Kid Owner (14 page)

Izzy, Jackson, and I celebrated the good news by going back to my house after practice. We were hanging out at my pool waiting for dinner when Izzy suddenly yelped and looked up from her phone. “Oh my gosh, you're not gonna believe this.”

“What?” Jackson and I said together.

We crowded around her deck chair and she played a link from the local Fox channel's website. The title of the video was “Kid Owner,” so I thought it was about me, but when the image came up, it was Jasmine and my half brother, Dillon, ruling over the podium normally reserved for the Cowboys coaches and star players. Big blue Dallas stars covered the curtain behind them. John Torres and Bert Hamhock flanked the mother and son combo.

“What the—” I mumbled in shock.

You could see from cluster of microphones that all the local
news stations as well as ESPN were there. Dillon wore a suit and tie, and stood nearly as tall as his mom. She had on a matching dark-blue pinstriped business outfit of her own over a white ruffled blouse.

I got red-hot mad. They were having
my
press conference, or at least the one I had hoped to have.

Jasmine cleared her throat and surveyed the crowd of reporters like a queen ready to pass judgment. “Good afternoon,” she began in a hoity-toity voice. “You've all had fun with the term ‘kid owner.'”

She looked around some more and I thought I could see her soul boiling.

“So I'd like you to continue to use the term.” She turned and smiled warmly at Dillon.

“No way,” Jackson whispered.

Jasmine tousled Dillon's hair and even though he shot her a dirty look, she continued to grin. “Because the Cowboys
do
have a kid owner. . . . Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the
legitimate
son of Thomas Peebles, my son, Dillon Peebles. Kid owner.”

Jasmine stepped aside and I must say I was shocked and a little impressed when Dillon stepped up to the podium and glared out at the crowd of reporters with those pale-blue eyes. “My father . . . was a nice person. That's how people knew him.”

Dillon's voice quavered like a tall tower of Jell-O. He gulped and it looked like he might choke. He seemed to have suddenly lost his nerve. Delight bubbled up into my nose like a soda burp. The next thing I expected out of his mouth was a stream
of vomit, but he surprised everyone.

“But that's
not
how you win football games.” Dillon swallowed again, but he seemed to be regaining strength from his tough talk. “You win by making tough decisions, by
being
tough, and that's what I'm going to do. With my mother's guidance, I
will
make the Cowboys the franchise it was in the early nineties, when Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, and Michael Irvin ruled the NFL. The Dallas Cowboys are America's team, and America deserves a
winner
.”

Dillon stepped away from the microphone, hands trembling but looking pleased. His mother beamed at him as she regained control of the room, leaning into the microphone. “My son is too modest.”

Now
I
wanted to puke. After the news of the injunction came out, my mom said Jasmine Peebles was the kind of person who didn't know what she wanted, only that she wanted whatever other people had. My mom was right.

“Dillon is an exceptional football player himself.” Her red lipstick glowed on the screen and her teeth shone like sharpened pearls. “He was his team's MVP last season and he's well on his way this year. He's played in the Eiland Elite Youth Football Program since he was six years old.”

I looked across the deck chair at Jackson and narrowed my eyes. “Did she say ‘Eiland'?”

Jackson's lower lip disappeared beneath his teeth and he nodded. “Yup, that's what she said.”

“
He
plays for Eiland?” I was thinking about the way people said the name “Eiland”—like it was some kind of prayer—ever since I knew what a football even was. I was thinking how we faced them in two weeks, how they hadn't lost a game in
five years
, and how
Dillon Peebles
was one of their star players.

“Are you okay?” Izzy leaned toward me with a look of concern.

“Fine. Why?” I gulped down some bile.

“You look like you might get sick,” she said.

Jackson hopped up off his side of the chair. “Dude, don't yak on me. One red tide is enough. That was disgusting.”

“I'm not yakking on anyone.” I scowled at my friend. “This is perfect. We're gonna stomp all over Eiland and now it'll be even better. I can't wait to see that big jerk's face when I light them up and you run for about ten touchdowns.”

Dillon wasn't the only one who could talk tough, but, unlike the reporters listening to Dillon, my friends didn't seem to buy my version.

“Well, they haven't lost in five years,” Jackson said.

“You really think you can beat them?” Izzy asked, looking worried.

“Of course,” I said. “That's football. Anyone can beat anyone.”

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Yes,” Izzy said.

“Sure,” Jackson said.

I could smell their doubt.

Izzy brightened. “I bet Coach Cowan could help.”

“Yeah.” Jackson nodded with excitement. “He could. Can you imagine him breaking down film on Eiland and coming up with some plays that just crushed their defense?”

It was a beautiful ray of hope.

“Yeah,” I said. “That's awesome.”

“Would he do it?” Izzy said. “Help you, I mean.”

“He's already helping me.” I didn't want to tell them why. I didn't want to say that I thought a lot of the reason was that he might like my mom.

“So, let's go get us a big win tomorrow,” Jackson said, “then talk to Coach Cowan the next time you see him about giving us some help. Good?”

“You know I'll be there rooting. You can do this, Ryan.” Izzy held out a fist.

We all bumped fists and then got called in to dinner.

Not even Teresa's grilled shrimp with mango salsa over rice
could revive my appetite. I picked at it, but mostly just moved the food around my plate, hoping no one would notice. For whatever reason, the whole thing with Dillon taking over the team and playing for Eiland had me preoccupied and super nervous about my debut as a starter the next day, even though the two things had no connection. But I just couldn't shake the feeling.

My friends left, and I slept badly that night. In the morning, I was jittery and still sick to my stomach.

“You okay?” My mom tousled my hair at the breakfast table, where I tried to sip a glass of juice. “I mean, you have a lot going on—school, football, the whole mess with the Cowboys and Dillon.”

“Not really.” I could admit that, now that my friends weren't around. “I feel like it's slipping away, you know?”

“You shouldn't let that get to you. What will be, will be, Ryan. And maybe it's for the best.”

I shrugged. “Honestly? I'm even more worried about the game today. I've never been a starting quarterback.”

My mom sat down across from me with a mug of coffee in both hands. She breathed in the steam and smiled. “It's very exciting, Ryan. I know how long you've waited for this chance. I thought I'd be nervous—all those big kids chasing after you so they can smash you into the dirt—but I'm not.”

“Smash me into the dirt? Great, Mom.” I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Well, you know how I've always worried about you getting hurt, but I looked into it. First of all, very few youth players die.”

I did a double take and studied her face. “Mom! Are you serious? Die?”

She looked genuinely shocked. “I . . . I'm sorry, Ryan. I'm not doing a good job of trying to show my support. I know this is so important to you. I just wanted you to know that I am rooting for you.”

I nodded. “I've got to just go do this thing.” I pushed back from the table and went upstairs to my room, where I dry-heaved in my bathroom until my stomach felt like a clenched fist.

I staggered downstairs and said nothing as she drove me to the school. When I got out, she leaned over the seat. “I won't ask for a kiss or anything, but good luck, Ryan. Go get 'em. I'm going to do a little shopping, but I'll be back for the game by kickoff, and I'll be watching.”

I couldn't even talk, so I just nodded again. I closed the door, slung my sports duffel bag over my shoulder, and turned for the school as my mom's truck rumbled off.

I staggered into the locker room like a zombie, trying my hardest to keep a tough-guy look plastered onto my face.

What I saw hanging from the handle of my locker made me almost certain that what was about to happen would be a total disaster.

Jackson hadn't arrived yet. I was pretty certain that if he'd been in the locker room, whoever did what they did to my locker wouldn't have dared. But Jackson was running late and there it was, taped by one corner: a pink-and-white baby diaper.

I wanted to cry, really, but knew if I did that, it would be the end for sure. I wasn't upset that someone was suggesting I was a baby girl. It was the lack of respect that hurt me. How could someone—a
teammate
—insult their own starting quarterback on the day of a big game? It cut me to the core.

Instead of tearing up, I bit the inside of my cheek and marched right up to my locker. I tore the diaper down and chucked it in the trash before dumping my bag on the bench and going about my business as if nothing had happened. As I pulled the shoulder pads over my head, Jackson arrived, wild-eyed, snorting steam, and ready for action. I stole a look at
Bryan Markham. He sat polishing his helmet and grinning at Jason Simpkin, who was dressed in street clothes, since he still couldn't play because of his injury. Neither of them looked my way, so I couldn't be totally certain it had been them who'd hung the diaper, but that would have been my best bet. I knew Estevan was upset about not starting, but we were friends. Plus, he just wasn't that kind of kid.

My limbs felt like they'd been frozen and had yet to thaw. My hands trembled as I buckled up my chin strap, putting my helmet on before everyone else, knowing that I was giving in to the urge to hide but unable to stop myself.

“Let's do this thing, baby!” Jackson smacked my shoulder pads with both fists and my head swam. “Wahoo! Big dog's gonna
eat
today! Touchdown Daddy!
Dancin'
in the
end zone
!”

I shuffled off, ignoring my friend as best I could, struck by the term “baby” even though I knew he had no idea about the diaper. He was caught up in his own craze and I just couldn't seem to find my rudder. I was drifting and floating and lucky I could even get myself out onto the field, where a handful of teammates and coaches from both teams hung around on the grass, sizing each other up from the corners of their eyes. In the stands, hundreds of people were already waiting for kickoff. This is Texas and Ben Sauer Middle School feeds into Highland High School, one of the top programs in the land, so there was a huge audience.

“Ryan!” Coach Hubbard shouted, pointing at me. “Come here!”

I jogged his way and tried to listen as he licked his lips and ran through the plays, bug-eyed with nervousness. He actually
made me feel somewhat normal. He wasn't
as
shaken as me, but he was a close second. Coach Vickerson, on the other hand, joked and laughed with the Carthage Middle School coaches like they were old buddies.

Coach Hubbard peered past me nervously. “So, how you feeling?”

I cleared my throat to keep from squeaking. “Good, Coach.”

He looked at me with obvious disbelief. “Yeah. Good. This spread . . . I like it. If we get the run game going, it'll be tough to stop.”

I nodded and spilled out what I knew like the nervous ninny I was. “That's what the spread does. You take what they give you. They always give you something. Every defense. If we can run the ball with one back—and you know we can after what Jackson did in practice—then they'll have to choose. Either they line up more guys in the box to stop Jackson
or
they play enough guys to cover everyone who goes out for a pass and keep a free safety in the middle. You have to pick one, unless they sneak a twelfth man onto the field.”

Coach Hubbard gave me a twisted smile. “That'd be a penalty.”

I studied his red face. “Yeah. I know.”

“Of course you know. I was kidding,” he said. “Anyway, I want you to know that I'm going out on a limb here for you with this spread. There's a group of dads—actually they were your coaches in youth league—who are urging me pretty hard to stay with Estevan and our regular offense.”

“Yeah, but that's youth league.” I wanted to draw a bright line between Bryan Markham's and Jason Simpkin's dads and
Coach Hubbard. “They're not
real
coaches, like you . . . like Coach Cowan.”

I struck the nerve I was aiming for. Coach Hubbard tucked in his shirt, stood a bit straighter, then sucked in his gut a bit. “Well, I like to get along, Ryan. It's a good way to be.”

“Coach Cowan believes in this system, Coach. He believes in
you
.”

“You think so, huh?” Coach Hubbard looked worried, but interested. He gripped his college ring with its deep-blue stone and cranked it around on his finger.

“I
know
it. Look at all those texts he sent you.” I pointed at the phone in his pocket. “I mean, I'm not saying it'll happen, but sometimes high school coaches get their shot in the pros. Skip right over college. It happens.”

“Look, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard put a hand on my shoulder pad and gave me a super serious look. “Stop with the Coach Cowan thing. Do I want to move up in the coaching world? Of course I do, but I'm not taking advice from Coach Cowan because I think he'll give me a job. I'm doing this because I believe it just might be the ticket to winning this game. Jackson at running back? Who'd have thought of that? We could beat this team today. We could beat
Eiland.
”

Just the name of my half brother's team made my stomach heave. I wanted to focus on today first. I looked over at the Carthage Middle School squad, which was beginning to fill up their side of the field as players streamed from the visitors' locker room. I told myself that they didn't look so terrifying. Then I saw Jackson, marching out onto the turf, hands balled into fists, a spring in his step. I could practically feel the
intensity oozing from him. My heart gave a little leap.

“We're gonna smash these guys, Coach,” I said. “Trust me. If it doesn't work, you can always use Mr. Markham's plan, but I am not gonna disappoint you.”

“I don't think you are, Ryan.” Coach Hubbard twirled his whistle and smiled.

Jackson barged into our midst. “You ready, my man? You ready? 'Cause the big dog's gonna
eat
!”

“I'm ready,” I lied. This time, I was the one to slap Jackson's pads with my fists. He howled. Coach Hubbard blasted his whistle and we all fell into our places like the pieces of a clock. The gears began to turn and I was the mainspring, suddenly giddy. Suddenly fluid. Suddenly ready to be right where I was, in the center of it all. This was football. This was what I dreamed of.

I got sent out to the center of the field as a captain along with Jackson and Bryan Markham. Markham shook with rage and wouldn't even look at me. I ignored him, wondering what Jackson would do if he knew about the pink diaper. I wanted to unleash Jackson on him, but we had a game to play.

The ref looked at me and I called heads.

I won the toss and chose to receive the ball.

We'd start on offense, running the spread.