Betting Game

by Heather M. O'Connor

  Gil’s next. I wag my finger—classic Coach. “Every one of you thinks you’re the next Messi. Even if you are, and I highly doubt it, there’s life after soccer. So keep up with your schoolwork. You don’t play if you’re failing.”

  No reaction.

  Seriously? Someone must’ve surgically removed his personality.

  Alex just rolls with it. He leads him back downstairs. “So here’s our locker room, and Coach’s office is right around the corner.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I mouth to Alex. “Is he a robot?”

  Alex makes a cutting motion. But I bet he’s asking the same questions.

  Coach’s door is open. He’s at his desk, studying a soccer clipboard. He looks up when Alex knocks.

  “Coach, this is Gil. We gave him the tour.”

  “Good lads.”

  He measures Gil up, then sticks out his hand. “Glad you could join the team, Gil. Here are your uniforms. Practice kit’s on top. Red jersey’s home, stripes’re away. Now get dressed. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Time to meet the team,” Alex says. “Good bunch of guys. You’ll like them.”

  I smile, remembering the rush I felt when I walked through this door for the first time. I look at Alex. He remembers it too and grins. He holds the door open to let Gil walk in first, just like Jonesy did for us. But it goes wrong the second he steps through the door.

  “What the—” That’s all Gil gets out before two half-dressed guys stagger into him. Momentum carries all three of them past the doorway and out of sight. We hear a crash and groans.

  “What’s going on?” Alex says. We hurry in. Just in time to see the garbage can tip over and water bottles tumble like bowling pins. The team cheers and claps.

  The three guys are in a heap. The first one on his feet is Julio.

  “Oh, man! Who’d we knock down?” He looks at Gil, flat on his back, and his eyes open wide. “I’m so sorry! We were just messing around. Here, let me help you up.”

  But he can’t. There are water bottles all over the floor, and Danny is sprawled across Gil close enough to give him mouth-to-mouth. Danny kicks at the water bottles, and Gil’s arms and legs are going like a flipped-over ladybug’s.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Nice work, guys,” says Alex. “You trying to break him?”

  Gil is not laughing. “Get off me, you son of a—” Gil shoves Danny off, swearing under his breath the whole time.

  Alex and Julio give Danny a hand up. Then they hoist Gil to his feet. He’s as red as our jerseys, even his neck.

  “Sorry, man!” Now Gil’s got hands patting him all over. He slaps them away, huffing like a guard dog choosing who to bite. It’s pretty funny.

  Until he shoves Danny up against the wall.

  Alex grabs his shoulder. “Hey, lighten up. They were just horsing around. They didn’t even see you coming.”

  “Yeah, wasn’t D-Man’s fault!”

  “Get a sense of humor,” someone mutters.

  No one’s laughing now. It’s like we chugged a carton of milk and realized it’s sour.

  “What an initiation,” I say. “Seriously, guys. Try a handshake next time.”

  “Initiation?” says Gil.

  Uh-oh. Bad choice of words.

  Gil glares at me, then at Alex. “You set me up?”

  “No. No! Calm down. Let’s try this again.” Alex clears his throat dramatically. “Guys, listen up. I’d like you to meet Gil.”

  “This guy’s our new striker?” Danny’s still rubbing his neck.

  “Not the way I wanted to introduce him. But, yeah.”

  Gil’s watching the team, and I’m watching him. His eyes flick from face to face, then land hard on Alex.

  There’s going to be trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  The guys dress and get out, leaving Alex with Gil. What a mess.

  The locker room floor is a disaster too. Water bottles. Garbage. Gil’s new uniforms.

  Alex looks around and sighs. I bet he feels like tossing his captain’s armband on the pile.

  I start picking up the water bottles. When he tries to help, I shake my head. “I got it. You go ahead. I’ll be out to warm you up in a few.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  Keepers warm up with a partner. I’ve been filling in since our backup keeper broke his ankle. Coach says I’m his utility player—one size fits all. Alex calls me his backup backup.

  Alex is already in the net when I walk on the field. But why is Gil with him? Uh-oh.

  Strikers suck at warming up a keep. They think it’s a shooting drill.

  But it’s really a catching drill—the keeper is supposed to stop the ball.

  Gil lines up balls at the edge of the box. Then he winds up.

  Shot after blistering shot. One corner. The other corner. Bam! Bam! Bam!

  It’s like the YouTube video. But it’s not cool this time.

  Alex dives right and left. He leaps up to the crossbar. There’s no time between shots to reset. He can’t even get up before another ball whizzes in.

  I don’t know why Alex doesn’t just walk away. I would.

  Right after I stuffed a soccer ball down Gil’s throat.

  The guys stop warming up to watch. They’re buzzing. There’s no doubt about it. He’s good.

  And he’s still fighting mad.

  Probably because Alex is stopping some of his shots. And whenever he does, we cheer.

  Coach blows the whistle and calls us in. I wonder how long he’s been standing there. I bet he didn’t miss much.

  The team makes a circle. It opens for Gil but doesn’t close around him.

  He stands in the gap, eyes front, legs apart and arms crossed. Give him a rifle and a uniform and he’d be G.I. Joe.

  “I see you’ve all met our new striker, Gil Joseph,” says Coach.

  Gil Joseph, right! His name really is G.I. Joe. I snicker.

  “Something you want to add, Jack?”

  “Uh, no, Coach. Sorry for interrupting,” I mumble.

  Alex joins us, and he fills a gap beside Gil.

  I meet his eyes across the circle. What an idiot. You okay? An imperceptible nod.

  G.I. Joe stares at me, and I stare right back. Listened in, did you? Good.

  “Jack?”

  I face forward again. “Yes, Coach.”

  “Sure you have nothing to say?”

  I start to shake my head, then freeze. “I mean—I’m sure, Coach.”

  “Do a lap and figure it out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I bend down to tie up my shoelace.

  I hear Coach say to Alex, “The goalkeeping coach wants to work with you today. Take a break. He’ll be out shortly.”

  “Okay, Coach.” Alex mops his face with his sleeve and limps over to the bench.

  As I jog away, Coach says, “The rest of you, grab a partner and loosen up. Properly. I’ll be right back.”

  I knew he was watching. Coach doesn’t miss a thing.

  Gil is still standing there when I finish my lap. No partner. He either got the cold shoulder or he’s waiting for me. I’m stuck with him.

  Then Danny breaks away from a group of three and waves me over. I lope past Gil without saying a word. That’ll teach you.

  I turn around to see how G.I. Joe likes t
he silent treatment.

  But I never get the chance. Alex stands up to work with him.

  Now I’m mad at both of them.

  That’s why I share the G.I. Joe joke with Danny. He thinks it’s so funny, he spreads it around. By the end of practice, everyone is calling him G.I. Joe or Soldier Boy behind Coach’s back.

  Everyone but Alex.

  Chapter Nine

  The locker room is pretty quiet after practice. Alex doesn’t say much, even when we’re the only two left. But that sure changes on the way home.

  “I had to do something. He didn’t exactly get the warmest welcome.”

  “I get that he was mad, Alex. But you take that out on an empty net. Not your keep! Not your captain!”

  “You should’ve left it to me.”

  “We were teaching him a lesson! You can’t treat team like that!”

  “Did you treat him like team?”

  “You’re defending him after what he did to you and Danny?”

  “No! It’s just…” He shakes his head and pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “It was my fault things got out of control.”

  “Your fault? You didn’t knock him down. It was an accident!”

  “I should’ve fixed it. I’m the captain.”

  “Would you skip the ‘burden of leadership’ crap? He tried to humiliate you. He wanted to show you up! After you showed him around.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Argh! What a…a…tool!”

  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.”

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  Chapter Eleven

  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.