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at Jasmine’s chair. “Sit down.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious, Jim.” Dillon’s mother glared at the lawyer.
    â€œIt’s his will , Jasmine. You figure very prominently in it, I assure you.”
    â€œProminently?” 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.”
    â€œThe estate is substantial.” The lawyer spoke gently. “You know that, Jasmine.”
    Silence—well, maybe a whimper from Dillon—before thelawyer 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.”
    â€œWhat?” 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.
    â€œEric Dietrich,” said the lawyer. “He’s your trustee, but your father’s instructions are to give you control.”
    â€œOf the team?” I asked.
    The lawyer nodded.
    â€œThe 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.”

12
    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 tothe 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