Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “You’ve probably heard of Pinnacle College in Colorado,” the announcer said.

  “Go, Mountain Lions!” I cheered. Frank rolled his eyes.

  “The Pinnacle team has dominated the season in Mountain Division football this year,” said the announcer. “They are undefeated, and their streak is expected to continue in the divisional championship game.”

  “The championship game is a week from today.” Frank sounded worried. “They’re playing Miller State.”

  “You don’t think … I mean, that can’t be our mission, can it?” I asked excitedly.

  “Anyone who follows college football knows that the Pinnacle Mountain Lions are considered unbeatable,” the announcer continued. “So why have there been rumors trickling into Vegas lately that suggest the Mountain Lions may actually lose to their old rivals, the Miller State Warriors?”

  “Wait, the oddsmakers say Miller State will win?” I said, confused.

  “So far these are only rumors. The safe money is still on Pinnacle to win,” the announcer explained. “Nevertheless, we here at ATAC are concerned. There have been no published reports of injuries to key players or dissension within the Pinnacle team. Basically, no reason for anyone at all to think the Mountain Lions won’t win.”

  “Then where are the rumors coming from?” Frank asked.

  “We believe it’s possible that there is some inside knowledge of a plan to sabotage the championship game,” the announcer stated. “It’s the only reason for such supposedly unfounded rumors.”

  Frank gave a low whistle. “ATAC thinks the Mountain Lions are going to throw the game on purpose.”

  “If a player—or many players—intentionally loses the championship game, they would be defrauding the university, all its financial boosters, and anyone who placed legal bets on the game. Not to mention anyone who purchased tickets to the game or pay-per-view TV rights.”

  As the announcer spoke, a picture of the Pinnacle stadium popped up, followed by a group picture of some guys in suits, a Vegas casino, and finally a bunch of people watching a game on TV. A big red X went through all of them as he finished his sentence.

  “Your assignment is to go undercover as Pinnacle College students for the next week,” the announcer summed up. “The head coach, Tip Orman, is aware of this mission and will help you blend in with the team. It’s up to you boys to discover what’s really going on behind the scenes at Pinnacle. If somebody is planning to throw the game, you have to find out who. And stop them.”

  “We’ll have to tell Mom and Aunt Trudy we’re going on a ski trip or something,” I said.

  Frank nodded. “Dad will help us with that.” Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a retired cop. He is also one of the founders of ATAC. Which comes in pretty handy when ATAC sends us on a mission and we need someone to cover our tracks with Mom!

  “In this box you’ll find all the information we’ve gathered on the Mountain Lions, including complete dossiers on every team member. We’ve also provided you both with the latest technology from the lab here at ATAC. They may look like personal music players, but these are also highly sensitive recording devices that can pick up sound from fifty feet away. They function remotely, through walls, and in tandem. And of course, they play music.”

  I grabbed the little silver gadget and began examining it.

  “You leave tomorrow morning for Pinnacle College. Good luck, boys. As always, this mission disc will be reformatted in five seconds. Five … four … three … two …” The images vanished from the screen, and the loud hip-hop blasted from the speakers again.

  ••••

  “You the Hardys?” A gruff, broad-shouldered man asked us the second we stepped off the prop plane at the small Colorado airport on Sunday morning. The winter weather was freezing.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I’m Joe and this is Frank.”

  “Tip Orman,” the man said. “Follow me.”

  He led the way across the tarmac and into the tiny airport. There was a dingy coffee shop tucked away between the ticket counters and the bathrooms. Coach Orman sat himself down at a cramped table. Frank shot me a confused look, then sat down across from him. I squeezed in next to my brother.

  “It’s great to meet you, Coach,” Frank said. “We’ve followed your career at Pinnacle, of course—”

  “Save it,” Coach Orman growled. “I’m the best there is and we all know it. We’re not here to talk about me.”

  Frank shut his mouth, his cheeks flushed. But I laughed. This guy was no-nonsense. I liked him. “Why don’t we talk on the way to the college?” I asked.

  Coach Orman raised his eyebrows.

  “Because the coach doesn’t want anyone to see him with us,” Frank put in. “It could blow our cover.”

  The coach nodded. “I can see you’re the brains,” he told Frank. He turned to me. “That means you must be the muscle.”

  I had no idea what to say. I was just as smart as Frank! But I also liked the thought of being the muscle….

  “You’ll be a player,” Coach Orman went on. “Nobody expects them to be smart.”

  “Hey,” I protested. Then his words sunk in. “A player? On the Mountain Lions? Cool!” I pumped my fist in the air.

  “My backup kicker is down with a bad knee,” the coach said. “We’ll say I brought you in to take his place. You’re backup, so there’s no chance you’ll ever have to play. But you can come to practices and get to know the team.”

  “That’s perfect,” I told him. “It will give me an inside look at how the guys relate to each other. If any of them are planning to throw the game, I’ll find out.”

  “What about me?” asked Frank. “What should my cover be?”

  “I don’t have any other open slots on the team,” Coach Orman said. “I’m thinking we’ll make you a manager.”

  “Okay. What does a manager do?” Frank asked.

  “You’ll help run the day-to-day. Keep track of equipment and schedules, make sure everyone’s pads are in good shape, run messages to the special teams coaches, keep the locker room clean, that kind of thing,” Coach Orman explained.

  Frank was silent.

  “So basically he’s like a secretary or something?” I said. “Or a janitor?”

  “He’s someone who has access to the locker room, the field, and the players,” Coach Orman growled. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “That will be fine, Coach,” Frank said quickly. “Do you mind if I ask you what you think? I mean, you’re cooperating with ATAC. So you must think there’s something negative going down with the team, right?”

  “Wrong.” The coach ran his hand through his graying hair. “Look, your organization contacted me and I’m willing to help out. I don’t mind if they want to send a couple of kids to snoop around, and I’ll make sure your covers are good. But I don’t believe for a single second that any of my players are going to lose this championship for us.”

  “Then why are the Vegas oddsmakers hearing rumors against you?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” the coach said. “I don’t understand how any of that gambling garbage works. What I know is football. And I know that the Pinnacle Mountain Lions have the strongest offense in the league. Defense? Well, that’s another story. I’d say we’re only third- or fourth-ranked when it comes to defense. But it doesn’t matter. My quarterback is the best, my receivers are the best, my star running back is the best, and my team is the best. We’re unbeatable. I don’t care what the Vegas gossip says.”

  Coach Orman pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll expect you both at practice first thing tomorrow morning,” he added. “You can get a bus to the campus from here.”

  He turned and left without even saying goodbye.

  “Wow,” Frank said.

  “I know. He’s not the friendliest guy in the world.”

  “The reporters always say he’s a man of few words, but that the players really respect him,” Frank noted. “I guess it’s true. You don’t hav
e to be nice to be a great football coach.”

  I grabbed my duffel and headed for the door. “Let’s go. I want to get to Pinnacle and get settled in. I’ve got a big day of practice tomorrow. I’m gonna need my rest.”

  “Like a kicker has to do anything physical,” Frank teased me. “You’re nothing but a bench-warmer.”

  “Better a benchwarmer than a glorified errand boy,” I retorted, grinning. I shoved open the door and looked around for the bus to Pinnacle College. This was gonna be the coolest mission of all time!

  3.

  The Suite Life

  “Let’s go over it one more time,” I said as the elevator creaked up to the fourth floor of Brazelton Hall.

  Joe rolled his eyes. “We’re transfers from a college back east—”

  “Which college?” I asked.

  “Annoying Brother University,” he replied.

  “If we don’t have our stories straight, we could blow our cover,” I pointed out.

  “Fine. We’re transfers from Bayport State, and I came here because Coach Orman wanted me to be a backup kicker. I don’t know why you had to come along.”

  “We’ll just say I’m here for the academics,” I offered. “They have a strong math department. We can say I’m majoring in math.”

  “Whatever.” The elevator jerked to a stop and Joe pressed the Door Open button impatiently.

  “Remember, you’re a freshman,” I told him. “I’m a sophomore.”

  “Got it,” said Joe. The doors opened, revealing a long hallway with greenish walls and ugly gray carpeting. My brother grinned. “Dorm life, here we come!”

  I followed Joe to suite 412, where ATAC had assigned us to stay. According to the team dossier, the other guys in the suite were on the football team too.

  “Your new roommates have arrived,” Joe announced, pushing open the door. We were in a room with an old couch, two folding lawn chairs, and a huge TV. Off to one side was an open door leading to a bedroom with bunk beds. Directly across from it were another bedroom and a bathroom.

  Two dudes were playing a video game on the giant TV. They didn’t even glance in our direction.

  “I don’t think they’re too excited to see us,” I said to Joe. I glanced into the room with the bunk beds. “Should we just dump our stuff in here?”

  “I guess.” Joe turned toward the bedroom door. But before he could take a single step inside, the smaller of the two dudes leaped up off the couch.

  “No!” he yelled. “Stop!”

  Joe froze.

  The guy came running from the common room. “You have to step in with your right foot first,” he said quickly. “Both of you.”

  “O-kay.” Eyes wide, Joe stuck his right foot through the bedroom door. He went in and tossed his duffel bag on the ground. I followed, right foot first.

  “Are we allowed to just walk back out, or do we have to reverse the whole thing?” I asked.

  The guy looked at me like I was nuts. “No,” he said. “It only matters on the way in. Duh.”

  By this time, the other dude had joined him in the entryway. “Don’t mind Ken,” he told me. “He has a superstition for everything. He thinks if you don’t put your right foot first it means you’re getting off on the wrong foot. I think he read that on a fortune cookie once.”

  “I did not,” Ken protested. “It’s just that I stepped in with my right foot first when we moved in here at the beginning of the school year. And the team hasn’t lost since.”

  “The team hasn’t lost ever,” the other guy said. “That’s because we’re good. Nobody cares which foot you’re on unless you’re kicking.”

  “Kicking?” said Joe. “I’m a kicker too!”

  Ken looked him up and down. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Coach Orman brought me in. I’m the new backup kicker for the Mountain Lions,” Joe explained.

  “Ken here is the starting kicker,” the big dude replied. “And I’m Luis. I’m the backup quarterback.”

  “I’m Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe,” I said. “Guess I’m the only nonplayer here.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll still hang with you,” Ken joked.

  “Thanks. I’m gonna be a manager for the team,” I told him. “Got to keep tabs on my little brother here.”

  Joe shoved me. I shoved him back.

  “You guys hungry?” asked Luis. “I’m thinking pizza.”

  “We can’t do pizza,” Ken argued. “It’s Sunday.”

  Luis groaned.

  “Let me guess, no pizza on Sunday because it’s unlucky?” I said.

  “The last time I had pizza on Sunday, I totally missed an easy field goal,” Ken explained. “I kicked it and it got blocked.”

  “Yeah, but we still won,” Luis said.

  “And if it got blocked, it wasn’t your fault,” Joe pointed out.

  “It wasn’t my fault, but it was my bad luck,” Ken insisted. “So now I can’t eat pizza on Sundays until the championship game is over.”

  “Isn’t there a dining hall?” I asked. “We can just eat there.”

  “No!” cried Ken. “We can never eat in the dining hall.”

  “Don’t even ask,” Luis said, shaking his head. “The dining hall is like the evil vortex of all bad luck as far as Ken is concerned.”

  “You’re really serious about this stuff,” I remarked to Ken as Luis went into the common room and started looking through Chinese food menus.

  “I just don’t want to mess up our winning streak,” Ken said. “The team is really important to everyone at Pinnacle. Everybody’s school spirit is all wrapped up in us winning the game next week. I can’t take a chance that bad luck will get in the way.”

  “Then I guess I shouldn’t throw your lucky sweatband out the window, huh?” Luis asked from the common room.

  I turned to see him dangling a dark blue band through the open window, a wicked grin on his face.

  Ken went deathly pale. “N-no,” he whispered.

  Joe was laughing. But I thought Ken might have a heart attack.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “You let us order pizza and I bet Luis will spare your lucky sweatband.”

  Luis raised one eyebrow. “Interesting. Forcing him to choose between two superstitions. Which one will it be, Kenny?” He shook the sweatband, fake-threatening.

  Ken suddenly sprinted across the room and launched himself at Luis, tackling him to the ground. Luis looked so surprised that Joe started laughing even harder.

  “Didn’t you say you were the kicker?” I teased. “You looked more like an offensive tackle.”

  “I do what I have to.” Ken grabbed the sweatband and stood up, stuffing it into his jeans pocket. “Now let’s order some Chinese.”

  “I call the top bunk,” Joe said when we headed into our room after dinner.

  “Fine with me. Then I can keep you up all night kicking your mattress,” I replied. I unzipped my duffel bag and pulled out the folder with the dossier of the football team. “We’ve only got a week. We need a plan.”

  Joe frowned. “There’s a lot of guys on the team. It’s hard to see why any of them would want the Mountain Lions to lose.”

  “I know.” I chewed on my lip, thinking. “Maybe we can’t start with motive. There are too many people involved. Maybe we should just figure out how they could throw the game.”

  “A boxer can throw a boxing match just by letting himself get hit and pretending that he couldn’t stop it,” Joe said. “And in a baseball game, if you get enough guys to agree to play badly, you can lose the game.”

  “Right. The pitcher throws easy pitches on purpose. And the catcher drops balls. And the outfielders miss catches,” I added. “So how do you do that on a football team?”

  “Simple,” said Joe. “It’s the quarterback. He’s the one who calls the plays. He’s the one with the ball almost all the time. So when he’s doing a pass play, he throws the ball too far. Or he purposely throws an interception. When it’s a running play, he let
s himself get sacked. Or he fumbles the handoff. It’s all about him. If he does a bad job, the team loses.”

  “Not necessarily,” I argued. “If the quarterback starts throwing wild or getting sacked a lot, Coach Orman will just put the backup quarterback in instead.” I tossed him the dossier. “Check out Luis’s stats. He’s a great backup quarterback. At most schools, he’d be the starter.”

  “So?”

  “So … it doesn’t have to be the quarterback. The running backs and the receivers are the ones who actually score. No quarterback is worth much without a good receiver.”

  Joe studied the players’ statistics. “Well, they’ve got a few good receivers, but only one real star,” he said. “Anthony Aloia.”

  “What about the running backs?” I asked.

  “Easy. Marco Muñoz. He ran for over a thousand yards this season alone.” Joe frowned. “But I still say you can’t throw a game without the quarterback.”

  “Fine. You check out the quarterback. I’ll take Aloia and Muñoz.”

  “Great. It’s a plan.” Joe grabbed on to the frame of the bed and swung himself up into the top bunk. “Now I’d better get some sleep. I have a tough day of football practice tomorrow. And you have a tough day of … cleaning out lockers.”

  I kicked the mattress above me.

  “Ow,” Joe complained. I smiled.

  4.

  Practice

  “Coming through!” a huge guy bellowed from the showers. I stepped back to let him pass, and he ran by, trying to strap on his shoulder pads as he went. As soon as he was out the back door, I glanced down at the floor.

  His cleats had left muddy footprints all over the floor I had just mopped.

  “Why?” I said out loud. “Why do you run through the showers fully dressed?”

  “Because you’re late for practice, the shower door is the fastest way to the field, and Coach makes you do three extra laps for every minute you’re late,” a voice answered me.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see a tall guy in a button-down shirt and khakis hovering in the doorway that connected the showers to the main locker room.