Betting Game (6 page)
Luka and I have a long conversation about soccer injuries on the way to the
DC
game.
He asks really good questions. How long do injuries usually sideline a player? The pulled hammy, for example. How do we know a player’s ready to come back? Who makes those decisions? I can tell he’s impressed by how much I know.
We talk right through the game. The Lancers beat the spread, just like I said.
“Another win, Jack Attack,” Luka says on the way to the car.
“Yup.” I kick an imaginary free kick. “Counting tonight, I’m five for five.”
Before we pull away, Luka counts out what he owes me.
“Not bad for your first month, Jack Attack.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “Not bad at all.”
I pull out the cash when I get home and start spending it in my head. This is too cool!
Then I count the games in the Lancers schedule. Even at a hundred dollars a pop, I could make four grand by the end of the season. Luka’s right. Not bad at all.
All the extra hours on the field and in the gym are paying off. I’ve got jets on my feet. New moves in my playbook. I’ve never been fitter. And it shows.
I got the ball rolling with Danny and Julio. Now it’s time to bring in the rest of the team. I work with new partners at every practice, pumping up their confidence, figuring out how to get them the ball, talking it over after.
It comes together, bit by bit. Before long, we kick serious butt. We start to hold our shape again and score more goals. It’s a team effort.
Well, mostly. No point getting Gil involved. He’s not a team player, on the field or off. He hardly says a word to anyone but Alex. Even then, Alex does most of the talking.
Alex is G.I. Joe’s new
BFF
. They eat together, hang out together, sit on the bus together.
All the stuff my brother used to do with me.
I’ve got more important things to do. I watch game films in my spare time for fresh ideas. Our games and first-team games, as well as the best teams in history. Man U with van der Sar between the pipes. Barca. Real Madrid. Bayern Munich.
I study how soccer’s best playmakers get the job done. I take apart their attacks, replaying them again and again. I want to think like Fàbregas. Challenge like Yaya
Touré. Sometimes Coach watches with me. I ask him questions, and he always asks a few of his own. He adds names to my watch list too—Xavi, Iniesta and Pirlo.
But today he has more on his mind than game films. He pulls up a chair and sits across from me.
“You said you were looking for answers last month. Well, lad, my eye’s been on you ever since. I’ve never seen you put forth so much effort. You’re not just playing faster. You’re playing smarter.”
“Thanks, Coach. I’m doing my best.” I smile to myself. He never misses a thing.
“It shows. Your initiative on the attack is changing how we play. I like it. I’d like to bump you up to mid sometimes. Give you better opportunities to score. What do you think?”
“That would be great!” I’d call the shots, right in the heart of the game.
He purses his lips for a moment. “You know, I always thought you held back a wee bit with Jonesy. But you’ve really stepped it
up since he left. You’re bringing the other lads along for the ride too. That kind of team leadership will get us to the playoffs. It might get you to first team someday. Or to coach.”
I should be proud, but I feel a little guilty. I didn’t come up with this plan because Jonesy left. Not exactly.
“However…”
Uh-oh.
“Whatever’s between you and Gil”—Coach leans forward—“work it out. We’re fighting two other teams for those playoff spots. Every win counts. Maybe every goal.” He wags his finger at me. “And every player too. So keep your personal issues off the pitch and off the scoreboard.”
I’ll do my best, but Coach doesn’t understand how personal it is. I can’t leave Gil at the field. Alex brings him home.
Not physically. Not yet anyway. But he talks about him. Asks me to hang out with them. Tells me I should be
nicer
.
Nicer. Like he’s my mother. Like
I’m
the bad guy.
Playing the good captain makes him suck as a brother. So yeah. It’s personal.
Good thing my workouts keep me so busy.
Good thing I met Luka.
Luka says I have the longest winning streak he’s seen in months—seven straight games.
“Impressive, Jack Attack. Must be your system.”
So then what do I do? Something stupid.
I slap down $250 on the next game instead of my usual $100. A one-point spread against Vancouver seemed like such a smart idea at the time.
Not anymore. Not when the full-time score is 0–0.
Stupid Lancers. You couldn’t score one goal? I slam the laptop closed and kick the wall. I should kick myself instead.
Mom calls up. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just, uh, dropped something.”
Yeah—$275, with the juice. That’s $75 more than I won this month.
Not good! I check my wallet, but all I can scrape together is twenty bucks. The $350 I won in April is long gone. How will I pay Luka next week? What if I can’t?
The only game left this month is Seattle, and the spread sucks. I’m not sure it’s worth the gamble.
Luka’s not sure either. When we go for coffee the next day, he says, “So. You think the Lancers will take Seattle?”
I breathe in the steam that rises from my coffee before answering. “Well, the Lancers have won the last four matchups. Our treatment room’s pretty empty, so everyone’s healthy…”
“But…”
“But the Sounders are top of the table.”
“They’ve dropped two of their last three games.”
“That’s true.”
He leans forward. “So you think the Lancers will beat them.”
“We have before. I just don’t think we will this time.”
“Then you’ll take the Sounders?”
I shake my head slowly. “Nope. I already made one dumb choice this month. Look where it got me. So unless you want to depend on luck…”
“Luck? That’s the best you can do?” One of Luka’s eyebrows goes up. “I’ll get a lottery ticket.”
We sip our coffee in silence. I rub a smudge off my phone with one thumb and flick a look at Luka. I’m going to have to tell him.
“So, Luka, this month. Between Vancouver and Seattle. Well, I’m a little short.”
He puts down his cup. “It happens.”
“It does?”
“Sure.”
I wish I could see his eyes through his shades. “What happens…exactly, if I can’t pay you Monday?”
He shrugs. “You pay interest. Ten percent. Like juice.”
That’s a relief.
He must’ve heard me thinking. “Ten percent. Daily. You don’t want to get behind. It adds up. Very fast.”
“Don’t worry. It’s just $75. I’ll have it by Thursday. I’ve got a good feeling about the
LA
game. I bet $200.”
Luka’s half smile twitches. “You won’t bet against the Sounders, but you’ll bet against
LA
Galaxy? Your system tells you this?”
“That’s right.” I lean back and cross my arms.
“Even though
LA
just needs to win by one goal.”
“That’s why I’m betting.” I pull in my chair and sit up straight. “See,
LA
is primed for a loss. The Lancers are building, now that Benson’s back. Player for player, we can beat them! And when we win—”
“If. If they win.”
“—it’ll more than cover the seventy-five dollars.”
“If you say so, Jack Attack.”
Luka scores tickets. For once, I wish he hadn’t. It’s a disaster.
LA
scores four minutes in. Again six minutes later.
The Lancers fall apart.
The fourth goal rolls in at the thirty-two-minute mark.
“What are you doing out there?” I shout.
Luka throws up his hands. “It’s over. Want to grab a coffee?”
“Yeah. I can’t watch any more of this.”
The pretty waitress serves us, but even her shy smile can’t cheer me up. I lost. Again! Now I’m down almost $300. My mood’s as black as the coffee.
“Misery loves company, Luka. How much did you bet?”
“Me?” He looks surprised. “Nothing.”
Figures. At least he doesn’t say, “I told you so.”
“Don’t worry, Jack Attack. You’ll win it back. Your system, remember?”
But I am worried. This
was
my system.
As soon as I get home, I study the games for June. The first bet is a no-brainer—$300 to square things with Luka. Then I look at the rest.
It cheers me right up. They’re giving away money on all three Lancers games—the spreads are amazing. I bet $500 on each of them. It’s going to be a good month. By the end of June, I’ll win back five times what I lost.
June is a good month for the team too. The move to midfield gives us just the boost we need. It’s never for a full game, and Coach still needs me to hustle back on defense. But we’re scoring more. We’re connecting.
It’s not perfect. But sometimes? Sometimes it feels like Jonesy’s back.
The biggest surprise is Gil. Every now and then someone passes to him—a last resort, usually—and Gil delivers. It makes me wish he wasn’t such a jerk.
Especially today. I play my best game of the season. I set up Julio and Gil, and I score the third goal myself. It’s a beauty. It rockets into the top corner from twenty-five yards out.
Gil never gets involved in the rowdy goal celebrations. Nothing special about that. But as we cross the center line, he says, “Good game.” He doesn’t look at me. Just lines up for the kickoff like nothing happened. But I know what I heard.
It’s a first. I’m almost too surprised to answer. “Thanks!” And then I add, “You too.”
I jog back to my position.
“So what did Soldier Boy want, applause or a salute?” Danny says it extra loud, for Gil’s benefit.
My hands curl into fists. “Shut up, Danny.” I stare after Gil, hoping he didn’t hear. But I’m pretty sure he did.
I don’t sound like that, do I?
After the game, Coach lays it out.
“All right. I like what I’m seeing. Two games left, lads. Greenwood this week.
Port Peterson next week. Both top teams. Both fighting for the same two playoff spots.
“We need to win them both.” He looks at each of us in turn and shakes his finger. “It won’t be easy. We need to be fit, fast and fresh.”
Danny puts up his hand. “Does that mean no all-night parties, Coach?”
Coach just gives him a look.
I elbow Danny. “Didn’t you hear? Coach is doing bed checks for the next two weeks. Better get your mommy to tuck you in by seven o’clock.”
Everyone laughs, even Coach. But when the laughter dies down, he says, “Joke all you want. But our club hosts the playoffs this year. Think about that for a moment. Nothing could be sweeter than winning at home. Nothing could be worse than watching from the stands. So practice hard and play together. All of you. For team and for pride. You do that, and we might need to clear a spot in our trophy case for a pretty gold cup.”
With two games left, Coach works us pretty hard. But we work ourselves hard too.
The Friday before our Greenwood game is hot and humid. By the time we’re through, my muscles feel like toasted marshmallows. Luka texts me when I’m just about to ooze home.
want a ride?
yes!!! sooo tired
“Thanks, Luka!” I close the door and sink into the passenger seat. “Ahhh. Air-conditioning!”
“So, Jack Attack. Big weekend?”
“Nope. Just my game Sunday.”
“You’re not going to the Calamity Crossing concert tomorrow?”
“Nope.”
“I thought you were their biggest fan.” He gestures in my direction. “The T-shirt, the ringtone, the tunes…”
I scrunch up my face. “Everything but the tickets.”
“But I heard it’s the best concert of the year.”
“Then you heard how fast it sold out.”
“So. I didn’t get tickets either.” He looks over his shades at me. “But I got something better.”
“Better?” I sit up straight. “What’s better than tickets?”
“Backstage passes.”
“To Calamity Crossing?” My voice comes out in a squeak.
“No, Justin Bieber. Want to go?”
“Do I—” I fall back in my seat. Backstage. With Calamity Crossing. No one will ever believe this.
Then I remember the Greenwood game. And my bank-account balance.
“I can’t afford that.” I look at my hands and swallow. “I mean, I’d love to, but I’m broke. I’ll be okay by the end of the month, and I’ve got $500 on tomorrow’s game, but—”
“Did I ask for money? No. It’s a gift.” He slants a look at me. “And don’t worry about how much you owe. We’ll work something out.”
Work something out? I squirm in my seat. What does that mean?
“Anyway, I didn’t pay for the passes.”
“Then how…” It comes to me. “You know somebody.”
He points his finger pistol at me and gives his half grin. “Exactly. So we’re on?”
I bite my lip. “Don’t laugh, but I can’t stay out too late. I have a big game the next day.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his grin twitches. “No problem. I’ll drive.”
“Then count me in. Thanks, Luka!”
I come into the house ready to burst. I’m going to meet Calamity Crossing! Wait until Danny hears. I’ll have to text him.
Alex is at the kitchen table. He looks up as I come in. Like Mom when she wants to talk about something but doesn’t know how to start.
“Hey.” I give him a wary look and brace myself for questions.
“Dad called,” he says.
Sounds safe. No questions yet.
“He got us Lancers tickets for tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow?” I shake my head. “Sorry. Can’t go.”
He looks relieved and disappointed at the same time. “I didn’t know you had plans.”
“I’m going to Calamity Crossing.”
He gives me a hard look. “How’d you get tickets?”
I shrug. “Luka got backstage passes.”
“Luka.” And the question marks are back. Before I can escape, he says, “You see a lot of Luka.”
“So what?”
“He keeps giving you stuff. A fancy new phone. Lancer tickets. Now backstage passes. Why? Who is this guy?”