Betting Game (10 page)

“If it means anything, I wish I had talked to you. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation. Captain America always saves the day.”

“Captain America?” It makes him laugh.

“Sure. He’s not the coolest superhero, but he always does the right thing.”

“Thanks. I think.”

He stares into space for a few minutes, tapping his fingers on his bed. Then the tapping stops.

“I know how you can get the money.”

“How?”

“Our scholarship account. It has about $15,000 in it, right? Mom will probably find out eventually, but…”

“…but if I got a job, maybe I could put it back before she does!”

Perfect! I could be out of this mess by—

“Wait. Half of that money is yours.”

“You just said you’d put it back, right? So problem solved. Now go to sleep.”

And I think maybe I finally can.

My phone wakes me up before the alarm goes off.

It wakes up Alex too. “Hang on,” he whispers. He gets out of bed and sits beside me. “Put it on speaker.”

“Hello?”

“Jack Attack.”

“Luka. I tried, but—”

Alex elbows me and mouths, “Tell him about the money.”

“B-but I have what I owe you now. All of it.”

“What you owe us?” He laughs. “What about what you cost us?”

“But—”

“Here’s what it will cost you. A broken knee, a fractured skull. Yours or your brother’s. A terrible car accident. It happens. All the time. Maybe your Mama can pay. We’ll collect on her way home some night. It’s extra, like juice. Understand?”

The phone feels cold in my hand. What have I done?

“I will give you one more chance to pay. The game today. Who would your system tell you to bet on? The Lancers. Of course. Everyone says it. So. Make a liar out of your system.” His voice gets hard and cold. “Lose this game. Don’t win. Don’t tie. Lose. Or you will lose, Jack Attack. Something far more precious than a trophy.”

I stare at the phone. There’s no way out. And now—Alex. Mom.

Alex takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. “I guess we need a plan B.”

Chapter Thirty

When we get to the locker room, there’s no plan B. But Gil’s there.

Alex and I exchange looks. Did he tell Coach? I close my eyes and brace myself.

“I heard what you said. After the game.”

Alex says, “Gil, I—”

“I want to help.”

“Help? Help
me
?” That’s the last thing I expected.

He chooses his words carefully. “Team is
about passing the ball around, right? Using support when someone offers it?”

“Yeah.” I blink. I guess it is.

“Then what’s the plan?”

And the weight pressing on my chest eases up.

Alex lays out the situation. How much I owe. The interest. The threats.

It’s even more humiliating when someone else tells it.

Gil’s eyes widen a couple of times, but he listens in silence.

Alex winds up. “And so we worked out a way to pay him—”

Gil breaks in. “Back up. The bookie—he says you’re working for him?”

I nod.

“It won’t work.”

Alex and I exchange looks.

“It’s not money he’s after. It’s control.”

Alex looks confused. “Why would he turn down $10,000?”

“That’s pocket change. These guys bet more than that on one game.”

Baby bets. Nickels and dimes
. That’s what he called it.

“He’s right.” They look at me. “The day I met Luka, he threw down $1,000 because of something I said.”

“On a tip from a stranger?” Alex says. “No way!”

But I wasn’t a stranger.

“He knew who I was. My name, my team, my position.” It fits. I press my head between my hands. “He knew all along.”

“It happens in Europe all the time.” Gil sighs and rubs his chin. “They go after the guys who control the game. Wine and dine them, give them expensive gifts. Once they get their hooks in…”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “Jack, they’ll never let you go.”

Never. How could I be so stupid? I tip back my head and put my hands over my face.

Alex says, “Then…”

“He’ll get threats. Or worse.”

I raise a hand. “Already happening.”

“If he’s caught, his soccer career is over.”

Over?

“So what can we do?” asks Alex.

But before Gil can answer, Kim, the physio, bustles in. “Coach was right, Jack. He said you’d be here already. He wants me to take a look at that ankle before the game. Maybe tape it.”

“It’s fine. Really!” I hold it out and swivel it. “See?”

“Heard that a million times.” She laughs. “You know the drill. It won’t take long.”

“But I need to get ready.”

“You’re not going to miss the game. Honestly!” She hustles me out.

I look over my shoulder at Alex and Gil. Alex flashes a thumbs-up. Gil just gives me a worried smile.

I hop onto the treatment table. Kim pulls up a rolling stool and turns my foot right and left, forward and back. “Normal range of motion. A little swelling. Bit of bruising.” She looks up. “No pain?”

I shake my head.

“Looks good then. But it won’t hurt to tape it.” She tucks my foot between her knees and gets started.

My phone bings. A text from Luka.

choose what u lose—game or family

It chimes again. It’s like driving by a car accident. I have to look.

This time it’s Alex.

tell Luka to come to the locker room after the game for his $$$

I text back.

this is plan b???

He answers right away.

don’t worry

just play hard

Kim taps my foot. “You’re done. How’s it feel?”

“I guess we’ll see.” I flex my foot. “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

“You bet!”

I hop down from the table and text Luka.

have ur money. can we talk after the game?

His answer makes my hands shake so bad, I almost drop the phone.

screw with me and ur dead

Alex and Gil better know what they’re doing.

The locker room is buzzing when I get back. There’s nowhere to talk to Alex or Gil. No time either.

My uniform is folded on the shelf above my locker. Before I grab it, I rub my name-plate for luck.

Coach comes in as I’m tying my cleats. Everyone quiets down. We wait for Coach’s usual patter and last-minute instructions. But today he doesn’t say a word.

He takes a good long look at each one of us in our Lancers uniforms. He clears his throat. All he says is, “You lads know why you’re here. Make me proud.”

Alex and Gil and I look at each other and give a little nod.

“Let’s do it!” I say.

And we’re on our feet chanting, “Championship! ChampionSHIP! CHAMPIONSHIP!”

Chapter Thirty-One

I take my position on the field, bouncing on my toes. Jump up a few times. Loose. Limber. My breath comes out in nervous puffs.

The game. Focus on the game. Teamwork.

Win. We have to win. I close my eyes. But win or lose, I lose.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my nerves.

If I have to lose, I’ll do it with my head high.

I check over my shoulder. Alex is nervous too. He sidesteps right, tags the post. Sidesteps left and does the same. He leaps up to touch the crossbar. Adjusts his gloves.

Then he looks at me and shows me a clenched fist.
Let’s do this
.

I hold up my fist in answer. And all around me, our teammates do the same.

Port Peterson wants revenge after the 4–0 smackdown. They’re dishing out the blood and bruises to prove it.

They keep hitting us hard, hitting us late and hitting us dirty. Tugging our jerseys. Throwing an elbow or a fist.

We just concentrate on playing our game. They can’t keep up with our first-to play and one-touch passes.

Especially my buddy number 10. He barely gets the ball. When he does, I steal it back and laugh. The more I laugh, the madder he gets. And the worse he plays.

He tries to avoid me and rams into our defense. They intercept him, box him in. No one’s fooled by his fancy footwork.

It makes him crazy.

I laugh to myself.
We know just how to shut you down
. We practised all season on Gil.

Gil uses his size as well as his skill to take the hard hits for the offense. No matter how hard they try to trip him up or push him off the ball, he gives it right back.

Twenty minutes in, he barrels through their defense and sets up Julio for a pretty little tap-in. Julio times his run perfectly, but he’s mugged at the edge of the six. He gets up limping but shakes it off.

Five minutes later, Gil finds him again and runs in for a cross. But the cross never comes. Their defender takes out Julio’s legs in a late tackle, and Coach and the trainer have to carry him off.

We all get mad, but Gil gets even. The referee awards a penalty shot. Gil places the ball on the penalty spot. Their keeper tries to read which way he’ll shoot. But he’s wasting his time. Gil scores before he can move. No windup, just a bullet into the corner.

I pump my fist.

But there’s no guarantee we can hold a 1–0 lead. Especially after two of our defenders get injured, one after the other, just before halftime. We’ve used up all three substitutions, and our bench looks like a hospital ward.

We need to keep scoring. We also need to stop number 10.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I’m so caught up in the game, I forget about Luka. At halftime, my phone flashes a reminder. I grab it and head for the bathroom.

Luka has sent me a selfie of him, Mom and Dad all giving a big thumbs-up from the stands. Real subtle.

call me

I dial his number. It only rings once. He starts talking right away.

“So nice sitting here with your parents. We talked about so many things. Your mama, Janis. Such a fine woman.”

I hold my breath.

He keeps going. Each slow word digs deeper. And suddenly I have no breath to hold.

“Pity she works such long hours. She comes home so late. Nice house. Good neighborhood. But crime happens everywhere. Even on Carling Road. Must be what—six blocks from the bus stop to your door?”

“Shut up!”

“Or your brother…”

“Shut up!”

“The game is not going well. Don’t disappoint me, Jack Attack.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Port Peterson is starting to wear us down in the back.

The new defenders struggle with the rough stuff. Whenever they back off, number 10 sneaks in for a dangerous shot on net. Alex has stopped every one. So far.

One shot could turn the tide of the game. We need to shut down number 10, and we need to score again. So how do I play it? I’m torn.

Danny goes down at the seventy-five-minute mark, his nose gushing blood.

The trainer takes a look. “Pretty sure it’s broken.” He holds a pad against Danny’s nose to soak up the blood.

“I can play, Coach,” says Danny in a muffled voice.

“No, lad. You can’t.”

“But we don’t have any more subs!” he protests as they lead him to the bench. “Don’t take me out, Coach. We can’t play a man short for fifteen minutes!”

That decides it. “Don’t worry, Danny!” I shout. “I got this.” I drop back to shore up our defense.

They keep pounding us. We keep holding them off. But we’re not getting any chances ourselves.

And we’re slowing down. I’m slowing down.

The ball goes out for a corner, and I line up with Alex. “Can’t be much longer.”

“Couple minutes,” he says.

They’re desperate to tie it up. The corner sails in, and Alex leaps up to pick it out
of the air. While he’s airborne and unprotected, number 10 elbows him in the head.

Alex hits the ground, and the ball jars loose. He scrambles for it on hands and knees. As he pulls it in, number 10 kicks it out of his hands and into the net. The whistle blows.

Tie game.

Gil shouts, “Aren’t you going to call that, ref?”

Julio hustles him away.

Alex gets up, rubbing his head.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Go!”

I grab the ball and go back to mid. We need that goal. Now. We’ll never make it through thirty minutes of extra time. Not with ten men.

I bring the ball up the left. I’m just past half when number 10 comes at me, studs up. It should’ve been his second yellow, but it’s just a free kick.

Gil trots back. He leans in and whispers, “You and me. Teamwork. Let’s show ’em all.”

I nod. “Deal.”

And that’s how we score the prettiest goal of the game.

I set up the free kick just inside the touchline, making sure the ball sits just right. Gil lines up with the defenders, about thirty yards out.

“Time, ref?”

He shakes his head.

One chance. We’ve got one chance.

I send a long hard ball into the eighteen-yard box.

Come on, Gil.

He times his run perfectly. He fakes out his defender and races for the box.

The keeper sprints off his line. They’re all closing in.

The ball’s coming down, but he’s not quite there.

Come on, Gil. Hit the gas.

He launches himself headfirst at the ball. G.I. Joe to the rescue!

He head-chips it over the keeper, then belly flops onto the turf. The ball sails in, just like van Persie’s Flying Dutchman goal!

Then it’s over. We did it! We won!

Gil’s on his feet already, buzzing around in circles with his arms out like a fighter jet. I run after him, laughing and shouting, “That was brilliant! The craziest thing I ever saw!”

He grins at me and pumps his fist in the air. The team mobs us. Guys are doing chest bumps, backflips and the best collection of bad dance moves since disco died.

I glance at the stands. Mom and Dad are making their way to the field.

Luka hasn’t moved. I feel him glaring at me through his mirrored shades. When he’s sure I’m looking, he aims a finger gun.
Bam, bam.

I start to shiver. Alex notices first, then Gil.

I give them a shaky smile. “Tell me you have a kick-ass plan B.”

The celebration carries on around us. Pictures and hugs and applause. Handshakes from the league and the club. Speeches. Alex accepts the big golden trophy and waves us all in to hold it up. Laughter when
it nearly falls on our heads. And each time I look, Luka’s still sitting there on his phone.