Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

  So much for finishing the mission tonight, I thought. “What do you want me to do?” I asked Flynner.

  “If you’re going to help us, you need to be able to play. The only way that will happen is if Ken is out of commission,” he said. “So you get rid of Ken before the game, and we’ll cut you in on the deal.”

  10.

  A New Suspect?

  “Get rid of Ken? How?” I heard my brother ask.

  I pressed the earpiece of my ATAC surveillance device tighter into my ear. I didn’t want to miss a word of this. The locker room bench I sat on was pretty uncomfortable, so I stood up and began to pace.

  “I don’t care. You figure it out,” Flynner replied.

  I stepped closer to the door that led to the weight room. The reception was better there.

  “Hey, Frank.”

  For a second I didn’t register that somebody had said my name. As in, somebody who could see me. Somebody who was not through that closed door into the weight room.

  Uh-oh.

  I turned slowly to find John Roque staring at me, eyebrow raised questioningly. “Whatcha doing?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Listening to some tunes.” I pulled the earbuds of my multifunctional music player from my ears.

  Roque nodded. “Just hanging out in the locker room by yourself, chilling to music?” He sounded doubtful. “This late at night?”

  “What are you doing here so late?” I asked.

  He looked startled. “Oh. I just came by to get the playbook off Coach’s computer. He wants to make some changes.”

  “Really? Now that’s everybody’s memorized it?” I asked.

  “Well, that was more about discipline than about actually remembering the plays.” Roque leaned against a row of lockers. “Coach is always tweaking the playbook before big games. And he wants it all in the computer, like, instantly. So I have to drop everything and input the new stuff.”

  “Why doesn’t he just make the changes himself?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? The man barely even knows how to turn the computer on,” Roque joked. “I think he’s afraid of it.”

  I laughed. “So you have to be here all night?”

  “Nah. I’m just gonna download it and work on it in my dorm room.” Roque held up his tricked-out PDA. Sweet. I guess Dr. Roque’s money could buy a lot of technology.

  “I guess it’s more comfortable there,” I said.

  “Yeah. Microwave popcorn and everything.” Roque narrowed his eyes at me. “What about you? How come you’re hanging out all alone here?”

  I was hoping he’d forgotten about that, I thought. The last thing we needed was to make anyone involved with the team suspicious of us. “Oh, I’m just looking for Joe,” I lied. “He was supposed to meet me for a study session, and of course he didn’t. I figured he might be here.”

  “In the locker room?”

  “In the weight room,” I said. “He’s a workout fiend. Especially when he’s trying to avoid studying. I was just about to check in there when you walked in.”

  “Oh.” Roque was still looking at me with a weird expression on his face. I didn’t think he believed me … until the weight room door swung open, and Joe came out.

  My brother stopped short when he saw Roque.

  “Joe,” I said quickly. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? You’re so predictable.” I gave him a play along look, hoping he’d understand.

  “Um, yeah, I guess the weight room was a pretty stupid place to hide,” Joe said slowly.

  “Come on. We’re supposed to be studying,” I told him.

  “What are you guys studying in the middle of winter break?” asked Roque.

  “Math,” Joe answered immediately. “I suck at math. And the only way Pinnacle would let me transfer in was if I promised to take a math placement test at the beginning of the new semester. If I fail, I’m out.”

  “So he can’t fail. We have a whole study plan,” I put in.

  “Wow. I thought they went easier on the academics with football players,” Roque said.

  “Yeah, well, he’s not that good a player,” I told him.

  Joe shot me a death stare, but he didn’t argue. “Let’s just go study,” he said.

  “See you guys later.” Roque turned toward Coach’s office, and we hurried to the locker room door.

  As soon as we were out into the hall of the sports complex, I let out a breath. “That was close.”

  “Do you think he’s onto us?” Joe asked.

  “I doubt it. As far as he could see, I was listening to my music player and looking for you. And since you were really in there, it will seem like I was telling the truth.”

  “Okay, good. He’s not suspicious,” said Joe.

  “No. But I am,” I stated.

  “That’s only because you know for a fact that we’re lying about who we are,” Joe joked.

  “Funny,” I said. “I mean, I’m suspicious of him. Roque.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was strange. I mean, who goes to the deserted locker room at night?”

  “Well, me and you. And Flynner and Marco and Anthony …”

  “Yeah, and all of us are involved in something shady,” I pointed out. “Or at least, we’re involved in busting up the shady deal.”

  “So you think Roque is involved too?”

  “He said he was there to do computer stuff for Coach Orman. But what if that was a lie?” I said. “I mean, he was acting a little weird. I thought it was because he was wondering what I was doing there. But what if it was really because he was afraid of me?”

  “You mean, he thought you were onto him?”

  “It could be.”

  “They never told me the name of their friend, you know,” Joe pointed out. “What if it’s John Roque? What if the real reason he was there was because he was going in to meet with the guys he paid off ?”

  “So he could be the one we’re looking for,” I reasoned. “John Roque could be the mastermind.”

  11.

  Superstition

  As we approached the dorm, I found myself walking slower and slower.

  “What’s up with you?” Frank asked.

  “I’m worried about Ken,” I admitted. “What am I supposed to do? Flynner and those guys are expecting me to take him out before the game.”

  “Did they say how? John walked in around then and I didn’t hear the rest,” said Frank.

  “No. Marco and Anthony will barely speak to me. And Flynner couldn’t care less how I do it, as long as I do it.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I don’t think he’d care if I shoved poor Ken out a window. That dude is a real jerk.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna shove Ken out a window,” Frank told me. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Can’t we just prove that John Roque is behind the whole thing?” I asked. “Then I don’t have to do anything to Ken.”

  “Who knows how long it will take to get more info on John?” Frank said. “We have to keep going on the Joe-as-traitor story line too. Just in case.”

  “Great. So now I have to make sure that one of the only offensive players who’s willing to score is unable to play on Saturday.” I stopped outside the door of Brazelton Hall. “Basically, I have to add to the problem that ATAC sent us to solve.”

  “Look, you just have to do something temporary,” said Frank. “Make it seem like Ken can’t play for a couple of days. Hopefully we’ll solve the case by Saturday, and then Ken can play.”

  “I think Flynner is expecting me to put Ken on the disabled list,” I said.

  “You can’t. That’s assault.”

  “Obviously I’m not gonna hurt the guy.” I rolled my eyes. “But other than being injured, how do you get the starting kicker not to play in a championship game?”

  Frank thought for a minute. “Um … kidnap him?”

  “Yeah, or give him the wrong directions to his own football stadium.”

  “I guess we co
uld try to trick him somehow,” Frank said. “But how?”

  The answer was so obvious that I had to laugh. “We psych him out. He’s the most superstitious guy on the planet. Come on.”

  I raced inside and grabbed the elevator just as it was closing. By the time we got to our floor, we had the whole plan worked out—Frank would have to get Ken and Luis out of their room somehow, and I’d sneak in.

  “Who’s up for hall races?” Frank called as soon as I opened the door to the suite.

  Ken and Luis were in the common room, as usual. They both spun around quickly. “What kind of racing?” asked Luis.

  “I’m thinking one lap of jogging, one lap of combat crawling, and one lap of walking on your hands,” Frank replied.

  The football players stared at him. “I can’t walk on my hands,” Ken said.

  “Sweet. Then I’m in. I’ll kick your butt.” Luis jumped up off the couch and headed for the hallway. “I did gymnastics in high school.”

  My mouth was already open to make fun of him, but Ken beat me to it.

  “Ooh, wait till I tell the rest of the team about that. Did you wear tights?”

  “Shut up,” Luis said. “You’re just afraid to race me.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “From the elevator all the way to the end of the hall and then back,” Frank instructed. “That’s a lap. You touch the wall, then move on to the next lap.”

  “Go!” Luis yelled.

  “Wait, no fair!” Ken took off after him.

  The second they were out of the suite, I ran into the guys’ room—and stopped. Where did you keep a lucky sweatband? Where did you keep any kind of sweatband?

  I scanned the dressers. No sweatband.

  I checked the bedside tables. No luck.

  Where would it be if it were mine? I wondered. I dropped to my knees and peered under the bed. There were tons of socks, but no lucky sweatband.

  Then I realized where it had to be.

  I approached Ken’s bed slowly. He wouldn’t really be that ridiculous, would he?

  I lifted his pillow off the bed. Sure enough, there was the sweatband, carefully tucked under his pillow like a tooth for the tooth fairy.

  “Only one lap to go!” Frank yelled from out in the hallway.

  That was a warning, I knew. I grabbed the sweatband and stuffed it into the pocket of my track pants. Then I rearranged the pillow so that it looked the way it did when I came in. I managed to make it out into the hall just in time to see Luis speeding down the home stretch on his hands while Ken was stuck all the way at the end, trying to get his balance in a handstand and toppling over every time.

  “Yes!” Luis bellowed as he hit the wall with his foot. “I win! I rule!” He flipped himself over onto his feet.

  “It doesn’t count. You’re a gymnast,” muttered Ken. “I should’ve gotten a head start.”

  “Best two out of three?” Luis challenged him.

  Ken thought about it for a second.

  “Or are you scared?” Luis teased.

  Frank and I laughed.

  “I need my lucky sweatband,” Ken decided. “Then I’ll totally beat you.”

  Frank’s eyes met mine. I nodded. I’d gotten the sweatband. But I hadn’t been expecting Ken to find out quite so soon.

  Still, there was no way to stop him. He charged right past me into his room and yanked the pillow off the bed.

  I cringed, knowing what was coming.

  “Where’s my sweatband?” Ken bellowed.

  “Huh?” Frank asked innocently, stepping into the room.

  “What’s going on?” asked Luis. He stuck his head through the door. “You wussing out?”

  “My sweatband is gone! Where is it? It’s gone!” He glanced at me, his eyes wide. “Did you see it?”

  “What? No. I don’t even know where you keep that thing,” I said.

  “You took it, right?” Ken asked.

  My heart stopped for a second. Had he seen me somehow? I thought he was busy racing up and down the hall.

  “You took it—you’re messing with me. Right?” Ken asked again. “Luis put you up to it. Right?”

  “Hey, leave me out of this,” exclaimed Luis, coming back into the suite.

  “I didn’t take it,” I said.

  “Then what were you doing in the suite? You weren’t watching the race until the end,” Ken pointed out.

  Oops. The dude’s pretty observant, I thought.

  “He was in the bathroom. Duh,” Frank put in.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Sorry. I didn’t see your sweatband in there.”

  “Then where is it?” Ken was starting to sound hysterical. “I need it to play.”

  “Did it fall under the bed?” asked Luis.

  “No,” Ken cried, checking under there.

  “Maybe it’s in your laundry bag or something?” I suggested.

  “No! I don’t wash it,” he replied.

  “Gross,” said Frank.

  “He’s afraid the luck will wash off,” Luis explained.

  “Did you put it in your gym bag?” I asked. “Maybe you took it with you to practice and left it in your locker.”

  “I never leave it anywhere. Never. I wear it to practice and back, and then it goes under my pillow. It never goes anywhere else.” Ken looked like he might cry.

  “Don’t worry, man, I’m sure it will turn up,” Frank said.

  Ken stared at him in disbelief.

  “Uh, that’s not good enough,” Luis murmured. “We’re gonna have a major freakout on our hands here.”

  “I can’t play.” Ken sat on his bed and dropped his head into his hands. “That’s it. I just can’t play.”

  “What?” I cried. “That’s crazy.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s the smart thing to do,” Ken said. “The sweatband is gone. It’s a sign.”

  “Here we go.” Luis threw up his hands.

  “My luck is off,” Ken told him. “You know I can’t play with no luck. I’m out of the game.”

  “But the game isn’t until Saturday. We can get you a new sweatband before then,” I argued. But secretly, I was thrilled. This was working exactly the way we wanted it to.

  “I can’t get a new one,” said Ken. His voice had turned sort of flat and weirdly reasonable. “The luck is attached to that one.”

  “Still, it’s only one thing,” Luis pointed out. “You still have the rest of your lucky superstitions. We’ll all make sure we step into the rooms the right way, and we’ll eat the right food on the right days.”

  “Yeah, and you still have that lucky blue golf ball in your locker at the gym,” Frank reminded him. “I make sure it’s there every time I clean out the locker room.”

  “See? There’s all kinds of luck around,” I said soothingly. Don’t believe me, I silently added. Your luck is shot. There’s no way you can play without your sweatband.

  “No. There’s no way I can play without my lucky sweatband,” Ken stated. “I just can’t put the team at risk that way. Tomorrow I’ll go to Coach and tell him he’s got to put you in instead of me.” He clapped me on the back. “You have to play in the big game, Hardy. Get ready.”

  12.

  Tricks

  “Coach is gonna flip out when Ken talks to him,” Joe said as we walked across campus to practice on Thursday morning. “There’s no way he’ll let me play instead.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “As long as Flynner or Marco or Anthony hears about it, you’re in. They told you to get rid of Ken and you did. Everybody knows he’ll never play if he thinks he’s got bad luck.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. Ken’s the most superstitious guy ever. Even if Coach tells him to play, he won’t.” Joe grimaced. “But Coach isn’t gonna be happy. I bet he really abuses me at practice today. He knows I can’t kick. He’ll be all over me, just in case I really do have to play on Saturday.”

  “Yep.” I couldn’t help smiling at the thought. “It’ll be
bad.”

  “It’s up to you now,” said Joe. “You have to get the dirt on John Roque—and fast.”

  “I will. I know he keeps everything on his Sidekick.”

  “Well, that’s great, Frank,” Joe said sarcastically. “Too bad he keeps that thing with him all the time.”

  “Not all the time,” I noted. “He hooks it up to Coach’s computer when he’s editing the playbook. And last night he downloaded the playbook to his PDA. Which means that this morning, he’ll be uploading it from his PDA back to Coach’s computer.”

  “O-kay,” Joe said. “And that helps us how?”

  “All I have to do is interrupt him while he’s doing it, and he’ll leave his Sidekick there to finish the upload. Then I can hack in.”

  “Fine. But how are you gonna get him far enough away?” asked my brother. “I can’t exactly challenge him to a race in the hallway. He’s not an ultracompetitive football player.”

  “No, he’s a techie,” I said. “He needs a techie challenge. So I wrote a little program of my own last night….”

  Joe groaned. “It’s a nerd-off.”

  “And I’m gonna run it this morning,” I went on. “The scoreboard on the field is controlled by its own computer in the field house. That’s where I’m going.”

  “The scoreboard?” Joe asked, confused.

  I just waved over my shoulder as I jogged off toward the field house. As a team manager, I had keys to pretty much every door in the entire sports complex. I unlocked the door and headed straight for the lonely little computer in the middle of all the big ride-on mowers and field chalking machines.

  I pulled a DVD from my jacket pocket and inserted it in the drive. “Piece of cake,” I said to myself as my program installed. I had put in some encryption just to make it harder to find later on. And of course I’d made sure nobody could trace the application to me.

  Five minutes later I was out on the field gazing at my work: the humongous scoreboard at the end of the football field didn’t have any numbers on it. Instead it just had words, scrolling over and over. MILLER STATE RULES!

  “Nice,” I said. When the guys on the team saw that, they’d lose it. They would be sure that this was some lame prank pulled by the enemy school’s students.