Perfect Season (15 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

AN ELECTRIC CURRENT FILLED
the air, adding a charge of excitement and thrill to the face of every player, coach, equipment man, and even the trainers on the Jets sideline. Troy felt it, too. He'd felt it before, never as intensely as at the Super Bowl seven months ago, but this was a close second: opening day for two bitter AFC East rivals. For Troy, though, the current didn't lift him or put sparkle in his eyes. The current went to ground in his stomach. Only one thought clawed away in his mind.

He didn't want to be there.

For the first time since he had discovered his gift and dreamed of using it to help the Atlanta Falcons win a Super Bowl, Troy had no interest in being on an NFL sideline. Troy wanted to
play
, not call plays. That's where his heart was now.

Under the lights, slinging the ball downfield like Friday night, dodging defenders—
that's
where he wanted to be.
That
was his real dream. Now that he'd had a taste of real football, high school varsity football, he could clearly see the path that would take him to the NFL. He wanted to be Drew Brees, or Aaron Rogers, or Eli Manning on opening day, not a kid who got paid to help give a billionaire's team a strategic advantage.

He finished mouthing the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner” and looked around. In the energy overload, no one even noticed him. He felt like slipping away. He looked up into the box where his mother sat. Her eyes, unlike anyone else's, were on him. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. He waved back and groaned, turning his attention to the field and the kickoff the Jets were receiving.

Coach Crosley, the Jets offensive coordinator, caught his eye and motioned him over.

“So, word is you're gonna start telling me what coverages they're going to be running at some point?” Coach Crosley asked.

“Once I get a feel for it,” Troy said.

“Well, I'm not counting on it, so anything you got is a bonus. You tell me and I've got hand signals worked out with McElroy and Thane. Just don't give me the wrong coverage. That I can't have.” Coach Crosley wore a deadly serious face.

Troy nodded. He stood next to Coach Crosley with nothing between them and the players on the field but the chain stretched between the first-down markers. Troy watched the Jets as they marched down the field then sputtered, throwing two incomplete passes in a row. On third and eleven, Coach Crosley gave him a questioning and hopeful look. If Troy knew what coverage to expect, it could help him call a successful play. Troy could only shrug and shake his dull and heavy head.

The Dolphins double-covered Thane and the Jets pass fell incomplete. The kicker went out on fourth down and made the field goal, so that was something.

“I could have used you on that third down,” Coach Crosley said, obviously frustrated. “Maybe you'll do better for our defense.”

The coach marched off toward the bench to make adjustments with his players.

Thane passed by on his way off the field. “How'd it go, buddy? No feelings yet?”

Troy had a feeling—a lump in his gut. “Not yet.”

“Don't worry. We're up three already.” Thane messed his hair and went to the bench.

Troy didn't do any better for the Jets' defense. Nothing came to him, and the Dolphins drove down the field. Coach Kollar gave Troy a questioning look when the Dolphins crossed the fifty-yard line, but Troy could only shrug and look at his feet. When the Dolphins scored to take a 7–3 lead, Coach Kollar turned without saying anything and walked away.

Troy stood dutifully beside each coordinator who called the Jets' plays—one for the offense, the other for the defense—without giving any help as the game went on.

Halfway through the second quarter, with the Jets losing 13–10, Troy's cell phone rang.

It was his mother. “What's wrong? You look like you're having trouble.”

Troy huffed into the phone. “Sometimes it takes time. You know that, Mom. I haven't done this since the Super Bowl.”

“Do you feel it, though? Are you close?” His mother was whispering into the phone. “Mr. Cole keeps looking over here at me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. Just do your thing. I gotta go.”

She hung up and so did Troy. He watched the game, trying to see it, trying to feel it. When David Harris came off the field after Miami scored the next touchdown, he whipped off his helmet and cast a glare at Troy. Harris marched his way and Troy expected a chewing-out before Chuku's dad stepped in front of Troy, stopping the fellow linebacker in his tracks. Mr. Moore whispered something to Harris that ended with “Come on, dawg, he's just a kid.”

Mr. Moore flashed a smile not unlike Chuku's.

Harris clenched his teeth, nodded at Mr. Moore, and turned for the bench. When he passed by, Troy heard Harris curse under his breath.

“Don't worry, Troy. This is a rough way to make a living. People get tense.” Mr. Moore patted Troy's shoulder and walked away with his helmet under his arm.

Troy nodded. He knew that as the starting middle linebacker, no one could have benefited more from Troy's gift than David Harris. Harris had been expecting to have the plays fed to him with a series of hand signals Coach Kollar had devised to go along with the defense he'd want to shift to—if he knew the play. For a cost of five million dollars a year to the team, David Harris was supposed to know where the ball was going. If it worked—as it had for Seth Halloway until his knees gave out—David Harris would have more tackles than any other player in the NFL and be a shoe-in for the Pro Bowl, maybe defensive MVP.

When Troy turned to watch Harris stalk toward the Gatorade table, he found himself staring into the lens of the CBS handheld camera behind the bench. Three red lights glared at him like a deadly, three-eyed alien and Troy knew his face was live on network TV and the announcers were probably talking about him. He pretended not to see and turned away to watch the game.

When halftime came, Troy pinched the bridge of his nose and jogged into the locker room with the rest of the Jets. Except for a friendly wave from Thane before he headed for the trainers' room to get retaped, the players and coaches ignored Troy. Even Mr. Moore and Antonio Cromartie didn't look Troy's way, so he sat in a lonely corner on an empty stool, out of the mix. Mr. Cole appeared unexpectedly, still calm and cool-looking in his dark suit, but he found Troy immediately and motioned him toward the showers.

Troy stood and followed, marching like a convict.

Inside the vast empty space, the clicking of the owner's shoes echoed off the tiled walls. He stood facing a soap dispenser on the wall. Troy stopped in the middle of the showers and waited. Mr. Cole sighed and turned to face him. His eyes were dark and empty and his face might have been made from wood.

“So tell me,” the owner said. “What do I need to do here?”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

TEARS STREAMED DOWN TROY'S
face. That turned his distress into anger.

He gritted his teeth and spit his words. “You don't think I'm trying? You think this is fun for me?”

“Okay.” The owner nodded, as if he'd made an important decision. He spoke with soft intensity. “Story time. Once there was an Onondagan named Running Deer. He led his people into one of the most brutal and famous battles against the Hurons, defeating them, and bringing a peace that lasted throughout the Iroquois nations for hundreds of years. My mother used to tell me his blood ran through my veins. I don't know if that was even true, but she told it to me at a time when I thought
I
was still a boy . . . Running Deer led his people into battle when he was only eleven.”

“And, what, this is my battle?” Troy asked, uncertain where the owner was going with all this.

Mr. Cole stared hard at Troy. “Yes, this is your battle. You're a boy, but you're being treated like a man. We have an agreement, a contract between two men, and I want to know what the problem is . . . Maybe I can help.”

Troy took a deep breath and said, “I don't feel it.”

The owner stared for a moment, then nodded slowly. “And this affects your abilities.”

“I think so, but it's taken time before, so I wasn't sure. I'm not sure.”

“Into the second half?” The owner's look remained steady.

Troy returned the stare. “No.”

The owner frowned and nodded. “I'm not happy, I've got a lot riding on you, a lot of plans to get this franchise to a championship, but I appreciate the honesty. Dishonesty makes me see red. Okay, let's see what happens in the second half. Get a Gatorade or something. Are you hungry?”

Troy shook his head. The owner gave Troy's shoulder a squeeze, but the only sound he made was the echoing click of his shoes on the shower floor as he left Troy to think.

Troy took out his phone. He had no service. On the other side of the wall Coach Ryan, the head coach, shouted at the players, telling them they were better than what they'd shown so far. Troy slipped back into the locker room, past the yelling, and out into the guts of the stadium, where he got two bars on his phone. Two state troopers looked at him curiously. He felt their eyes scoping out the all-access pass hanging from his belt loop. One of them—he could tell by the look on his face—recognized Troy as the Jets' “football genius”; the other did not. Troy's face reddened as if he were standing naked in front of the troopers.

He turned away and headed toward the tunnel, stopping just short of the sunlight, where he got three bars on the phone and dialed Tate. He knew she was watching on TV.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Troy's eyes darted around him at the security people, who kept their eyes up on the crowd surrounding the tunnel. “I feel like getting out of here, calling my mom, and catching a cab to the airport. This stinks.”

“You're not feeling it?”

“Does twenty points look like I'm feeling it? Seth Cole just threatened me with I don't know what.”

“What's that mean?”

“He said he paid me a lot of money. He wants results.”

“Maybe it will come to you.” Tate's suggestion sounded weak.

“I feel like I'm gonna puke. I don't even want this anymore. I want to
play
the game, not predict it.”

“Fight or flight,” Tate said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember Mr. Dunn's science class last year? When a mammal is faced with danger, it just reacts. The adrenaline starts pumping and it either puts its back up and fights, or it turns and runs. You can't run. That's not who you are, Troy.”

“Why is that not who I
am
?” Troy wanted to smash the phone against the concrete wall.

“This whole thing is about football, being a great player.” Tate sounded urgent. “I know that's what you want. A great player is someone who
fights
. There's no room for flight in football.”

Troy wanted to tell Tate she was just a girl and what did she know, but she did know. Tate was right. Troy bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“It still stinks.”

“If it was easy, Jamie Renfro would be doing it.”

Troy couldn't help smiling at the mention of his old nemesis, a bully who had ridiculed Troy and made his life miserable on and off the football field. “He's probably having a good laugh at me right now if he's watching this game.”

“How many touchdowns did you throw Friday night?” Tate asked. “Six, right? Let him laugh at that. Now go do your job. Do the best you can. If it's not good enough, work at it. Maybe it will take another week.”

Troy took a deep breath. “Thanks, Tate.”

“Hey, that's why I get the big bucks.”

Troy laughed. A metal door crashed open from the direction of the locker room inside the tunnel. Troy heard the growl of angry NFL players. He hung up the phone and let the tide of green-and-white Jets sweep him out onto the field and up the sideline.

CHAPTER SIXTY

THE PLAYERS STRETCHED AND
threw and darted about to get loose. Troy stood on the fifty-yard line and waited for Coach Kollar. The big, rangy coach put on his headphones and shucked a fresh stick of Big Red. Keeping his eyes on the field as he studied the Dolphins sideline, he offered a piece to Troy.

Troy took it and chewed hard, determined to focus with all his might and see or feel—or smell if he had to—what the Dolphins' plays would be. He remembered his mom and turned to find her staring at him from the box. The owner wasn't back yet. Troy forced a smile and gave her a thumbs-up. The Jets received the ball and Coach Ryan's halftime speech fueled enough excitement for the offense to score a field goal. Grim faces shouted encouragement to one another as the offense jogged off the field urging the defensive players on to the same success.

Troy put his hands on his knees and bent over, studying the Dolphins intently. The Dolphins' offense moved the ball down the field with ease. Coach Kollar gave Troy a look that bordered on panic. All Troy could do was shrug and look away. He had no better luck with helping Coach Crosley.

The game ground on, and by midway through the fourth quarter, the Jets began to lose hope. They were three touchdowns behind and nothing seemed to be working. Coach Kollar wore a pained look and he avoided Troy's eyes. Coach Crosley didn't even bother with him. Troy kept at it, hoping—even though the cause was all but lost—that he could reignite his talent and prove to them that he was for real.

It never happened.

With thirty-two seconds left in the game, the Dolphins got the ball back. Coach Kollar looked at Troy with a deadpan face. “What do you think they'll run? Kneel-down?”

Troy watched as the Dolphins snapped the ball and knelt down to run out the clock.

“Maybe I should be getting five million a year,” the coach said under his breath as he threw down his headphones and walked away.

The sting of Coach Kollar's comment cut through Troy's fog. Thane slapped him on the back as he jogged past and told him not to worry, but that didn't help. Ritchie Anderson, the Jets' PR director, appeared at Troy's side and took his arm, guiding him toward the locker room. “Mr. Cole said to give the media five minutes with you while Coach talks to the team. That way, you don't have to wait around.”

Troy swallowed hard but kept walking. His mom met him in the tunnel and he had a ray of hope that she'd somehow save him.

“Mom?”