Kid Owner (16 page)

People brushed right past me.

It was Jackson they were there to celebrate. His six touchdowns were some kind of a league record, and so were the two hundred sixty-seven yards he'd gained running the ball. As people literally bumped me out of the way, I gulped down my disappointment.

I was a first-rate fool for thinking I was the star. That title belonged to Jackson.

Jackson's mom was there with a flashing smile. She posed with her son while the local reporter snapped pictures and people showered them with praise. Jackson's being a newcomer to the Highland area—a veritable outsider—seemed suddenly to make people even more eager to meet him and get in on the sensation that he so obviously had become in one short afternoon. This, after all, was Texas, where football was king and
people started spotting future stars at our very ages.

The only two people not fawning all over Jackson were my mom and Izzy. Mya, I noticed, had positioned herself to get a quick selfie with Jackson, as did several other of our classmates. My mom and Izzy stood off to the side, politely watching and waiting for me as I slogged over to them, my head held a little higher now in defiance of all the misplaced hero worship.

“Ryan, what a super game!” My mom's excitement was genuine, although she did glance a bit nervously at the crowd around Jackson.

“I guess,” I said, looking up from my phone and fishing for more compliments. “We won.”

“Won? You had four touchdowns!”

I grinned and shrugged like it was no big deal.

“It's very exciting, Ryan,” she said. “You must be so proud!”

“A little.” I kept my eyes rigidly away from Jackson's fan club.

“And Jackson? Wow!” My mom never could let the elephant in the room go unnoticed.

It was time for Izzy to chime in and do her best. “Jackson at running back was all your idea, too.”

Part of me appreciated the praise she was giving me, but another part was annoyed that she didn't use her first observation to be something about
me.
I had four touchdowns myself, didn't I? I also realized at that moment just how much Izzy meant to me. What she thought seemed even more important than what my mom thought.

“I think we ran the ball a little too much.” I tried to sound as grown-up and smart as I possibly could. “We won't get away
with that next week against Eiland, I can tell you that.”

“Really?” My mom was confused. “It seems like it'd be hard for anyone to slow Jackson down. He's so much bigger than everyone. Faster, too. He's like some kind of speedy bulldozer out there.”

“Yeah. He's good, Mom.” I glanced at a couple of people who'd congratulated Jackson as they walked right past me. “Okay, let's get going. I'm worn out. Izzy, want to come over?”

“Sure. My mom's having some garden party and I have to say hello to everyone, but I'll be over after. Is Jackson coming?” she asked.

I shrugged and turned my attention back to my phone. “I guess. I'll text him and ask. Let him enjoy the moment, right?”

I sighed and looked at my phone, pretending to text. I really didn't want Jackson to come over right now. I knew I was being a bad friend, and I hated feeling this way. But I just couldn't let it go.

“It's a big stage, Ryan.” Izzy frowned at me.

“Excuse me?” I said, looking up.

“There's room for you
and
Jackson. You can both shine.” She softened her look and her voice became a little more patient. “Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith,
and
Michael Irvin. When the Cowboys won their last championships, they had three stars that everyone knew.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little ashamed but not wanting to show it. “I get it. I'm good.”

“Great. I'll see you later, then.” Izzy headed off toward her house, which was only two blocks away from the school.

I felt even worse now about only pretending to send a text
inviting Jackson over, but I still couldn't shake my disappointment. It had been a day of mixed feelings for me and I just felt like I needed Izzy to myself.

As we turned to go, I saw a group of people who
were
interested in me, but not in a good way.

It looked like the Markhams and the Simpkins had their entire clans gathered up. I don't know how many brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins Bryan and Jason have in total, but there were at least two dozen people standing there wearing the Ben Sauer blue-and-white colors. The younger girls held pom-poms and the fathers had PYFL coaching caps on just to make sure everyone knew their importance in the hierarchy of Highland football. They didn't glare at me all at once. It was more like when you set off a firecracker string:
pop
—a glance—
pop
—a glare—
bang
—a hateful sneer—
pop
—spitting a green gob in my general direction.

It wasn't that I knew they despised me for putting myself in a position to challenge whether or not Jason Simpkin would return as the starting quarterback, it was that I
knew
they had
gathered their forces and would do all they could to try and ruin me.

My mom and I marched right past them without giving them a second glance. It wasn't until we were safely rumbling down the street high up in our pickup that she frowned and said, “I hate those people, although ‘hate' isn't a word I should be using.”

“I hate them, too.” I had no such reservations and didn't bother asking who she meant by “those people.”

“They're planning something,” I said.

“What do you mean, ‘planning'?” She glanced my way.

“When you take over a team at quarterback, and you play well, and you win, the coaches will sometimes keep going with you, until you make a big mistake.” I saw by her expression that she wasn't really following me. “Jason Simpkin will probably be back next week from his concussion, or he will now that he sees I could actually take his job. They're going to press Coach Hubbard to put him back in his starting spot. I, on the other hand, am going to do everything I can not to let that happen.”

She looked at me quizzically. “You mean do really well in practice and, like, beat him out?”

I wondered if she wanted to ask if I had used my status with the Cowboys to influence Coach Hubbard. But I just said, “Yes. Beat him out.”

“And you think you can?” She actually sounded excited for me, like she'd been bitten by the same touchdown bug I had.

“Yes,” I said, “especially if we keep running the spread offense. I know the offense. Jason Simpkin doesn't, so Coach Hubbard needs me if he wants to keep running it.”

“It worked so well.” She glanced at me hopefully.

I sighed. “I wish Coach Cowan would spend another half hour with him. If Coach Hubbard felt like he had Coach Cowan behind him and some help with the game plan against Eiland . . . wow, I can't see him even thinking about going back to the old offense. Can you?”

My mom bit into her lower lip and got a faraway look in her eyes. I kept quiet, and we pulled into our neighborhood.

It wasn't until she'd shut down the engine and removed the keys from the ignition that she spoke. “I think Coach Cowan would do that.”

“But I'm not the kid owner anymore, Mom. Dillon is, so why would he?”

“Yeah, well.” She tossed the keys up and snatched them from the air before opening the truck door. “I think he might do it anyway.”

I followed her into the house. “Mom, what are you going to do, just call him?”

She was already dialing. “Why not? The worst he can say is no.”

Coach Cowan didn't say no.

The Cowboys were playing the Cardinals at home the very next day. They'd had their walk-through practice earlier in the day while we were beating the pants off of Carthage. Coach Cowan had finished his interviews with the TV network announcers and completed the finishing touches on his game plan. He said he'd be happy to meet with Coach Hubbard
and
have dinner with us tonight. He told my mom he was glad to hear about the success I had in my game and to tell me that would make it easy for him to continue to support the spread offense with Coach Hubbard, who he promised to call right away to set up a meeting.

We were out back at the pool when Izzy finally arrived. We sat three in a row on lounge chairs, soaking up the sun. I was excitedly telling Izzy the news about Coach Cowan meeting
with Coach Hubbard when my mom's phone buzzed. She looked at it and scowled before telling us it was a text from Eric Dietrich.

“He wants me to call him,” she said, reading it from her lounge chair next to the pool. “I wonder what he wants.”

“Well, call him and find out, Mom.” I nearly jumped out of my chair.

She did and after five minutes, she hung up and set the phone down. She cleared her throat and turned to us. “Mr. Dietrich has arranged for us to see the Cowboys game tomorrow from his box and to go down on the field before the game. He wants to give us a tour and let you meet some players, then discuss the whole ownership situation while we sit with him.”

“What about Dillon?” I had to ask.

My mom shrugged. “He said he's got the whole thing under control and that whether Dillon runs the team or not, we're going to have an interest and we have as much right as anyone to be there.”

“Wow,” I said, my heart thumping. “Nice.”

“The Cowboys are invading our life,” she said.

“Mom, we
own
part of the team,” I said.

“
You
own
part
of the team. Maybe,” she said. “If Jasmine and her son are running it, I didn't think we'd be getting a tour, but to me the whole thing sounds like Eric is up to his old tricks.”

“Tricks? What tricks?”

My mom's smile soured and she took off her sunglasses, signaling the seriousness of what she was about to say. “Some people are never in charge . . . but still, everything seems to go just the way they want it to. It's called being manipulative. I saw him do it with your father and if he did it to him, I imagine controlling Jasmine is as easy as tying his shoes.”

“He must not control her completely.” I swatted a bug off my leg, wondering if, because of what I was doing with Coach Hubbard and suggesting certain plays so I could be quarterback, my mom was trying to draw some similarity between me and Mr. Dietrich without saying it. “Otherwise she wouldn't have been going to court for that injunction thing so that
she
runs the team until they sort it out.”

My mother peered at the sunshine glittering on the rippled surface of the pool. “Or maybe that's exactly what he wanted.”

“Wow, just like that ancient Chinese general people are always quoting in business and sports, Sun Tzu.” Izzy nodded with appreciation. Apparently she followed my mom's logic. I didn't.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They had an article in the
Dallas Morning Star
yesterday. I didn't tell you about it because I wanted you to focus on your game. It explained how if she breaks the will, you'll each own forty percent of the team and how you both need Eric because his twenty percent combined with one of your forty becomes the majority. So, who's really in control? Him.”

“Complex strategy.” Izzy gave a short nod.

“He told us that, Mom.”

“I know he told us, but did Jasmine contest the will on her own? I just don't know,” my mom said.

“Did he run the team when my d . . . when Thomas Peebles was alive?”

“If he did, he sure didn't take any of the blame for them not going to the play-offs, did he?” My mom raised one eyebrow. “See what I mean by clever?”

She put her sunglasses on and laid back in her chair, exhaling like she was ready for a nap. I lay back, too, listing to the gurgle of the waterfall spilling into the pool and thinking about Eric Dietrich—wondering if he was really as bad as my mom thought. I remembered Jackson thinking I was devious by getting Coach Cowan to suggest a spread offense to Coach Hubbard. I sighed and thought about Coach Cowan heading our way.

“When's Jackson coming?” Izzy asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Uh, I think he wanted to be with his mom,” I replied. It was sort of a lie, considering I never asked him, but I was telling her what I thought. I didn't like the look Izzy gave me, but I was saved when Teresa opened the back door and told my mom that Coach Cowan had arrived.

Coach Cowan stepped out onto the terrace dressed even nicer than before. This time he wore some pleated shorts and a black silk shirt and his hair was slicked back. My mom got up and quickly pulled on a cover-up over her bathing suit. They greeted each other first, shaking hands.

“We'll have to stop meeting like this,” my mom said.

Coach Cowan blushed. “I think we should meet like this more.”

I looked at Izzy and rolled my eyes. Izzy winked back at me.

“Something in your eye, Ryan?” my mom asked.

“No, I'm good.” I bit down on my lip.

Coach Cowan said hello to me and Izzy and asked if I was ready to go sit down with Coach Hubbard.

“I called him on my way over and he asked if we could meet him at his house.” Coach Cowan shrugged. “I told him that shouldn't be a problem. He texted me the address. It's on the other side of the tollway, not too far.”

“Sure,” I said. I never thought of Coach Hubbard having a house. I guess in my mind he was just a part of the school, like the principal's office or the wooden stage in the auditorium. It would be weird, but good for my plan of getting in tighter with Coach Hubbard. I thought it was a pretty safe bet that Jason Simpkin hadn't been there.

My mom insisted Coach Cowan have dinner with us later
as payment for his efforts and he agreed without hesitation.

“You want to go with me and Coach, Izzy?” I asked.

“Or you could stay with me, Izzy,” my mom said. “I'm going to get my nails done.”

I shook my head at that.

“I'd like to stay with you, Ms. Zinna,” Izzy said, turning to me. “But you may need me.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but the look on Izzy's face and my knowledge of her fantasy football prowess made me nod in agreement. In the middle of all this, my phone buzzed with a text from Jackson, asking me what was up. I tucked the phone back in my pocket without answering, and Coach Cowan, Izzy, and I climbed into Coach Cowan's SUV. I offered Izzy the front, but she climbed right in the back.

“This is your show, Ryan. I just want to go along.”

On the way to Coach Hubbard's, Coach Cowan listened to the Highway radio station, and I wondered if he and my mom knew that about each other. I was thinking about the advantages and disadvantages of Coach Cowan and my mom possibly getting together when he suddenly turned the music down.

“So, you had a big day today?”

“It was fun. Coach Hubbard practically let me call the plays.” I couldn't help feeling proud, talking this way to a guy known for his offensive strategy throughout the NFL. Even though the Cowboys were struggling under Coach Cowan as a head coach, no one doubted his offensive brilliance and the work he'd done as a coordinator. He got a lot of the credit when the 49ers won the Super Bowl and he'd been calling the plays.

“When you have a full understanding of the spread,” he
said, “it's almost impossible to defend.”

“Why don't the Cowboys run it all the time?” I thought I knew, but I wanted to hear him say it.

Before he could answer, Izzy leaned forward and said, “Hamhock had the team pay big money for John Torres. You can't shell out that kind of cash for a big arm and not use it. Even if he can't cut the mustard.”

Coach Cowan glanced at Izzy and chuckled. “Well . . . you're right about the money, and John Torres, physically, is a superior quarterback. He's got all the tools to play in a pro set, but—it's not that he's not smart, but he doesn't process information as fast as you'd like to see, even in a regular offense, but particularly if you're running the spread.”

“What about Kellen Smith? Does he process it?” I asked.

“I believe he does. I'd love to find out in a game, but like I said before, I can't get Hamhock to put him on the active roster.” Coach Cowan glanced at me.

“Boy, would I love to have him on my fantasy team if he got to play,” Izzy said. “I'd start him in front of Peyton Manning.”

“You got Peyton on your fantasy team?” Coach Cowan raised his eyebrows and looked at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yup. And my running back is LeSean McCoy from the Eagles.”

“How'd you get both?”

“Trades, Coach. Trades.”

“You know about Kellen, then?”

Izzy opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “If I win with this court thing—or whatever it is—I'll get him on the roster.”

I could see from the corner of my eye that Coach Cowan was trying not to smile, and I wondered if it was because he was happy or if he didn't think that was going to happen.

“Let's hope you do, then,” he said as we turned into the driveway of a small ranch jammed into a row of houses in a dusty neighborhood just across the tollway. “Well, this is the address.”

We got out and I heard the thunder of jet engines and the sharp smell of fuel as a plane took off from Love Airfield, which was only a few blocks away. I eyed the houses up and down the street and noted the peeling paint and rust-stained garage doors. While Coach Hubbard's house was no more than ten miles away, it was in a neighborhood that was totally different from mine and Izzy's.

Coach Hubbard's wife was as skinny as he was big, but she had a giant baby on her hip who had jet-black hair like hers. She looked me over and said, “Wow, you are little.”

Obviously she wasn't my new favorite person.

Beyond her rough words, I couldn't help staring at the green-and-orange tattoos all over her pale arms and shoulders.

She led us through a kitchen, where pots and pans overflowed from the sink and every kind of spill you could imagine decorated the walls, from baby formula to gravy.

“He's cute.” Izzy tickled the roll beneath the baby's chin and the baby giggled and spit.

That won us a smile from Mrs. Hubbard before she shoved open a screen door in the back. She waited until it finished creaking before she spoke. “Robert's in his man cave. You can go on out back.”

Izzy hesitated at the sound of a man cave, but Mrs. Hubbard said, “Go ahead. Robert gives you any guff, you tell him I sent you. That'll cool his jets.”

I almost asked who Robert was, but knew it had to be my coach. I let Coach Cowan lead. We marched across a dry dirt yard littered with engine parts toward what looked like an overgrown tool shed snuggled up in a nest of crabgrass. The battered stockade fence behind it might have held up the shed, or the shed might have held up the fence. Both looked capable of collapse. Coach Cowan had to bend his head to get in through the man cave's doorway. I was fine, of course, as was Izzy. It was dark inside except for a flat-screen TV that glowed with some game tap frozen midplay.

As my eyes adjusted and I saw the walls, I knew my plan to overcome the Simpkin clan could never fail.