Football Champ (7 page)

THE REPORTER WHIPPED OUT
a miniature camera from underneath his tray, snapping a one-handed picture, the flash leaving a yellow spot in Troy’s vision.

“I
knew
it was you,” Peele said in a hushed whisper as he tucked the camera into his pants pocket. He wore the uniform shirt and tie of the other servers.

Troy removed his headset, shook his head, and said, “I’ll talk to you, but not now.”

“After the game?” Peele asked, pointing at him with the tray still balanced in his other hand.

“Yes,” Troy said. “I promise.”

“Okay, tell me this and I’ll leave you alone until after the game,” Peele said. “You’re Troy White, right?”

Troy sighed and said, “Yes.”

“Your mom’s the PR assistant for the Falcons.”

“If you know, why are you asking me?” Troy said, glaring.

“I
thought
I knew,” Peele said with a mean smile growing on his face. “But I’m a reporter. I gotta confirm things.”

“Good for you,” Troy said. “Now, let me do this.”

Troy angled his head toward the field, where the Falcons received the kickoff. Peele gave him a knowing nod, turned with his tray, and closed the door.

Troy took a deep breath and let it go, the anxiety of the day escaping his chest like air from a leaking balloon. He pulled the headset back on and returned his eyes to the field.

“I’m here,” Troy said to Coach Mora.

“What happened?” Mora asked.

“Nothing,” Troy said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll have it next series.”

Troy watched the Falcons complete a long pass that put them in field-goal range before they sputtered again. They tried the field goal but missed, turning the ball back over to the Seahawks.

As the Seattle offense took the field, Troy saw three receivers and the fullback jogging for the huddle. His gift kicked in.

He cupped his hand over the microphone, pulling it close to his mouth, and said, “Middle screen. Middle screen.”

“You sure?” Mora asked.

“Pretty much,” Troy said, and he watched the coach make a flurry of hand signals to Seth, who stood apart from the other defensive players. Seth turned and began shouting to his teammates. The Seahawks broke their huddle and jogged to the line of scrimmage. Hasselbeck looked the defense over and took the snap, dropping back as if to throw a pass. The Falcons’ linemen broke through in a wave that reminded Troy of the Dunwoody Dragons.

Hasselbeck kept backpedaling, drawing the defenders toward him. The fullback suddenly spun around and held up his hands. Hasselbeck lofted the ball toward him. That’s when, out of nowhere, Seth Halloway appeared, leaping in front of the fullback and snatching the pass.

The crowd howled and Seth hit the ground running. Hasselbeck came for him, but Seth gave his shoulders a twitch, faking one way, then running the other. The Seahawks’ quarterback dove, arms flailing, and fell to the turf. Seth didn’t stop until he reached the end zone. The Georgia Dome crowd went berserk

Although the Falcons’ defense dominated the game from that point on, the offense couldn’t seem to get its rhythm. The first half ended with Atlanta still down, 17–7. The executives below Troy conferred in whispers, checking their computers for statistics. The door beside Troy swung open. He half expected to see Peele, but Mr. Langan appeared, closed the door, and rested his
hands on the desk in front of Troy.

“You had some trouble?” Mr. Langan asked.

“I couldn’t see the patterns at the beginning,” Troy said, hoping the owner wasn’t referring to Peele. Troy wanted to focus on the game, not the reporter. If he won the game and put them into first place, it would make what he planned on doing with Peele more acceptable. As Seth always said, winning was the ultimate deodorant. It could turn even the smelliest situation into something sweet.

“You’re on track now, though?” Mr. Langan asked.

“I am,” Troy said.

The door opened behind Mr. Langan. A tray appeared with drinks and food, but it wasn’t Peele carrying it. The female server squeezed past Mr. Langan, offering Troy a plate of hot dogs with a bag of chips and a large chocolate chip cookie. Troy took one of each, along with a bottle of water, before she served the men below.

Mr. Langan descended the small set of steps to talk with his executives, while Troy slathered ketchup on one of the dogs before taking a huge bite. The worry and excitement made him as hungry as Nathan. By the time he’d finished, Mr. Langan had gone and the team had begun to dribble back out into the bench area. Troy saw Jim Mora pick up his headset, so he put his own back on, stuffing a last bit of cookie into his mouth before answering the coach.

Troy saw the patterns after only a few plays, and the
Falcons’ defense gave up barely a handful of yards. The Atlanta offense still struggled, though. Finally, late in the fourth quarter, the Falcons completed a long pass to Joe Horn, who lowered his shoulder, blasted through the free safety, then dashed into the end zone to make it 17–14.

With less than three minutes to go, Troy knew the Seahawks would just try to run out the clock. They wouldn’t pass the ball because an incomplete pass would stop the clock. On first down, he predicted a sweep to the left. That’s what Seattle did, and Seth stopped them for a two-yard gain. When Troy saw a second tight end jogging out onto the field and the fullback leaving, he smiled and his heart gave a leap.

“Coach,” he said into his microphone, “call a time-out!”

“We only have one left,” Mora said, “and Coach McFadden wants to save it for the offense.”

“Coach! You have to! I need to talk to Seth!”

The executives below him in the box spun around at the sound of Troy yelling. His faced heated up and he cleared his throat.

“Please,” he said, quieter now. “We can win this, but I have to talk to Seth.”

“’Cause you know the play?” Mora said. “Just tell me.”

“You don’t have a defense for what Seth needs to do,” Troy said. “I have to explain it to him.”

“Troy, if we call a time-out, they could easily change the personnel, and the play you
think
they’re going to run will change too,” Mora said. “We’ll waste the time-out for nothing.”

“They won’t,” Troy said.

“If I call time-out and you’re wrong,” Mora said, growling, “I don’t know if you’ll get fired, but I sure will. Don’t do this to me, Troy, unless you’re absolutely certain.”

Troy swallowed. Coach Mora was right. With the additional time to consider, Mike Holmgren, Seattle’s head coach and an offensive wizard, could easily change his mind and use another play. Troy looked down at the executives scowling up at him, but he knew he was right.

“Do it, Coach.
Please
.”

Mora jumped out onto the field, signaling time-out to the referee. Seth jogged over to the sideline and Mora offered him his headset. Coach McFadden marched through the crowd of players and put a hand on Mora’s shoulder, spinning him around and talking angrily. Troy shifted his attention to Seth, who removed his helmet, put the headset on over his sweat-plastered hair, and asked, “What’s up, buddy?”

“They’re going to run a counter trey to the weak side,” Troy said.

“Troy, that’s great,” Seth said, “but why the time-out? Why didn’t you just tell Mora that and have him
signal it in? McFadden’s about to blow a gasket.”

“Because we need a turnover,” Troy said, “or this thing’s over. Shoot the strong-side A gap. If you follow the pulling guard, you might be able to hit the quarterback when he hands off the ball, hit him hard, and make him fumble. You can do it.”

The referee blew his whistle, signaling the end of the time-out, and Troy heard the coaches shouting all around Seth.

“Did you hear me?” Troy said, raising his voice to a quiet scream.

“Yes,” Seth said. “You’re right. It might work.”

“It
will
work,” Troy said. “It has to. Go.”

Seth handed the headset to Mora and ran back out onto the field, gesturing to his teammates and breaking the huddle so they could meet the Seahawks at the line. During the excitement, Troy hadn’t kept an eye on the Seahawks, and as they came to the line, his stomach dropped.

“
TROY,” MORA SAID INTO
the headset.

“I know,” Troy said. “I see.”

The Seahawks had changed personnel during the time-out, exactly what Coach Mora had been afraid of.

“Will they still run it? They’ve got three wide receivers.”

Troy wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want the coach to know that.

“Yes,” Troy said. “They’ll run it.”

As Hasselbeck began his cadence, Seth eased up toward the line of scrimmage. Just before the snap, he darted at the offensive guard. The center hiked the ball. The guard pulled. Seth shot through the empty space a split second before it closed. The quarterback did a complete turn, extending the ball. The runner took a
jab step to the strong side before cutting back toward the weak side, providing the delay Seth needed.

As the quarterback handed off the ball, Seth hit him from behind, crashing his arms down on the quarterback’s hand, sending the ball scooting across the turf and the crowd into a frenzy. Demorrio Williams came from around the far side end, scooped up the fumble, broke a feeble tackle by Shaun Alexander, and raced toward the end zone. On his way there, Bobby Engram, the Seahawks’ speedy wide receiver, closed the gap and grabbed hold of Demorrio’s shoulder pad.

Demorrio spun, tumbling, and pitched the ball back to DeAngelo Hall. No one could catch him. When he got into the end zone, DeAngelo slid down on his knees and raised both arms up to the crowd. The noise washed over Troy, crashing from one side of the stadium to the other, with people waving their arms and banners and hats, so that Troy could only think of a movie he’d seen in science class about an enormous bee hive.

The executives jumped up, spilling their drinks, hooting, and clapping one another on the back. They pushed one another for the chance to bound up the steps and slap high-fives with Troy. Mr. Langan burst back through the door, too, slapping him a high-five, then hugging him tight. Tate and Nathan barged into the small space and hollered and danced around with Troy.

When the excitement died down and everyone collected their breath, Troy got back on the headset. His
work wasn’t done. The Falcons had to kick off to Seattle, and the Seahawks would get a final chance to score. But with only 1:43 left and Troy calling the plays to perfection, time soon ran out, and the Falcons won the game, 21–17.

Troy left his seat and entered the lounge area, where everyone stood chattering excitedly. The Carolina score came up on the TV screen, showing that they’d lost to New Orleans, putting the Falcons in first place. A cheer went up, and that’s when Troy felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Now we talk, right?” Brent Peele said, nodding his head toward the bar and the entrance to the kitchen beyond it.

“
OKAY
,”
TROY SAID, TURNING
to follow him.

Another hand grabbed Troy, from behind this time, spinning him back, and Tate said, “What are you doing?”

“That thing we talked about,” Troy said, angling his head toward the reporter dressed as a server. “That’s Peele.”

“The waiter?”

“He just dressed like a waiter to get in here.”

“Don’t do it,” Tate said, stamping her foot. “I’m telling you.”

“I have to,” Troy said. “I said I would.”

“You don’t have to keep your promise to that guy,” Tate said.

Nathan stood next to her, nodding heartily. “My dad
says the only thing lower than a newspaper reporter is whale poop, but I don’t blame you if you want to get into the papers. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

Troy shook his head and said, “Anyway, I promised.”

He shrugged Tate’s hand off and followed Peele into the kitchen. The reporter removed a small tape recorder from his pocket and clicked it on so that a small red light glared at Troy like the eye of a snake. Peele offered him a box to sit on, then turned, closed the door, and threw home the deadbolt, locking them in.

“How did you know I was here?” Troy asked.

“
I’m
the reporter, kid,” Peele said, holding up the recorder to prove his point. “It took me a couple days, asking around quietlike, but I found out about this new ball boy who was Tessa’s son. She’s new to the team. You’re new. One plus one makes two. I figured they’d keep you hidden after I almost got you last week, and what better place to hide than the owner’s box? I got my hands on the guest list and saw you there. A guy I know runs the catering in the dome. He put me on the kitchen staff, and here we are.”

“Why did you follow us the other day to Seth’s doctor?” Troy asked.

“Uh-uh,” Peele said, shaking his head. “My turn now. Tell me how you do it.”

Troy stared at him.

“Look, kid,” Peele said like an old friend. “I know
you’re not doing anything wrong. That’s not what this is about, and it’s not about Halloway, either. But people are going to find out. There’s no way you can keep this thing secret forever. I just want to be the one who writes about it first, that’s all. You might as well tell me. I’m a hometown guy. You don’t think I want the Falcons to lose, do you? They’re my team, too, you know. They win, we sell papers.”

Troy took a deep breath and began to explain his gift and how his family called him a football genius. As Troy spoke, Peele’s small mouth grew tighter and tighter. The white scar that ran from beneath his nose to the corner of his mouth began to do a little dance, tugging at the reporter’s lip like a fishing line. Troy wanted to ask if Seth really gave it to him, but instead he finished by proudly recounting the story of the game they just played. He explained how he’d begged for a time-out, predicted the counter trey, and told Seth to attack it from the backside.

Peele inhaled sharply and said, “Let me get a couple things straight.”

“Okay,” Troy said, nodding eagerly, wanting to explain.

“You know what the other teams are going to do?”

“Yes.”

“You know the plays they’re going to run?”

“Yes. I see the patterns.”

“Right,” Peele said, “patterns. And you tell the
coaches so they can signal it in to Seth Halloway. He knows exactly what they’re going to do, so not only can he change the defense, but he personally can get right to where the ball is going to be?”

“Yes.”

“Because no way could Seth Halloway be playing like this without knowing the plays, right?”

“Well,” Troy said, “Seth’s a great player.”

“Was. He
was
a great player,” Peele said.

“And he still is,” Troy said, scowling.

“With your help?” Peele said in a nice, appreciative way. “He’s your friend, right?”

“Yes, I help Seth.”

“And if you didn’t give him the plays,” Peele said, “how do you think he’d do? Look,” Peele continued, dropping his voice to an even lower, more sympathetic volume. “This is a rough game. Seth’s old. That’s no sin. Honestly, though, he couldn’t do this without you telling him the plays, could he?”

Troy looked down at his hands and said, “I guess not.”

“I mean, the whole team wouldn’t be making this playoff run, would it?” Peele asked.

“No,” Troy said, getting excited about the great thing he’d done, “and Coach McFadden’s job is on the line, so they have to win. He’s such a great guy, you know?”

Peele nodded that he knew, then asked, “And you
started all this about the same time your mom got the job, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, she got the job,” Troy said. “Then she almost lost it, but I showed them what I can do.”

“They were going to fire her?” Peele asked, raising his eyebrows in shock.

Troy nodded. “They actually did. It was this whole mix-up. I had a press pass, and I went out into the bench area and got thrown out. I was trying to help, and so was she.”

“And when the Falcons figured out that you could help them get the other team’s plays, they hired your mom, too?”

“Well, they were…”

Troy hesitated, a little confused and wanting to be clear.

“’Cause she technically wasn’t working for the team anymore,” Peele said. “Right?”

“Right.”

“But once they found out what you could do, they weren’t going to leave her out in the cold. Kind of a package deal, right?”

“Yes,” Troy said, “it was a package deal, kind of, but my mom’s great at what she does. It’s a win-win.”

“That’s super,” Peele said, grinning. “And Mr. Langan, he’s got to be thrilled with all this.”

“He is,” Troy said, nodding and offering up a small
chuckle, thinking about those ten-thousand-dollar checks.

“Man, look at you,” Peele said, shaking his head. “You’re traveling around with the team and sitting in the owner’s box. Wow.”

Troy smiled back, shook his head, and said, “I told them you’d get it.”

“Oh yeah,” Peele said. “I get it. You get the plays and send them down on the coach’s headset. It’s a nice combination of human ingenuity and the latest technology.”

“Yeah,” Troy said.

“Would you say that’s right?” Peele asked. “Can I quote you on that, the combination of ingenuity and technology?”

“That’s what it is,” Troy said, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his chest.

“But they didn’t want you talking to me, though, right?” Peele asked.

“Well, they didn’t know,” Troy said.

“So, your mom, Mr. Langan, and Seth,” Peele said, “they all wanted to keep this thing pretty quiet?”

“Sure,” Troy said. “They’ll probably kill me when they find out, but once they know you get it and that you’re on our side, it’ll all work out.”

A sudden pounding on the other side of the door made Troy jump from his seat. The door handle rattled and shook, and someone began pounding again so hard
that cracks of light appeared in the frame as the door bowed in.

“Troy!” Seth’s voice boomed at him through the door. “It’s me, Seth! Troy, are you in there? Open up!”