Tim Green - The Big Time

Tate hugged him. He squeezed her tight and felt the bones beneath her skin. He pushed his face into her silky hair, just for a moment, before turning to go.

He didn't look back.

WHEN TROY REACHED THEedge of the bridge, he could just make out the dark shape of his father in the middle. The chop chop of the helicopter seemed closer, but it droned back and forth, still moving without an apparent purpose.

"Dad?" he called out.

"Yes," his father said softly. "It's me, Troy."

Troy stepped out onto the steel bridge, his feet clapping the metal with an empty sound. When he reached his father, he stood facing him, and his dad put a hand on each of Troy's shoulders.

"I know this is where you come to dream your biggest dreams," his father said.

Troy thought he saw the glimmer of tears in his father's eyes. Troy's own eyes began to fill, and he said, "But this is a nightmare."

"I didn't mean it to be, Son," his dad said, wincing and looking up into the starry sky. "You have to believe that. I was never going to take your money. I was just going to trade it. You have to understand. They said they'd kill me, Troy. I took their money and invested it because I thought I couldn't lose. I was in the big time. It was all going so well-my condo, the planes, the Porsche-and then the economy, it just…no one thought it could ever happen. I…I…"

His father hung his head, and his shoulders sagged. He clasped his hands, wrung them together, and swayed. Over the sound of crickets, Troy heard the growing thump of the helicopter's blades pounding in the night. Above, the fat beam of a spotlight stroked the stars, wavering, and then burst through the trees to light up the bridge. They turned and shielded their eyes against the white light. Troy's father took Troy's arm and pulled him into a tight hug. He squeezed the back of Troy's head so that it almost hurt.

"I'm sorry, Son," his dad said. "I love you, but I have to go."

Behind him, Troy heard the shouts of men.

He opened his eyes. Over his father's shoulder he could see the dark shapes of the agents advancing with flashlights. His father was trapped.

"You can't," Troy said, grasping for a hold on his sleeve even as his father stepped away.

In horror Troy watched as his father ducked beneath a steel beam and turned to face him from the outside edge of the trestle.

"I love you, Troy," his father said, raising his voice above the thundering helicopter. Then his father looked around at the men running toward them and at the helicopter, still beyond the trees but sweeping the branches above with wind from its blades so that they shook and trembled in the swirl of light and noise.

Someone shouted, "Stop!"

Troy's father held up a fist that told Troy to be strong.

Then his father jumped.

The helicopter sprang into the open sky between the trees, its spotlight glaring down at the murky Chattahoochee below.

THEY RODE FOR TENminutes in Seth's H2 before Troy realized that Nathan wasn't talking to him.

"What's up with that?" Troy asked.

Nathan had his forehead pressed against his window, huffing on the glass and making squeaky designs.

He made a quick star, then said, "Are you really going to abandon us after this game? Sheesh. Some friend."

"Hey," Tate said, "you big meathead. Instead of moping like that, why don't you pump yourself up? So, it's our last game together. Let's not cry about it. Let's win this thing!"

"You wouldn't understand," Nathan said, waving his hand at her. "You're a girl."

"Cut it out, goofball," Tate said. "I mean it. Don't ruin this. Let's go play. Let's have fun. Let's win this."

Seth cleared his throat and said, "Tate's right, Nathan. In football, you never know which game is going to be your last. Look at me."

Troy hung his head.

"No," Seth said to him, messing up his hair, "don't you get down. I didn't mean it like that, Troy. It's just the way it is. You never get to play this game as long as you want. It always ends too soon, and every year, if you are lucky enough to make it, your team changes. Something always changes. That's life. You keep moving."

"Like a shark, right?" Troy said dully, his eyes watching the trees go by.

"What?" Seth said.

"Nothing," Troy said.

"Come on, you three," Seth said. "If nothing else, win this thing for me, will you? I'd like to get a coaching job out of this. Maybe the playing part is over for me, but I'm not leaving this game-not ever, if I can help it."

"Of course we'll win it for you," Tate said. "You made us state champs. You helped Troy, and it looks like he's going to get rich from it. Besides, I want that scholarship money."

Seth laughed at her.

Nathan sighed and said, "I just can't believe this is it for us."

"Who knows, Nathan?" Troy said. "Maybe you and I will play in college together. Georgia Bulldogs?"

Troy turned around and saw Nathan break out into a grin and swipe a hand over his brush cut. "Sheesh, now we're talking."

"And maybe I'll play soccer there," Tate said.

Everyone went silent. Troy looked over the seat at her. She smiled at him.

"But, Tate," he said, "you're a football player-not just a kicker, a real football player. Remember that tackle you made on the kickoff against Dunwoody? You helped win that game."

Tate blushed, looked down at her hands, and said, "I know, but next year it's not junior league anymore; it's the middle school team."

"Some girls play in high school," Troy said. "There's that girl over in Roswell named Bridget Kennicott who's so tough they call her the Tornado."

"But not after that," Tate said. "Even the Tornado won't play in college."

"You could be the first, Tate," Troy said.

"But I could get a full ride as a soccer player," she said, "if I work at it. I'm fast and I'm strong."

"And you got a mean leg," Nathan said.

"And that," she said.

"And tough," Troy said.

"Thank you," Tate said. "So, this really is the last game for us. Let's win it."

Tate held out a hand in the air between them all. Nathan put his hand on top of Tate's, and Troy reached back over the seat to cover them both.

"Win it, on three," Troy said.

"One, two, three, WIN IT!"

TROY AND THE GEORGIAteam were down by six and only twenty-seven seconds remained. It was third down and eight yards to go for a fresh set of downs. Troy took the snap from the shotgun position four yards behind the center and read the defense. The team's best receiver-a tall, skinny kid from Valdosta-had the coverage beat, but he slipped on the grass, and Troy immediately looked to his second receiver: the tight end running a post who hadn't been able to get free from the linebacker's jam.

Before Troy could get to his third read, the pocket collapsed around him and his instincts had to take over. Instead of running away from the surge of defenders, Troy stepped up toward them, ducking one, then dodging another, sharply aware of Nathan throwing himself in front of the noseguard to protect Troy's knees. Troy found the seam he was looking for: a narrow opening in the flurry of bodies. In that same instant Rusty Howell broke free down the sideline. Troy took one more step forward, knowing the middle linebacker, on a late blitz, would crack him in the face.

Troy launched the ball and took the shot, seeing stars before he hit the ground. The roar of Georgia fans, clad in red and black, raised him from the ground. His teammates swarmed him, moving as he did toward the goal line, slapping his shoulders, helmet, and back. Tate jogged out and nailed the extra point, then Troy, Tate, and Nathan watched alongside Seth as the Georgia kickoff team kept Florida pinned deep. Their defense stood strong. The clock wound down. The gun went off, and Nathan as well as Tate cackled wildly to Troy about their ten-thousand-dollar scholarship money.