Perfect Season Page 20

  “No,” Troy said.

  “Okay,” Seth said, “forget it. It’s just . . . I can taste it, you know? With all the junk against us, I still think it’s gonna work out somehow. If we win next week, it’s a perfect season. We’ll be in first place, qualify for the playoffs, and from there, hey, we could win it all. It’s just . . . we need something to get by this one, but, hey, I understand. I do. Heck, it wasn’t working before. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

  Seth turned to go.

  “Wait.” Troy grabbed his sleeve. “I can try, right?”

  Seth wore a painful smile. He held up a hand, and crossed his fingers.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  TROY WANTED IT SO bad, it hurt.

  It reminded him of when he was back with the Falcons and he was helping Seth and the team—he’d grown up absolutely loving the Falcons—and he was hungry for them to win. Troy marched out onto the field with the rest of the team, only without his helmet, and watched from the sideline as Glen Cove did a set of perfect jumping jacks in a huge circle before roaring into the center and shouting out a war cry. The captains went out. Glen Cove would get the ball.

  Seth appeared beside him. “What do you think?”

  “Even if it comes back,” Troy said. “How can it help? I mean, when we were with the Falcons, you had all the signals worked out. You could change the defenses half a second before the snap.”

  Seth gripped Troy’s neck. “You think I’m just an ex-football player? I’m a coach. I’ve been working with Reed on signals for three months. I told you, he’s important to the team. Not as complex as we used in Atlanta, but I can signal left, right, center, and run or pass, and he’s not bad.”

  “I hope better than he plays quarterback,” Troy said.

  Seth laughed. “Yes, better. Good, actually. I talked to him about it just now. He’ll be ready. You get me their plays and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Troy took a deep breath. He didn’t trust Reed in any way, but he turned his attention to the field.

  Summit kicked off and Glen Cove’s offense jogged out onto the field. Seth looked at Troy, and signaled in the defensive play to Reed.

  Troy tried to relax, to forget about everything—Reed, the league, his contract with the Jets, Tate’s dad, his mom yanking him from the game. He narrowed his eyes as Glen Cove broke the huddle and jogged to the line, willing it to happen. Two tight ends lined up on the same side of the formation. Slot receivers were on the other side. The back was offset.

  As the ball was snapped, Troy’s mouth opened. “Pop pass to the inside tight end.”

  Before Troy finished the sentence, the quarterback had set up and rifled a pop pass to the tight end up the seam. Tomkins lambasted the receiver, but not before Glen Cove had gotten a first down.

  Seth’s head snapped over in Troy’s direction. “What did you say?”

  It happened so fast Troy almost wasn’t certain if he’d said anything at all. “I said . . . pop pass.”

  Seth grabbed the front of his jersey and pulled Troy within inches of his grin. “You did! I heard you. You said, ‘Pop pass to the inside tight end.’ Troy, you did it! You knew the play!”

  “I know, but . . . it was too late.”

  “Too late for that one. Look! Watch!”

  Out on the field, Glen Cove was breaking the huddle. They were in two backs with a tight end and a receiver on one side.

  “Twenty-four lead.” The words just came out. Troy blinked up at Seth.

  Seth cupped his hands and screamed at the top of his lungs out to Grant Reed. “Base D! White left run! White left run!”

  Reed nodded, called the defense, broke the huddle, and the Summit D lined up. As the quarterback started his cadence, Reed yanked Tomkins by the arm over to the left side of the defense. Neither of them belonged there, and it put two extra men exactly where the ball was going.

  On the snap, Reed didn’t even wait. He shot through the gap, swam past the fullback, and tackled the runner as he got the handoff. The ball spurted free and Tomkins, who was right behind Reed in the hole, jumped on the fumble and recovered it.

  Seth whooped so loud, Troy thought his eardrums would be torn to tatters. Seth grabbed him and lifted him up and spun him around. “We did it! We did it!”

  Seth set him down and got close. “No, you did it.”

  Troy smiled so hard his cheeks started to cramp.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  SETH STOOD UP IN front of the team. They knelt or sat in a semicircle around him in the team room. His hair was a mess and his voice was a ragged whisper from screaming out signals and then shouting for joy when the final whistle blew and the scoreboard read: home 35 visitors 31.

  “I have been in some incredible football games in my life.” Seth’s voice sounded like the dying gasps of an old man. “But I have never been part of a win more exciting. I want you guys to remember this moment, right here, right now. I want you to remember what you’ve done, taking a sad-sack program and turning it into a winner. We got one more game, boys, and it’s a perfect season. From there, it’s on to the state playoffs. And I’m telling you, if we get there? This group is gonna be state champs!”

  The team all hollered and cheered.

  Troy felt a mixture of joy and sadness. The win wasn’t as sweet after having spent most of the game on the sideline, but he was thankful that he could help.

  Troy didn’t know how to react when Grant Reed came over to him and hugged him, gripped the back of his neck like a long-lost brother, and kissed him on top of the head. “I was a jerk, man.”

  Troy blinked and sputtered. “I . . . me, too. Who cares? We’re undefeated.”

  “And I want you to know that stuff in the paper wasn’t me,” Reed said. “I mean, it was me, but that’s not how it was. They asked me a bunch of tricky questions and I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know it was gonna end up in the paper, and then I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “What people?” Troy asked. “Why would you talk to them?”

  “They called me down to the school office to talk to some reporter. I couldn’t really say no.”

  “Well, like I said, we’re still undefeated.” Troy held up a hand and slapped Reed high five.

  Reed grinned. “And we’re gonna be state champions. You get well and run the offense and—heck, if you can do that again—I’ll run the defense and we will crush people.”

  They both laughed together. Spencer, Levi, and Chuku came over and the five of them did a group hug.

  Chuku’s eyes followed Grant Reed as he walked away, and his mouth hung open in a state of confusion before he whispered in Troy’s ear. “Looks like miracles can happen, dawg. Who knows, maybe the next thing is my name gets cleared?”

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  THAT NIGHT, TROY LAY awake in bed.

  The thrill of the win and the discovery that his genius had returned when he felt passionate about winning wouldn’t allow him to sleep. His mind ranged over the Jets players, McElroy, Cromartie, Harris, Chuku’s dad, and especially Thane. If he could get psyched up, maybe he could help them save their season, too. Maybe he could save his multimillion-dollar contract and they could stay here in Summit. Maybe, just maybe, he could turn things around. It would be so nice to put things right.

  That made him think of Chuku. How could he ever put that right? His feet were sweating and the covers seemed too tight. He flipped them off just as something plinked against his window.

  Troy froze. “Tate?”

  Plink.

  He jumped up from his bed, retreated toward the door, maybe instinctively heading for the safety of his mother’s room.

  Plink.

  He stopped and slowly made his way toward the second window, the one not under assault. Below, in the grass next to the big maple tree in the middle of the front lawn, a dark figure fired again.

  Plink.

  Troy peered into the darkness. The figure moved closer to the house and into
the glow of the lamp beside the door on the front porch. A gold loop glinted in the light.

  “Dad.” The word escaped his lips in a whisper. His heart soared and he had to control his movements to keep from flinging open the bedroom door and racing down the stairs. Instead, he moved with the stealth of a barn cat, breathing in long, slow draughts. He paused only for a moment outside Tate’s bedroom door before continuing on his own. He opened the front door’s hardware with a series of soft clicks, sweeping it aside to be greeted by a great waft of cold air and the grinning, orange-bearded face of his father.

  “How you doin’, boy?”

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  “SHHH.” TROY MASHED A finger to his lips, slipped outside, and eased the door shut.

  “Oh.” His father whispered and looked up at the second-floor windows. “She’s not in on this, huh?”

  Troy clutched his own torso and shivered, some from the chill, but more from the thrill of the night and his outlaw father, who just might be able to save his football team. “Can we go someplace?”

  “My car is out on the street. You got no shoes.”

  “I don’t care. Let’s go,” Troy said.

  “Here. Hop on.” Troy’s father turned around and crouched down, patting his back with one hand and reaching for Troy with the other.

  Embarrassed but cold, Troy hopped onto his father’s back and bounced along as they marched toward the dark street. His dad put him down beside a shabby and faded yellow Porsche convertible and opened the passenger door.

  “Hop in.”

  Troy did, closing the door behind him. His father got in, too, and fired up the engine, which vibrated the car’s frame with a low rumble. His father twisted the controls to pump up the heat. “It’ll get warm fast. What’s up?”

  “Have you . . . do you live around here? Do you know what’s been happening?”

  His father smiled, exposing the gold front tooth. “Probably the less you know about me, the better, but I’ve been following you. Chip off the old block. Maybe you’ll be down in Tuscaloosa yourself one of these days. Roll Tide.”

  Troy knew “Roll Tide” was Alabama’s battle cry and he knew his father had set rushing records during his time there, a couple of which still stood. “I got a lot of work to do before that.”

  “But you got a good start.” His father winked. “That’s the key. Especially for a quarterback. It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “These people who are trying to wreck our season,” Troy said. “We know who they are. Well, we don’t know exactly who they are, but we know the name of their company and their lawyer.”

  “Ahh, the lawyer always leads to the client.”

  Troy wondered if his father still considered himself a lawyer. He had to believe that given all his own trouble with the law, he probably wasn’t allowed to be a lawyer anymore.

  “You said you’d help if I needed you.”

  Troy looked, and waited.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  HIS FATHER’S HEAD WENT up and down like the paint-can shaker Troy had seen in Home Depot one time. “I told you you’d need me. I had a feeling, especially when I started reading about all this recruiting stuff and the league suspending you guys and then Seth Halloway fighting them and getting a TRO. That’s how you handle these rats. You sue ’em.”

  “You said you had someone at the FBI,” Troy said.

  “You don’t stay two steps ahead of the law without friends. Guy I played with at ’Bama. He’s a special agent in charge, pretty high up.”

  “Couldn’t he get in trouble?” Troy didn’t want to get sidetracked, but the question just popped out.

  “Troy, I know I’ve made a mess of some things, but I never hurt anyone. He knows that. Sometimes good people . . . they just get sideways with the law. Bankers and lawyers and CEOs, the good ones all play the edge, and the lucky ones end up rich. They’re just lucky. Not me. I used up all my luck when I met your mom.”

  “But you wouldn’t even marry her.” Troy tried to tamp down the scolding sound of his voice.

  His father looked at him for a long moment. “I told you, I didn’t know about you. I was going through some things. The luck was because I got you, a son. I always dreamed I’d have a son, and look at you. You guys could have a perfect season. You’re not even in high school.”

  Troy felt the blush on his cheeks. Part of him doubted the full truthfulness of his father’s words—he thought of his own slick way of telling tales—but he couldn’t help basking in their warmth. “So, this development company called Maple Creek wants Summit to get suspended so the program gets canceled. If that happens, the football stadium gets sold to them so they can build a shopping center. Everything was all set and going their way until I showed up and got Seth to coach the team.”

  Troy’s dad put a hand on his arm to interrupt Troy so he could speak. “And then you and Seth and this Moore kid started lighting people up and everyone’s talking about Summit football now. No one’s going to shut down a championship program with half the town coming out to the games.”

  “You’ve been there?” Troy asked.

  His father smiled. “So, how can I help?”

  “Tate—you remember Tate, her father got into a bad accident in San Diego, her mother’s out there, and she’s staying with us—she’s real smart. She did all this research. The notes from the meetings of the town planning board are all online. She found the name for the company behind the development—Maple Creek. She thinks if we could get someone from the IRS or the FBI to check into their tax returns that maybe we can find some kind of payoff. If we find a payoff, then the court will realize the whole thing with recruiting—which is a lie, but that’s another story—is just because these people are crooked. That’s intentional malice. That’s what we need to show.”

  Troy finally took a breath and studied his father’s face.

  “So I use my contact at the FBI to look into Maple Creek’s bank accounts and tax returns to see who’s getting paid off?” Troy’s father raised an eyebrow. “I can do that.”

  “Really? It’s that simple?” Troy just stared.

  “Really.” His father snapped his fingers. “I got it.”

  Troy wanted to hug his father, so he did. The grip was so warm and strong that it brought tears to Troy’s eyes. He looked away when they separated.

  “What’s wrong?” his father asked.

  Troy sniffed. “Nothing. I’m happy. I appreciate you helping me.”

  “But . . .”

  “I just wonder what it would have been like, that’s all.” Troy tried to look at his father’s face, but knew if he did he’d start bawling, and this was no time for that. He tried to make his voice sound rough. “When can you get this stuff?”

  “Give me a few days.”

  “Dad, the judge hears the arguments Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” Troy’s dad frowned. “Troy . . . that’s not much time. It’s the weekend.”

  Troy’s heart sank.

  “I’ll do my best, really.” Troy’s dad forced a smile.

  “Can you give me a phone number?”

  His father gave Troy a worried look.

  “For Sam Christian?” For some reason, Troy felt short of breath. “I won’t give it to anyone and I’ll use it only if I really need you.”

  “Here, I’ll text it to you.” His father sent the contact and Troy’s phone buzzed.

  Troy added the contact to his phone. “Okay. Thanks. I better go.”

  Troy popped open the door and his father moved to get out, too. “No, don’t. I don’t want Mom to see you. I’m good. I’m warm now.”

  Troy stood outside the car but bent down so that his head was inside. “Thanks. Really. I appreciate it, whether you can get it in time or not.”

  His father held out a hand and Troy shook it.

  “I told you I’d be here for you,” his father said.

  Troy shut the door and retreated toward the house. Behind him, in the blackness,
he heard the engine growl and the clatter of stones as his father rolled down the street into the night. And, despite the warm feelings and the kind words, as he slipped back inside their rented home Troy knew the odds were fifty-fifty at best whether he’d ever even see the man again.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  THE NEXT DAY, TROY saw the doctor and Ms. McLean early in the morning. In the end, even Troy’s mom agreed that he was fine and on the drive home, Troy’s mom said, “I’m sorry I made you sit, but I think it was the right thing, Troy. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I let you go in and something happened. You understand, right?”

  Troy felt as if he was ready to burst. He wanted so badly to tell his mom about how his father just might be going to save the day. Instead, he nodded vigorously. “That’s okay, Mom. It all worked out. We won the game, and I got a good feeling about the court.”

  “You do?” Her eyebrows shot up and she glanced over at him.

  “I just got a feeling, Mom.” Troy looked out the side window to keep her from reading his thoughts. “If I can do what I did last night for the Jets tomorrow, do you know how many of our problems will be solved?” Troy clenched both his fists.

  “Do you really think you’ll be able to help?”

  Troy thought for a minute, then spoke quietly and slowly. “I think what happened was I didn’t really care about the Jets. That’s what happened last night. I wanted it so bad, and all of a sudden, it was just there. I didn’t care if the Jets won or lost. I was getting paid to do a job, and I just got into a slump. Last night, I think I figured it out. And I want the Jets to win, Mom. I want it bad.”

  “As much as the game last night?” she asked.

  Troy frowned at her. “I don’t know about that much, but pretty bad. I don’t want to let those players down. And I want to be here, not just for the next four weeks, but for the next four years. So yeah, I want it pretty bad.”

  “Well.” His mom turned the VW Bug onto their street. “We’ll see tomorrow.”