Kid Owner (20 page)

My mom sighed.

“What?” I was annoyed with her now, too. “What does
huuugh
mean?”

“Ryan, honey . . .” She shook her head, and tightened her grip on the wheel, smiling sadly. “These things are so hard. You're too young to be worried about girls.”

“I'm not worried about
girls
. I'm talking about Izzy.”

“And Izzy's a girl.”

“I know that, but this isn't a girl issue.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow but kept her eyes on the road.

“Mom, this is about that butt brain Dillon. This is about loyalty. Friendship.” I clenched my hands and teeth to keep from spitting inside her truck. “I gotta beat him and his team. If I do, I'll
own
the Cowboys.”

“You'll probably never own the Cowboys outright, Ryan.
Nothing's that simple.”

“Okay, I'll
control
the Cowboys. Then I'm the one who can ban
Dillon
and his nasty mother from the sideline. I can't have Izzy Facebooking with that creep. Instagramming. Whatever. What if she talks about Coach Cowan? Mom, this is a disaster.” I pounded a fist on the dashboard. “This doesn't have anything to do with girls.”

“Not the definition of ‘really good friends'?” My mom puckered her lips, referring to my last conversation with Izzy at my pool.

“How do you even know about that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Izzy mentioned it. Not directly.”

“Mom. It's stupid. Who cares? Friends or really good friends or really, really good friends? I can't even think about that junk. I've got to win this game next Saturday.” I chewed on a knuckle. “Maybe I should call Coach Hubbard. Maybe I should go over there. He needs to
know
this stuff.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“You think?” I looked sharply at her. “Good. I will.”

“I want you to win, Ryan. I want you to get what you want,” she said.

I was suspicious. “Yeah, but you've been grousing about the Cowboys and me from the beginning.”

“Right,” she said. “It's complicated. I'd rather none of it happened in the first place, but it did happen and I'd rather not see the whole thing stolen out from underneath you. That might be the worst thing of all.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It's human nature, Ryan. We all do it. It's like with Izzy.
You didn't care about the bonfire, maybe you didn't even want to go? But when Dillon simply asked her to accept his friend request, you panicked. No one likes to lose something of value and when they do, it's hard to forget about it.”

“Izzy's a thing of value?” I snorted like that was funny.

“You're getting to be that age, Ryan. It may not be Izzy, but it'll be someone. Some
girl.
” She shrugged.

“Mom!”

“That's life, big guy. You fall in love. It just happens. You don't get to decide.” She scratched the outside of her knee. “Trust me.”

“That's what happened with you and my dad?” I didn't think about the question, I just asked it.

She tilted her head at the road. The sun shot thin beams through the trees on our street and she kind of sparkled. “Yeah. That's what happened.”

“Then you fell
out
of love?”

“No. We changed. I think when you really love someone you never fall out of love.” She sighed. “But things change, people change, and then the life you're in starts to rub one of you, or both of you, the wrong way and it's time to get out.”

“Oh.” I looked down.

“Look, Ryan. Your father was a good man, but his own father treated them pretty badly. I think it scared him. It was like he didn't trust himself and I couldn't have you grow up like that. Nothing was, or is, more important to me than you.”

“You thought he'd hurt me or something?” I asked.

“No. Not ever.” She shook her head violently. “But he was going to abandon you, and I don't mean because he had a
girlfriend. I saw it the day you were born and it broke my heart. He wouldn't pick you up, wouldn't touch you. He wouldn't even look at you, and I think that hurts worse than not having a father at all. That's what I believed. It's what I still believe.”

I sat there listening to my own breathing for a few minutes, forcing everything she just told me out of my mind.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I gotta win this thing.”

“I know you do.” She sounded so sad.

“I'm gonna call Coach Hubbard to work on our plan,” I said.

“Leave no stone unturned,” she said. “That's the way to do things.”

Mom told me because it was Sunday afternoon to make sure I apologized for calling him on the phone, and I did. Coach Hubbard said it was no problem, but told me that he was at a barbecue with his wife's family and suggested that instead we meet before school started in his office the next morning.

I hung up, panicked, because this thing was more important to me than it was to my coach. I wondered if it was because he thought Simpkin would return. That would ruin everything, and I began to fret.

“Relax,” my mom said. “Just do everything you can do. He said he'd meet you early tomorrow. That's good, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “Better than nothing.”

I decided there was nothing I could do about Simpkin. I had to carry on as if that just wasn't going to happen. I worked all night, reviewing and memorizing plays, and the next morning
my mom dropped me off early as planned.

Coach Hubbard and I got after it. No messing around. We hit the grease board, diagramming Eiland's defenses and drawing up our own plays against them, proving to each other like math formulas how they could work. We looked for weaknesses in their strategy, as well as ours, making little adjustments even beyond what Coach Cowan had suggested that could be the difference between winning and losing.

“If they move Dillon up to the line on the outside,” Coach Hubbard said, circling the X on the board that represented my half brother and drawing an arrow that moved him to the line, “you'll have to check to the toss going the other way.”

“I can run the boot right at him, Coach.” My face felt hot with excitement. “I can juke him out or throw it right over his stupid head.”

Coach Hubbard's shoulders slumped. He turned and looked at me. “Ryan, don't let your pride get in the way. Dillon is the best player we're gonna see this whole season. He's big and fast as a cat. You see him, you run Jackson the other way. No questions, okay?”

I couldn't hide my disappointment.

“Hey,” he said, “am I letting Coach Cowan help me with this plan? Yes, I am. Now, if I put my pride in front of my good sense, I'd tell him to leave me alone. But I want to win, and when you want to win, you put yourself second. Understand?”

I nodded but didn't understand completely, to be honest.

I didn't have time to think too much about it, though, because Coach Hubbard shut down the lights and played some Eiland game tape for me, pointing out the keys to their defense
and rewinding plays over and over so I could get a feel for what they were doing and how it would look. It was impossible not to notice Dillon. He stuck out like a swollen thumb on a hand, big and bold and in your face. He flew around, smashing people and popping up from the ground to lord over his victims. Just watching him made me furious, but also that much more determined to defeat him.

After my session with Coach Hubbard, I marched around the hallways with my head high. When I saw Izzy, I acted like nothing was wrong even though I couldn't stop being a little mad about her friending Dillon. At lunch everyone was talking about the big game. If we won, the student council was definitely going to have a bonfire that evening. Jackson made fun of Griffin when he learned that he'd asked Mya to be his date to the bonfire. Mya's face turned red and she stared at the table.

“We're really, really good friends.” Griffin looked defiant.

Jackson had a mouthful of milk and he snorted so hard it shot out his nose. “
Really, really good?
Dude, you sound like you're talking about a piece of
candy.
Saturday is the biggest game of the season, maybe the biggest game of your life. You gotta be in the right frame of mind.”

I couldn't help snickering, but I hid it behind my sandwich because of the furious look on Izzy's face. I suspected the “really, really good friends” thing was code for boyfriend or girlfriend.

“Leave him alone, Jackson. The bonfire isn't until after the game.” Izzy scolded him with a finger. “It's nice, Griffin. I admire you for asking Mya. Who wouldn't want to take Mya to the bonfire?”

I looked down and studied my shoelaces. I retied them
three times before I got them just right and by that time Estevan and Jackson were entertaining everyone in the cafeteria by having a contest to see who could hold his breath longer. Both were turning different shades of red. Thankfully the bell rang before either of them passed out and I scrambled for my next class, glad to have escaped.

In gym class, I ignored the talk I overheard between two teammates about Jason Simpkin being cleared by the doctor to play again. I felt just a quick pang of worry before I shucked it off. I couldn't waste my time thinking about Simpkin. I had Eiland to think about. I trusted that between Coach Cowan's help and my extra work that Coach Hubbard was fully on my side.

Jason was small potatoes, right? I was in the big leagues now. In my mind, I was getting ready to play for all the marbles: not just owning the Dallas Cowboys, but my own football career, too. It was like if I dominated this game and we won, all my dreams would come true. I felt like I had it under control. Coach Hubbard's upbeat excitement that morning had given me a turbo boost. I could tell I had nothing to worry about when it came to Coach Hubbard.

All was well until I walked out onto the practice field.

When I saw who was standing there having an intense conversation with Coach Hubbard, my knees buckled.

Maybe to remind Coach Hubbard exactly who and what he was, Mr. Simpkin had a dark-blue cap with gold letters reading
PYFL COACH
tugged down on his thick head. Built the size of Coach Hubbard, but more evenly proportioned with bulging arms and a neck of concrete rather than flab, Mr. Simpkin cut an imposing figure, the way you'd expect a rhino to impress you more than a hippo. Mr. Simpkin's arms were short and stout and his thick hands fluttered at Coach Hubbard, adding punctuation to the words he spit through tight white lips.

They stared hard at each other and the players who were already out for practice had shied away to other parts of the field, so they stood isolated on the fifty-yard line. I was drawn to the scene the way people need to see what comes out of a crushed car in a traffic accident. I actually heard a few snatches of Mr. Simpkin's snarled words, like
“when I was at SMU,”
“because of injury,” “pip-squeak,” “tough luck,” “this program,”
and
“my son.”

When the two of them realized they weren't alone, they stopped talking suddenly and glared at me.

“Ryan, we're having a private conversation. I'll be with you in a few minutes.” Coach Hubbard sounded nothing like the man I'd met with in his office that morning.

Desperate to remind him of our unspoken deal, I blurted out the next best thing to invoking Coach Cowan's name as I backed away. “I was just . . . those new plays you put in . . . to ask you about . . . against a cover two . . . I . . .”

They both battered me with their scowls until I turned my back and jogged off toward the end zone, where I distractedly played catch with Jackson while he prattled on too loudly about how
unbelievable
it was to have been in the Cowboys locker room! Normally, I would have enjoyed Jackson's praises because of the respect it injected into my teammates by reminding them of my rise in the world of football, but now, with my fate being discussed by two thick-necked football coaches, none of that seemed to matter.

I realize that's because the things you
have
aren't half as important as the things you
are.
I wanted to
be
a football player. More than a kid owner?

Absolutely. Not even close.

I couldn't tell anything at all by the way the two men parted company. Mr. Simpkin chugged away kicking up little puffs of dust from the dry turf. I watched him through the fence surrounding the field. He climbed into his Tahoe truck and backed out of his spot, the windshield flashing a blinding light
from the sun's reflection before it disappeared from the parking lot. Coach Hubbard was busy with Coach Vickerson. The two of them were studying the practice plan and making notes beneath the hot sun.

Off to the side, Jason Simpkin sat on his helmet talking to Bryan Markham like he hadn't a care in the world.

I had a bad feeling.

We warmed up, stretching and doing agility drills. Next was individual drills and Jason Simpkin stood tall, firing passes and making loudmouth remarks whenever he had a good pass.

“Feel
that
heat?” Simpkin snorted with laughter. “No more ducks, boys.”

I know he was referring to my wobbly throws that barely made their mark.

I reared back and did my best on the next throw. It wasn't bad, a hard throw, but wobbly I have to admit. Simpkin snorted again. Everyone around us only watched and waited to see how things would play out.

We did team defense first, which was torture because the question I had wouldn't be answered until Coach Hubbard called for the first team offense. Part of me couldn't believe he'd risk the connection with Coach Cowan, the new and improved offense, and my kind regards as owner (in whole or part) of the Dallas Cowboys.

We toiled through team defense with Coach Vickerson making the calls and Coach Hubbard showing us the scout team cards so we could mimic Eiland's offense. I took the first reps at quarterback on the scout team, but Simpkin didn't even seem interested. It was like he
knew
what was going to happen,
and still, I also knew Simpkin was the kind of jerk who'd act like he was the starter even if he wasn't.

Defense ended and Coach Hubbard hollered for us to take a break at the water horse. We jogged off to where a long plastic pipe with holes punched in it sat, so ten at a time could take a drink. Simpkin muscled into the front of the group, swallowed big, then stood up with a huge belch too hard to ignore. He strutted around through the team like a tom turkey, his helmet raised and tilted slightly back like some kind of space-age crown. I looked at Jackson and rolled my eyes. Jackson only shrugged.

I was too uptight to do more than rinse my mouth with water. I thought whatever I did swallow might come right back up on me.

Coach Hubbard blasted his whistle. “Okay! First team offense, here we go!”

Estevan stood still, knowing he was the second-string quarterback whoever went in first. I took off like a jackrabbit, buckling my chin strap as I went, but saw Simpkin from the corner of my eye, running toward where the first team offense was to huddle up just like I was. We arrived at Coach Hubbard's spot on the grass like whistled-in dogs, panting and eager.

I couldn't read Coach Hubbard's expression to save my life.

He looked back and forth between us both and consulted his practice plan, as if he needed it to find the answer.

When Coach Hubbard opened his mouth to speak, I swallowed so hard that I nearly choked on my tongue.