Perfect Season (11 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

TROY FORGOT ABOUT HIS
father.

He forgot about the UPS man.

He forgot about Thane and Ty and even Mr. Cole.

In fact, the only thing Troy did think about was Summit football, learning the offense so perfectly that he knew what every player's job was on every play in the book. When training camp began in the NFL, it was Chuku, his teammate, and not Ty, who stayed with Troy, his mom, and Tate.

Thane hired a nanny to take care of Ty. The only one who heard from him was Tate. It seemed as if he texted her all the time. Whether they were playing Xbox together or grabbing pizza down on Main Street, Tate would regularly hunch down over her phone with her thumbs working double time. The only relief they had from her constant communication with Ty was when he had to finally go to his own football camp for St. Stephen's middle school team.

“Why can't they text?” Troy muttered to himself, not daring to raise his voice so she could hear him. “It's
middle school
football. It's no big deal, you know.”

Troy's mom had enrolled Tate in Summit Middle as expected, and signed her up for the soccer team, because her father hadn't gotten any better. The only positives were that it looked as if Tate would be with them for a while and that her father hadn't gotten any worse, either.

Troy's attention was almost totally focused on learning the Summit offense and perfecting the chemistry with his receivers. He never missed a Summit practice, because his only job with the Jets was to be there on game days during the regular season to inform the team's coordinators what the opposing team's plays would be. So even though the Jets had a month of training camp and preseason games, they had nothing to do with Troy.

Troy tried not to think about the Jets for two reasons. First, he didn't want the distraction from his own football team, and second, because when he
did
think about the Jets, it made his stomach queasy. Why, he didn't know.

On Wednesday, in the last week of training camp, a sportswriter from the Newark
Star-Ledger
came by to interview Seth and Troy.

The next day at breakfast, Troy sat with Chuku and Tate hunched over the sports page. He was disappointed with the article that had been written. It was mostly about Seth and his coaches and their NFL experience. The reporter stressed the unusual opportunity this coaching gave the Summit players, and cited that as the reason why the roster had gone from a paltry nineteen players the year before to just over forty for the upcoming season. He had several quotes from parents talking about how excited their kids were to have someone like Seth coaching the team. The paper even predicted that Summit could be a playoff contender.

Troy read the article again, scouring it for any hint of Seth's plan to make him quarterback. Seth didn't reveal anything in the interview, though. The article even said that player positions were uncertain.

Maybe worse was comparing the size of the small piece about the Summit team to the front-page article about the Jets. The Jets had high expectations for the season, and their new football genius—Troy—was mentioned as part of the reason
.
It frustrated Troy. The genius thing was a novelty, something that was fun and—if his father hadn't made a mess of things—something to make them rich, but not what he wanted to be known for.

Troy flipped back to the high school section and slurped raisin bran from a big spoon, chewing while he read about the competition. Milk dribbled down his chin when he read about St. Stephen's. People were predicting another state title for them and it burned Troy, even though he knew it would be good for Ty.

“Try not to make so much noise when you're eating, honey.” Troy's mom appeared, put a hand on his shoulder, and yawned. “And use a napkin, not your sleeve. I need coffee. Good morning, kids.”

“They're predicting we'll have a winning season, Mom.” Troy pointed to the spot on the page.

“The Jets?” She rinsed out the parts of the coffee machine in the sink.

“No,
us
, Summit.”

“Remember what we say. Don't believe something just because you read it in the paper.” She rattled a filter into the machine and began spooning out heaps of coffee. “Did Seth get here?”

Now that training camp had them practicing twice a day, Seth had taken to arriving early, having breakfast with them all, and taking him and Chuku to practice while Tate went to soccer practice.

“He texted me that he had to stop and get some Gatorade mix. Why would you even talk like that?” Troy asked in a low tone, checking to see that his friends weren't paying attention before he went on. “I can throw the ball as good as any high school kid. You should see how good we look in practice. We're even better with pads on.”

That didn't seem to impress his mom, so he said, “Me and Chuku are calling ourselves the Killer Kombo, combo with a
k
.”

“I'm not talking about the team winning, just be careful with all the killer genius stuff and the media.” Something wasn't working with the coffee machine, and she began hitting the bottom of it with the flat of her hand and jiggling the cord. “Be low-key.”

“I can't help what they call me, Mom. I want them to remember me as a player. The Killer Kombo, me and Chuku, connecting for touchdown passes. I want to be known as a football player, not a
genius
.” He pronounced the word as if it had gone rotten on his tongue.

“Well, I don't want reporters camped out in front of the house like what happened in Atlanta is all,” she said, unplugging the cord and putting it into a different socket. “I think I tripped a breaker. You'll get plenty of attention when the Jets start to win.”

Troy rolled his eyes and raised his voice. “You're not listening to me, Mom. I'm not even talking about the Jets. Who cares about the Jets? I'm talking about
us
, Summit. You're the one who says you've got to enjoy life. That's all we're doing, having fun. Chuku's made a rap song about the Killer Kombo.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Rap?”

“Chuku, play that song, will you?” Troy asked.

“Huh?” Chuku looked up from his phone.

“‘Killer Kombo
.
' Can you play it for her?”

“Uh, sure.” Chuku fiddled with his phone and held it up for Troy's mom, bobbing his head to the beat while Tate snapped her fingers in time.

“It's got people watching on YouTube,” Troy said. “You believe that?”

The coffee machine light came on. Troy's mom gave it a loving pat and turned her attention to them, doing her best not to frown. “Very nice, Chuku. Okay, I've got to get dressed while this coffee brews. Troy, can you help me upstairs? I want you to move that desk in front of the window in my bedroom.”

Troy followed her. It didn't take a genius to see from the look on her face that she wanted him for something altogether different from moving a desk.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

WHEN TROY GOT INSIDE
her bedroom, she shut the door. A braided rug covered the wooden floor beneath an old brass bed. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains and dust danced in its beams.

“Listen, mister, you keep your head on straight with all this . . . Killer Kombo.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head.

“Mom, I'm the kid who was on
Larry King Live
and
Conan
.
Today
? You think I don't know? Even you said I'm good with the media.”

“That was them wanting to talk to you, not you wanting to talk about yourself.”

Troy blinked and looked out the window. His football tire waffled in the breeze, hypnotizing him for a moment before he looked back at her. “It's my dream, Mom.”

“I knew a dreamer once,” she said.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your father.” She said it like a swear word and stared hard at him. “Have you seen him?”

Troy squirmed. Since jumping off a bridge to escape from the FBI, his father had popped in and out of his life, most recently with some mobsters as his partners. His mom knew about all that, but not that he'd shown up suddenly with a red beard. “No.”

His mom bit her lip. “Well . . . I didn't want to tell you this, but I think you should know.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“KNOW WHAT?” TROY ASKED.

His mom sighed. “I know you've got a lot on your mind, but Seth thought he saw him, your father, watching practice one night from outside the fence. He said the guy had red hair and a pointy beard, but he was pretty sure it was your dad, Troy.”

Troy realized that must have been what his mom and Seth were discussing when he'd overheard them talking in the kitchen. It made him mad. He knew his father messed things up in a lot of ways, but Troy loved his father, despite the problems. It was his father—a record holder for touchdowns at the University of Alabama—who gave him his athletic ability. So Troy refused to let it go.

“Not everything is bad about him.” Troy raised his chin. “If I play for five years, and our program wins a bunch of state championships, I'll be a five-star recruit for sure, just like he was. Maybe I'll go to Alabama, too.”

His mom put her face in a hand.

“I'm serious, you should see how good we look. You should stop by practice later,” he said.

“If your father tries to contact you, Troy, I want to know about it.” She looked up and frowned. “You hear me?”

Troy's mind went into high gear because what she just said didn't mean he had to tell if he
had
seen him, only if he
did
see him. “Okay, I hear you, but you haven't even seen us. If you did, you'd understand why I'm so excited, Mom.”

“I'd love to. I really would, but the managing partner has his panties in a bunch about the hospital gala we're underwriting and I'm to the wall right now. New girl on the block.”

“The guy wears panties?” Troy's upper lip left his teeth. He'd heard all about how odd lawyers could be, but the image of the managing partner in women's underwear stuck in his mind.

“It's just an expression,” Troy's mom said. “Tightie whities in a twist. Is that better?”

“It's gross, Mom. Cut it out.”

“Speaking of underwear, get back downstairs so I can change for work.”

“You don't have to ask me twice.” Troy put a hand over his eyes and let himself out of the room.

As he clunked down the stairs, Seth came in through the front door.

“What's up, buddy? You sore from yesterday?” Seth stopped to look him over.

“My legs feel like punching bags,” Troy said.

“Good.”

“Good?” Troy asked.

“Working hard, right?” Seth gave Troy's shoulder a pat. “I'm gonna get a quick bowl of cereal and we'll get to the school a little early. I've got some Lawton game film from last year I want you guys to see.”

The Lawton High Wolverines were the first team on Summit's schedule. It would be no small feat to beat them. They were a strong playoff team year after year and had ended last season ranked fifth in the state.

“Haven't we seen all the tape they gave us two times already?”

Seth put a finger to his lips and nodded. “But I got a source who got me some more. It's a game Lawton played two years ago against Kennedy, which also runs a spread offense. It's the same coach, so I'm sure they'll run the same defense against us, or they'll try.”

“It's not cheating, is it?” Troy lowered his voice.

“No.” Seth laughed. “It's just being thorough, but I don't like people to know all my tricks.”

“I like it.”

“And speaking of tricks . . . you're all ready to help me out on the sideline when we're on defense, right? You don't need to see some more film on their offense?” Seth asked. “This isn't NFL football; things might not be as predictable. You know, with their tendencies and all that.”

Troy's face clouded over. “Won't I have to be making adjustments with Coach Sindoni on the greaseboard? I need to focus on
that
more than predicting plays, right? I mean, this isn't junior league anymore, Seth. If I'm gonna be a varsity quarterback, I need to pay attention to
that
stuff.”

Seth rubbed his chin. “Well, if I really need you, though, right? In a pinch?
Could
you do it? I mean, just pick it up without any preparation at all.”

“I keep telling you, it's just a feeling I get. I don't know why everybody can't just accept that. I can call a high school game as easy as an NFL game. I did it in junior league, right?”

Seth shook his head. “The whole thing is pretty freaky, Troy. You can't blame me for wanting to be sure.”

“Just trust me. Besides, I want to talk about
our
offense,” Troy said.

“You're right. I want to put in our rollout packages today,” Seth said. “I'm not sure our tackles can hold up against those Lawton defensive ends—kids are animals—and I want to make sure we've got some plays to get you outside the pocket if they get overrun.”

“Seth . . . um . . .” Troy had kept the question inside for the past two weeks and it was killing him. “When am I gonna get to start running the first-team offense?”

“Why? You don't like throwing to Chuku and Levi and Spencer?”

“I
do.
When are we all going to be first team?”

“Trust?” Seth raised his eyebrows. “You got to trust me, too.”

“I do, Seth, but . . .” Troy hammered his fist into the wall. “This is getting ridiculous. That Reed is acting like he's some alpha dog, wanting everyone to sniff his butt. I'm sick of it. Lawton is next week. Aren't you going to put that clown in his place?”

Seth sighed. “First of all, he's not a clown, he's your teammate. Well, maybe he's kind of a clown, but the second thing is that I have a plan. I've had it all along. I know just when I want to do it, and I know just how.

“Now let me get some breakfast.”