The Big Time

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

FROM INSIDE THE TERMINAL, Troy eyed the flailing mob through two big glass doors.

"What do we do?" Troy asked.

His father looked up from the BlackBerry he'd been working with since they walked inside. Holding it forth, he said, "Here's what we do. We say nothing. I'll push through that mob like a lead blocker. You tuck in behind me, and I'll get you into the limo. I just got a text here that says we might be doing the David Letterman show. How's that sound?"

"What?" Troy said, choking with nerves and uncertain if it was because of the crowd outside or the thought of appearing on Letterman.

"Yeah," his father said, pumping a fist, "I got them. This is so big, the entire country will be watching. Everyone will be talking. It's more than sports. It's the lifeblood of America. You'll be a superstar."

"The big time?" Troy asked.

"Oh yeah," his father said.

Troy hesitated, glancing at the crowd, and said, "But you got all these reporters to come here, right? How can we just push past them without talking?"

"Believe me," his father said, "they'll get over it. They're used to it. They know the game. They'll all have a shot of you pushing through the crowd and saying nothing. It'll yank their chains. But trust me, it'll make tonight even bigger."

"Should I at least say that I'm sorry?" Troy said, worrying.

His father swatted the air and said, "Naw. Come on. Follow me. Don't worry. These maggots will get over it."

The word "maggots" startled Troy, but his father gave him a wink and a nod, and he couldn't do anything other than follow him as instructed, actually gripping a handful of his father's shirt as they burst out of the terminal and pushed through the mob and into the waiting limousine.

Once Troy was inside, his father turned to the angry crowd and held up both hands to speak.

"Hey," his father said, "I'm sorry about the rush, but you folks know Seth Cole and his reputation. We're late to meet him, and this is shaping up to be an eight-figure deal. The team that signs Troy White is guaranteed to be the next NFL dynasty, and you can quote me on that."

Troy's father seemed to enjoy slamming the door shut on the questions that rained down on him. He smacked the lock down and barked at the driver to get going. Troy turned around to watch as a handful of cameramen scrambled after the limo, filming their departure from the airport. As they approached the Lincoln Tunnel, Troy gasped at the sight of New York City up close. From the plane he had no idea how big things really were.

Then the limo twisted around and dipped into the tunnel, which seemed to run forever beneath the Hudson River. When they emerged into the canyon of buildings, Troy was amazed. He twisted his neck so he could look up, catching sight of only random patches of sky.

"It's so big," Troy said as they drove on and on, into the heart of the city, up Sixth Avenue and toward the spindly, bare branches of the trees in Central Park. Through the park they went, and Troy couldn't keep his jaw from dropping at the mystery of so many trees in the middle of a city that seemed to never end. He had so many questions, but his father was intent on the BlackBerry, where his thumbs flickered like the mouth parts of a feeding crayfish.

When they came out of the park, the car took a right onto Fifth Avenue and cruised down several blocks until they came to a mansion with cast-iron gates and a decorative fence. Its magnificence reminded Troy of something he'd see in a Social Studies book about European kings and queens.

"This is a house?" Troy asked.

His father looked up from his BlackBerry, squinted his eyes at the fountain spraying water from the center of the circular drive, and said, "It's Seth Cole's house. I don't know if it's a home. 'The owner without a soul,' they call him."

"Sounds scary," Troy said.

"He blows his nose on hundred-dollar bills," his father said. "Money means nothing to him."

"So, he'll outbid everyone?" Troy asked.

"That's the plan."

For the first time, Troy realized that if all this really happened, he and his mom would no longer be living in the small saltbox tucked into the pinewoods on the outskirts of Atlanta. They might be living in a big house like Seth Halloway's, and it might not be in Atlanta at all. Tate and Nathan wouldn't be going with him, nor would Seth Halloway.

Troy swallowed hard. He thought about suggesting that if Mr. Langan could come close to what the Jets owner offered, maybe he should stay where he was, but the words didn't come out. A man in a suit and ascot tie marched down the front steps of the mansion to open the limousine's door. Inside they went, through a grand entrance and up a staircase as wide as Troy's driveway back home. Their feet fell silent on thick rugs, the kind Troy knew people called Oriental. The silent man in the suit showed them into a large room with walls and ceiling that looked like a checkerboard of gleaming golden wood. The shine of the wood, like the luster of every lamp, leather cushion, and book binding, reminded Troy of the Falcons' executive offices and the times he'd met with Mr. Langan. Everything was spotless, rich, and elegant. At one end of the rectangular room was a broad desk facing out. They sat on a long leather coach perpendicular to the desk in the middle of the room and facing the tall windows. The man in the suit fidgeted with some switches on the wall, and panels slid down over the windows, blocking out the light, while a screen the size of Troy's front porch hummed down from out of the ceiling.

Troy looked around as the lights dimmed. The image of a football game-frozen in time but as clear and sharp as if he and his father were sitting in the Jets' stadium-appeared on the screen, and there they sat, whispering.

"He wants me to predict the plays?" Troy asked.

"I told you," his father said. "You need to show him what you can do is all. Why? Nervous?"

"A little," Troy said, looking around the room and noticing for the first time a stuffed polar bear standing ten feet tall in the corner of the room behind them. Its fangs and claws were bared and ready to strike.

"Well, this can't be as much pressure as when you were at the dome on Sunday with the Falcons down by two touchdowns," his father said.

"I guess," Troy said.

"Remember the sharks?" his father asked in a low voice. "Don't worry, I'm right here with you."

Troy didn't get the chance to respond because a door behind the desk opened and a slim man wearing an olive green suit entered the room. His probing eyes locked onto Troy's. Without blinking or looking away, the owner crossed the carpet and offered his hand. Troy, like his father, stood up to greet the Jets' famous but mysterious owner.

"Seth Cole," Troy's father said in a friendly way, "it's a pleasure to meet you."

Troy felt a surge of pride as his father stood toe-to-toe with Seth Cole, matching his intense stare and firm handshake.

"The pleasure will be mine," Seth Cole said with a doubtful smile, "if this young man can do everything the papers say he can do. I don't believe the papers, though. My past life taught me that. They're billboards, and you can buy them like ad space."

"And still, they sometimes prove to be incredibly accurate," Troy's dad said to Seth Cole before he snuck a wink at Troy.

Seth Cole scooped up a remote from the lamp table next to the leather couch and said, "Let's see."