Betting Game (4 page)
He tries to grab my arm, but I pull away.
“Listen, Jack. It’s my job to help him settle in. Like Jonesy did when we joined the team.”
“Jonesy would’ve kicked his ass.”
“Yeah? Well, he wouldn’t have called him names.”
His accusation hangs in the air.
I pinch my lips together.
Alex lets out his breath in a gust. “Think back, Jack. What it was like for us. New town. New team. Remember? And we had each other.”
I do remember. I couldn’t sleep the night before. But Jonesy made us feel welcome. Like the missing piece that the team needed.
“We’ve got a game Sunday. Just give him a chance, okay?”
“Fine.” It’s almost a whisper.
“Thanks, bro.”
By Saturday I’ve poked around the account Luka set up for me. It’s pretty straightforward. I just have a couple of questions.
He shows up right on time.
ready to go?
yup
But I’m not ready for the shiny black sports car parked outside.
The tinted window opens silently. “You getting in?” Luka asks. “Or just waiting for a bus?”
“You drive a Corvette?”
“Get in and I’ll show you.”
The engine rumbles like a World Cup crowd waiting for a penalty shot. He shifts it into gear and we peel out. It’s like riding in the Batmobile.
I run my hand along the soft upholstery and lean back in the low-slung seat. Someday I’m getting a car just like this.
He glides into a parking spot at a little café. A bell rings as we go in.
A cute girl in a short black skirt hurries over. She smiles and shows us to a table. Luka says something. She giggles and hurries off.
“What language were you speaking?”
“Russian.”
“So you’re Russian. I thought I picked up an accent. A little Arnold Schwarzenegger. A little Zlatan.”
He purses his lips like I’ve said something funny. “Not quite. I was born in Ukraine.”
The waitress brings our coffee. When I take out my wallet, she puts her hand on mine. “No, no.” And she scurries off.
Luka says, “I never pay here. The owner—he’s a friend.” He sips his coffee. “You look at your account yet?”
I nod.
“Let me show you how it works.”
He reaches for my phone and brings up the site.
“Minimum bet is a hundred dollars.”
And I tried to bet twenty? What an idiot!
Luka’s still explaining. “You win? That’s $100 in your account—boom! You lose? Your account goes down by $110. That’s $100 plus 10 percent juice.”
“Juice?”
“Service charge. But only if you lose.”
“Right, juice!” I wave it off. “But how do I get you my bet? I don’t have a credit card or anything.”
“You don’t need one. We settle up once a month. I pay you, or you pay me.”
“Okay.”
“Remember. You don’t bet on who wins or loses. You bet on the point spread.”
So as long as my team beats the spread, I win? That means I can bet on the Lancers even if I think they’ll lose! Sick!
Luka points at the screen. “Here’s where you find the spread. See? Today the Lancers need to win by a goal.” He looks at me. “Think they can do it?”
“With Benson back? No problem. The Red Bulls are going down.”
“An easy first bet. You’re all set.”
“That’s it? Cool.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “So tell me. What is it like to play for the academy?”
“Tough work. But awesome!” I start with how hard it is to win a spot, and how you’re always working to keep it. And then about getting scouted by pro teams and universities at showcase tournaments. He asks a million questions, including the one everyone asks: Do we hang out with the first team?
“I wish! We aren’t even allowed to talk to them, except at club events. I’ve probably
seen more players in my first six weeks of co-op than in two years with the academy.”
He’s comfortable to talk to. Not awestruck. Just…interested.
Before I know it, my coffee’s cold and it’s after two. He sees me check my watch.
“Time to go?”
“Game starts at three. I told Alex I’d watch it with him.” I waggle my phone and grin. “And if I have time…”
Luka holds up a finger. “And the spread is right.”
“…and the spread is right, I might try out my new account.”
Luka picks up his keys. “Let’s go then. You have work to do.”
Before we drive away, Luka reaches behind his seat and pulls out a white box. He tosses it into my lap.
“What’s this?” I turn it over and see the Apple logo. Then the model. An Infinity? “No way!”
I turn to Luka for confirmation. He nods, trying not to laugh.
“But…But…they’re not even out yet! How did you get it?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I know someone.”
“Lucky you!”
“Lucky you. It’s yours.”
Mine? My fingers slide over the picture on the box.
I search his face. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I made a lot of money on the Portland game. This is my way to thank you.”
“Oh.” My grip on the box tightens. It’s a billion times better than my hunk of junk. But I can’t take it.
I give it one last look and sigh. “Luka—”
“It’s a gift,” he repeats.
“But you—”
“I already have one. See?” He pulls an identical phone out of his pocket. “Come on, Jack Attack. It’s perfect for you.” He smirks and taps the screen. “Completely bulletproof.”
I run my fingers over the box again.
I should say, “No, thanks.” I should, but I don’t.
When I get in the door, I can’t decide what to do first. Check out my new phone? Or try out my new account?
Until Alex shouts down, “Jack, is that you?”
I freeze. What was I thinking? Alex knows how broke I am. How will I explain a brand-new iPhone?
His bed creaks, and I hear footsteps.
I’ve got to hide it. But where? I look around in a panic.
Under the couch.
Alex stops halfway down the stairs. “I thought that was you. You watching the game?”
I glue on a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Great. I’m still working on my trig homework. Call me down before it starts?”
“Sure.”
He goes back upstairs.
Yes! That’ll give me time to try out my new account.
I punch it in on my old phone. I have to tilt the screen to see around the cracks. This will be so much easier on my new iPhone.
A hundred on the Lancers and…done!
Seconds later, a text from Luka arrives.
good move jack attack ;)
I shout up to Alex five minutes before kickoff. He pounds down the stairs and jumps on the couch.
“Lancers versus Red Bulls. Benson back in action.” He sniffs the air and laughs. “Let’s barbecue some New York strip loin!”
But it’s not as easy as we think.
“What was that?” I shout after another weak cross. “Who were you trying to hit?”
I punch the couch. “They just can’t finish today.”
If they don’t put at least one of those balls in the net, I’m out $110.
“No!” I groan. “Offside again. Be patient.”
Alex digs me in the ribs. “Ooh! Getting a little intense tonight. Are some of these guys on your fantasy team?”
My fantasy team? I forgot to check it.
Before I can answer him, the ball comes straight back up the field.
“What a header!” Alex says.
The winger streaks up the line with it. Benson makes a brilliant run forward. He’ll be wide open at the top of the box.
My heart’s racing. “That’s it. Come on!”
“Send it!” says Alex.
The winger times the cross perfectly. Benson catches it on the volley. The ball rockets for the net.
The keeper gets his fingers on it. But it’s not enough. The ball sneaks in under the crossbar.
“Goal!” We jump to our feet and do a victory dance. “Yeah!”
But it’s a tense fifteen minutes to the end. New York scores a catch-up goal. The ref calls it back. Then, with two minutes to go, the Bulls get a breakaway.
“Don’t just stand there!” Alex shouts at the goalkeeper. “Come out.”
“Now who’s getting intense?”
The keeper darts out. The Red Bulls striker gets off his shot. We lean sideways, willing it wide. And…he misses!
A minute left. Ten seconds.
The ref checks his watch. And—
Time is called!
I’m a little breathless. And a whole lot richer.
The minute Alex goes back to his homework, I check my account. Is it there yet?
Yes! Easiest hundred I ever earned.
Then I reach under the couch for my new iPhone.
I cradle the box in my hands and read about the features. Big screen. Multimedia recording studio. And an unbreakable screen.
Bye-bye, bullet holes. Hello, brand-new world.
I’ll figure out what to do about Alex later.
We start fresh with Gil on game day. I think Alex gave the whole team his “Give peace a chance” talk. Gil puts his best foot forward. He doesn’t choke or swear at anyone. That’s a huge improvement.
It starts off okay. We feed him the ball whenever he calls for it. Which is a lot.
He slams in two goals so quickly that the other team doesn’t know what hit them. It’s like an instant replay of his YouTube video.
But when he gets the ball, we never see it again. Our mids tuck in for support. The wingers cut into space. He just guns for the net.
The other team catches on pretty fast. They double-team him. Triple-team him. And you need more than fancy footwork and a crack shot to beat a three-on-one.
By mid-game, it’s two all.
Coach tells Gil to switch it up. “The rest of you, move it around. Look for opportunities. If Gil’s covered, find out who they left open.”
It’s not as easy as it sounds. The guys up front can’t get organized. They make mistakes. So Gil goes back to his first-half game, and so does the other team. Before long, we’re down a goal.
Time to change tactics. Gil’s not the only guy who’s good with his feet.
Next time Alex picks up the ball, I signal to him and catch Danny’s eye. Alex slings it my way, and I drive up the field with Danny beside me for the give-and-go. We catch
their mids flat-footed. They race to shut us down.
Gil shouts, “Square!” and someone peels off to cover him. That’s when I see Julio, all alone on the right. I send over a long ball. He brings it down and zigzags in. Danny, Gil and I sprint for the net, and Julio winds up for the cross. The ball’s sailing wide of the far post until Danny flicks it in with his head.
Goal!
Gil glares at Julio, Danny and me coming down the field. You’d think we scored on Alex instead of tying up the game.
An hour after I go to bed, I’m still fuming.
We’ll never make the playoffs by putting up a point a game. And we should’ve won.
I pound my pillow. Stupid Gil.
Alex mumbles in his sleep.
Well, bro, I gave peace a chance
.
Time to try something else.
But what?
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Should I push up more often? It worked today.
Could I play box-to-box for ninety minutes? I’d need to crank up my speed and stamina. But that’s doable.
I change my alarm clock and smile. Gonna build me some bionic legs.
Starting tomorrow.
The sky’s turning pink as I head into the park. How am I going to do this? A longer route to the training center. Check. Rev up my pace. Check. Add some speed bursts and hills. Fold in the outdoor fitness trail. Check and check. Just made my daily run three times longer and three times harder.
The sun rises as I climb the last hill. I burn it up on the downhill, right to the front door of the Lancers Center.
I could work out like this every morning. It’s only April, nearly three months to playoffs.
I’m at co-op before eight, pulling charts and setting up for the players we’ll see. I run my ideas by the physio.
Kim purses her lips. “Don’t overtrain. You already practice four times a week. Plus your runs and gym time.”
“I’m just adding intensity. You know—to bump my performance.”
“Feeling a little flat, are you?” She nods slowly. “Okay. No one’s coming in for bit. Check in with your trainer. He can ramp up your strength and conditioning program, maybe suggest some new drills.”
I shoot her a big smile. “Thanks!”
The trainer gives me the same warning about overtraining. But he promises me new drills and extra time.
“We’ll start today. See me after co-op.”
Then he makes a great suggestion. “Wouldn’t hurt to train your brain too. Coach would probably let you watch game videos in the viewing theater.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Study the pros too. You’re a Man United fan. Look at Giggs in his prime. Coach could rhyme off a dozen more.”
Everything’s falling into place.
There’s a player on the treatment table when I get back to co-op.
Kim comes over for an ice pack.
“What happened?” I ask. “You get so bored you went out and tripped someone?”
“Wise guy.” She grins at me. “He did this on his own. Pulled a hammy in practice.”
“Ouch.”
“Nothing too serious. Out for a week, maybe two. The
TFC
game, for sure. Maybe Montreal and
DC
too. After that, depends how he responds.” She can’t resist adding, “That’s what comes of overtraining, Jack. So watch it.”
“Don’t worry. Getting injured isn’t in my game plan. So how do we treat a pulled hammy?”
I hit the pitch earlier than usual that afternoon to try out my new drills.
Coach is already there. He gives me the okay for the viewing theater. “Whenever it’s empty, lad.” He cocks his head. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Looking for answers, I guess.”
He raises his eyebrows. “To what question?”
“Why we’re so…lost.”
Coach nods slowly. He hands me a stack of cones, and we lay them out.
How can I explain it?
“I see it clear as day from defense, Coach. Who’s open. Who’s not. Where we could be two or three passes later.”
