This startled me. “I . . . I can control it?”
“Yes, you very well may,” he said.
I looked into his smile and realized the bluish-white teeth were entirely porcelain, not his own in any way.
“Okay,” I said, waiting.
The stadium announcer welcomed everyone and began to announce the visiting team. Boos and catcalls erupted in a good-natured way.
“I like you, Ryan.” He spoke clearly over the jeers.
I glanced back at my mom and friends, who stood holding plates piled with food.
“Thanks.”
“Yes, you’re a good kid. Less spoiled than I imagined.”
I could only guess that I outscored Dillon in this category by double digits and I nodded politely and without reply in an attempt to seem very unspoiled.
He sighed heavily and removed a letter from his inside breast pocket and unfolded it. “I should have known things wouldn’t be that simple with your father.”
“What do you mean?” I scowled at the letter.
The booing grew louder as he held it out. “You can read it if you want, or I can tell you what it says.”
“You can tell me.” For some reason, I didn’t want to take the letter. The paper was heavy and cream colored with legal lettering and a seal stamped into the bottom.
Mr. Dietrich laughed at that and gave me a little shake. His eyes twinkled. “It’s from your father.”
“My . . .” I was shocked and scared and confused.
Mr. Dietrich glanced at the letter. “He directed his lawyers to wait until after the will had been read before sending it to me. He wanted the maximum impact, I think.”
“Maximum impact on what?” Now I was totally confused.
Mr. Dietrich grinned. “Your father liked to stir things up. He liked competition. For example, he enjoyed having a coach and a GM who couldn’t stand each other. Vicious competition interested him.”
“Why are you saying this?” I asked.
“Your father knew Jasmine would contest his will. He knew that—as his wife—she could break it by asserting her right to half of everything. He also knew that she’d want her son to be in the spotlight. He knew I would then hold the swing vote, enough shares to support one side or the other to give you control.”
I didn’t like the look on his face. “And you’re choosing Dillon?”
He laughed. “I’m not choosing anyone. All he asked me to do is set up the competition. He’s given me total discretion in that. He only asks that it be a clear and fair competition.”
I shook my head, thinking of crazy things. “What? Like, arm wrestling or something?”
He nodded. “I guess, although I hadn’t thought of that. I think he meant possibly a standardized test or a game of chess. Maybe how much money you could raise for a charity?”
I felt relieved, not because I was certain I could beat Dillon at chess, but because I was certain I couldn’t beat him in anything physical.
Mr. Dietrich bit his lip and tilted his head. “It’s almost like he knew, but he couldn’t have known. His death surprised us all.”
“Knew what?” I was sick of the guessing games. I wanted to know what I had to do to get my hands on the NFL football team that was surging out onto the field below to thundering applause that made me have to shout to be heard.
“That the competition is already in place!” Mr. Dietrich shouted back, the crowd so loud now that it hurt my ears.
“What competition?” I yelled.
“A football game! You versus Dillon! Next week. You’re playing head to head. Mano a mano. I love it, and the media? Ha-ha! One winner. One kid owner. It’s all about football!”