll come around. Don't worry, Troy."
"I think Seth wants her to stay here," Troy said. "I think he wants me here, too. He needs me."
"His career is almost over, Troy," his father said. "He's a good man. He won't expect you to throw away your own chances just so he can hang on for a few more games."
The words his father spoke fell like seeds in Troy's mind, seeds that sprang into stalks of reason blooming full of kindness.
"You're ri
ght," Troy said.
"So, don't worry," his father said. "This will all work out."
"But she said she could stop me," Troy said, wanting to bring up the FBI but feeling too ashamed even to mention it, as if that would make it seem like he believed it was true.
"Relax," his father said. "If I know anything, it's how your mother thinks. Let her cool off. Don't push her. She's got a soft spot, and if you just don't push too hard, you can get right in there, and before you know it, she's on your side."
"She's talking about not letting me work for the Falcons, or anyone else," Troy said. "She's talking about sending me to military school. No football. No football genius. Just me being an average kid."
"She wouldn't do that, Troy," his father said, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. "The Jets are talking about five million dollars just for signing. Five million dollars! She's not crazy."
"She's not?" Troy said. "Well, no one told her that."
"Look, where are you now?"
"School," Troy said. "I don't feel great. I'm on my way to the nurse, and I stopped to use the pay phone."
"I've got to get you a cell phone," his father said. "I should have done it already."
"Anyway," Troy said after a moment of silence.
"Yes," his father said, "anyway, you go see the nurse. I'll get this worked out with your mom. She'll see."
"Dad?" Troy said, the phone slick from the sweat of his grip.
"Yeah, Troy?"
"I trust you."
"And I trust you, too," his father said. "You're my boy. Don't worry. This will all work out."
"It will?" Troy said.
"You'll see."
Troy said good-bye, told the nurse he was feeling better, went back to class, and finished out the day.
What he saw when he got home wasn't anything good.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
BOB McDONOUGH STOOD TALL and slender, with close-cropped, graying hair and pale blue eyes that meant business. He stood talking to Troy's mom on the front porch. When they noticed Troy, they stopped talking. His mom gave Troy a look of concern and said they'd better go inside. Troy sat opposite Bob McDonough at the kitchen table while his mom flipped the tops off of three sodas, setting them out like pieces on a board.