Betting Game (8 page)
Alex shakes his head at me. Then he goes after Gil.
Before anyone can speak, I say, “Fine. Soldier Boy wants us to pass? Let’s give him just what he asks for. Every time he calls for the ball, give it to him.”
Julio frowns. “Every time?”
“Every fricking time. We’ve already lost anyway.”
Alex drags Gil back. We take the field like we’re all muttering “I’ll show you” under our breath.
We make Gil work for every ball. He dodges head-high bullets. Races for slow rolling passes. Chases it to the sideline like a dog after a tennis ball.
He makes a run for the net, with two men on his tail. He’s looking for a through ball, but I drop it behind him instead. Somehow he sprints back, turns the ball and lets it go. And boom—it’s in.
Danny sends him a waist-height rocket that could’ve had him singing soprano for a week. He directs it in with his hip. We’re back in the game!
Greenwood starts to mark him harder. Even that works for us. Gil starts using his options.
I feel like dropping to my knees and singing hallelujah.
He sets up Julio for two and back-heels it to me for a third.
We win it 8–3. And for the first time, we play eleven to eleven.
Gil walks off the field with me. “So that’s how Jonesy played. Who knew?” He gives a bitter laugh.
My face burns. “Jonesy would never do that. He was a great guy.” I blow out a breath. “That was us. Me. Being jerks.”
“I know all about jerks. I played in enough cutthroat academies.” He looks away, and his jaw gets tight. “No point in getting attached. If you’re not the right piece for their puzzle, that’s it—you’re gone. And I’m just a shooter. It’s not like I have the game sense you and Jonesy have.”
But everyone’s got game sense. Then it hits me. Not chess-move-early game sense, like me.
Gil can’t see the game. None of them can. I feel special and awful, all at once.
“Gil, we would’ve lost today if it wasn’t for you.”
It takes him a second to answer. I can’t read his face when he does. “Make you a deal. You keep feeding me the ball, and I’ll keep shooting. And passing too. Okay?”
We shake on it.
“By the way, nice goal at the end,” he says. “Just like Rooney.”
I blink. “Thanks.”
Alex spots our handshake. He calls a cease-fire with a nod and half a fist bump. Neither of us says it out loud, but it means no more questions about Luka and no more sniping at Gil.
Maybe this whole thing will blow over. Without blowing up.
It all comes together against Port Peterson. We use the skills Coach taught us and the tricks that we honed on each other to cut down our opponents. We’re unstoppable. Determined. United.
It’s how we could’ve played all season. Crisp passing. Pretty touches. Strong cuts to open space. Three options for every pass. As unpredictable as a pinball game. Everything we practiced, using every player.
Julio scores off a corner five minutes in.
I steal the ball back and angle a pass upfield. Danny sends it down their throats.
Gil catches a long ball on the volley and
bam!
It’s in.
I jet into space to score the last goal. Roll the ball past the keeper and just inside the far post.
Port Peterson never gives up. It takes every man and three yellow cards to fight them off. But when the final whistle goes, the score is 4–0.
We’re going to the semis.
The celebration on the field doesn’t stop on the bus. If anything, it’s louder.
“We Are the Champions” blares at the back.
The chirping and the chatter. The thump of someone hitting the floor. The laughter. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is a team.
Alex comes to sit with me.
“Too loud back there for you?” I ask.
“Too rowdy. I got tackled less by Port Peterson.”
Alex leans back with his hands behind his head. “You know, a month ago I wouldn’t have said it. But the way we played the last two games, we might just pull this off.”
“We’re a million times better.” I pause for a moment, considering. “We’re even better than when Jonesy was playing with us.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”
“Me neither.” Feels disloyal, but it’s true. We’ve all improved. Even Gil.
Today is June 30. That spells payday! I haven’t looked at my account all month—it’s been taking care of itself. But only one of my bets didn’t come through for me. I’m going to get a decent wad of cash.
It’ll be the first time I’ve seen Luka since the concert. We’ve texted back and forth a couple of times, but it’s been busy.
I may as well figure out what the July games look like. I pull out my phone and log in to my account.
Wait—what? That’s not my balance. I don’t owe—$2,923! But that’s my name…
I text Luka and he texts right back.
be right there
“Luka, something’s wrong with my account. I don’t know—maybe I was hacked.” I’m sitting in his car, staring at my phone.
“Let me see.” He takes the phone from me and tilts it so he can see the screen. “Looks right to me, Jack Attack.”
“It’s not though! I should be up $455. But it says I owe”—my voice gets tight—“almost $3,000.” I point to the extra charges that start May 1. “Look! There’s a whole new column!”
He doesn’t even glance at it. “The interest.”
Interest? And then I remember.
Ten percent. Daily. You don’t want to get behind. It adds up. Very fast.
Oh no. I grab the phone and swipe the screen. Scroll back through.
I sag into the seat. He’s right.
Those bets I made to cover my losses. They weren’t big enough. My balance has been growing all month. And now…
Now I owe Luka $2,923. And the amount goes up 10 percent a day.
“But I can’t—where will I find—” My voice comes out like a siren. “I don’t have that kind of cash!”
“I know.” His mouth twists into a lazy half smile. “Don’t worry, Jack Attack. I told you. We can work something out. Some people would gamble on any game, you know. Even yours.” Luka watches me closely. “And with a little help from you…”
I lean away from him. “I don’t—I don’t understand.” But I think I do.
I have to get out of this car. Right now. I fumble for the door handle.
“Think about it, Jack Attack. I’ll be in touch.”
I sit on my bed, twitching. I need to fix this—fast. But how? How will I ever get that kind of cash? Would Danny buy my phone? Might get me a few hundred. Would someone lend me the money?
No, whispers a little voice. All you need is one big win.
One more bet. I grind my knuckles into my temples. That’s how I got here.
I scroll through the upcoming games. The Montreal game Thursday—$3,500 should do it. I do the math for three days of interest and groan. Better make that $3,600.
What if I lose? What then?
I’m falling. My parachute won’t open! The ground rushes up in a dizzy blur.
I squeeze my eyes shut before I crash and…
Wake up on the floor, tangled in my sheets. Another bad dream. The last one, if I’m lucky.
The sun’s not up yet, but the birds are. I tiptoe out of the house to run off the dollar signs. Running slow and easy just lets everything roll around in my head. Better turn on the juice.
The juice
. I’ll never catch up.
My heart pounds like I’m playing the biggest game of my life. My stomach is still in free fall.
When I win the bet tonight, I won’t owe Luka anything. I could close the account. I’d never have to bet again.
If I did, I’d be more careful.
But if I lose tonight…
If I lose.
I won’t.
I can’t.
Because if I do, I owe $8,000. To a bookie.
I spend the day at the Lancers Center, trying to turn off my brain. But no matter how hard I concentrate, no matter how hard I work, my eyes drift to the clock. I give up trying and head home.
Alex is on the couch. “Game’s about to start. Are you watching it, Jack?”
The pregame show is on. It flashes the lineups. The hosts make their predictions. How will it end?
“Jack?” Alex waits on my answer. “You watching?”
Am I?
“Jack, is everything all right?”
I squirm inside. For a minute, I feel like spilling the whole dirty mess. But what can he do? I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. By the end of the game, it’ll all be over. One way or the other.
“Jack?”
I shake my head and go to my room.
I’m afraid to watch. But I’m more afraid not to. I follow it on my phone, hunched over the screen. I grip the phone so tightly that my hands ache.
Everything hangs on the next ninety minutes.
I hold my breath and make a wish. Win it. Win it. I’ll never bet again if you score right now.
The minutes crawl on. My phone gets slippery with sweat.
Then Alex cheers.
Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.
Offside—no goal.
And then it’s all over.
The phone rings in my hands seconds later. I check the display—Luka. I switch it to
silent
and shove it under my pillow.
But I pull it right back out. What’s the balance?
I fall back on my bed and put my phone on my chest. It feels like someone has parked a car on me.
Can I really owe $8,180? I throw the phone against the wall and start gulping for air.
I can’t fix this. Not now. Not ever.
There’s no way out.
The next day, my stomach is still in knots.
The semifinal is two days away, and we’re hosting it. Coach pushes us extra hard our last practice. The pressure’s on. Everyone from the players to management wants us to win it at home.
I restock the treatment-room cabinets and help out in the boot room. Coach is always asking for help with the young teams. I fill the gaps with extra workouts and game films. The harder I work, the less I think.
Alex finds me on the elliptical around six.
“Heading out soon?”
I shake my head. “Tell Mom I’ll be home late.”
As late as possible. Partly because I can’t face another night of staring at the ceiling. Partly because I’m avoiding Luka. At least until I figure out how to pay him.
Luka’s not avoiding me. His car prowls through the parking lot. He’s been calling and texting all day.
He texts again when I’m leaving the training center.
pay up, jack attack
I hesitate, then turn off the phone. I’ll call him tomorrow.
I jog through the darkness, following watery circles of light across the park.
Going around a bend, I almost run into someone. I skid to a stop.
“Sorry, I—”
“Jack Attack.”
His voice knifes through me. I want to bolt, but my feet won’t listen.
The gravel crunches under his feet as he steps closer.
“Where have you been?”
I flinch and back away. Right into two big guys.
Luka’s eyes gleam in the dim light. “I text. I call. What, we’re not friends anymore?”
I hear the truth. We never were.
“I—I tried to—”
He snaps his fingers. His friends hoist me by my arms and drag me off the path. Can’t—fight free. I’ve watched enough police shows to know what comes next. My heart bangs in my chest.
“Let me g—unh!”
Pain flashes, red on black. Can’t breathe. I dangle by my arms, limp and gasping.
Another sucker punch. Another bright burst of pain.
And another. Need—air!
Have to get—away. I try to wrench free and groan.
“Luka, I’ll pay—” Cold metal against my head. A gun? I shudder and jerk away.
“Yes. You will.”
Click.
“Please. Don’t!” I squeeze my eyes shut.
Long seconds pass.
“There’s another way.” He brings his face close to mine. “A way no one ends up dead.”
I gulp. “Not dead…is good. How?”
“You work for me.” His words brush my face. “Starting Saturday at your semifinal.”
“I’ll be on the field.”
“Exactly. I tell you the spread. You make it happen.”
“You mean…cheat?”
“Control the score.”
“If I do this—”
“When.” He pats my cheek, hard. “
When
you do this.”
“Wh—when. That’s it, right? We’re square?”
They let me go, and I pitch forward onto the grass. Their footsteps fade into the night. But Luka’s voice is clear and cold. “I will call you with the spread.”
I stagger to a park bench, hugging myself so my insides don’t fall out. I’m shivering
like it’s the middle of winter. When I think my legs will carry me home, I brush myself off and start walking.
Mom meets me at the door.
“Good news! I got the weekend off. And your dad’s free too. We’ll be there to see you play!”
“See me what?”
“Play. The semifinal.”
I squirm. Or see me
not
play.
She frowns a little and looks closer. She feels my forehead. “You’re pale, and your skin is clammy. Everything okay?”
I hesitate. Should I tell her?
Sure. I can hear it now.
Hey, Mom. Can I borrow eight grand? I blew it gambling. Oh, and my bookie wants to kill me
.
I laugh, and it comes out broken. I press a hand against my abs.
“You’re not okay.” She puts her arm around me and shepherds me to the kitchen. “Is your stomach bothering you?”
My voice is shaky. “Just sore from practice.”
“Sit down here and let me look at you.”
Stupid Mom-radar. “No, Mom. I’m fine. Would you just leave me alone?”
It comes out sharper than I wanted. She jerks her hand back.
“Sorry, Mom. I’m okay. I just need a good night’s sleep.” I trudge upstairs to bed.
Luka calls on the morning of the game. I’m afraid to answer. But I’m more afraid to ignore it.
“Jack Attack. Lancers are favored to win by two. Our bets are on Vancouver.”
“You want us to lose? I can’t do that!”
“Listen. Two-point spread. You lose, we win. You tie, we win. You win by a goal, we win. But if Lancers win by more than one goal, you lose.