Kid Owner Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my #1 reader and super son Ty

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Tim Green

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  PRESENT . . .

  It’s not easy to be different.

  They say everything is bigger in Texas, and for the most part I’d agree. Everything around me is as big as my state: our home, the truck my mom drives, the football program in our town, even my best friend—all big. That’s why being known as the little guy is tough. I’m scrappy, though, and I play football like so many other kids, whether they’re really made for it or not. At the end of practice the day my life took a wicked turn, the big Texas sky opened up so that we ran our sprints through a cascade of water falling from above. In August, even the rain can’t deliver you from the heat, so when I got home I needed a shower pretty badly. I dried off and had dinner with my mom. Afterward, I sat in my favorite chair in the living room with The Chocolate War, a book our English teacher had given us for summer reading to prepare for our first assignment as seventh graders.

  I was pretty well into the book and liking it when I heard the tune of my mom’s phone ringing in the kitchen, where she sat at her computer, and I sensed the distress in her voice after she answered it. I let the book fall into my lap as I listened in with no idea what had happened, only knowing that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. I heard her say thank you and good-bye and then her footsteps coming my way. I put my nose back into my book until she cleared her throat.

  “Hi,” I said, looking up. “What’s going on?”

  She crossed the room, weaving in and out of the dark wood and leather furniture, and took my hand. The sun had gone down, leaving a pitch-black sky. Lightning flashed in the big picture window and a rumble of thunder shook the house before she spoke. “Ryan, your father passed away.”

  I blinked up at her, speechless.

  “I—I just thought you should know.” She squeezed my hand and walked away without another word.

  I didn’t know what to do, or say, so I looked down at my book again and read a couple sentences before realizing I had no idea what they had said. I let the book drop again into my lap, thinking about the power of words. Two words, actually: father and football.

  YEARS EARLIER . . .

  These two harmless words were never spoken in my house while I was growing up.

  They were the F-words. That’s what my mother called them.

  The father thing I understood. Everyone had one except me, so even I didn’t like to talk about that. When I was really little, we had to draw a picture of our family in kindergarten. I’d drawn Julian off to the side so people might think he was my father. He and his wife, Teresa, work for us and live in our guesthouse. When my mom had seen the red Texas Rangers hat on the stick figure of a man, she’d known it was Julian, but my teacher and classmates thought it was my dad. I couldn’t have really drawn my father because I’d never met him, never seen a picture of him, and knew nothing about him.

  By the time I was eight years old, though, the idea of my dad had grown into something much bigger than a stick figure. I knew he was out there, somewhere. And I felt I would someday meet him, so I wanted to be worthy. My plan was to become the most important and awesome kind of person there was: an NFL football player. And I’d planned on being a quarterback. I was small—I knew that. But there were other small NFL quarterbacks, and their lack of size only made them that much more special. My father would be amazed.

  I’d dreamed of one day inviting him to a Ben Sauer Middle School game. Maybe we’d be playing Eiland, our toughest rival. After a glorious win, he would wait for me outside the locker room along with the families of my teammates. I’d come out, totally exhausted from several touchdown runs. My father would see me and his eyes would grow wet. He would ache for the times he missed with me growing up. He would wish with all his heart that the two of us could now become even closer, to make up for lost time.

  I would smile warmly and keep my cool, because I didn’t really know the man. I grew up keeping an emotional distance from the thought of my dad mostly because I suspected he had done something wrong to my mom. Why else would he have run off? Why else would my mom avoid talking about him altogether? Why else would father be an F-word?

  Football being an F-word was another story. I didn’t get that one.

  In Texas, football is a religion, but it wasn’t in my house. My mom didn’t like it, and that’s putting it mildly.

  “Too much violence,” she’d say.

  I mean, I was small and fast like my mom, so I understood why she pushed me to play soccer, but why couldn’t we talk about football? Football being the other F-word didn’t keep me from being a closet Dallas Cowboys fan, though. I’d sneak away and watch their games at other people’s houses. I’d watch reruns of local sports shows featuring Cowboys players and coaches on my iPad. I even hid a box of playing cards in the garage inside a spare tire under a tarp in a far corner.

  I was okay keeping my love of the game a secret because my mother and I had made a deal. If I played soccer for three years and really tried, she’d let me play football when I was older.

  “How old?” I’d asked.

  “Third grade.” She threw that number out there probably because it seemed so far away at the time. I know it did to me.

  I took those words and planted them in my heart. And they grew fast and big like the seeds of a tree. So by
the time I was eight, they were as large as the monster oaks in our front yard. I never considered my mom might not know they were there. Who in Texas didn’t dream of being a football player?

  I don’t mean to knock soccer. I loved the game, and I was pretty good. But when I was at school, I couldn’t get through lunch without hearing about football. So, it was lunch that killed soccer for me.

  Every fall in elementary school, week after week, all the guys in my neighborhood would sit at the lunch table and talk about the Highland Knights youth football game coming up on Sunday morning. They’d be playing Carrollton or Grand Prairie or North Haven Park, and they made every week sound like it was going to be as important and monumental as World War III.

  The only other kid who’d played soccer with me was Melvin Patterson. At first, we’d try to talk about our games, cramming our mouths with ham and cheese sandwiches, slurping our milk through straws. But it was never as exciting. Even our rivals sounded lame: the Innwood Spitfires or the Royal Creek Robins. So we’d sit with our heads bent low over Premier League football trading cards, uttering names like Yaya, Suárez, Messi, and Rooney, but all the while secretly listening to talk of trap blocks, go routes, reverses, and safety blitzes.

  Then, in the beginning of August, during the summer between second and third grade, the day finally came: sign-ups for Premier Youth Football League, the finest football in Texas. The chatter about PYFL between my future teammates had begun months before, at the end of second grade.

  It became clear to me that I’d have to cut Melvin loose and save myself. Melvin’s dad would never let him play football.

  That summer I’d started asking my mom to invite the guys from my class over for swimming. I may know kids with an even bigger house than ours, but I’d never heard anyone say we don’t have the best pool. We have this waterworks thing in the shallow end with sprayers and hoses and a big plastic alligator that spits water. There are these gears you can crank around to change which spouts spurted, dribbled, or sprayed in crazy zigzag liquid ropes. And in the deep end is a fifteen-foot curlicue slide along with a high dive.

  That summer, I’d drop hints about maybe playing football. By the time all the moms had started buying new shoes and lunch boxes, I had myself slated as a key player for the Highland Knights.

  All the kids and I pretty much knew the entire roster and who would likely play where. Mr. Simpkin, Jason Simpkin’s dad, who used to play for SMU, was our coach.

  One night, when all the guys were having a sleepover at Jason’s house, his father was in the backyard tossing a football around with us. Kids were racing each other to show their coach how fast they’d become. Jason’s dad watched with interest and when I’d suggested that I race Jason—who had beaten everyone else—his father had smiled at the joke and said, “Sure. Let me see you and Jason go at it.”

  Jason was a cobra, lean and strong with poison in his mouth and eyes dead as glass. He had looked at me and snorted, and the gang all stopped and stared. No one challenged Jason Simpkin and won.

  We crouched low and took off together.

  2

  Mr. Simpkin had nodded wisely and chuckled after I beat Jason to the swing set by two strides. “Well, you’re small, but with that kind of speed, I could see you making a heck of a third-down slot receiver.”

  I grinned. Talk about heaven. I lay awake that entire night, staring up at the fluttering roof of the camp tent in Jason’s backyard beyond the pool, dreaming of third-down plays where I’d streak into the open and make a spectacular grab. Thinking if my dad could’ve seen me, he’d have been so proud.

  I didn’t keep my mom up to speed on any of this. I probably should have told her that I was going to hang up the soccer cleats forever. But football was an F-word.

  So I’d waited until sign-ups were being held at Williamson Elementary before I told my mom about my dream, and that we needed to go down there with my birth certificate and a check for $795.

  I had planned to tell her in the car ride home from day camp at the country club, but the knot in my stomach said to wait. Then, during dinner, when Teresa was serving veal cutlets—one of my mother’s favorites—as soon as we’d said grace, my mother cleared her throat and asked, “Is everything okay, Ryan?”

  That had flustered me. My mom is a pretty woman, but she has these eyes that can burn into you like the desert sun through a bug glass, and that’s scary. I nodded and mumbled that I was fine and quickly cut loose a hunk of veal, stuffing it into my mouth. Every swallowed bite was an opportunity to bring up football, but my tongue stayed tied.

  Finally, Teresa cleared the dishes and my mom took a deep breath and a sip of iced tea and asked me what I had planned for the evening.

  And then, it was go time. Sign-ups only went until 7:30, and it was already 6:53.

  “Mom . . .” Her look—just a simple smile—terrified me, because I knew how quickly it could change, like a summer thunderstorm blowing up out of the desert.

  “Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Her smile went sideways and she took another sip from her glass before tilting her head to wait.

  3

  “We have to go to my school.” My words were barely a whisper.

  She scowled. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “For sign-ups.” I still couldn’t say football.

  “Sign-ups?”

  I stood up from my place. “We have to go now, Mom. It only goes until 7:30. And you need to bring a check.”

  “A check for what? Hey, mister.” Her stern tone stopped me cold. “What’s going on?”

  “And my birth certificate.” My eyes started to well up and I sniffed and looked at my sneakers. “Football sign-ups, Mom. Everyone’s doing it. The Highland Knights. I’m gonna play this year. Remember our deal?”

  I looked up at her with as much confidence as I could muster, knowing that the deal she’d cut with me three years ago might be something she’d forgotten completely. That’s how adults are—they never remember the details like that.

  “Football?” She’d practically snorted the word. “Ryan, what are you talking about? You’re a soccer player. We’ve talked about this. Football isn’t part of who we are. End of discussion.”

  I’m a pretty good kid. I know it’s me saying it about myself, but other people—teachers, parents—think so, too.

  And I don’t get into trouble. That’s because I stay inside the lines—almost always. But I have a flaw: sometimes, I blow my stack. I flat-out lose it. I can’t tell you why, but sometimes it’s a little thing that triggers it while big things just float on by and I stay cool. And sometimes, ba-boom.

  And when my mom called me a soccer player, I lost it and grabbed my water glass and slammed it so hard onto the kitchen table that it shattered. I barely noticed the shards of glass on my hand when I screamed, “I hate when you do this! You said I could! Don’t lie!”

  My mother is small but tough, and she was up out of her chair in a blink. She had me off my feet, lifting me by the collar and marching me down the hall and up the stairs before tossing me onto my bed. She stopped at the door on her way out to point a finger. “You don’t call your mother a liar. Who do you think you are, young man!”

  She turned and slammed the door before I could speak, partly from surprise, but mostly from having been choked by the collar-carry.

  “LIAR!” I screamed in defiance.

  The word hung in the air like an exploded bomb of silence. From all the way downstairs in the kitchen I could hear the tinkle of glass as Teresa swept up the broken pieces. Then the rumble of my mother’s footsteps filled the hallway, coming closer by the instant, so that when the door flew open and smashed into the wall, I was ready for it.

  “Who do you think you are? You’re acting so disrespectful!”

  “You said third grade! I played that hot-poop sport for three years because you said I had to. You said if I played soccer and I still wanted to play football that I could. That’s what you said!”

&
nbsp; “This is coming out of nowhere, Ryan! You don’t just drop something like this on me! Maybe, maybe, if you’d talked to me about this earlier, I could have considered it! Not now, though, mister. NO WAY! NO HOW! You are not playing football!” She slammed the door shut again. It was meant to be final.

  I jumped up off my bed, fired my Lionel Messi bobblehead at the door, smashing it and putting a divot in the wood to punctuate what I was about to say.

  “THEN LET ME GO LIVE WITH MY FATHER!”

  4

  PRESENT . . .

  That jolted me back to the present. I must have dozed off because my book had fallen to the side, and I realized that my face was wet with tears. Because my father had died. I could hear my mom talking again on her phone in the kitchen. Did she need to deliver this news of my father’s passing to family and friends? I didn’t know why when she’d barely mentioned the man for the past twelve years. I even thought I’d heard the words football and Dallas Cowboys, but knew that had nothing to do with anything. I couldn’t think about this anymore, and clearly my reading wasn’t getting done. My phone vibrated and I read a text from my best friend, Jackson Shockey. He was reminding me to ask my mom if it was okay if he came over after football practice tomorrow. I replied that it was without asking, and without telling him anything about the shocking news I’d just received. I just didn’t want to talk about it.

  I put my book away, crept upstairs to my room, got in bed, and turned out the light. The storm had passed and the moon shone in through my sheer window curtains. I just lay in bed, still thinking. Try as I might, I was unable to stop remembering back to that argument about football sign-ups.

  YEARS EARLIER . . .

  I’ll never forget the sound my mom had made. It had been a gasp and a sob, like something someone snatched from deep inside her, the core of her heart, dropping it like a punt and kicking it high into the air.

  Then she did the worst thing you could ever imagine.

  I heard the soft scrape of her shoulder blades down the other side of my bedroom wall and the thump of her bottom as it hit the floor. Then, the muted crying. It hurt me, and it cleared the fog of war in my brain.

  I crept across my bedroom floor and opened the door, crunching the pieces of the broken bobblehead beneath my sneakers. “Mom?”