I shook my head, disgusted with all of them. “I can’t believe that Coach Orman is the mastermind of this whole thing. He’s the last person we would have suspected.”
“That was the idea. Too bad you didn’t find him in time,” Roque sneered. “The game is lost already, it’s just a technicality now.”
“We were trying to keep Pinnacle from losing,” I said. “But Coach Orman’s scheme is a crime, whether they lose or not. I can expose him after the game and he’ll be in just as much trouble. Actually, he’ll probably be in more trouble.”
Roque frowned.
“I mean, if the team loses on purpose, Coach will be guilty of defrauding everyone in the stands and everyone who placed money with him. If the team wins, he’s only guilty of conspiring to defraud them. It’s just a technicality….”
“Why do you want to be that way?” Roque asked, suddenly nice. “We don’t have to fight. We can do business. There’s a lot of money coming our way after this game.”
“How much?” I asked.
“More than a hundred thousand,” answered Roque.
Wow, I thought.
“Each.”
Double wow.
“So we can cut you in,” Roque said. “Obviously we can afford it.”
“But I don’t get it,” I told him. “Coach had a winning season. Why not just keep doing what he was doing? Why is he retiring now? Why this whole conspiracy?”
“You met my dad,” replied Roque. “He hates Coach Orman. He wants to get him fired, and he finally got some of his cronies to admit that Coach was their bookie. He gave their statements to the college board.”
“So Coach thought they’d fire him?”
“They’ll totally fire him,” Roque said. “They just didn’t want to do it until after their precious football team won the championship.”
“That’s pretty low,” I admitted. “So Coach wants to lose just to get back at them?”
“I guess it’s a nice side effect,” Roque responded. “But it’s really about the money. He’s got to retire anyway, or they’ll fire him. And if he tries to get a job somewhere else, they’ll rat him out about the gambling thing. His career is over no matter what.”
“He figured he might as well make some money on the way out,” I finished for him.
“It’s only fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” I shot back.
“They’re gonna ruin the guy’s reputation!” Roque argued.
“He’s been gambling on a sport that he’s involved in,” I pointed out. “He’s a bookie! It’s a conflict of interest. And it’s also illegal.”
“Whatever.” Roque stood up straight and crossed his huge arms over his chest. “Are you in or not?”
“First tell me something,” I said. “Why are you doing this? Coach is your father’s enemy. Why are you working for him?”
“Do you know what my father cares about?” Roque asked. “Football. Oh, and football. And also? Football. You know what he doesn’t care about? Me. Not since eighth grade, when I decided I didn’t want to play anymore. I hate football.”
“So you’re involved in an illegal gambling ring and a conspiracy to commit fraud just because your father ignores you?” I asked. “You’re the one who’s not too bright.”
Roque stepped toward me, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the door. “Is that a no?” he demanded.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s a no.” And then I charged him.
17.
A Good Tackle
Flynner held on to my face mask, his eyes two inches from mine. “I don’t like this game you’re playing, Hardy,” he snarled. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not kicking field goals.”
“You know what, Flynner?” I replied. “I’m not your number one fan anymore.”
I threw my weight to the side, pulling him off balance. He let go of my face mask just in time for me to jerk my neck back and head-butt him.
Flynner stumbled backward.
“Fight!” somebody yelled.
“Knock it off,” I heard Coach bellow.
But I wasn’t stopping. I’d had enough of this big bully. Maybe we hadn’t found the mastermind behind the conspiracy, but we definitely knew Flynner was in on it.
That was enough for me.
I yanked off my helmet. People were reaching toward us, getting ready to pull us apart. I only had a split second.
Flynner took a swing at me. I stepped into his blow, ducked under his arm, and grabbed him around the waist. My forward momentum took us both down, Flynner falling backward.
Into the equipment cart.
It crashed onto its side with the two of us on top of it.
“I never played kicker before,” I said. “I’m really a tackle.”
“Get off me!” Flynner cried, trying to shove me away.
His movement set the cart off balance. It slid out from underneath him, one corner of the metal frame popping up into the air. I jumped to my feet, but Flynner wasn’t so fast. The bent metal corner left a long, deep scratch in his arm as it moved.
“Ow!” Flynner yelped. He jerked his arm away, but it was caught between the side of the cart and the bottom. Instead of getting away from it, he pulled the entire thing over onto himself.
We all heard a disgusting crunch, and then Flynner was howling in pain.
The team doctor came running, while I grabbed the cart and pulled it off the quarterback. Coach Orman knelt by his side.
“That’s broken,” Ken said from behind me. He stood on his one good foot, leaning his weight on Luis’s shoulder. “I can see it from here. The arm’s bent all weird.”
He was right. Flynner’s forearm was at the wrong angle. No wonder the guy was yelling so much.
“I didn’t mean for him to break something,” I said.
“You didn’t do that. He did it to himself,” replied Ken. “And he deserves it. He pushed me into that cart on purpose.”
“There’s no way he can play,” the doctor told Coach. “He needs to get to a hospital and have that bone set.”
Coach grabbed the equipment cart and hurled it angrily away.
“I don’t know what he’s so mad about,” Luis muttered. “Flynner’s been playing all day as if he had a broken arm.”
The ambulance pulled into the stadium, and the paramedics quickly got Flynner up and into the back. There was some scattered applause from the stands, but not the roar of support you’d expect for the star quarterback.
Coach just stood there, watching as the ambulance pulled away.
The refs blew their whistles to start play again. Our defense ran out onto the field. But Coach still just stood there.
“Coach?” said Luis.
Coach didn’t answer.
“Interception!” someone in the stands cried.
I whirled around to see one of our safeties hit the ground, the ball cradled in his arms. My heart gave a leap. Finally, one of the turnovers was going our way!
“Coach?” Marco asked. “What do we do?”
Coach Orman looked at him. “Well, the game’s probably as good as lost. Just do what you can.” He turned away and went to sit on the bench.
My teammates glanced at one another. Coach was acting really weird.
“Get in there, Luis,” Ken told him. “You have to.”
Luis pulled on his helmet and turned to the offensive line. “What are you waiting for?” he bellowed. “We’ve got great field position and it’s first down. Let’s go score!”
He ran onto the field, the other guys behind him.
“All right!” one of the fans shouted.
“Go, Pinnacle!” somebody else added.
On the first play, Luis handed off to Marco. Marco just stood there holding the ball until one of the Miller State tackles took him down.
Great, I thought. Luis can have all the spirit in the world, and it’s not gonna help as long as Marco and Anthony are still refusing to play.
But Luis didn’t let it get
him down. I saw him yell at Marco. Then he huddled up with the guys and laid out a plan.
On the second down, he dropped back and threw the ball. It spiraled into the air, heading all the way into the end zone.
Heading right for Anthony.
I groaned. Two bad plays in a row would be enough to get anybody down, especially a backup quarterback facing a tough opponent in a championship game in front of an angry crowd.
I waited for Anthony to miss the ball.
He leaped into the air. Stretched his arm up high—and grabbed the ball!
Anthony fell to the ground, clutching the football to his chest.
Touchdown!
I jumped up and down along with all the other guys on the sidelines. Anthony did it! He caught the ball clean and didn’t drop it. I felt my face break into a huge smile. The dude had decided to do the right thing, after all.
Luis was already setting everyone up for the extra point. I grabbed my helmet and ran out there.
“Hardy,” Luis told me when I got into the huddle. “We’re gonna fake. I want the two-point conversion. This team needs a big play and we need more points on the scoreboard. I want to go into halftime with good momentum. We’ll fake and I’ll throw to Anthony. What do you say, man? Can you do a repeat of that last catch?”
Anthony met my eye. “Definitely.”
We lined up. The play started, and I dropped back as if to get ready to kick. But when the snap came, Luis didn’t set it up for me. He just grabbed the ball and ran to the right. I saw Anthony booking up the sideline, making a beeline for the end zone.
The Miller State defense scrambled to adjust.
Too late.
Luis hurled the ball.
Anthony turned at the last second, snatched the ball out of the air, and kept going straight into the end zone.
The stadium went nuts.
Two extra points—and a kick-butt play!
The Mountain Lions were back!
I rushed right at Roque.
He held up his arm, elbow locked, and thrust it into my chest.
I bounced off the big guy like he was made of rubber. The force of the blow sent me flying backward into the desk, and I struggled to get my breath.
Roque gave me a nasty smile. “If you’re not gonna join me and Coach, I can’t let you leave here. You’re planning to tell the authorities about our little scheme. And I just can’t have that.”
“What are you gonna do, kill me?” I asked. “You’re just some rich kid with a lot of computers. You’re not a murderer.”
“If it’s a choice between murder or jail, I just might pick murder,” said Roque.
“You’re bluffing.”
He shrugged. “I can make it look like an accident. I’m smarter than the cops. I know what they’ll look for.”
“You have a pretty high opinion of yourself,” I said casually, trying to distract him.
“I—,” he started.
I pushed myself off the desk and kicked both feet right at his stomach.
“Oof!” Roque doubled over.
I ran for the door.
He spun toward me and chopped me in the neck, hard.
I fell sideways and Roque moved quickly to block the door again. He was breathing hard and clutching his stomach. But he was standing.
“Just because I don’t like football doesn’t mean I’m a wimp,” he snarled. “I’ve been studying martial arts for years.”
“I can see that,” I muttered. I hadn’t expected the dude to be so tough.
“Maybe I won’t kill you,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just injure you. You know, badly enough that you won’t be able to talk afterward. You don’t mind spending the rest of your life in a coma, do you?”
He spun quickly and hit me with a roundhouse kick.
I saw it coming and blocked it, but I didn’t have enough room to maneuver properly. His kick clipped me in the side, and my rib cage exploded in pain.
This guy is too big, I thought. He’s stronger than me.
“You should have taken the money,” Roque said. He hit me with two quick jabs in the stomach. I blocked one, but the other one got me.
“You hurt me, my brother will just tell everyone what happened,” I pointed out. “You can’t kill us both.”
Roque laughed. “I’m not gonna kill you, remember? I’m just gonna give you brain damage.”
He sent a chop at my head, but I ducked it and hit him in the side.
“Maybe I’ll kill your brother, though,” Roque said, wincing from the pain. “I don’t think the little kicker boy is gonna give me much trouble.”
“You’d be surprised,” I told him. “Joe is a pain in the butt.”
Roque took a step back and dropped into a fighting stance. I automatically moved into the same stance.
What am I doing? I thought suddenly. I don’t want a karate match. I’m sick of this guy!
I lowered my head and sprinted straight at him, yelling the whole way.
Surprised, Roque stepped forward, reaching for me. I tucked my chin against my chest and jumped at him, ducking under his arms and catching him around the knees.
Caught off balance, the dude crashed to the floor.
Before he could recover, I sat up and put my knee on his neck, holding him in place.
“I know martial arts too,” I told him. “But I also know some football tackles. Maybe you should’ve paid more attention to your father’s sport.”
I reached for the phone on the desk and yanked it out of the wall. The cord made a nice rope to tie Roque’s hands together. I didn’t take my knee off his throat until his wrists were bound.
“I’ll still pay you,” he said when I moved off of him. “I’ll pay you not to tell. I have plenty of money. You can have it all.”
“Sorry, dude,” I answered. “You threatened my brother. No amount of money makes up for that.”
18.
Halftime Show
“Luis!” a reporter yelled as we walked off the field at halftime. “Over here!”
“Luis,” called someone else. “How does it feel to be out of Flynn’s shadow?”
“Hey, Luis! Can I get five minutes?”
“Dude. You’re the most popular guy on the team,” I said to my suitemate. “I don’t think we’re gonna make it back to the locker room. These people all want a piece of you.”
Luis grinned. “They’ll just have to wait. I have to get my man here to a bench before he falls on his face.”
Ken rolled his eyes as he hopped along between us. He had one arm slung over each of our shoulders. “It’s just a sprained ankle,” he said. “I could still take you.”
“Doubt it,” Luis retorted.
We all laughed.
“Luis, give me a statement,” a woman called, sticking a microphone right in front of me and Ken.
“Please watch out for my boys,” Luis said politely.
She pulled the mike back. “You’re saving the team. What do you have to say?” she asked.
“We’re still losing, and we’ve got a long way to go to come back in the second half,” Luis said. “That’s all I care about. I’m not gonna waste my time talking to reporters.”
He kept going, ignoring all the people calling for his attention.
“Why don’t you go enjoy the spotlight?” I asked.
“Yeah, Manzi can drive me back to the locker room in the cart,” Ken put in.
“Dude, I’m not gonna let you ride on the cart like an invalid,” said Luis. “Besides, reporters are annoying. I’m not Flynner. I’m not in it for the fame.”
“At least you’re in it,” I told him. “Flynner’s gone for good. It’s all you now.”
“And you,” Luis replied. “We’ve still got another two quarters to go. Think you can pull out some more great kicks?”
I winced. “I dunno. You guys are all way out of my league. I wish Ken wasn’t hurt.”
“I can’t believe Flynner pushed me,” Ken said. “What was up with that?”
“He didn’t want you to play,” I told him. “That’s why your lucky sweatband was gone.”
“That sweatband is not lucky,” said Luis. “You were wearing that smelly thing when you got hurt. I’m burning it when we get back to the dorm.”
Ken frowned at me. “Hey, where did you find my sweatband, anyway? How come you had it?”
“Uh … I stole it from you,” I admitted. “Sorry.”
“What?” Ken cried.
“Why?” Luis asked, appalled.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I told them as we limped into the locker room. “You see, I’m not really a kicker. In fact, I’m not even in college. And neither is Frank. We’re sort of like law enforcement agents….”
“I can see that,” Luis said, stopping in his tracks. Ken’s eyes had gone wide.
I glanced up. In front of us stood about seven cops. Two of them were wrangling John Roque into handcuffs. Two were talking to Frank. One was on the radio, giving coordinates on Flynner’s ambulance.
And two were waiting in the doorway, studying everyone who walked in.
“Hurry it up, boys, please,” one of them ordered. “We want the door closed.”
“What’s going on?” Luis asked. I helped Ken sit on one of the benches.
“We don’t want to tip off the coach that we’re in here,” the officer replied. “Everyone please stay quiet.”
I glanced around the room. About half the team was back already, and they all looked baffled.
Then the door swung open and Coach Orman appeared, followed by a couple of the defensive linemen.
Coach took one look at the cops, then turned to run.
The huge guys behind him tried to get out of the way, but the hallway wasn’t wide enough. By the time Coach got past them, the cops already had a hold on his arm. He struggled, but it was no good.
They dragged him back inside and into his office.
Frank came over, grinning.
“So what’s up?” I asked him.
“I found the mastermind,” he said. “Coach. He was the one planning to lose the game.”
All the guys nearby gasped.
“What? That’s crazy!” cried Ken. “Coach is the whole reason we’re such a good team to begin with.”
Foul Play Page 10