Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

And the game was tomorrow.

  14.

  Game Day

  “It’s John Roque,” Joe insisted on Saturday morning. “That’s who we thought it was before we found his father’s name on the list.”

  “No, it’s not,” I told him for the tenth time. “John is a bookie. That’s all. The voice modulator I found is to answer calls from his clients—remember, Dr. Roque said he got an electronic voice on the phone. Gambling is illegal. John’s just trying to cover himself.”

  “We should still call the cops on him,” muttered Joe. “He’s committing a crime.”

  “Yeah. But not the crime we’re here to stop,” I said. “We can deal with Roque after we actually finish our own mission.”

  “And how are we gonna do that?” Joe asked. “We still have no idea who’s pulling the strings. And the game starts in two hours.”

  I sighed. “I think we have to punt.”

  “Ha-ha,” Joe said sarcastically. “Football humor isn’t very funny right now.”

  “I mean, I think we have to stop trying to figure out who Flynner’s so-called friend is. We have to just ask outright.”

  “Are you kidding? We can’t even get to Flynner,” said Joe. “He’s busy doing press. He had interviews starting at five o’clock this morning. All the papers want a quote from the hottest quarterback in college football.”

  “I can’t wait to see what the articles actually say after everybody sees him play today,” I remarked. “But we don’t need Flynner. Marco is afraid of looking bad. And Anthony doesn’t want to throw the game at all. We have to get one of them to tell us who it is.”

  “I don’t think Anthony knows,” Joe said.

  “It’s still worth a shot,” I told him. “He must have some idea who would have the goods on him.”

  “All right. I’ll try Marco,” Joe decided. “I’ll see you in the locker room.” He grabbed his jacket off the bunk bed and stalked out of the room.

  I put on my own coat and went out into the common room. Luis had already left for the stadium, but Ken was sitting on the couch watching the pregame show on the local news. “Aren’t you going to the game?” I asked. “Coach wants all the players there an hour and a half before kickoff.”

  “I don’t know,” said Ken. “I’m trying to figure out if my bad luck will rub off just because I’m there, even if I stay on the bench.”

  “The bad luck is in your head,” I told him. “And Coach will kick you off the team for good if you don’t show.”

  “I guess. I’ll head over in a few.” Ken turned back to the TV.

  I caught a shuttle bus over to the stadium. The school was running them every fifteen minutes all day. Even so, I barely made it on because the thing was so packed. Everywhere I looked, people were dressed in black and gold, Pinnacle’s colors. They had Mountain Lions flags, Mountain Lions jerseys, Mountain Lions caps. Some of them even had their faces painted like lions. This whole place had a serious case of Mountain Lion fever.

  And their team was going to lose.

  I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I listened to the other shuttle passengers sing the Pinnacle College fight song. They were all so happy, and their day was going to be ruined. All because Joe and I couldn’t figure out who was planning to throw the game.

  Maybe we should just call the cops on the three guys we know about, I thought. But I knew it wouldn’t help. We had no proof that any of them were involved. They hadn’t even done anything yet!

  The shuttle bus jerked to a stop outside the entrance to the football stadium, and everyone piled off. The place was a madhouse. Campus workers were selling Pinnacle merchandise at little booths all over, thousands of fans were tailgating in the parking lot, and news crews roamed around interviewing people.

  I pulled my team pass out of my pocket and looped it over my neck. I hadn’t really needed it all week, but it was obvious that nobody without a pass would get near the locker room today.

  The sports complex was banned to the public, but it was still crowded. More reporters were inside, and the players milled around talking to them.

  As soon as the beefy security guys waved me past, I spotted Anthony Aloia. He was standing with his parents outside the locker room, giving a statement to a blond lady with a microphone. His parents were on camera too, but they didn’t look very happy about it. Mrs. Aloia wore a fixed smile on her face, and Mr. Aloia glanced about nervously.

  I stopped nearby and waited for him to finish.

  “And that’s junior sensation Anthony Aloia, getting ready for the big game,” the reporter said, turning to the camera. Her camera guy nodded and turned off the camera, and she shook hands with the Aloias.

  As soon as the woman turned away, Anthony ran a hand across his forehead. “I can’t take this,” he said quietly to his parents.

  “You’re doing fine, sweetheart,” his mother replied. “Let’s get you to the locker room. You’ll feel better away from the press.”

  “I doubt it.” Anthony sighed. “I just want to get this whole thing over with.”

  I hurried over before they could go anywhere. “Anthony! I need to talk to you,” I said. “Now.”

  He looked surprised. “Uh, Mom and Dad, this is one of our team managers….”

  “Frank Hardy,” I told them. “And I know what you’re planning to do today.”

  All three of them stared at me for a second. Then Anthony shook his head. “Your brother told you. His brother is in on it,” he explained to his mom and dad.

  “No, he’s not,” I said. “Not really. Look, I know you’re being blackmailed. All of you.”

  “What?” Mr. Aloia cried.

  “You took a bribe from Dr. Roque—”

  “We didn’t know it was a bribe,” Anthony’s mom interrupted. “We thought they were just gifts. We’ll give them back! We would do anything to help save our son’s football career. . . .”

  “Mom, it’s too late.” Anthony sounded resigned.

  “Not if you tell me who’s in charge of this whole thing,” I said. “Joe and I are trying to figure out who’s behind the conspiracy.”

  “So you want me to be a snitch. Flynner wants me to throw the game. How am I supposed to know what to do?” Anthony snapped.

  “Honey, if you help bring down the guy who’s responsible, maybe you won’t have to play badly at all,” said Mrs. Aloia. “Maybe the blackmailer will be arrested and we’ll be off the hook!”

  “Just tell me who this friend of Flynner’s is,” I said. “I promise Joe and I will do everything we can to help you out.”

  “I wish I could,” Anthony told me. “I never met the guy. Believe me, I’ve been trying to figure out who it is. I just get these weird phone calls where the voice is disguised. Flynner is the only one who knows how to contact the dude, and he’s always real careful not to say any names. To be honest, I’m not sure Flynner even knows who it is.”

  “I thought they were friends.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Flynner lies.”

  The assistant coach strode down the hallway, blowing his whistle. “Players inside!” he yelled. “Now!”

  “Sorry I can’t help,” said Anthony. He gave his parents a sad smile. “See you after.” He trudged off to the locker room.

  As I headed after him, I spotted Coach Orman coming in the door at the end of the hall. Immediately he was mobbed by reporters. They all stuck microphones in his face, shouting questions at him.

  Coach waved them off good-naturedly, pushing his way through them toward the locker room.

  “Come on, just give us a prediction!” one of the reporters yelled.

  “Catch me after the game, Trey,” Coach called back. “I’ve got a big announcement for you.”

  He strode into the locker room, and the security guard moved to block the door.

  “Hold on!” I called, waving my team pass. I stepped past the guard and followed Coach inside as the press swarmed the door behind us.

  As soon as the players saw Coach Orma
n, they burst out cheering and whistling and yelling. The energy in the room was unreal—I’d never seen so many guys so psyched before. Even when Coach motioned for quiet, the cheering continued.

  “We’re number one!” Luis bellowed from ten feet away. One of the linebackers chest-bumped him in agreement.

  Joe came over to me. “They think they’re gonna win for sure,” he said.

  “I know.” I stood on tiptoe to get a look around the humongous dudes standing in front of me. There, next to Coach, stood Flynner. He was grinning and high-fiving people just like everything was normal. But he was planning to betray everyone on the team.

  “Did you talk to Marco?” I asked my brother.

  “Yeah. He says he has no idea who Flynner’s friend is.” Joe shook his head. “Flynner won’t tell. Marco said he asked point-blank, and Flynner refused to give him a name.”

  “Did you blow your cover?”

  “Nah. I told him I wanted the name so that I’d know who to ask for my money after I missed a field goal or two.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed at me for being such an idiot. Said he’d told Flynner that the money had to be in his hands before the game or he wouldn’t do it.”

  “So he got his money?” I asked.

  “Yup. It was in his locker. And now it’s like he doesn’t even care anymore if he looks bad to the scouts. He must’ve gotten a lot of cash.”

  “All right, everyone, quiet down!” Coach yelled over the noise. “Now let’s get serious. Today is our chance to prove to the world that we are as good as we say we are. Today is our chance to engrave this legendary team in the memory of Pinnacle College forever. Today is our chance to dominate!”

  The Mountain Lions erupted in applause.

  I felt sick. The game was going to start in less than an hour.

  And we had nothing.

  15.

  Dropping the Ball

  “M-O-U-N-T-A-I-N!” the head cheerleader yelled at the top of her lungs.

  “L-I-O-N-S!” her partner bellowed.

  “Mountain! Lions!”

  Rooooooaaaaarrrrr!

  The sound went up from all over the stadium, everybody in the crowd screaming the team’s chant the way they did for each game Pinnacle played.

  Except usually when the crowd roared, the Mountain Lions were winning.

  “This sucks,” Luis muttered from beside me on the bench. “How can they still be cheering like that? We look terrible out there.”

  “It’s only the first quarter,” I told him. “There’s plenty of time.”

  “Hardy, they scored on the first drive,” he said. “That was supposed to be our touchdown. We always come out throwing for the end zone, and we always make it. But Flynner threw an interception!”

  “Well, all quarterbacks get picked off sometimes,” I said lamely.

  Luis shook his head. “Not Flynner. And that was hardly a pickoff. He threw it straight to the guy.”

  “Maybe all the media attention went to his head,” said the dude next to Luis on the other side. “Flynner had about thirty interviewers telling him how great he was all morning.”

  “He is great,” Luis said. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “He just has to get into a groove.”

  “He’s not the only one,” the other player muttered under his breath. “Aloia’s dropped two perfectly good passes already.”

  “We’re all nervous,” I said. “The whole country is watching this game on TV.” But my words sounded hollow, even to me. The fact was, Flynner was lobbing balls without even checking to see if there was a receiver open. At least Anthony had made it look like he was trying to catch the passes he dropped. The only bright side was that with the offense playing so badly, the defense got more time on the field.

  None of them were trying to throw the game.

  But it hardly mattered. Defense had never been Pinnacle’s strong suit. The guys did their best, but Miller State was a powerhouse. Before the first quarter was over, they were up 14-0.

  Most of the players on the bench sat with their heads in their hands. Even the crowd seemed depressed. Pinnacle had never looked so bad.

  There were only twenty seconds to go in the quarter when Flynner handed off to Marco on a third down. Marco ran a few yards, then fumbled, the same way he had three times already. But just as a groan went up from thousands of people in the stands, one of the other running backs dove in and grabbed the ball in midair.

  It was a catch!

  He took off running for the end zone, leaving Marco in his dust. The Miller State defense rushed after him, but the Pinnacle blockers did their jobs. He ran to the fifty … the forty … the thirty-five … and a Miller State dude came out of nowhere to take him down.

  We were all on our feet screaming encouragement. It was so amazing to see a great play from the Mountain Lions that I didn’t even realize what was coming.

  “Hardy!” Coach yelled. “Get in there.”

  What?

  I looked at the scoreboard. It was a first down, but there were only eight seconds left. We were in field goal range.

  The kicker was supposed to get out there and score.

  All the blood drained from my face. I couldn’t kick a field goal from that far, with thousands of people watching. I’d miss. I’d miss just like I had almost every time in practice for the last two days.

  Pinnacle needed to score. The team couldn’t take it if they went a whole quarter without putting points on the board. The other guys would get depressed and start to play sloppy, and then Flynner and his gang would hardly even have to try to lose the game.

  I didn’t even think. I just yanked Ken’s lucky sweatband out of the handwarmer around my waist and thrust it at him.

  Ken stared at me, astonished.

  “I found your sweatband,” I said. “Go score.”

  Ken shoved the thing onto his wrist, pulled on his helmet, and ran onto the field. The guys on the bench sent up a huge cheer. Coach looked shocked.

  But Flynner’s mouth dropped open. He spun around and jabbed his finger at me accusingly.

  I turned my back on him.

  Ken was like poetry in motion. One smooth, fluid run toward the ball. A kick that looked as gentle as a love tap—but that thing flew! Straight through the goalposts.

  The refs’ arms shot up.

  Field goal!

  The crowd went nuts. So did the players. Everyone was so busy hugging and bumping chests that you would’ve thought we’d just won the game instead of putting up three lousy points.

  It was such mayhem that it was hard to get anywhere near Ken as he jogged back over. Guys were shoving him and smacking him and head-butting him in congratulations. When Flynner stepped up, I figured he was gonna put on a show of being happy.

  Instead, he put both hands on Ken’s chest and shoved him—hard. Ken fell backward, his left leg clipping the edge of an equipment cart. He hit the ground.

  Everyone gasped.

  “Sorry, man,” Flynner said casually. “I didn’t see the cart there.”

  He was lying. It was so obvious. But nobody paid any attention to him, because they were all busy rushing over to Ken. My suitemate was clutching his leg where he’d hit the cart.

  “Get the doctor!” shouted Coach.

  The team doctor pushed through the press of players and knelt by Ken’s side. He gently moved Ken’s ankle to the left. Then to the right … and Ken cried out in pain.

  “It’s not broken, but it’s a bad sprain,” the doctor told Coach. “He’s out for the game.”

  “Let me see your pass,” the security guard said, bored.

  I held up the team badge, and he peered at it. “Fine.” He leaned back against the wall and I went on into the sports complex. The place was deserted, especially compared to how crowded it had been earlier. Most of the reporters were in the stands watching the game.

  A few small groups of people stood around, talking. I pushed the Gatorade car
t past a woman talking into a camera. I didn’t hear what she was saying, but the expression on her face said it all. The Mountain Lions were choking. The game had been a disaster so far.

  “… kicker is out for good,” someone else was saying as I got closer to the locker room door. I slowed down to listen. “Word is that he’s got a sprained ankle. He’s elected to stay out on the field to support his teammates, but he’ll be supporting them from the sidelines only.”

  I glanced over at the guy—and stopped. It was the same reporter that Coach had spoken to right before he went into the locker room before the game.

  “This is Trey Beck with your game update. We’ll check back at the half,” he said, smiling like a big cheeseball.

  “And … cut,” the camera guy said.

  Trey Beck dropped the stupid smile and loosened his tie.

  “Excuse me,” I called. “Mr. Beck?”

  “Mm-hmm?” he replied, handing his mike off to the cameraman.

  “I saw you earlier, talking to Coach Orman,” I said. “He told you he was going to make an announcement after the game.”

  “Right,” said the reporter.

  “Do you know what it’s about?” I asked.

  “The announcement? The way things are going right now, it’s going to be about the fact that his team lost their mojo,” Trey joked. Then he noticed my badge and the Gatorade cart. “No offense,” he added.

  “None taken. I’m hoping they’ll turn things around.”

  “Me too, kid. I’ve got a ton of money on this game.” He yawned. “Anyway, I think Orman was planning to announce his retirement.”

  “Retirement?” I repeated. “But … but Coach isn’t that old. Is he?”

  “I guess he’s kind of young for it,” Trey agreed. “But that’s the rumor in the press room.” He popped a stick of gum into his mouth and wandered off down the hall.

  I pulled open the locker room door and dragged the cart through. I was supposed to go to the storage rooms and get more Gatorade, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what Trey had said. Why would Coach retire?

  He wasn’t old enough. And his team was having a banner year. Why walk away from that?