“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.
Chapter Twelve
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.
Chapter Thirteen
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.”
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 gri
n. “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.
Chapter Fourteen
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.
Betting Game Page 4