"I was gone by then," he said. "What did 'agents' want?"
"To represent me, Gramps," Troy said, suddenly excited at the recollection of the men in suits handing him and his mom their cards. "One of them, some Nash guy, he said I could get between one and two million."
"Two million what?" Gramps asked.
"Dollars, Gramps," Troy said. "We could all be rich."
Gramps's face fell. "Rich? I don't know about that. A couple of people I know who got rich don't do so well with it. It's overrated."
Troy stared at Gramps.
"Dad," Troy's mom said.
"Of course, it's not always bad," Gramps said, swigging some coffee with a nod. "You can take some pretty nice vacations with two million dollars. Educational things like the rain forest or the Galapagos Islands. Maybe Antarctica."
"How about a new pickup truck, Gramps?"
"Oh, no. I'm fine. Nothing I need."
"Well," Troy's mom said, "either way, we'll need an agent. Let's get today's game behind us, and tomorrow I'll start to set up some meetings so we can figure out who to go with. I want to try and keep your life as normal as possible, Troy. A good agent can even handle the media for us, be a buffer."
"Buffer?"
"A barrier," his mom said, "between you and the teams, you and the media, all the outside distractions. You still need to go to school, have your friends, play your football."
"Well," Troy said, "football's over for now anyway."
His mom raised an eyebrow. "Seth didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
" WE LEFT SO FAST last night," Troy's mom said. "I guess that was my fault. He wanted to tell you before he made a general announcement, so no one knows."
"Tell me what, Mom?"
"No, you'll have to wait until you see him," she said. "I know he wants to be the one to tell you."
"Mom, you can't do this."
"Nope," his mom said, making a locking motion on her lips and pretending to throw away the key.
Troy jumped up and grabbed the phone on the wall. "I'll call him."
"Don't," his mom said. "Since the game isn't until four today, he's sleeping in. You'll see him at the stadium."
"Meantime," Gramps said, rising from the table, tugging free the necktie he'd hung on the back of the chair and looping it around his head, "we got church, so get yourself changed."
"Do I have to go?" Troy asked. "I just won the championship."
"All the more reason to go," Gramps said, winking. "You don't think that last pass ended up in Nathan's hands just because of you, do you?"
They all laughed.
Troy got changed and so did his mom.
When they got home from church, Troy put on his Falcons gear, happy to be free from the stiff shirt with its collar and tie. Gramps headed home to watch the game on TV, something he did as religiously as going to church.
"How's the finger?" Troy's mom asked when she emerged from her bedroom with the clipboard she used for work.
Troy looked at his injured finger, tried to move it, and winced.
"Not good."
His mom looked at her watch and said, "Might be time for another pain pill."
"I know," Troy said, "but I was thinking, Mom. The pills work, but they make me kind of light-headed. I mean, with everything going so well-me getting my job back, the Falcons on this playoff run, and all these agents talking about me making a ton of money-I just don't know if I should take the chance of being foggy. What if the pain pill keeps me from being able to see the patterns?"
His mom looked at him for a minute and pressed her lips together. "Well, what if the discomfort keeps you from being able to see the patterns?"
"If the pain bothers me that much," Troy said, "and I can't get with it, then I can always take the pill then."
His mom nodded. "Good idea. I hate to think of you suffering, though."
"Part of the game, right?" Troy said, trying to smile.
His mom sighed and nodded.
They picked up Tate and Nathan on their way to the Georgia Dome. Mr. Langan had given permission for Troy's two best friends to be on the sideline with him during the game, so long as they didn't distract him.
They got to park in the staff lot and go in through the same entrance as the players. Troy still couldn't get over the size of the men walking past. They were giants in all kinds of clothes-from sweats or jeans to suits and ties-with hands the size of hubcaps and heads like upside-down buckets. They all recognized Troy and gave him anything from a clap on the back to a wink and a thumbs-up. Most of them congratulated Troy on winning the junior league state championship. Troy blushed at the attention but had to admit to himself that he enjoyed it.
Tate and Nathan silently accepted passes to the sideline from Troy's mom and strung them through the belt loops in their jeans. Both wore Falcons shirts and hats like Troy.
Troy and his friends followed Troy's mom out onto the field. With more than two hours to go before game time, no one was in the dome except for the players from both the Falcons and the visiting Green Bay Packers. Aside from the hum of the lights suspended from the web of steel above, the place was strangely quiet. A handful of players already covered the field, stretching out and warming up in football pants and T-shirts. Troy's mom showed Nathan and Tate where they could sit and wait on the bench while Troy went into the locker room to meet with Seth and the coaches.
When Troy walked into the meeting room just off the side of the locker room, he was disappointed to see that both Coach McFadden, the head coach, and Jim Mora, the defensive coordinator, were already sitting there beside Seth. Troy ached to ask Seth about the surprise his mother only hinted about but knew it would have to wait. Together, the four of them discussed the process for getting the correct calls to Seth during the game. It usually took Troy at least a couple of series of plays to see the patterns that told him the opponent's game plan. He would stand next to Coach Mora until that time came. The instant it did, he could describe the play, and the coach could signal the correct defensive call to Seth. Troy didn't want to even tell them about how badly his finger hurt, because there was nothing they could do about it anyway. He could only hope that it wouldn't keep him from using his gift.
When the meeting broke up, Troy tried to get Seth's attention, but Coach Mora put an arm around the star linebacker, and the two of them headed back into the locker room. Troy put a hand on the door but hesitated. The door swung open, and Coach McFadden appeared, asking Troy if he wanted to walk out onto the field with him. Troy did, and it wasn't long before the two of them were wandering the turf, talking to the individual players. Most of the team was out on the field by now, and Coach McFadden seemed to have words of encouragement for even the backup players. It wasn't until the head coach began a conversation with Mr. Langan that Troy saw Seth jogging slowly up the sideline with a headset on, playing his music.
Troy slipped away and intercepted Seth near the Falcons bench.
"Hey, buddy," Seth said, slipping the earphones down around his neck and pausing the music.
"You okay?" Troy asked, nodding at Seth's knees, which Troy knew had grown increasingly worse as the season progressed.
Seth made a face, then said, "Part of it. I'll get warmed up and be okay. Got the left one drained and took a little cortisone. I'll get by. It's always tough later in the season. What about you, buddy? You feeling good? How's that finger? It looks like junk."
"I took a pain pill this morning," Troy said, flexing his finger stiffly.
"Well, look brave," Seth said, angling his head toward the field. A cameraman with a handheld camera and an assistant holding the cable were moving their way with the camera pointed at Troy. "You're on."
"I thought the media wasn't allowed inside the yellow rope," Troy said.
"That's the FOX game camera. The NFL lets one network cameraman inside the yellow, and that's him," Seth said. "You want me to make him go away?"