Kid Owner (4 page)

The next day, I endured the embarrassment of walking off the practice field an hour before the rest of my team. It was only after I showered and changed into the dress clothes my mother handed me outside the locker room that she was ready to talk.

“We're going to your father's office,” she said as her big white truck merged into the traffic out on the highway.

“Like, where he worked?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said. “It's a family office.”

“What's that?” I was totally confused, because how could a family need an office?

“Just . . . you'll see,” she said.

“Why are you so mad about it?”

She shook her head. “It's excessive, Ryan. Everything your father did was excessive. It doesn't even make sense when there
are people, children, in the world who have nothing.”

I thought that was strange.
We
had a lot, so did that not make sense? But I kept quiet because my mother was not to be questioned when she got like this, with the wild look in her eye and the tremble in her voice.

We got off the highway close to downtown and pulled into the parking lot of a building that looked almost more like an old home than an office building, with its stone walls and slate pitched roof. We went in and up the stairs. Everything and everyone was quiet. We were ushered into an enormous conference room. We met a slew of people, all somehow related to my father, including his most recent wife and some half brother named Dillon. It blew my mind. I asked no questions, just nodded politely as my mother introduced me to some, while others she just pointed out. And when we were given seats at one end of the table facing a tall window, I barely listened to everything that was being said as they read my father's will. My mind was spinning out of control because I couldn't believe who my father actually was.

Outside, a ball of late August sun glared down on the city of Dallas, melting the tar on the streets. Inside the conference room, I shivered beneath an invisible blast of frigid air. It was cold and clammy as a tomb beneath a winter freeze.

When the lawyer said “Ryan Zinna,” every person in the room jumped like they'd been pinpricked, and they turned my way. My half brother, Dillon, stopped chewing his gum. His jaw slackened to reveal a mangled green wad draped over a line of molars and tucked next to his tongue. Dillon's mother pinched her lips together and scowled. In her left hand was a
bottle of water, which she strangled until it cried out, crackling.

I looked over at my mom just as she reached for my wrist, the way she'd do when she was about to run a yellow light in the car. I stopped her with a desperate look and a slight tilt of the head. My mom pulled back her hand and sat primly beside me in one of two dozen high-backed leather chairs surrounding the enormous conference table. Everyone wore black.

The lawyer's suit had tiny pinstripes so fine they might have been real strands of silver to match his cuff links. He sat at the head of the table adjusting his sleek black-and-chrome glasses and then clearing his throat before he continued to read.

“To my son, Ryan Zinna,” he said, repeating my name in the context of being the dead man's son, so there should be no mistake, “I leave the entirety of my ownership interest in . . .”

The lawyer looked up at me again, swallowed, and blinked in disbelief. “The Dallas Cowboys.”

I think my mother uttered something like, “Oh, dear Lord.”

Dillon gagged, then hocked the wad of gum onto the table where it lay like some dead sea creature, moist and alien out of its true element. His mother sucked air in through her rigid lips with the sharp hiss of a punctured tire. “No!” She slammed her palm down on the table and sprang to her feet. She stood tall and slender, quaking like a volcano. Her tan face turned purple and her pale-blue eyes glinted like ice, dancing with pins of hate-filled light.

Dillon's pale-blue eyes, on the other hand, brimmed with tears, and his lower lip, like the gum, morphed into a fat wad for all to see. Dillon is twelve, like me, even though he's as tall as any fourteen-year-old. But he
acted
more like a ten-year-old.

His face crinkled.
“But, Mommy . . .”

His mother slammed her water bottle onto the table. “He will
not
get the Cowboys!”

It was her turn to be stared at. My mother and I weren't the only people in the room she likely hated. My father had several brothers and they all had kids he apparently remembered with some degree of fondness or they wouldn't be here to cash in on what the lawyer called the last will and testament of Thomas Peebles.

The gathering had been called at the main conference room of the family office,
their
family office. I wasn't family. Not to them, or, in my mind even to
him
.
He
, the dead man, was my father in name only, a wildly successful billionaire with enough spare money to own an NFL team, but without the emotional means—according to my mother—to love and be loved.

A man you've seen only in pictures isn't really a father, is he?

“Jasmine, please.” The lawyer hooked a finger inside the collar of his crisp white shirt and tugged it to get some air. He pointed a fat pen at Jasmine's chair. “Sit down.”

“You can't be serious, Jim.” Dillon's mother glared at the lawyer.

“It's his
will
, Jasmine. You figure very prominently in it, I assure you.”

“Prominently?”
She seemed to lose her breath and she reached backward, feeling for her chair to sit. “That football team is
prominent.
It's called ‘America's Team' for a reason, Jim.”

“The estate is substantial.” The lawyer spoke gently. “You know that, Jasmine.”

Silence—well, maybe a whimper from Dillon—before the
lawyer began again. “Until the time at which Ryan Zinna shall reach a majority age, all interest in the Dallas Cowboys shall be held in trust, with said trustee, Mr. Eric Dietrich, providing guidance and assistance while adhering as closely as he can to the wishes of Ryan Zinna during his term as a minor. Upon his attainment of majority, said trust shall cease to exist and the entirety of the trust's asset shall vest in Ryan Zinna.”

“What?” The word escaped me.

The lawyer nodded toward a man in the corner of the room, sitting in a chair against the wall with a painting over his head, two sword fighters ready for a duel. The man named Eric Dietrich sat upright wearing a black three-piece suit with a gray-and-black-striped tie and silver-rimmed glasses that magnified steely dark-blue eyes. He was bald but for a thin ring of snow-white hair just over his ears. He looked vibrant, tan, and fit, with the predatory smile of a jackal, but he had to be seventy years old.

“Eric Dietrich,” said the lawyer. “He's your trustee, but your father's instructions are to give
you
control.”

“Of the team?” I asked.

The lawyer nodded.

“The Dallas Cowboys?” I still couldn't believe it.

He nodded.

I turned to my mother, knowing her to be a source of truth, even when it hurt. “I own the Dallas Cowboys?”

For some unknown reason, my mother looked far from pleased. Her mouth grew thin as a paper cut, but still, she nodded her head. “Yes, I think you do.”

My mother and I walked out of that family office in silence after they read my father's will, with the enraged shrieks of Jasmine Peebles still leaking through the thick walls.

All I could think of was that even though I now owned the Dallas Cowboys, I was still me, Ryan Zinna. I still had my two best friends—Jackson and a girl named Izzy. I was still in seventh grade and would still be on the Ben Sauer Middle School football team.

But my heart had swollen a hundred times its normal size, because this was unbelievable. There we were, me and my mom, walking through the carefully trimmed landscaping that led to the parking lot. We still climbed up into her King Ranch pickup. She still reminded me to buckle up, even though I always did that automatically. I still turned on the radio and selected the Pulse and she still switched it without a word to
the Highway
.
And, even though I owned the Dallas Cowboys, I knew better than to switch it back.

At that moment, I made a deal with myself that things would be just the same, only better. The same because I wasn't going to sour everything because she'd kept my father a secret. I'd become an expert at tucking that away, just not thinking about it, no matter how bitter and prickly it felt. Maybe the whole missing-father thing is what caused me to break out in random angry moments from time to time, but for the most part I had kept my feelings hidden before and I intended to keep that up.

Things would be better, I knew, because my insides already felt like a county fair, colored lights and laughter and the smell of cotton candy. Better because I would now rule the school. I could see the faces of both the boys' and girls' popular lunch tables as they begged to become my friend. And better because maybe now I would have more credibility with my coaches. Maybe now they'd listen when I said I should be playing quarterback—that I
could
be a quarterback. I could imagine the shock on Coach Hubbard's face at the thought of me introducing him to the Cowboys' coaching staff and maybe a few of the star players.

“What are you thinking about, Ry?” my mom asked, breaking the spell.

“Just . . . can you believe this?” I had this vision of myself standing in front of the entire Dallas Cowboys' offensive line. Maybe I'd strike a jaunty pose, with one foot on the ball, looking up at them, expectant, with my arms folded and them staring down, waiting for orders.

“I guess I can,” she said, with a tone in her voice.

“Don't sound so happy about it.” I couldn't help being annoyed that she trampled the nice image in my brain.

“I'm not happy about it, Ryan. You're twelve years old. I told you years ago, my whole focus has been about you having a normal childhood and growing up into a good person.”

“I'm not good?”

“Of course you are,” she said. “I'd like to keep it that way is all.”

“How can this make me bad?” I tried not to sound too angry.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me. Whose faces have you already imagined the look on when they hear you own the Dallas Cowboys? Jackson? Izzy? No, not your friends. You thought of your enemies, didn't you? Bryan Markham and Jason Simpkin. Or maybe their fathers, the coaches in elementary school who didn't let you off the bench until the fourth quarter? Coach Hubbard. The one you say acts like you're not there?”

“What's that got to do with anything?” I asked.

“Ryan, don't you see? You can't wait to hold it over those people, the ones you don't like. That's not a good thing. It's just negative energy.”

“Can't you just be happy for me? My gosh, Mom, this is a dream come true. I love the Cowboys. I love football. You know that!”

“It's a lot easier to
love
the Cowboys than to
own
them, Ryan. I know it sounds fun, but it's a business and your . . . father had no right to hand you a billion-dollar business like it's a ten-speed bike.” My mother seemed to be growing angrier
by the minute, the shock of it having worn off. She slapped the steering wheel. “In fact, I don't think I'm going to allow it, Ryan.”

“What? No!” I felt instantly sick. “You can't just not allow it. He left it to
me.
You can't undo that. And—and I've got a trustee.”

“Oh, sure. Dietrich, his old crony. That's just great. Guidance from above. Not. Dietrich is a barracuda.”

“You mean, he won't really let me control the team?” I was confused.

“No, I mean he
will.
” She was growling more than talking now. “He doesn't care about a young boy growing up to be ‘normal,' and he and your father were thick as thieves. Your father's company used Dietrich Die Molding to help make all those high-tech medical devices. They got rich together.”

I didn't say anything. She wanted me to be a “normal” boy? What was that? Who cared about a normal boy, let alone Minna Zinna—that's what some of the kids called me—the half-pint shrimp?

I almost laughed out loud.

But they'd definitely care now, especially when they saw the headline of the sports page in the
Dallas Morning Star
the very next day
.

I have to say Jackson disappointed me when I got to school the next day.

Jackson Shockey was my best friend. He'd appeared in Highland during the summer, and had shown up unannounced on the first day of football practice for the seventh-grade team at Ben Sauer Middle School. I didn't see a single kid besides Jackson who wasn't part of the graduating class from last year's Highland Knights. And boy, did he stick out. He towered over the rest of us, and looked like he would one day soon be a main event in WWE. At first everyone, including Coach Hubbard, thought Jackson had simply showed up at the wrong practice site.

But Jackson and I clicked right away. Anyway, when I saw that headline in the morning paper, the idea of sharing it with Jackson was the first thing I thought of. I was bursting with
pride and I knew he'd be just as happy for me as I was. He was already that kind of friend. I took a deep breath and just stared some more at the paper, which I'd brought to school:

COWBOYS' NEW KID OWNER

WHO IS RYAN ZINNA?

Kid owner
. I turned the name over and over in my mouth like a gumdrop, savoring the sugar coating and finally sinking my teeth into its juicy sweet center. I was the kid owner. I only wished they'd had a picture of me.

My mom didn't seem to share my joy. She'd read the article at breakfast and then frowned her way through the rest of the meal as she opened her laptop and scrolled through whatever screens moms look at online.

“I mean, honestly.” My mom offered Teresa a look as disgusted as her voice. “Don't adults have anything better to do than to post things about a twelve-year-old boy?”

Teresa shrugged as she emptied the dishwasher. “It's the Dallas Cowboys, Ms. Zinna. They
are
America's team.”

I tried not to grin.

I checked my own phone and took a peek at my mom's Facebook page. Lots of people were saying a twelve-year-old would be an improvement on things. I guess I should have felt insulted for my father, but I couldn't help feeling nothing but excitement.

On the drive to school, my mom had lectured me.

“You treat people the same as always, Ryan. Don't let this go to your head.” She wagged a finger at me. “You're just like
everyone else. That's how I want you to be.”

“Yeah, fine, Mom.” I nodded like I got it, but I was really thinking: too late.

And when she dropped me off at the curb, it started.

A pretty, dark-haired brainiac named Mya Thompson was the first one to greet me. “Hey, Ryan.”

“Ryan, how you doing?” asked Griffin Engle, our team's star running back.

“Ryan, awesome, man!” Estevan Marin, our backup QB said, giving me a fist bump. “Go, Cowboys, dude.”

That's all good, but get this: people were taking
selfies
with me in the background. At first they tried to be cool about it; then people just came up to me and
asked.
I smiled as graciously as I could, soaking it up like a sponge as they slung their arms over my shoulders and clicked away.

But after walking the halls, pretending not to notice the whispers, I got to homeroom. Jackson was already sitting there, and I was just waiting for him to talk about it, but he was studying for a science quiz and all he said to me was “Hi.”

“Hi? That's it?”

He looked up from his book and Margaret Vespers, the girl sitting next to him, nudged him and showed him her phone with what I can only imagine was the online version of the newspaper story. I watched his lips moving silently as he read. When he turned my way, I smiled and sat up straight. His deep-brown eyes widened with concern.

“Geez,” he said, “I hope you're not gonna have to miss any practices.”

“Jackson?
That's
all you have to say?” I folded my arms
across my chest. I lowered my voice. “I own the Dallas Cowboys, Jackson. Think about it . . .”

He scratched his head again and shrugged. “I guess.”

“You guess what?” I looked around and dropped my voice even more, to a whisper, leaning his way because my classmates had suddenly become interested in me, and Margaret Vespers was staring with an open mouth. “You
guess
I own them? Don't guess. I
do
own them. You just read it.”

“I guess it's good.” He looked back down at his science notes.

“It's way more than good, Jackson. Do you
guess
you'd like to watch them play the New York Giants from the
sideline
?
That's
the kind of thing the owner can do. Me and you—and maybe Izzy, too—at every Cowboys home game!” I turned my attention to my science binder and hunched over my own notes, pretending to study, but seeing nothing but the Dallas Cowboys' sideline in my mind. Hanging out with John Torres, the big-time starting quarterback rumored to have dated Selena Gomez.

That silenced Jackson for a while, but after the morning announcements and before the bell ending homeroom, he closed his science notebook and turned to me. “Are you ready for the game this weekend? I heard Hutchinson has a really big fullback who ran all over people last season.”

My mouth dropped open. “Jackson, seriously? Hutchinson? The Cowboys play New York this weekend and you and me are gonna be on the
sideline.
The Giants have got Rashad Jennings. Who cares about some seventh-grade fullback?”

The bell rang, and Jackson frowned and shrugged. “I'll
catch you later.” He shouldered his backpack and left for his next class. The rest of the class was sneaking peeks at me, Ryan Zinna, kid owner.

I can't say I didn't revel in it. They stared the way I'd seen people looking at Deion Sanders one time when he was having dinner at the same restaurant my mom took me to on my eleventh birthday. I'll never forget it, the way
everyone
stole glances at Deion and his family, trying hard not to get caught doing it and offering up little apologetic smiles when they did.

I grabbed my stuff and headed down the hall to my next class. I was hoping to run into Izzy on my way, and when I looked up, I saw her close her locker door and turn toward me. I puffed out my chest and gave her a cool and casual thumbs-up.

“Hey, Ryan,” Izzy said. She was a pretty girl, tall and athletic with long blond hair.

“Hey, Izzy.” I smiled and waited for her next comment.

“How are you?”

I deflated, caught myself starting to slouch, then stood straight, remembering who I was. “That's it?”

She stopped and gave me a strange look. “What else is there?”

“Um, didn't you hear about the Cowboys?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally cool. Sorry. We've already got a quiz in math. Percentages. I hate percentages. I've gotta go but I'll see you at lunch. We can talk about it then.” She waved and headed down the hall.

What was going on? Why would my only two friends be so thick about this? I shook it off, determined to proceed on course. Let them catch up. My plan was to let the whole thing
sink in, see how people reacted, then make my move to influence the world around me: most importantly, my football team.

The morning went by in a blur. I could barely concentrate in my classes. But it was lunchtime now, and I walked as tall as I could into the lunchroom, past the band kids, who pointed and whispered among themselves. At the brainiacs' table, I caught Mya smiling my way and gave her a nod. The smart kids seemed as impressed if not as excited as the kids in the band. The kids at the two popular tables weren't all there yet, but the ones who were seemed to ignore me on purpose, aware of my presence but holding their heads at odd angles to intentionally avoid looking at me. A lot of the football players sat at the boys' popular table and the girls beside them would flutter back and forth during lunch like butterflies briefly touching down on a bed of flowers.

I huffed and kept going to our table, the one where me, Izzy, and Jackson sat like the Three Amigos or the Three Musketeers.

A WEEK EARLIER . . .

The school year hadn't started out that way. It had been just me and Jackson, and our table kind of felt like the Island of the Misfit Toys, but now that Izzy was with us, it felt like something different.

Izzy wasn't going to be the most popular girl in Ben Sauer Middle because, like Jackson, she was new to the area. Still, on the first day of school she'd been welcomed by Bethany Bracewell, who had red hair, real diamond earrings, and was the queen
bee of the popular girls' table. I knew who Izzy was because she sat in the front of our English class with her blue eyes bright and long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She'd answered all the questions, speaking with the clear and melodic voice of a bird. She was rumored to be a star athlete on the soccer field, and proved herself faster than any of the boys on the first day of gym class. She chewed bubblegum constantly and had reminded me of a flamingo, exotic and graceful in her element, but a little awkward and out of proportion just walking the hallways.

On the second day of school, Izzy had walked right past Bethany Bracewell and the popular lunch table and sat down with us.

“Hi,” she'd said, then began to unpack and eat her lunch, slurping her carton of milk from a straw and looking shyly at us both through the tops of her eyelashes.

After the shock wore off, I'd noticed the table of popular girls snatching glances and giggling, having a swell time over the joke of Izzy sitting with such an odd pair as me and Jackson. Izzy hadn't looked back, but since she hadn't said anything to us, and only sat quietly eating her lunch, I knew she had to be in on their joke. She'd done a great job of not joining in on the laughter, though.

It hurt to think that a girl like Izzy, who seemed so nice, would do something so mean. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have someone say something nasty to my face than pretend to like me but all the while it's just a joke or a dare someone put them up to.

I could just imagine Bethany Bracewell with her shiny braces and her snotty smile, saying,
Izzy, I dare you to go sit with Minna Zinna and that big ogre Jackson. Go ahead. Bet you can't sit there through the entire lunch period without cracking up!

Hurt as it did, I was used to being made fun of, and Jackson really had no idea what was happening, so I'd decided the best strategy was to ignore it, ignore her, and let the whole thing pass.

But the next day, Izzy sat with us again. On the third day, I realized that Izzy sat with us because she'd wanted to. She didn't like the popular table. She'd said it was rude how they left other people out. She'd said she knew that Jackson was new also and she made me blush when she said I seemed nice. So we've been sitting together ever since.

PRESENT . . .

I made my way to the back and sat down at our table, pulled out my lunch, and took a big gulp of milk from my bottle. I looked around for Jackson, wondering why he was late. Just then, Izzy walked into the lunchroom. She waved at Mya but otherwise marched straight for our table like usual. I caught her eye and smiled, thinking I was happy to have her sit with us whether she made a big deal out of me being the kid owner or not. She was only one table away when I noticed that Bryan Markham was headed my way from the other side of the cafeteria. Bryan and Izzy arrived at the same moment. I kept my smile, wondering if this might not be the moment when Bryan invited me to the popular table, now that I owned the Dallas Cowboys.

I tried not to let my smile be too smug. I didn't plan on moving to the popular table unless Izzy and Jackson could come, too. On that I would insist.

“Hey, Izzy.” Markham spoke to her in a tone I didn't like and I made a mental note to correct him when we were alone.

“Hey, Zinna.” His voice was smooth and oily, but friendly.

I smiled up at him, though, enjoying the moment. “Hey, Markham.”

Then he leaned close enough to whisper in my ear. “Listen, you little shrimp. I want you to know that I see you sitting here smiling like you own the world, but I don't care.”

I looked up at him and blinked at the intensity of the hatred glaring from his face. What was happening? This was definitely
not
what I expected.

“We put the pads on today, shrimp,” he continued, leaning so close now that I could feel his warm breath in my ear, “and I am gonna smash that stupid smile right off your face.”