Betting Game (2 page)
“No!” He’s holding his sides now and gasping for breath. “I—I surrender.”
I wag a finger at him. “Luck is for suckers. This takes skill.”
He snorts. “Skill. Right!”
“I would be so rich if I could play for money instead of chores.”
Alex snorts again.
“Don’t believe me? Then tell me. How many weeks did I have dish duty last season?” I cup a hand to my ear. “That’s right. Zero!”
“That just means I suck.” Alex starts laughing again.
I grin. “You definitely suck. You pick players with broken legs.”
Alex is laughing too hard to argue. “Yup.”
“But I beat everyone. Thousands of people.” I raise my arms like a prizefighter. “I am the fantasy soccer king! And that’s why I will be managing Manchester United in ten years, bro. And why you will still be washing my dishes.”
We head to bed around ten thirty, but I’m so pumped I can’t fall asleep. Mom comes in around eleven and tiptoes in to check on us. Then the phone rings. She hurries to her room to pick it up. I can tell by the edge in her voice that it’s Dad.
“Of course they’re not up, Rick. Look at the time…We were all out. The boys had a game, and I had to work late…No, I don’t know if they won…You should’ve asked before you bought the tickets. That’s a school night.”
Tickets? Must be a Lancers game!
“I know. But soccer already takes up a lot of their time. They need to study. Universities look at their grade-eleven marks.”
Then she sighs.
“All right. I’ll ask them…No, not now. In the morning.”
She knows we’ll say yes. Before Mom and Dad split up, we had season tickets. Now we only go when Dad feels guilty.
“I wish you’d just pay your child support instead of buying tickets. The boys need… Of course. A client gave them to you.”
She sighs again. I know what that means.
“I don’t want to get into it, Rick, okay?… Yeah, I’ll tell them.”
“Psst, Alex! You awake?” I throw a balled-up sock across the room, and it bounces off Alex’s head.
“Huh? What?”
“That was Dad. I think he scored Lancers tickets.”
“Mmm…”
I hope it’s the Portland game.
I was right about the tickets. And the team.
I wait for Dad at our usual spot outside the south gate. Fans flow around me, shouting, singing and sounding horns. A familiar whistle cuts through the noise, and I find Dad in the sea of red shirts and waving flags. It takes us a while to shuffle through the crowds at the gate and work our way up the ramps. Enough time for me to tell Dad about our game and explain the shiner.
“Where are the tickets?” I raise my voice over the buzz.
“Same as always,” Dad says. “Halfway up. Corner of the eighteen-yard box.”
My favorite spot—high enough to see the action, close enough to watch the goals. Right where our season tickets used to be.
The stadium is almost full, and it’s still fifteen minutes to kickoff.
“Too bad Alex didn’t come,” says Dad. “He’s going to miss a great game.”
“Too much homework.”
“How about you?”
“No homework in co-op.” I grin.
“Right! You’re working with the Lancers. I bet your coach pulled strings for that! What have they got you doing? Taping up ankles?”
“Come on, Dad—I’m seventeen. I can’t treat anyone. But I get to watch everything.”
“Watch?”
“That’s what co-op is for. I’ve learned so much already. How to treat injuries. How to recover. How to avoid getting reinjured. And I—”
“Well, I guess it’s a step up from the boot room. Two steps up from carrying towels.”
If he only knew. Laying out towels and supplies is mostly what I do in co-op. Plus filing and setting up equipment.
“There’s nothing wrong with carrying towels, Dad. Everyone in the academy has chores.”
He sniffs. “Like cleaning muddy soccer cleats?”
“You can learn a lot by looking at cleats. That’s another thing the physios taught me.”
Dad shakes his head. “I still can’t believe they make you work for free.”
“We play for free. You’d still be paying for soccer if we played rep.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Give this to your mom.” He hands me a fat envelope with money in it. “Tell her I’m sorry it’s late.”
“Sure.” Talking to him is like kicking a soccer ball against a wall.
I know something that’ll grab his attention. The fantasy soccer league standings.
“Well, look at that!” He thumbs through my team. “Good picks! So tell me, who’s winning tonight?”
“The Lancers.”
“Is that loyalty talking?”
“Nope. They’ll cream Portland, 2–0 or 3–0. Safe bet with Kolo out for Portland and Benson coming back for the Lancers.”
He looks up from the phone. “Benson’s suiting up?”
“Yeah. We saw him today at co-op. He’s not starting, but they’ll put him in later.”
“How do you know that?”
“I told you. I heard them say it.”
“Is that right?” Dad’s wearing a smug smile. “Good enough for me then.”
A few minutes later, he waves to someone in the stands. “Hey, Luka! Luka!”
A young guy in khakis and mirrored shades comes over. Very
GQ
. The kind of guy who gets top marks from girls and their parents.
“Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Rick. Good to see you. I thought you’d be here.”
There’s something European about his voice.
“I have interesting news for you. Sit with us. We have an extra seat.”
“Maybe until the game starts. You know me—I like to watch from the rail.” He glances over at me. “This must be one of your hotshot soccer players.”
Dad sticks out his chest. “That’s right. Pride of the Lancers.” I get a warm feeling inside.
Luka reaches over to shake my hand. He grips it hard. “So. Are you Jack? Or Alex?”
“Jack. Nice to meet you.”
I move over a seat. He edges past Dad and sits between us.
He points a finger at me. “The left back, yes?”
“That’s right.” Huh. I guess Dad listens more than I thought. “Alex couldn’t come. Too much homework.”
“But not you?” Luka gives a half smile. “Rick said you were smart.”
He did? I lean back in my seat, trying to look cool. “I’m in co-op. With the Lancers physio team.”
“Really! You work with the first team?”
“Since February.”
“Lucky you!” He leans forward. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“You sure? No one ever wants to talk and rehab plans. At least, not for long.”
“I do. That’s what I want to study—sports medicine or physiotherapy.”
I look at Luka again and dial down his age. He can’t be much older than I am. And he’s actually interested!
“Well, there’s way more to it than I realized.” I explain how closely the physios and trainers work with the coaching staff to get a player back on the field.
“They’re like a team too.”
“Exactly!”
“Is it helpful that you play soccer?” he asks.
“Oh, 100 percent. Knowing the game is key. So is knowing the team. But I’ve been
studying all that for years. I keep stats on the players and the teams. I watch the coaches too. You know, when they sub in players and who they play.”
“Hmm. Sounds complicated. But it works?”
Dad pipes in. “Does it work? Show him your fantasy standings, Jack.”
“Okay. But it’s not easy to see on my phone. The screen’s bashed up.” I’m amazed it still turns on, actually. It’s practically an antique.
“Here, use mine.” Luka hands me his phone, and I pull up the fantasy league.
I point to my name.
“That’s you? You’re Jack Attack?”
“The one and only.”
“What did I tell you? Smart as they come.” Dad reaches over and punches my shoulder. “So, Luka, what’s the spread on tonight’s game?”
“Lancers by two.”
“Good. Put me down for a hundred on the Lancers.”
Luka’s eyebrows go up. “That’s an interesting wager.”
“Jack’s advice, actually.”
A hundred bucks? On my advice? Cool!
Wait, what advice?
“He says Benson’s back in form. Tell him, Jack.”
“Dad!” I give him a dirty look.
He just holds up his hands. “What? That’s what you told me.”
“Not so you could spread it around.”
Luka sounds confused. “Spread what around, Rick?”
“They’re putting Benson in.”
Luka’s mouth opens, but the loudspeaker drowns him out. The players file out, and the fans rock the stadium.
We rise for the national anthem. The music fills me here like it never does at school. I stand tall and straighten my shoulders.
I’m part of this club. One day it could be me down there.
My
name the crowds shout.
My
face on the Jumbotron.
Stamping feet, whistles and cheers drown out the last notes and shake the stands. I feel it rumble in my feet. On my skin. The wave of sound is so dense, I could crowd-surf on it. This is why Alex fills his fantasy roster with Lancers. Even the broken ones.
A few minutes into the game, Dad goes for a beer.
Luka leans over. “So. You really think Benson will play?”
“He’s dressed, isn’t he?”
“He’s dressed for every game.”
“You watch. He’ll sub on in the second half.”
He weighs my words with a half smile. “If he plays, he could change the game.”
He pauses for a moment. “So. How much did you bet on the game?”
“Me? I can’t bet.”
“Depends on who you know.” He looks at me over his shades. “You know me.”
I drop my voice. “You’d place a bet for me?”
“Sure. How much?”
“Twenty.” I dig out two wrinkled tens, my lunch money for the week. I’ll be eating peanut butter sandwiches if I lose.
He makes a face. “Oh, Jack Attack. Nickels and dimes. Fat news like that, I’m betting $1,000.”
A thousand? My face burns. Luka must think I’m an idiot.
I pat my pockets for more and hear a crackle of paper. Now that’s what I call luck!
He’s already on his cell. “Yes, $1,000 on the Lancers by two. Oh, and twenty—”
“Wait!” I check over my shoulder. Dad’s nowhere in sight. “Make it fifty.”
He nods his approval.
“Make that fifty on—” He stops.
“Hang on,” he tells the guy on the phone. He cocks his head. “You have fifty, Jack Attack?”
Have I got fifty? His opinion of me goes up at least three grand when I riffle through the crisp bills in the envelope. “As long as you can change a hundred.”
The half smile’s back. He puts the phone to his mouth again. “Yes. Fifty on the Lancers.”
I stretch out my legs and try to look cool. But it’s not easy. I feel like jumping or shouting. Or telling someone!
A few minutes later, his phone rings. He looks at the number. “I have to take this.” He gives an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry. It’s business. But I’ll be back.” He stands up and heads up the stairs.
He passes Dad on his way back. Dad toasts him with his beer, and Luka nods.
“Nice guy, eh?” Dad says.
That’s just what I’m starting to think.
My first real bet. It bumps the game up to a whole new level. Like watching a movie on
IMAX instead of a laptop. Or hearing your favorite band live. No wonder people bet on sports.
By the end of the half, I’m sitting on the edge of my seat. Still no score.
What if I’m wrong? I lose fifty bucks. Dad’s down a hundred. And Luka—he bet a thousand!
Benson will fix it. He makes everyone better.
Just put him on and it’ll be okay.
Put him on soon.
It doesn’t seem to bother Dad a bit. He goes for another beer.
It doesn’t seem to bother Luka either. A few minutes later, he slides into the seat beside me with pizza slices and pop for both of us. He doesn’t ask about Benson. Just, “Pepsi or 7-Up?” Then he asks how I got so good at fantasy soccer.
“Not asking for secrets. Just curious,” he says.
“Alex thinks it’s just luck, but it’s not. I have a system. You know, statistics and probability. I keep track of playing minutes,
head-to-head records, player stats. All on spreadsheets. There are too many variables to be right 100 percent of the time, but if you weight them—”
“Enough! I believe you!” Luka laughs and holds up his hands. “I knew you were a smart one. Not everyone bets with their brains. People count on hunches, birthdays, chance. That’s fine for lottery tickets. But if I put money on a game, I want more than luck on my side.”
“That’s what I say. Luck is for losers.”
“You know, if you bet real money, you’d be rich.” He cocks his head. “I could set you up with an account. You could log in, check the odds, place bets.”
“Really?” My mind starts spinning. I could save up for school.
And then I wince. Five bucks here and there, no problem. But online betting? “I don’t know. My parents would kill me.”
“Who will tell your parents? Not me. Not you.”
I wouldn’t even tell Alex. He’d flip.
“What’s it cost?”
“Nothing if you win.”
“It’s legal?”
“Not in Canada. But it’s on the Internet, so it’s all good. It must be okay—your dad has an account.”
Luka hands me his phone. “I’ll tell you what. Give me your number. I’ll set up an account. You want to use it? Great. I’ll give you my number too. You want to talk soccer or sports medicine, call me.”
He chuckles when he sees my phone. Cracks crisscross the screen. A chunk the size of a nickel is missing.
“Call 9-1-1, Jack Attack. Somebody shot your phone.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty pathetic.” I give an embarrassed laugh. “Here. Let me do it.”
The second half of the game is as tense as the first. Where’s Benson anyway?
They sub him on at the sixty-minute mark. Finally. Now I can breathe again. “Right on schedule.”
Luka’s at the rail. Dad flashes him a told-you-so look and gets a big thumbs-up in return.
Three minutes later, we jump to our feet.
Goal!
Benson scores the first point of the game, bending in a free kick that just kisses the crossbar.
The replay on the Jumbotron shows Benson pumping his fists in the air and getting mobbed by half the team.
With four minutes left, he picks up the ball at half. He snakes down the line, dodging two defenders, and sends in a beautiful cross.
Goal!!
The Jumbotron flashes,
He’s baaack!