The Edge (5 page)

Jake checked his. Same story.

‘Someone playing trick,’ Tan said grimly.

Jake nodded. One name sprung to mind: Oz.

But why bring Tan into this as well? That seemed petty, even for an idiot like Oz. And it didn’t explain how someone had been able to enter in the first place. Jake was one hundred per cent sure he’d closed the door that morning.

Someone must have been
looking
for something.

Had they found it?

An hour later, Jake signed out at the front gate and set off at a slow jog towards the town. Tan had opted for the yoga, but Jake needed time to think about the situation with Coach Garcia. On the one hand, he wanted to succeed at Olympic Advantage, but there was no way he was going to get selected by the coach if they were at loggerheads the whole time. He wondered if he needed to swallow his pride, live with the hypocrisy, and just apologise.

The sun was beating down as Jake reached the main
street. He felt good. Running often got his thoughts in order. He passed a second-hand car dealership, and then the bar where he’d seen Garcia pestering Dr Chow. Maybe the coach was right. It wasn’t any of Jake’s business. They were just having an argument, like any couple.

Jake knew a thing or two about couples arguing. He’d been eight when his parents split, but the preceding months had been awful. Raised voices, slammed doors.

And one day, Jake came downstairs to find his dad’s car was gone . . .

Jake ran past a swanky café with tables arranged on a terrace out front. There weren’t many customers at that time of day, and one in particular caught Jake’s attention. He stopped suddenly.

The guy was sitting, sprawled on a chair, a half-finished cup of coffee on the table in front of him. His face was obscured by a newspaper, but Jake wasn’t looking at his face. He was staring at the man’s shoes. Scruffy Nikes, at least a year past their best. Most people would have been embarrassed to leave the house in them. But someone Jake knew very well insisted they were the most comfortable shoes he’d ever owned.

‘Dad?’ Jake said.

The paper dropped, and there sat Steve Bastin. Tanned and relaxed.

‘Hi, Jake,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘What are
you
doing here?’ Jake countered. ‘You said you’d keep your distance. You said you’d be up in Miami!’

‘I’m just having a drink with some old friends,’ his dad said with an innocent shrug.

A beautiful blonde woman slinked out of the café, giving Jake a strange look as she took the seat beside his dad.

‘Anna,’ Jake’s dad said, ‘meet my son, Jake.’

The blonde held out a manicured hand and Jake took it in a limp handshake.

‘Old friends?’ Jake asked his dad.

‘Well, my other friends haven’t arrived yet,’ he said. ‘They’re involved with the Olympic Advantage camp.’

Huh?
His dad had never mentioned having friends at the camp.

The sweat was cooling on Jake’s skin. There was no need to get angry – his dad had every right to sit wherever he wanted, with whomever he wanted. But his dad seemed to be lying again . . .

‘Can I have a word, Dad?’ he said. He frowned at Anna. ‘In private.’

‘Sure,’ said his dad, standing up and walking with Jake under the shade of a palm tree. ‘What is it?’

‘Dad, you remember when I was first approached for the
camp, back in Milan?’ His dad nodded. ‘Well, I just wanted to ask: did you have anything to do with it? Pull any strings?’

His dad shook his head, but looked Jake in the eye. ‘Nothing at all, Jake.’

‘You promise?’

‘I swear on my FA Cup Winner’s Medal,’ his dad said. ‘You’re here on your own merit.’

Jake felt in his gut that his dad was telling the truth. Since he’d found out about his dad’s secret life as an MI6 spy, Jake had got pretty good at telling when he was lying. He smiled, and nodded over his dad’s shoulder. ‘I’ll let you get back to your “coffee”.’

His dad slapped him on the back, wished him good luck at the camp and Jake continued on his run, feeling a fresh sense of determination. He deserved to be here.

Now he just had to prove it to the others.

When Jake arrived back at the camp, the security guys seemed more uptight than usual. He was held at the gate while a phone call was made.

‘What’s the matter?’ Jake asked one of the female guards.

‘We’re finding that out,’ she replied.

A few minutes later, one of the complex buggies pulled up. Bruce Krantz stepped out, and beckoned Jake over.
Much to Jake’s annoyance, two security guards flanked him all the way.

‘What’s going on?’ Jake asked. ‘Why am I being treated like a criminal?’

Krantz’s face was grave. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Out for a run,’ Jake said. ‘No law against that, is there?’

‘Less lip,’ said one of the guards, bristling.

The director put up a hand to calm him down. ‘Have you seen Coach Garcia?’

‘Not since practice this morning,’ Jake said. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘It might be nothing,’ Krantz said, though his face suggested anything but. ‘We’re struggling to get hold of him. He normally answers his phone straight away.’

‘Yeah, so?’ Jake shrugged.

‘You had an altercation with Coach Garcia earlier, didn’t you?’ the guard asked.

‘Tempers flared on the pitch, that’s all. That happens in football,’ Jake said.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not talking about the practice. Afterwards, you two were seen arguing.’

Damn Oz! He must have told security.

‘That was just a chat,’ Jake said. ‘He was telling me how I could lose my marker in the box. I’m sure he’ll show up.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Krantz said. ‘There won’t be any official practice this afternoon, though. We’ve lined up some circuits for you guys. Good to see you’re getting some exercise anyway.’

As Jake walked back to his room, he felt a ball of worry building in his stomach. If Oz had told security, he’d have told everyone else as well. Jake could handle one or two people turning against him, but not the whole squad. And with Otto’s death, and whoever had trashed their room, this fortnight in the sunshine was turning pretty dark. Jake wasn’t sure yet, but he was beginning to think that there might be something nasty going on at Olympic Advantage.

He hoped Garcia showed up soon.

J
ake woke early the next morning, feeling jumpy about the day ahead. He’d spent the evening before watching a fencing competition and trying clear his mind, but it hadn’t worked. Plus he felt bad about lying to Dr Chow. During the daily tests with her, she’d asked how much of the Olympic Edge he was consuming, and he’d been honest, saying that he didn’t like it. She’d suggested one of the other flavours available, so Jake had said he’d give it a try. That ‘try’ had consisted of sniffing one of the other bottles and then pouring it down the sink.

Tan was buzzing at breakfast. He said he’d now set personal records in nine of his ten events, and beat his hundred-metre PB by half a second. Olympic Advantage was bringing out the best in Tan. Maybe there was something to that horrible drink.

All I want is one good clean game without all the animosity, never mind setting records
, Jake thought.

Jake couldn’t find his kit bag afterwards, even though he
was sure he’d left it near the entrance to the canteen. Tan helped him look for it, talking the whole time, and they found it on the opposite side of the canteen under one of the tables. It seemed a petty prank, even for Oz.

So Jake ended up being five minutes late for practice. All the players were in a huddle as he sprinted to join them. He guessed that Coach Garcia had shown up after all. He dreaded the lecture that was sure to come . . . Coach Garcia didn’t need another reason to dislike him.

Today
, Jake promised himself,
there’ll be no talking back, and I’ll control my temper whatever the provocation. I am going to give it all, be a model player.

As the huddle broke, Jake skidded to a halt. It wasn’t Pedro Garcia in the middle.

It was his father.

‘OK, boys, just a bit of light jogging to warm up,’ he shouted. ‘Twice round the pitch.’

Jake was speechless. As the players streamed past, Oz leant in close.

‘What a
surprise
!’ he said. ‘Now we know how you got a place – your dad offered his services. You must be really proud, Baby Bastin.’

When the others were finally out of earshot, Jake rounded on his dad.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Dad?’

‘Look, Jake, I can explain –’

‘Just for once I’d like to be something other than the great Steve Bastin’s son!’

Jake’s dad lifted his palms. ‘Listen, I met up with Bruce Krantz yesterday. He is the old friend I was talking about. It was supposed to just be a catch-up, but he called this morning and asked me to step in as coach.’

‘Just like that?’ Jake asked sarcastically.

‘I promise,’ his dad said. ‘If I hadn’t accepted, they’d have had to cancel the football part of the programme. You’d all have been sent home. Jake, I only did it because I know how much this means to you.’

‘But . . .’ Jake began, but what did it matter if his dad was telling the truth? All the taunts, the sly digs, the insinuations of nepotism . . . they were about to get a hundred times worse.

‘You’d better warm up too,’ his dad said. ‘Otherwise, I’m going to get accused of favouritism.’

Jake turned and sprinted to catch up with others. ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he muttered.

Jake tried to concentrate on his game, not the new coach. They split into different teams from the day before, so Oz and Jake were actually partnered up front. Problem was they
weren’t exactly on the same wavelength in a Gerrard-and-Torres style. They made the same off-the-ball runs, chased the same through passes, and twice collided mid-air trying to head the ball goalwards. The second time, as he lay on the ground after a clash of heads, Oz offered a hand to help him up. Jake took it, only to feel Oz’s fingernails dig into the back of his hand, nearly drawing blood.

But it wasn’t only Oz. Jake felt the whole squad was frustrated and angry. There were dangerous high tackles flying all over the field, and sliding challenges with studs raised. However much his dad blew the whistle, or cautioned players to be less aggressive, it didn’t seem to calm them down. Jake got several elbows in the ribs during set pieces, and another player’s shirt was torn when he was down. The player who’d raked him with studs claimed it was an accident, but from Jake’s angle, seeing the guy’s angry face, it had looked deliberate.

By half-time, several players were limping. The score was 3–0 to the opposition and the rest of Jake’s team were getting fed up.

‘Come on, Jake,’ Manny said. ‘Can’t you work harder? We’re getting embarrassed out there.’

‘Strikers are all the same,’ said another. ‘Only interested in themselves.’

Oz pushed Manny out of the way. ‘If you guys could string two passes together, we might get back into it. Anyway, Bastin needn’t worry. He could play like a drunk and he’ll still get picked for the big game.’

‘No doubt,’ Rafe said. ‘Must be good to have your dad on the selectors’ committee.’

Jake let it pass, but inside he was more upset than angry. Rafe had been his mate the day before, but now he seemed to be siding with the pack. Jake managed to get a single goal in the second half, but so did the other team. It finished 4–1 at the final whistle, and Jake was glad to get off the pitch without getting seriously hurt.

The afternoon session was no better. More of the same. Tempers flaring. Eleven players all competing against each other as well as the opposite team. They were all battered and bruised after the ‘friendly’ game. Afterwards he walked off his stiffness by heading over to the tennis courts. He spotted Veronika’s blonde hair from a hundred metres off. She and her friend from the canteen were on the grass courts, practising their serves from opposite ends.

Jake, who was a pretty keen player himself, saw straight away that he wouldn’t stand a chance against athletes of this calibre. Veronika’s first serve was ferocious. The electronic speedometer at the side of the court didn’t dip below ninety
miles per hour. Watching from the edge of the court, the ball was a blur. Facing it head-on, Jake wondered if he’d see it at all.

Veronika’s coach – whom Jake recognised as a Wimbledon runner-up from the seventies, Sven Arjensen – called out encouragement to her each time the ball went in, which it did eight times out of ten.

Jake had just got settled on a grass bank when the session ended. Veronika stowed her racket and took a long drink of Olympic Edge Magma. She noticed Jake, and then her eyes flicked off to the left. He tracked her line of sight and saw the same dark 4x4 parked at the top of the verge. If there was anyone inside, the tinted windows were hiding them.

He expected Veronika to walk the other way, but instead she came through the wire-mesh wall that surrounded the court and straight up the bank towards him.

‘You want to get out of here for a while?’ she said casually.

‘Er, sure,’ Jake said, wondering if this was the same girl who’d told him to keep his distance previously.

Veronika’s eyes flitted to the 4x4 again.

‘Come on, then,’ she said quickly. ‘My car’s down near the administration buildings.’

‘You have a car,
here
?’ He suddenly felt embarrassed – he
wasn’t even old enough to drive in the UK, but, of course, Americans could learn at sixteen.

‘It’s nothing special,’ she said.

They walked towards the front gates where the main offices were. Jake offered to carry her racket bag, but she said no and picked up her pace. She seemed to want to get away as soon as possible.

‘Who are those guys in the car?’ Jake asked.

‘Just some rich fans.’ Veronika laughed, but it was hollow.

‘What, like stalkers?’ Jake said. ‘You should tell Mr Krantz. Security will get rid of them.’

‘It’s nothing I can’t handle,’ Veronika said.

Jake knew she was hiding something, but he didn’t push it.

At the car park, Veronika pulled out a set of keys. A beep sounded and the brake lights on an ice-blue metallic Porsche Boxster flashed for a second.