Betting Game (5 page)
He stops and eyes me curiously. “Do you now? Like a chess game.”
“But we lose shape once the ball leaves our end. We fall apart.”
He takes the extra cones. “So what’s your plan?”
“I don’t know. Work harder. Watch harder.” I give Coach a crooked grin. “Gotta start somewhere.”
I set up the hurdles and start my first drill. Coach’s eyes never leave me.
Like I’m the chess move he’s trying to figure out.
In practice, Coach focuses on our passing and playmaking. So do I.
I study each player, breaking down his skills. What he’s good at, what needs work. Who he connects with. I chuckle to myself. It’s like choosing fantasy-soccer picks.
I watch Soldier Boy too. Turns out he can pass. Until someone makes a mistake. He’s too slow, or too sloppy. He doesn’t find the net or run into the right space. Or give the ball back fast enough.
It’s like Gil’s got money riding on every pass. Each bad ball tips the odds until—
bam!
—the guy’s cut from his team.
When I figure it out, I’m twice as mad. Does he think he’s perfect? That we’re his ten-man defense? That we’re screwing up his game?
He can’t trust us? Then—
bam!
—he’s cut from my team.
Coach splits us up for scrimmage.
It’s Gil against Alex and me. We’ll teach him what a real defense is like. And he
better learn quick if we’re going to finish this season on top.
Right off the hop, Gil’s got the ball. A little touch right, then left, and he’s through the mid. He’s coming in hard. Here’s where he should be setting it up. But he doesn’t.
Coach yells, “Pass it around, Gil. You’re not Ronaldo.”
I call in a second defender, then a third. We slow him down and cut his options. He tries his fancy footwork, but I’m not watching his feet. One good tackle later, and the ball pops out.
I get there first and wait, out of reach, with one foot on the ball. I laugh—I can’t help it. Gil looks mad enough to kill his mother.
When he comes in for the challenge, I nutmeg him and go around. He grabs my jersey, but he’s too late. The ball’s on its way to Danny.
I call over my shoulder, “Even Ronaldo gets beat.”
“Yeah, get in the game, Soldier Boy,” says Danny.
Next time he comes down the field, Gil throws an elbow. Same eye. Tell me that’s an accident.
But it doesn’t do him any good.
He uses his wingers too little and too late. They’re so surprised to get the ball that we crunch them anyway. Every time Gil goes it alone, I jump on him. We don’t shut him down every time, but when he shoves past us, he’s still got Alex. And Alex is good.
It feels like hours before Coach lets us go. But I leave the field grinning. I’m under Gil’s skin, and it’s worth every drop of sweat.
“Learn anything, G.I. Joe?” says Danny. “Because we sure schooled you!”
He can’t ignore the snickers. But I don’t think he learned a thing.
Alex and I are the last ones to the dining room.
“You made awesome saves today, Alex!”
“Thanks, bro.” He grabs two trays and hands one to me.
“You were a brick wall!” I hold up my tray like a shield. “Every time Gil fired a shot—
ping!
Denied!”
Alex looks away. “So. What’s on the menu today?”
He’s awfully quiet. I bump his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Sure. Just hungry.” He loads up a plate with pasta, then just stands there.
“Coming?” I say.
Alex looks from the team table to Gil. He’s sitting by himself, with his back turned.
What’s the matter, Soldier Boy? Too good to sit with the team?
Alex frowns a little. “We can’t let him sit alone.”
“I can.”
I watch him walk over to Gil. He gestures at the team table and says something. Gil shakes his head, so Alex shrugs and joins him. Then he looks back at me. “Come on!” he mouths.
Nope. He’s backing the wrong team.
I head the other way and grab a spot between Danny and Julio. Danny jerks a thumb in Gil’s direction. “You sure yanked his chain in practice. Think it’ll teach him to pass?”
“I hope so,” Julio says. “I hardly touched the ball today. Next scrimmage, I want to play with you.”
Everyone grumbles about Gil. I twirl spaghetti on my fork and listen.
They leave one by one until it’s just Danny, Julio and me at the table. I lean in on my elbows and drop my voice.
“Listen, I want to try something. Gil won’t play our game, right? So let’s play it without him. Like yesterday.”
Julio looks puzzled.
Danny’s intrigued. “You’ll set us up?”
“Yeah. Attack from defense. We’re strong enough.”
“It’s a lot more running,” says Julio.
“Only for Jack.” Danny grins and punches me.
“Already on it. My trainer ordered me bionic legs.”
“See? He’s got it covered.”
“And I’m going to watch old Premier League games. Giggsy played like this.”
Danny raises his hand. “Dibs on Beckham.”
I give him a shove. “In your dreams.”
Julio’s still not convinced. “Did you talk to Coach?”
“Sort of.”
Danny snorts.
“Look. We’re at the top of the table, and I want to keep us there. Just be ready, okay?”
“I’m in.” Danny puts his fist on the table.
Julio adds his fist to the stack. “Me too.”
I make it three.
Alex doesn’t say much on the way home. Probably still mad at G.I. Joe. He’s doing his Captain America best to make him part of the team, and Gil won’t pass to us—or even sit with us.
He starts his homework as soon as we get in.
I have my own homework. The
TFC
game. After staring at the screen for fifteen minutes, I’m no closer to a decision than when I logged on. I’m ready to call it a night when Luka calls.
“Putting anything on the game Friday?” he asks.
“You know what? I’m not. It’s too close to call.”
“Even with your system?”
“My system’s telling me not to bet. If it was a home game, maybe. But not in Toronto. Reds fans are like a twelfth man.”
Luka chuckles.
“Plus we’re down a defender. He pulled a hammy this morning. They won’t play him Friday. Maybe longer.”
“Really? That’s good to know. Thanks for the advice, Jack Attack.”
Now, time for bed. If I want bionic legs, I need the sleep.
Five days of morning runs and extra workouts start to take their toll. My legs are so limp by Friday, the only thing holding them up is my shin pads.
“Doing anything this weekend?” Danny asks after practice.
“Going home, watching the Lancers game and sleeping until Sunday.”
“Bionic legs not in yet?”
“Not yet. Bad luck for Alex. He’s going to have to carry me home tonight.”
I check my watch. “Hey, Alex. Ready to leave? Don’t want to miss the big kickoff.”
Alex smacks himself in the head. “Oh! I totally forgot to tell you. I made plans for tonight.”
“What beats a Lancers game?” Especially when it’s
TFC
. We always watch Toronto games.
“I’m going paintballing.”
“Paintballing. Really?” Why won’t he look at me? What’s going on?
“Yeah, with Gil. It’ll be fun. Want to come?”
Gil? He wants me to go paintballing with G.I. Joe? He’s pleading for a yes.
I glare at Gil. “Not even if they were real bullets.”
A few of the guys laugh. Alex’s mouth drops open.
I don’t care. I grab my bag and shoulder past.
I avoid Alex all weekend. I’m still ticked on Sunday, on the way to our game.
“So, uh, how was the Lancers game?” he asks as we cut across the park.
“Skipped it. I watched old Man U games instead.”
“Oh.” He tries again. “You should’ve come paintballing. It was fun.”
I just keep walking.
“You’d like Gil.”
Give it up.
I stare straight ahead and walk a little faster.
“He’s not a bad guy. Once you get to know him.”
“Except he’s practically nonverbal,” I mutter.
Alex scrunches up his face. “Gil’s kinda like a ketchup bottle. Takes him a minute to get started.”
Alex’s ketchup, on the other hand, seems to be flowing just fine. And if he doesn’t put a lid on it, I’m going to blow.
“He’s traveled all over, you know. He’s seen all the big European teams play. Man U. Barcelona. Bayern Munich.”
Shut up!
But he doesn’t.
“When his dad was posted in England, they had season tickets to Chelsea. He even played for some of the Premier League academies.”
I stop in the middle of the path and jam my hands on my hips. “Well, that explains everything.”
“Huh?”
“Why he thinks the Lancers Center is a dump. Why he’s too good to play with us or even talk to us. He’d rather play in the Premier League.”
Alex’s eyebrows go way up, then crash.
“Forget it,” he mutters. “Just forget it.” He doesn’t say another word all the way to the game.
We win.
It’s no thanks to me or my grand plan. My legs are so tired that I can barely hold my own position.
G.I. Joe scores our only goal, which makes me mad enough to spit ketchup. Instead, I bottle it up and walk home alone.
Luka calls that night. “Jack Attack. You were right about the
TFC
game.”
“I didn’t watch it.”
“I did. No score. And it was boring. You didn’t miss anything.”
“Glad I didn’t bet then.”
“Me too.” He pauses. “For a guy who didn’t lose a bet, you sound…not so happy. Did you lose your game?”
“No, I just didn’t play my best game.”
“Maybe the
DC
game will be better. Someone gave me tickets. Want to go?”
“Sure. I would, actually. As long as you don’t mind picking me up from my game.”
“No problem,” he says. “So. Will your defender be back for the
DC
game, or is he still limping in to see you every day?”
“He’s still out. But the Lancers won’t need him this week anyway.”
“No?”
“They’ll kill Montreal, even with that spread. And we’re going to own
DC
United. Their U23s are at a National Team camp. I put a hundred dollars on both games.”
“I saw that. And Benson. He’s still okay?”
“Better than ever.”
“Sounds like it will be a good game then. See you Sunday.”
“Thanks, Luka. You really know how to cheer a guy up.”
By game day, my bionic legs are finally kicking in. I can’t wait to try them out.
We give G.I. Joe the first half. He plays his usual game, so I signal Danny and Julio. Next time I get the ball, I push up. Danny’s on my left, and Julio’s up the line. We play keep-away with their mids, nice and slow to give us time to settle. Pass and move. Back and forth. Up the line. Back to me. Nice, crisp triangles that wear them out.
Gil’s confused. The other team’s frustrated. When their mids get tired of chasing the ball, they creep forward, leaving a big fat hole.
That’s when Danny makes a quick break. I give him a through ball that puts him at the edge of the area. He carries it into the box and finds Julio, angling for the far post for the tap-in. Goal!
We fool them again on another play in the second half. The game ends 2–nil. Two for us, nothing for Gil.
We carry the postgame celebration into the dining room. G.I. Joe and Alex are nowhere in sight.
Time to play a trick on Danny. He’s such a tech geek. He’ll never believe my new iPhone.
The guitar riff from “Dangerous Game” comes from my pocket. Perfect timing.
“Cool ringtone,” says Danny as we head for the team table. “I love Calamity Crossing. Did you hear they’re coming to town in a few weeks?”
“I heard. Did you get tickets?”
“I wish!”
“Me too. They sold out in the first few hours.”
I pull out my phone. It’s a text from Luka.
game over?
yup
u win?
yup!
:) cu in 15
k
Danny cocks his head. “New phone?”
I smile to myself. That didn’t take long.
“About time! What’d you get?”
I hand it over and watch his eyes pop.
“No way! Hey, look! Jack’s got the new iPhone.” He holds it up for the whole table to see. “Where’d you get it?”
“From a friend.”
“Nice friend!”
“Hey, what’s it got?” someone asks.
Danny tells them. “First off, it’s immortal. You can’t smash it, scratch it or drown it. Jack couldn’t kill this thing if he
dropkicked it into four lanes of traffic. It’s got a live-stream broadcast studio, instant upload, PhoneList.”
They pass the phone around.
“What is it—a prototype?”
“He just gave it to you? They’re, like, a thousand bucks.”
“Yeah, and Danny says you can’t even get them yet.”
I bet Luka gets this reaction whenever he takes his Stingray for a spin. I just sit back and enjoy it.
Until Alex sits down across from me.
He looks at the phone. At me. The question hangs there awhile.
“Where’d you get it?”
“A friend.”
He waits. I shovel food into my mouth and rehearse my answer.
“His name’s Luka. I met him at a Lancers game.”
I keep eating, eyes on my plate. He had to find out sooner or later.
“Why would he give you a brand-new iPhone?”
“I don’t know.” I unscrew my Gatorade and take a sip. “His family must be rich—he drives a Corvette. That reminds me.” I look up at the clock. “He’s giving me a lift home. See you later, Alex.”
That’s all you’re getting, bro
.
The guys are still huddled around my phone.
“Gotta run, guys. Toss me my phone.” I catch it one-handed.
As I head down the stairs, I spot G.I. Joe leaving Coach’s office. Coach must’ve burned his ears. About time.
I match my pace to his. We march through the front doors like we’re on parade. The only sound is the squeak of our running shoes.
Luka pulls up, and Gil’s eyes follow the sleek black sports car. When I get in, his mouth drops open.
Ha! Soldier Boy’s not as stone-faced as I thought.