Paydirt

20

Kingsley jumped to his feet, a roar exploding from his chest. "How 'bout them Mustangs!" He turned to hug Scott, lifting him off his feet. "You did it, my boy! He turned to the others and bellowed: "My grandson called the play! He's a genius. We're going to the Super Bowl!"

"And then Disney World," somebody called out from near the bar.

Christine squealed with joy, laughing and crying at the same time. Kingsley released Scott and grabbed his daughter. They hugged fiercely. Friends and team executives crowded around to slap Kingsley on the back and share the purest moment of sheer ecstasy and exhilaration.

Only Scott did not join in the celebration. He blamed himself.

Oh Dad, I'm so sorry.

The scoreboard showed 20–13 Dallas, and the kicking unit was taking the field to try the PAT. Scott didn't need the calculator to do the math. With the extra point, his father was stuck in the middle of the two bets, and he'd done it to him.

Even if the Mustangs blocked the field goal attempt, I never thought they'd run it back for a touchdown. Aw Jeez, I should have kept my big mouth shut.

Scott had suffered despair before, of course. When his parents sat him down to explain, oh so calmly, that they were divorcing but that they both loved him and nothing would change-yeah right-he had hit bottom. He loved them both so much. Dad was a cool guy who took him everywhere and treated him like an adult. Mom was neat, too. Okay, she worried about him too much, but that was a Mom thing. She couldn't help it.

For as long as he could remember, they were all gooey-eyed toward each other. Touching all the time, embarrassing him at Little League, sitting there in the stands holding hands, kissing after he got a hit or even reached first base on some stupid error. He pretended they were someone else's parents or recently released patients from a mental hospital who had arbitrarily chosen to root for him. Mainly, he figured they were a little goofy, but that was okay.

Why the hell did they split up? He knew it had to do with Dad working for Pop, that they disagreed about the way to do things, but why didn't Dad just get a different job? He remembered the argument with Mom at the end, right after Dad went on TV. It was the only time he ever heard her raise her voice to him. "You didn't have to make a spectacle of yourself! You didn't have to humiliate my father and me. Or did you?"

Yeah, Scott figured, he did. Right after it had happened, he'd asked Dad why he was so mean to Pop. "Because I had to get my balls back," his father said. Scott didn't understand it then, but now that he was older, it was starting to make more sense.

Now, more than anything, he wanted to help get his parents back together. If Dad could get out of debt and clean up his act, then maybe things would work out.

I should be helping him, but look what I've done!

Bobby did the addition and subtraction even before the Mustangs made the PAT. Fourteen plus seven equals twenty-one. Final score 21–13. Twenty-one minus thirteen equals eight.

Eight points!

Dallas would win by eight, and he'd be middled. Vinnie LaBarca cleaned his clock on both bets. One million, two hundred thousand dollars.

"The kick is up. It's go-o-o-d! What a game, Brent."

In the millisecond it had taken T.J. Moore's fingertips to slap a football out of the air, chaos had replaced order. Suddenly, Bobby was cold again, frozen to the core. He felt as if his knees were locked and he'd never be able to stand. The Packer faithful, quiet as Quakers in church, filed sadly to the exits while Bobby sat in his seat, his mind a vague, cloudy wasteland.

Suddenly, a jarring sound stirred him. His cellular. He punched a button, figuring the Cantor was calling him back. "Jeez, Saul, can you believe my bad luck?"

"I believe it, asshole," Vinnie LaBarca said with a liquid laugh that sounded like he was hacking phlegm. "One-point-two million clams! Now pay me my fucking money."