Betting Game (7 page)
Too many good questions. Too many bad answers. Nothing I can tell Captain America.
I force a casual answer. “Just a guy. My friend.”
Alex shakes his head. “No one throws around money like that.”
I go over to the fridge and look inside. “I told you. He’s got rich parents.”
“I know. And a hot car. And he drives you around like a chauffeur.”
I pour a glass of milk and grab an apple. “I’d offer you a ride, but it’s a two-seater.”
“I’m not asking for a ride!” Alex slams his hands on the table. He tries again, searching for his normal voice. “What I’m saying is…I’ve never met him. No one’s met him.”
“Dad has.” Uh-oh. That was stupid.
He looks straight at me. “What’s going on, Jack?”
He has the nerve to ask what’s going on? Seriously?
“I’ll tell you.” I count off the reasons on my fingers, one at a time. “One. I don’t like your new
BFF
. Two. You’re jealous. Three. None of your business. Get over it.”
“This is all
my
fault?”
I hear Mom’s key in the front door. No way am I playing tag-team Twenty Questions. I leave my snack on the counter and take the stairs two at a time.
Alex comes up a little later. He knocks on our bedroom door. The lights are off, and I’m pretending to sleep. He comes in anyway. “Sorry, bro,” he says quietly. “I’m just worried about you.”
I lie very still. Eventually, Alex gets up and goes downstairs again.
Why did I tell him Dad knows Luka? Why?
I take off early the next morning, leaving a note for Mom.
Working today. At a concert tonight. Back late.
I’ll kill the day at the training center. Someone always needs a hand. I’ll duck back home to change and shower once Alex leaves for the game.
Anything to avoid another conversation with Sherlock Holmes.
I cut straight across the park at a jog. Why did I even open my mouth? What if
Alex grills Dad at the game? Argh! I’m so stupid!
Don’t think. Just run.
A runner zips by, and I match his pace.
At least Alex won’t meet Luka. He’ll be at the concert with me.
But Dad could still tell him Luka’s a bookie.
If Alex finds out, I’m dead. He’ll tell Mom. Mom will blame Dad.
They’ll find out I’m gambling. Then I’ll really be in trouble.
I speed up and start the circuit.
But how would they find out? Luka won’t tell them. I sure won’t. Anyway, I’m winning more than I’m losing. I’ll just say Luka’s my friend. He is, isn’t he?
Maybe Alex will forget about it…
Yeah. And maybe Manchester United will move to Canada.
I pound up the last long hill to the training center. It’s all downhill from here.
When Luka picks me up, I’m wearing my favorite Calamity Crossing T-shirt.
We park a few blocks away and go in through an alley. “Got something against lineups?” I ask.
Luka gives his half grin. “Backstage passes. Backstage door.”
A guy who could beat up the Incredible Hulk opens the door. His face lights up, and he says something in another language.
Luka laughs, answers him and points at me. The guard opens the door and waves us in.
It’s louder than a Lancers game backstage. We dodge roadies carrying equipment and rolling out cables. We squeeze into a quiet spot in the wings.
Before long, the houselights dim. The stage lights come up. The cheers and whistles and stamping from the audience get so loud, we don’t even try to talk.
Luka tugs my sleeve. Walking by, close enough to touch, is Calamity Crossing. I fumble for my phone. I’m too late to get their faces. But I turn around and take a selfie with the band walking onstage in the background. Proof I was here.
They play all their best songs. By the end, my eardrums are fried and my throat is raw. “Luka, that was awesome!”
“Time to meet the band.”
I can hardly breathe. We walk down the hall and stop at the doorway to a dingy room. Inside, the band and the crew are laughing and cracking open beers.
Luka catches his buddy’s eye. He bends down and says something to the guys in the band. They nod, and he waves us over.
I’m going to party with Calamity Crossing.
But it’s not the thrill I expected.
One after another, the guys in the band sign my T-shirt with a permanent marker. But they don’t even look at me. The guard asks for my phone. Without even interrupting their conversation, they strike a well-rehearsed pose. Luka’s friend snaps the shot, hands back my phone and leads me away.
Luka is already playing poker. Everyone’s having a good time.
Everyone but me. I lean against the wall, trying to look like I belong. But I feel like a kid at a grown-ups’ party. A kid with a game to play tomorrow.
The air gets thick with smoke, and my eyes are burning. The cooler of beer empties. After an hour or so, the poker players groan and toss in the cards.
Finally. Now we can get out of here.
Luka gathers up his winnings and strolls over with a beer. “Having fun?”
“I’ve got to go, Luka. My game.”
“Oh.” He looks at the beer in his hand. “Take a cab.”
“You’re staying? But—”
“They invited me to their hotel. Better booze. Better company. You know what I mean?” He drifts back across the room.
I check the time—it’s after midnight! I shove my phone into my pocket and glare at Luka’s back. He could’ve told me. Hours ago.
I search for an exit, swearing under my breath. When I finally hit the street, it’s raining. The shivery, shoe-soaking, all-night-long kind of rain. Perfect.
The buses better still be running. I check my wallet. Empty. I pat my pockets. No change.
“I can’t fricking believe this!” I shout and pound the backstage door with both fists.
Calamity Crossing—good name for tonight. It’s going to be a long, wet walk home.
“Luka is a bookie!”
“Huh?” I wake up with Alex looming over me. What’s going on? It feels like I haven’t slept. My head is pounding. “What did you say?”
He jabs me with a finger. “What time did you get home last night?”
When did I get in? I rub my face. “I don’t know—one thirty? I didn’t have bus fare.”
“So what, you walked? All that way? What happened to your buddy Luka?”
“I—he stayed. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong? We have a big game. Remember? And a bus to catch.”
Right! What time is it? I fling back the covers and feel around on the floor for my jeans. Come on—where’s my cell? I fumble in the pockets.
And blink. It’s only 8:13.
I toss my phone. What the hell? The bus doesn’t leave until nine! Why is Alex so ticked?
Back up, back up—oh no. I hold my head in my hands.
“I asked Dad about Luka last night. Know what he said?”
Here it comes.
“
The only Luka I know is a bookie
.”
“I can explain—”
But he’s not even listening. “And then Gil said,
That makes sense. The car, the phone, all the presents
. He said that he hopes you’re not gambling.” He stares down at me. “You’re not, are you?”
Wait—Gil? All of a sudden, I’m on my feet. “What was Gil doing there? Is that
why you were so happy I had plans? You wanted to go to the game with him?”
I shoulder past. I don’t need the answers.
He trails behind me, too stunned to speak. But that won’t last. And I definitely don’t want to be there when it wears off.
I turn around to face him. “You know what? Don’t bother waiting for me. I’ve got nothing to say to you anyway.”
I slam the bathroom door in his face.
Ten minutes later I’m on my way. I half expect to see Alex waiting. But he’s probably halfway across the park by now.
Good! I didn’t want to talk to him anyway!
I charge into the park, kicking every stone I see.
I can’t believe Alex gave my seat to G.I. Joe. Or that he told Dad about Luka. Did he tell Dad we hang out? Or did he just ask who Luka is?
Dad never listens to us. Maybe he didn’t pick up on it. Luka wasn’t there to ask.
Yeah, he was busy dumping me for a stupid card game. Some friend. It took me over an hour to walk home.
I kick another stone, and it nearly hits a runner. She gives me a dirty look, and I scowl right back.
I start chewing on what Gil told Alex. The gifts and the phone and the car
make sense
? What does that mean? Did Dad hear him say that? Did Alex tell Mom?
Halfway across the park, the wind picks up. It starts to drizzle, then rain. Soon my shirt is soaked, and my shoes squish. I swear at the dirty gray sky as loud as I can.
Then I run.
The bus pulls into the Lancers Center the same time I do. I hop on before the team even leaves the building.
I sit by my soggy self. I want to keep it that way too. Alex walks right by without saying a word. G.I. Joe’s right behind him, studying me like I’m a math problem.
Danny plops in the seat beside me. Figures.
“You and Alex fighting?”
I look back at my brother and Gil. “Not fighting, exactly. Avoiding each other. Besides, he’s sitting with Soldier Boy.”
Danny makes a face. “That’s taking one for the team. Maybe Alex can talk him into passing.”
“I’d rather he talked him into enlisting.”
He laughs. “I like it. Or leaving.”
If I could just talk Danny into leaving, I might catch up on the sleep I missed.
I lean back and close my eyes.
But he doesn’t take the hint. “So?”
When I don’t answer, he elbows me in the ribs.
“I’m trying to sleep!”
“No way. Not until you tell me how it was.”
I sigh. “How what was?”
His eyes bug out. “Are you serious? Calamity Crossing!”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Did you meet them?”
Did I ever. If you can call it that. “Yeah.”
“And…?” He leans forward.
I put my hands over my face and breathe out. “Danny, I’m tired, I’m wet, and I’m grouchy. I will tell you all about it later. I promise. I’ll even give you the T-shirt they signed.”
His eyes get wide. “Seriously?”
“Sure. You can look at the pictures I took too.” I unlock my phone and throw it in his lap. I tilt my seat back and close my eyes. “Just let me sleep.”
“Deal!”
I wake up to a million cell phones ringing, all over the bus. “What’s going on?”
I’m not the only one asking. Everyone’s saying, “Hey!” or “What?” or pulling out a phone.
Danny stands in the aisle, holding my phone like a microphone. “Good morning, passengers. We’re now landing in Greenwood. Please turn off your electronic devices…”
“Danny!” says Julio.
“Figures,” someone behind me mutters.
Danny starts laughing. “You should’ve seen your faces. Looking around—
hee-hee!
—feeling
for your phones! I should’ve videotaped—
oof
!” Someone throws a pair of socks at him.
“How’d you do that?” Alex asks.
“PhoneList. On Jack’s iPhone. You can set it to dial a list of numbers all at once. It’s for conference calls. Or wake-up calls.” He fiddles with my phone, and the phones all ring again. “See?
“And I have to say, guys, those are some seriously lame ringtones. Except for yours, Jack. Calamity Crossing is awesome.”
Danny grins at me until he sees my face. I grab my phone back and stuff it in my pocket.
Calamity Crossing is lamer than you think
.
And at game time, so are we. It’s like we forgot everything we learned overnight. No one’s where I need them. Except Gil, who is always wide open.
No way I’m passing to him. He can beg for the ball all he wants. I’ll give it away before I give it him.
My head hurts and my shoes feel glued to the turf. It’s my own fault, which makes
me twice as angry. My cranky mood rubs off on everyone. We’re chirping at each other. We’re chirping at Gil. And we’re losing by two goals.
So Gil goes after the ball even harder. He picks up a bunch of fouls. Then, just before half, he takes out a guy’s legs, studs up. The ref gives him a yellow and a warning. But it could’ve been a red.
Danny walks off the field with me at halftime. “He belongs in Port Peterson,” I mutter.
Danny says, “Let’s get him a written invitation.”
Coach hears us. He pulls Alex aside. “You’re the captain,” he growls. “See if you can talk sense into them.” And he walks away.
One look at Alex, and I want Coach back. I’ve never seen my brother this mad. Ever.
He grabs a fistful of my shirt and drags me over to Gil. He takes Gil’s shirt in his other fist. “See these uniforms?” He gives us a shake. “When they’re the same color, you’re on the same fricking team!
“That goes for you too,” he says, looking right at Danny. “It goes for all of you!”
He lets go of our shirts and points to the Greenwood bench. “Look at them over there. They love how we’re playing. They don’t have to beat us. We’re beating ourselves.”
I tug my shirt straight with a scowl. “Then give your buddy man of the match. He nearly got ejected.”
“Yeah,” says Danny. “If that was a red, we would’ve played short the rest of the game.”
Gil blows up. “How else am I supposed to get the ball? You want more goals?” he fires back. “Send me the fricking ball. Or could St. Jonesy score without it?”
I take a step closer to him. “Let me tell you something, Soldier Boy. Jonesy didn’t just score goals—he set them up.”
“You’re screwing me over because I don’t pass like Jonesy?”
“No!” I throw my arms up in the air. “Because you don’t pass at all. Ever heard of give-and-go, pass backs, overlaps? Or don’t
they teach that in those fancy European academies?”
He clamps his mouth shut and kills me with his eyes.
“Team?” I spit the words out one by one: “You don’t even know what that means.”
“I sure didn’t learn it from you! You don’t play me the ball—you don’t even talk to me. None of you!”
He tosses my own words back at me before storming off. “Team?
You
don’t even know what that means.”
