The Edge (4 page)

‘Drink up,’ the guy said, handing out bottles and tossing one to Jake. ‘It’ll help keep the fires burning.’ He didn’t look like a trainer, and as the other players stood around, or sat on the grass drinking, he spoke quickly with a salesman’s patter. ‘Nothing like Olympic Edge to make you the best you can be. Just watch, in six months’ time everyone will be hollering for this stuff.’

Jake unscrewed the cap, and pretended to take a sip. Even the smell of it nauseated him. He made sure no one was watching, and tipped the drink away on to a dry patch of ground.

‘My name’s Phillips,’ the suited man said. ‘Edgar Phillips. Marketing director for LGE. Fuelling the future of sport.’

The slogan was almost as sickening to Jake as their product – which everyone else seemed to be really enjoying.

‘I’m not just here as the waterboy,’ Phillips said. ‘I’ve come
to give you guys the lowdown on our fast-track scheme. LGE needs a few select athletes to serve as brand ambassadors –’ he used air quotes around the term – ‘to represent LGE to the wider world.’ Everyone was listening intently. ‘And you wouldn’t be working for free, of course,’ Phillips continued. ‘We have a number of grants – substantial grants, I might add – to fund the chosen faces. LGE can help with training expenses, equipment, access to facilities – you name it – for the lucky ones. We’ll make sure you have everything you need.’

Some of the other athletes were nodding excitedly, and even Jake found he was interested now. Was there a chance this guy could help him turn pro? It seemed too good to be true.

‘How much are the grants?’ Oz asked.

‘How much do you want?’ the marketing man replied. ‘The sky’s the limit, really. LGE will pay big bucks for the right person.’ He grinned again. Jake found it off-putting, and Phillips’s too-white teeth shook him out of his reverie.
Like a shark before he bites.
There was something slimy about him, the way his eyes shifted from one athlete to the next, as if weighing up their worth to the ‘brand’. Jake didn’t trust him. Not one bit.

Jake decided he was only here to play football.

After the break, Garcia finally divided them into two groups for a practice match. There were no goalkeepers on the camp – not as much marketing potential, Jake supposed – so the coach picked a couple of players to stand between the sticks. Jake half-expected to get chosen through sheer spite, but it was Rafe and a young Saudi called Jamal.

Everyone seemed a little tense, Jake included. The stuff up till now had been the preliminaries. This was the real deal, the chance to impress. And, of course, the possibility of being picked for the big match against the US team.

Jake was glad of his shin pads. Five minutes in, and he was being kicked about every time he got the ball. Garcia was refereeing, and Jake was pretty sure the coach would only blow his whistle if someone punched Jake in the face. Maybe not even then. Oz and his goons were the worst, but even some of the others, guys Jake had thought friendly, seemed to want to get a few kicks in too.

But it wasn’t just Jake – players all over the pitch were getting clattered. Seb and an Ivorian player, Benoit, got into a pushing match on the halfway line.

‘Take it easy!’ shouted Garcia. ‘We want to get to the end of camp without any injuries.’

Jake picked up a pass near the halfway line, taking the ball away from another midfielder. He exchanged a one-two with
Seb, who was tight on the wing, and got the ball back thirty metres out. Taking in the field with a sweep of his eyes, he saw a Spanish player called Miguel making a run from midfield, screaming for the pass, but Jake had space. He brought the ball on to his favoured right foot, a couple of metres nearer, and eyed the top corner of the goal. It was ambitious, but nothing ventured . . .

Jake swung his foot through the ball, giving it some inward spin. A normal-sized keeper would have struggled to get across in time. Jamal had no chance. Jake waited to see the net balloon, but suddenly his legs went from underneath him, and he hit the ground, completely winded.

The rest of the team were cheering the goal. Jake rolled over, trying to get his breath, and saw a pair of distinctive silver boots. Oz Ellman.

‘Watch it!’ said Jake.

Oz spat on to the turf – centimetres from Jake’s face. ‘If you can’t hack
real
football, then have a kickabout in your backyard with Daddy.’

It took everything Jake had not to act out the scene in his head – him jumping up and slamming a straight right into Oz’s jaw. But the loudmouth Australian was already jogging over to his cronies. Garcia, who was doing a good impression of a blind referee, not having seen Oz’s red-card-worthy challenge,
gestured for the game to continue. Jake was annoyed when he failed to control a long looping pass on his chest. It bounced to Tanaka, a Japanese player, who stroked a through ball up to Oz. Jake couldn’t deny Oz was skilled. He outwitted the first defender with a neat stepover, then charged the box. Jake sprinted after him. Oz went round another defender, but the ball got caught up between his feet. It gave Jake time to draw level. As the Australian was righting himself, Jake went in shoulder first, sending him tumbling. It was a fair challenge.

Well, borderline.

Oz was up in a flash, and Jake knew what was coming. When Oz shoved him hard with both hands in the chest, Jake braced himself and shoved back, getting a handful of Oz’s collar.

Oz slipped a foot behind Jake’s and they overbalanced, toppling on to the grass. He heard the whistle going, and realised others were running in, but Jake just wanted to get the upper hand. Oz drove a fist into his ribs. Jake barely felt it. His blood was pounding.

‘That’s
enough!’
shouted Garcia. Jake felt himself yanked off Oz and dragged back out of the way. Oz, flushed in the face, was straightening his jersey where it had torn at the collar.

‘You two are an absolute disgrace!’ Garcia shouted. ‘Get off my field this minute!’

Jake knew there was no point arguing with the coach; he’d let himself down. Shame flooded into his veins, quenching the rush of adrenalin and anger. Dropping his head, he walked off the pitch.

Oz stomped to the sidelines as well, a few metres away from Jake.

‘This ain’t over,’ Oz muttered.

Jake showered, and was throwing on a shirt as the other guys finished up on the pitch. He didn’t feel like talking, so took the path towards the stadium, hoping to catch Tan practising his events.

‘Hey, Jake,’ someone called out. Garcia.

Jake kept walking, pretending not to hear.

‘Bastin, I’m talking to you.’

Jake stopped.
Here comes another lecture.

The coach jogged up to him.

‘Jake, what happened out there today was unacceptable. The whole ethos of Olympic Advantage is teamwork – helping your fellow athletes raise their game.’

Jake wanted to tell Garcia all about Oz constantly needling him, but what was the point? You had to handle some problems yourself.

‘I’m informing the camp director,’ Garcia continued.

‘Bet you’ll just love that . . .’ Jake muttered.

Garcia straightened, his eyes widening a fraction. ‘What did you say, you little jerk? You’re going to have to keep yourself in check, you hear me?’

‘Guess I’m not the only one with a temper.’ The words were out of Jake’s mouth before he could stop them.

Garcia shot a shifty glance both ways. They were hidden by a small equipment shed. Out of sight. The coach stepped forwards until his face was less than a foot from Jake’s. They were about the same height, and Jake stared him in the eye.

‘Be careful, kid,’ Garcia said. ‘One word from me, and you won’t just be heading to the locker room. You’ll be on the first flight home.’

‘I’m bigger than Dr Chow,’ Jake said. ‘Not as easy to push around.’ He shouldn’t have said it, but he hated a bully.

‘You mind your own business,’ Garcia said, stabbing Jake in the chest with a finger. ‘When I push, it’s not pretty.’

As the coach turned to walk away, Jake thought he saw a flash of Oz’s blond hair through the bushes.

Maybe they weren’t alone after all.

‘H
ow was your morning?’ Tan asked, taking a bread roll from the basket.

Jake was behind him in the canteen queue. He wasn’t all that hungry, but they’d been told to load up on carbs before the afternoon’s training sessions, so his tray was full. He helped himself to a couple of bananas.

‘It was fine,’ Jake said. No need to burden Tan with his troubles.

Tan took a couple of bottles of blue Olympic Edge from the chill cabinet. He held one up. ‘I score personal best in javelin this morning.’

‘Sounds like you’re buying the hype,’ Jake laughed, as he took a bottle of water.

‘No, I am serious,’ Tan said.

‘And how’s your knee?’ Jake whispered as they placed their trays on an empty table.

Tan’s head snapped up, his eyes panicked. ‘I tell you not to mention it!’ he hissed.

Jake, slightly taken aback, looked around. ‘No one heard. Chill out. I was only asking.’

‘Well, please do not,’ Tan mumbled.

They ate in silence. Jake fished around in his head for something to say. With all the enemies he was making, he needed as many friends as possible at the camp. He was about to ask Tan about the standard of the other decathletes when Veronika came into the canteen with Maria, another tennis player. They were wearing tennis whites – with the LGE logo, of course – and carrying large racket bags over their shoulders. Jake felt his eyebrows rise – if Veronika had been playing all morning in the thirty-degree heat, she looked very good for it. Her skin was the colour of honey, and her long hair was tied in a ponytail hanging over her shoulder.

When she saw Jake, she gave him a little wave. Her companion whispered something. Jake guessed whatever it was couldn’t have been too bad, because Veronika whispered back.

Perhaps he’d done
something
right . . .

‘Hey!’ someone shouted. ‘Back off and wait your turn!’

All heads turned to the canteen queue. Two girls were shoving each other. Carolina Tuletti, the Italian synchronised
swimmer, smashed a loaded tray from the hands of Su-Lin, a Chinese table-tennis player. Su-Lin responded by grabbing a fistful of Carolina’s hair and yanking her head down. Carolina’s hands formed a claw that raked at Su-Lin’s face.

Everyone was watching, dumbfounded, until Jake sprang up to put his body between the two screaming girls. An elbow came out of nowhere, connecting with the point of Jake’s jaw, and making his head spin. He managed to get his arms around Su-Lin and, with others helping or getting in between, they pulled the kicking, spitting girls apart. Su-Lin struggled against him. ‘Let me go! Let me at her!’

Another short fuse
, Jake thought. Clearly the spirit of competition was alive and well at Olympic Advantage.

‘We leave?’ Tan said, finishing his bottle of Riptide. ‘Very embarrassing if we get knocked out by
synchronised swimmer
!’

When he was sure that Su-Lin had calmed down, Jake released her.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, flexing his jaw.

Jake checked one of the timetables posted up around the complex and saw that there was a two-hour optional session after lunch. He had to read it twice to make sure he’d got it right.

‘Are you serious . . .
Yoga?’

Tan laughed. ‘Good for tone.’

‘I’d rather go for a run,’ Jake said. After the morning’s aborted training session, he felt he needed to burn off some energy.

They took a path back to the dorms, passing a couple of stocky guys who could have been twins. Both wore judo suits. The track ran up alongside a wooden fence two and a half metres high.

‘I wonder what’s over other side,’ Tan said.

‘Let’s take a peek.’ Jake jumped, reaching for the top, and pulled himself up to look over. He saw a field littered with archery targets. Young men and women with state-of-the-art composite bows were bracing themselves to shoot.

Tan heaved himself up beside Jake. Beyond was the rowing lake, set up with boathouses around the outside.

‘This place must cost much dollar,’ Tan said.

‘And all paid for by LGE,’ Jake replied, lowering himself back down. ‘No wonder Phillips wants to get the most out of us.’

They continued down the path, pausing at the gymnastic hall’s glass viewing panel. Jake marvelled at the tumbling athletes. One girl, with her perfectly executed flips, reminded him of a girl he’d met in Milan – Abri Kuertzen, the supermodel.

Well, supermodel-slash-diamond thief.

When they arrived at their dorm block, Jake punched the
entrance code, and led the way back along the corridor to 15B, their room on the ground floor. Security was obviously a prime concern at Olympic Advantage. Most doors were only accessible if you had the right code. There were security men and women scattered throughout the facilities, all dressed in a casual uniform of khakis and polo shirts, but still carrying handguns on their hips, as well as mace and tasers. Jake thought it was a bit over the top.

As they said polite hellos to the baseball player and sprinter who shared room 12, Jake took the key-card out of his pocket. It served as his ID, with his photo and details, but was also programmed to give him access to certain parts of the facility and, specifically, the room he shared with Tan. He was about to run it through the reader by the door handle when he saw that the door was already open. Just an inch . . .

‘That’s weird,’ he whispered. ‘Have you been back since this morning?’

Tan shook his head. ‘We call security?’

‘I can handle it,’ Jake said. He felt a prickle of fear along his spine, but shoved the door open. It clattered against the adjacent wall. There was no one inside.

But there had been.

‘Oh, no!’ Tan gasped.

Both beds had been tossed. The mattresses were on the
floor, the sheets and pillows scattered. The wardrobe doors had been opened and the contents were strewn across the room. Tan immediately went to his bedside drawer where he kept his valuables. He sighed with relief.

‘My passport and money still here,’ he said.