Tim Green - The Big Time

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."

SETH COLE SAT DOWNso that Troy was seated between the owner and Drew. The owner pointed the remote and the Jets' defense-suspended in the middle of a New England Patriots pass play-went into action. Seth Cole let four plays run without stopping before he said, "Well?"

Troy cleared his throat and said, "It's like the weatherman. I see patterns, and then I know what the plays will be."

"But it takes time for the patterns to emerge," the Jets' owner said, nodding. "Yes, I know. I told you; I've read the papers. So, I don't see why a team-with the right technology-couldn't break the patterns and render you next to worthless."

Troy's stomach knotted up, and Troy looked at his father. Drew put a strong hand on Troy's shoulder and held it tight.

"Having played a little football myself," his father said, "I can tell you that if you break certain patterns, then you'll lose for sure. If it's third down and you've got ten yards to go, for instance, you better pass or the odds of getting a first down are about one in thirty."

"Well put," the owner said, and he ran another play.

"Strong side draw," Troy said, the knowledge coming to him before Seth Cole could advance to the next play.

The Patriots ran a strong side draw.

"Deep post to Randy Moss," Troy said, and they ran it.

"Weak side inside trap," Troy said.

When the Patriots ran the play Troy called, Seth Cole flicked off the video. They sat in total darkness for a minute, and Troy shifted in his seat.

The owner cleared his throat and said, "People are uncomfortable with situations they're not used to. That's human nature. Sitting in the dark, for instance. Something that for me is as natural as sitting under the noon sun. Are you uncomfortable, Troy?"

Troy hesitated, glancing at the blackness where his father sat before he said, "A little. I guess."

"Yes," the owner said, "I'd think a lot. And I'm going to ask you to do something you haven't done before, too. Because if I'm going to invest the kind of money I think you're asking for, I don't want to pay it to someone who can't adjust. In life, things never stay the same. In football, you have to adjust quickly, even when you're under pressure."

"Okay," Troy said after another moment of silence.

"Good," the owner said.

Troy heard a click, and the screen glowed to life, showing a frozen picture of the Jets. It didn't take Troy more than a half second to recognize that the difference was that now the screen showed the Jets' offense.

"We have what a lot of people are calling the best young offensive weapon in the game," the owner said.

"Thane Lewis?" Troy asked.

"Yes," the owner said, "and if I'm going to pay you a fortune to work for my team, I want to take advantage of that talent. I've been thinking about your ability, and I'd like to see if it works for both sides of the ball. I know defenses react to what they see on the offense; but without motion, I'm wondering if you can predict what coverage a defense is in, and if you could signal something like that in to a player like Thane Lewis. If he knew the coverage, I don't think there's a defense in the league that could stop him. Could you read a defense like that?"

Troy had to stick his hands under his legs to keep from jumping out of his seat and shouting. A thrill shot through him, and he nodded his head.

"I know I can," he said.

"You know?" The owner's voice was laced with amusement.

"I play football, Mr. Cole," Troy said.

"I heard that."

"I play quarterback," Troy added. "We just won the state championship on Saturday. A lot of it is because I know exactly what the coverage is going to be when I step up to the line. I can throw it, too."