Read Online Football Champ by Tim Green - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Green
Tags: Ages 8 & Up
Ads: Link
close to kicking in. Troy swallowed and wondered if the whole thing with Peele, and worrying and watching the game from the owner’s box, had stifled his gift. The Falcons’ offense sputtered again, racking up only thirteen yards before fumbling and leaving the field under more boos. Two plays later, the Seahawks scored again on a thirty-seven-yard run by Alexander.
With the score now 17–0, one of the executives beneath Troy turned around holding up a red telephone and saying Troy’s name until he came out of his trance.
“Troy,” he said. “Mora is asking if something’s wrong with your headset. He’s talking to you and you’re not answering.”
“Oh,” Troy said, “sorry. I’ve got the volume down. Thanks. I’ll get with him.”
Troy turned the volume up and heard Jim Mora’s heavy breathing.
“You got anything?” Mora asked.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Troy said. “I’m trying.”
“I know you said not to push you, buddy,” the coach said, “but we’re taking a beating down here. If we wait much longer, this thing might be too far gone to save. Is something wrong?”
Troy clenched his fists. His palms were slick with sweat. He shook his head to try to clear the cobwebs.
Just then one of the servers pushed into the small space carrying a tray of drinks.
Big pale eyes locked onto Troy from behind their thick round lenses. A small smile crept onto the face of Brent Peele.
“Troy,” Coach Mora said, his voice urgent, “I said, ‘Is anything wrong?’”
“Yeah,” Troy said. “A lot.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE REPORTER WHIPPED OUT a miniature camera from underneath his tray, snapping a one-handed picture, the flash leaving a yellow spot in Troy’s vision.
“I knew it was you,” Peele said in a hushed whisper as he tucked the camera into his pants pocket. He wore the uniform shirt and tie of the other servers.
Troy removed his headset, shook his head, and said, “I’ll talk to you, but not now.”
“After the game?” Peele asked, pointing at him with the tray still balanced in his other hand.
“Yes,” Troy said. “I promise.”
“Okay, tell me this and I’ll leave you alone until after the game,” Peele said. “You’re Troy White, right?”
Troy sighed and said, “Yes.”
“Your mom’s the PR assistant for the Falcons.”
“If you know, why are you asking me?” Troy said, glaring.
“I thought I knew,” Peele said with a mean smile growing on his face. “But I’m a reporter. I gotta confirm things.”
“Good for you,” Troy said. “Now, let me do this.”
Troy angled his head toward the field, where the Falcons received the kickoff. Peele gave him a knowing nod, turned with his tray, and closed the door.
Troy took a deep breath and let it go, the anxiety of the day escaping his chest like air from a leaking balloon. He pulled the headset back on and returned his eyes to the field.
“I’m here,” Troy said to Coach Mora.
“What happened?” Mora asked.
“Nothing,” Troy said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll have it next series.”
Troy watched the Falcons complete a long pass that put them in field-goal range before they sputtered again. They tried the field goal but missed, turning the ball back over to the Seahawks.
As the Seattle offense took the field, Troy saw three receivers and the fullback jogging for the huddle. His gift kicked in.
He cupped his hand over the microphone, pulling it close to his mouth, and said, “Middle screen. Middle screen.”
“You sure?” Mora asked.
“Pretty much,” Troy said, and he watched the coach make a flurry of hand signals to Seth, who stood apart from the other defensive players. Seth turned and began shouting to his teammates. The Seahawks broke their huddle and jogged to the line of scrimmage. Hasselbeck looked the defense over and took the snap, dropping back as if to throw a pass. The Falcons’ linemen broke through in a wave that reminded Troy of the Dunwoody Dragons.
Hasselbeck kept
With the score now 17–0, one of the executives beneath Troy turned around holding up a red telephone and saying Troy’s name until he came out of his trance.
“Troy,” he said. “Mora is asking if something’s wrong with your headset. He’s talking to you and you’re not answering.”
“Oh,” Troy said, “sorry. I’ve got the volume down. Thanks. I’ll get with him.”
Troy turned the volume up and heard Jim Mora’s heavy breathing.
“You got anything?” Mora asked.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Troy said. “I’m trying.”
“I know you said not to push you, buddy,” the coach said, “but we’re taking a beating down here. If we wait much longer, this thing might be too far gone to save. Is something wrong?”
Troy clenched his fists. His palms were slick with sweat. He shook his head to try to clear the cobwebs.
Just then one of the servers pushed into the small space carrying a tray of drinks.
Big pale eyes locked onto Troy from behind their thick round lenses. A small smile crept onto the face of Brent Peele.
“Troy,” Coach Mora said, his voice urgent, “I said, ‘Is anything wrong?’”
“Yeah,” Troy said. “A lot.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE REPORTER WHIPPED OUT a miniature camera from underneath his tray, snapping a one-handed picture, the flash leaving a yellow spot in Troy’s vision.
“I knew it was you,” Peele said in a hushed whisper as he tucked the camera into his pants pocket. He wore the uniform shirt and tie of the other servers.
Troy removed his headset, shook his head, and said, “I’ll talk to you, but not now.”
“After the game?” Peele asked, pointing at him with the tray still balanced in his other hand.
“Yes,” Troy said. “I promise.”
“Okay, tell me this and I’ll leave you alone until after the game,” Peele said. “You’re Troy White, right?”
Troy sighed and said, “Yes.”
“Your mom’s the PR assistant for the Falcons.”
“If you know, why are you asking me?” Troy said, glaring.
“I thought I knew,” Peele said with a mean smile growing on his face. “But I’m a reporter. I gotta confirm things.”
“Good for you,” Troy said. “Now, let me do this.”
Troy angled his head toward the field, where the Falcons received the kickoff. Peele gave him a knowing nod, turned with his tray, and closed the door.
Troy took a deep breath and let it go, the anxiety of the day escaping his chest like air from a leaking balloon. He pulled the headset back on and returned his eyes to the field.
“I’m here,” Troy said to Coach Mora.
“What happened?” Mora asked.
“Nothing,” Troy said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll have it next series.”
Troy watched the Falcons complete a long pass that put them in field-goal range before they sputtered again. They tried the field goal but missed, turning the ball back over to the Seahawks.
As the Seattle offense took the field, Troy saw three receivers and the fullback jogging for the huddle. His gift kicked in.
He cupped his hand over the microphone, pulling it close to his mouth, and said, “Middle screen. Middle screen.”
“You sure?” Mora asked.
“Pretty much,” Troy said, and he watched the coach make a flurry of hand signals to Seth, who stood apart from the other defensive players. Seth turned and began shouting to his teammates. The Seahawks broke their huddle and jogged to the line of scrimmage. Hasselbeck looked the defense over and took the snap, dropping back as if to throw a pass. The Falcons’ linemen broke through in a wave that reminded Troy of the Dunwoody Dragons.
Hasselbeck kept
Similar Books
