The Big Time

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GRIFFIN LENGYEL WAS BIGGER, faster, and stronger than Seth.

Using Troy's knowledge of the plays, Lengyel looked unstoppable. The defense crushed the Packers. The offense did its part by scoring a pair of touchdowns on passes to Michael Jenkins and Joe Horn. The Falcons ended up winning, 35-31. As the team celebrated, waving their arms to the roaring crowd on their way into the tunnel, Troy's mom put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him tight.

"Mom, I-"

"I know," she said, leaning over and speaking into his ear to cut through the noise, "I heard. Don't worry. You did what you had to. Seth will be okay. I promise. Now listen, I didn't tell you before, but I think you should talk to the press. It'll keep them from hounding us. We can make a decision in a day or two if we want to do any of the shows like Good Morning America or The Tonight Show, but this will let us knock off all the sports reporters in one shot. I didn't want to say before the game because I know you have to concentrate. You okay with it?"

"Sure."

"It's going to be a little crazy in there," his mom said, "but it'll be better than them following you around and chasing you through the hallways at school."

"They can do that?" Troy asked, his eyes widening.

"Not really," his mom said, "but they will be a pain unless we manage them properly. It starts with you talking at the press conference. There'll be a lot of questions. I'll be there to make sure they don't start asking the same things over and over, and I'll cut it short if you get too uncomfortable. You just tug your ear if you want me to end it. You got that?"

"Sure," Troy said, tugging his ear to show her. "Like this."

"Right," she said, "okay, otherwise, just be honest, and don't be afraid to say you don't know something. They're going to want you to tell them exactly how you do it, but you and I know that's not so easy, so you just do your best. Give them that weather analogy you tell people about how when a cold front and rain head for each other, you can predict snow, and don't worry if they don't get it. That's their problem. And, if anyone says anything that makes you feel bad, just say to them 'That's not very nice.' Trust me, coming from a kid, they'll leave you alone."

"That's not very nice," Troy said to himself, practicing.

Inside the concrete tunnel, they passed by the locker room and in through another metal door, where reporters already stood packed in front of a small raised stage with a podium and a Falcons banner behind it. The spotlights suspended from a track along the ceiling blinded Troy temporarily. He shaded his eyes until they adjusted. His mom spoke into the microphone on top of the podium, introducing him as the Falcons' "game management consultant" that was the official title the team had come up with, but Troy didn't like it. When he stepped to the podium and the first question from a FOX reporter addressed the new title, he remembered his mom told him just to be honest.

"Game management consultant?" the reporter said. "Is that what you call yourself?"

"No," Troy said, frowning. "I guess I call myself what my gramps and my friends call me."

"What's that?"

"Football genius."

The entire place erupted with laughter and clapping. Troy blushed and dipped his head but enjoyed the response all the same. As his mom predicted, the reporters couldn't stop asking him how he did it. Finally she stepped in and told them they only had a few more minutes before Coach McFadden would address them.

"What about Seth Halloway?" a reporter from ESPN asked. "You must have been frustrated, giving him the plays and him not being able to make a tackle."

Troy looked at the reporter, then at his mom, who nodded her head. He leaned into the microphone and said, "That's not very nice."

Everyone laughed, and the reporter's face turned cherry.

"Troy," an ABC reporter said, "is it true you're a free agent after this season?"

Troy furrowed his brow.

"Out on the open market," the reporter said. "I heard your agreement with the Falcons is only for this season. Do you have plans afterward to test the open market? And, if so, how much do you think you can get?"

Troy said he wasn't sure and he didn't know.

"You got an agent yet?" another reporter asked.

"No," Troy said, "not yet."

"But you'll get one?"

"Or maybe just a lawyer," Troy said, avoiding his mom's eyes. "Whatever's best."

"Does your deal take the Falcons through the playoffs?" a reporter asked. "Do you have a bonus if you help them win the Super Bowl?"

Troy looked at his mom and tugged his ear. She stepped back to the podium, leaning over his shoulder, and said, "Troy is set through the season with the Falcons, however far it takes them. Okay, thank you all; we've got Coach McFadden coming in now."

The concrete room exploded with questions from all sides. Troy's mom took Troy by the arm and led him down the small flight of steps and out the side door, leaving the storm of shouting and confusion behind. Coach McFadden brushed past with Troy's mom's boss, Cecilia Fetters, and gave Troy a pat on the shoulder.

"Heck of a job out there today, son," the coach said before disappearing through the door.

Troy followed his mom down the relatively quiet tunnel. Only some police officers stood outside the locker room, while a small stream of stadium workers, cheerleaders, and Falcons employees flowed past. Nathan and Tate sat on a golf cart, waiting with grins over all the up-close excitement.

"Everyone ready?" Troy's mom asked.

"Don't you have more work?" Troy asked, knowing that his mom typically couldn't leave the stadium until the last of the players had gone.

"I'm on a new assignment," she said, running her hand over the back of his head and sending a chill down his back. "You."

"You work for Troy now?" Nathan said. Somewhere he'd found a box of popcorn, and as he asked the question, a piece of popcorn escaped his mouth.

"Don't get carried away," Troy's mom said. "Mr. Langan just doesn't want him getting cornered by some reporter somewhere without backup. That's me."

As they turned to go, Seth emerged from the locker room door, already showered and in his street clothes of jeans and a button-down shirt. Both his knees had been packed and wrapped in ice. When he saw them, he pulled up short. His eyes were sunken with exhaustion and pain.

"Troy," Seth said, his voice raspy with emotion. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Troy said, looking down and waiting for a scolding.

Seth said, "I mean, alone."