Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

Maybe he doesn’t want to retire, I thought. Maybe Dr. Roque got his way, after all. Maybe the college board is getting rid of him. Maybe he’s just quitting before they can fire him.

  Had we been too quick to dismiss Dr. Roque as a suspect?

  It was only a rumor. It wasn’t a big lead. But the game was happening, and the conspiracy was actively trying to lose. We were about to seriously fail in our mission. I was willing to try anything.

  The locker room was empty. Manzi must’ve gone out to the field after he finished cleaning. Now was my best chance to do a little snooping.

  I went over to Coach’s office, but I didn’t know where to start. The tiny room was stuffed with trophies and photos of Coach with players past and present. It all seemed normal. I turned to the desk and began searching. Nothing in the top drawer. Nothing in any of the drawers except a few copies of the team call list. The top of the desk was always bare—Coach wasn’t really a desk kind of guy. John Roque spent more time sitting there than Coach Orman did.

  The computer monitor was on, showing a screen saver of a mountain lion. I shook the mouse to wake up the computer. Maybe Coach had written a letter of resignation that would give me more info.

  There weren’t many files. The playbook was there, and the call list, and a file full of random notes on players’ strengths and weaknesses. There was a file that contained a press release template. And a file with a map of the Pinnacle campus. That was pretty much it.

  “Why did the college even give this guy a computer?” I wondered. He barely used it.

  Then I noticed an icon in the toolbar that looked like a padlock. I clicked on it. Sure enough, an error message came up. I needed a password.

  “Football,” I said, typing it.

  Wrong.

  Pinnacle.

  Wrong.

  Mountain Lions.

  Wrong.

  I chewed on my lip, thinking. Did Coach have a family? Kids? Pets? I’d never heard anything about his private life. Everything I’d read in the papers, even before I met him, talked about how all he cared about was getting his team to win.

  Win, I typed.

  Wrong.

  Victory.

  Wrong.

  I glanced at the clock. I’d been gone from the stadium for almost fifteen minutes. The guys had to be getting thirsty. They’d be looking for me soon.

  Concentrate, I told myself. My eyes roamed the walls. Photo after photo of Coach Orman. Coach with college players. Coach with NFL players. Coach with celebrities at the games. Coach with newscasters.

  Coach. It was all about Coach.

  Orman, I typed.

  There was a little trumpet sound, and then the locked folder opened. I had to laugh. Who used their own name as a password?

  Inside the folder was a spreadsheet. I opened it.

  Lists of names and numbers met my eye.

  I knew those names. I’d seen those numbers before. It was the spreadsheet from John Roque’s PDA, the one with the information about Roque’s clients and how much money they’d put on the game.

  I scrolled to the bottom. There were a few new names.

  But what was it doing here? Why did Coach have this file? Maybe that’s what the announcement is going to be about, I thought. Maybe Coach is going to out John Roque as a bookie. It’s a good way to discredit his dad. Then Coach could keep his job, because the college board will be on his side.

  I had to hand it to the guy. It wasn’t a bad plan.

  “I wish you hadn’t seen that,” said a voice from the doorway. “Now there’s gonna be trouble.”

  16.

  Score!

  “You suck, Flynn!” somebody yelled from the stands.

  “Booooooo!” The stadium echoed with the sound. “Booooooo!”

  We were down 24-3 in the second quarter. The fans had stopped even trying to be supportive.

  Out on the field, Flynner dropped back to throw the ball. Then he waited. And waited.

  “Aloia’s open!” Luis bellowed from next to me. “Williams is open!”

  But Flynner didn’t pass. He just stood there, his arm cocked, waiting for the defensive linemen to fight their way through to him.

  “Sack!” somebody in the stands groaned as Flynner went down.

  I shook my head. The dude wasn’t even trying to make it look good. He should have thrown over one of the receivers’ heads, or at least pretended to trip so that there would be a reason for him to get sacked.

  “Take him out!” yelled another fan.

  “Get rid of Flynn!”

  “This is the worst we’ve done all year,” Luis muttered. “We’ve been down before, but never by more than two scores.”

  “The defense is really stepping up, though,” I pointed out. “If we can keep Miller State from scoring, we can still come back in the second half.”

  “Not with Flynner playing this way,” said Luis. “The fans are right. Coach should take him out.”

  “Coach should’ve taken him out a quarter ago,” the guy on the other side complained. “Flynner’s been playing this whole game like he’s never held a ball before.”

  A roar went up from the crowd as Flynner handed off to Marco. People were on their feet, cheering, hopeful. But I knew it was all a waste. If one of the other running backs had the ball, there was a chance that something good could happen. But Marco would just find a way to mess up.

  Sure enough, he ran right into a wall of Miller State guys. The run was over.

  “Ah, man, there was a hole the size of Jupiter to the right,” one of the tackles moaned. “Even I could have found my way through there! Why did he go straight?”

  “What is this, Pop Warner?” somebody heckled us from the stands.

  “Do something, Coach!” another fan yelled.

  I looked at Coach Orman. He was staring in tently at the field, frowning.

  “Why doesn’t he put you in instead of Flynner?” I asked Luis.

  “I don’t know.” My suitemate sounded frustrated. “I know I’m not the big star Flynner is, but I can play a lot better than him today.”

  Coach motioned to the refs for a time-out. “Flynner, Aloia, Muñoz,” he called. “Get your butts over here.”

  Finally! I thought. He’s going to do something about this.

  “Offense, gather round,” Coach barked. The offensive line surrounded Flynner and his coconspirators.

  “Hardy, that’s you,” Ken told me from his seat on the bench. His ankle was wrapped and elevated on a cooler. “You’re the kicker now.”

  “Oh. Right.” I hurried over and squeezed in between two big guys.

  “I don’t know what is going on out there,” Coach was saying. “All I know is this: The entire country is watching this game right now, and they’re all thinking that the Mountain Lions are a mess. Flynner, Marco, Anthony.” He jabbed his finger at each of them in turn. “You guys don’t even look as if you’re trying.”

  None of them met his eye.

  “I thought you were smarter than that,” Coach went on. “At least make an effort.”

  Flynner nodded. So did Marco. But Anthony just stared at his cleats, miserable.

  “Now get back out there,” Coach growled.

  The guys all pulled their helmets on and jogged onto the field. I couldn’t believe it. Coach left Flynner in the game. Sure, he’d yelled at the guy a little. But it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t save the team from losing.

  I sat back down next to Luis.

  “Only a few minutes left before the half,” he said miserably. “I bet they score again.”

  He hadn’t even finished the sentence when Flynner lobbed the ball to Anthony, even though Anthony was surrounded by Miller State linebackers. One of them shoved Anthony to the ground while another jumped into the air, caught the ball, and ran.

  “Come on,” Luis groaned. “Why would you throw to a guy who’s so heavily covered?”

  We watched, resigned, as the Miller State dude practically skipped down the field and in
to the end zone. Our field position had been so bad to begin with that he didn’t have far to go.

  Boos rang out across the stadium when the touchdown points went up on the board.

  Flynner pulled off his helmet and wandered over to the bench. “Where’s the Gatorade?” he complained. “I’m thirsty.”

  Everyone stared at him, shocked. It was as if he didn’t even notice that we were getting trampled. He notices, I thought, bummed. He just doesn’t care.

  “Get rid of him, Coach!” a voice echoed through the air.

  “No more Flynn!” somebody chanted.

  Several other fans picked up the chant. “No more Flynn! No more Flynn!”

  Coach Orman frowned. He went over to Flynner and spoke into his ear. Was he finally gonna throw the idiot out?

  “Check it out!” yelled Ken, pointing to the field.

  I swiveled my head around just in time to see two of our huge defensive tackles take down the Miller State kicker. The ball was in the air, and a third humongous Mountain Lion leaped at least five feet straight up. He reached as high as he could, got his fingers on the ball, and smacked it to the ground.

  A huge cheer went up.

  I heard myself yelling along, a big grin on my face.

  “Big whoop, we blocked the extra point,” somebody murmured behind me. I glanced over my shoulder—at Anthony. He wore a sour expression on his face.

  “This crowd will take what they can get,” I said quietly. “You guys are making sure they don’t have much to cheer about.”

  He frowned at me. “I tried to catch that pass. I tried. There were four guys on me.” He pulled on his helmet and stalked back onto the field.

  I flashed back to the most recent interception. Had Anthony actually gone for the ball? I couldn’t remember. Maybe he was having a change of heart. Maybe watching the team lose was worse than the idea of his blackmailer calling the Ethics Board.

  Miller State’s kick was pretty good. We only managed to get to their forty on the return. The next play was another handoff to Marco. Flynner executed it perfectly. But Marco ran for about a yard, then stumbled and fell on the ball.

  “Lame,” Luis commented.

  The second-down play was a pass. Flynner threw a beautiful spiral to Farley, one of the receivers. He was tackled immediately. Still, it was a gain of eight yards. And Flynner seemed to be back on his game. Whatever the coach had said to him must’ve gotten through somehow.

  I knew it wouldn’t last, though. As they set up for the third down, I saw Flynner grab Anthony’s face mask to pull him in close. They had a little private conversation on the field, and I had a feeling I knew what it was about. Flynner was saying it was Anthony’s turn to mess up.

  Just as I expected, it was a pass. Flynner threw to Anthony. Anthony caught it cleanly … and then he ran. Ball tucked against his side, arm out front to block, he ran full-out. Our guys sprinted to help him, taking down Miller State players left and right.

  I couldn’t believe it. Anthony was going for it, for real! Then a Miller State dude jumped over a tackle and hurled himself through the air at Anthony. They fell in a heap at the twenty yard line.

  People in the stands cheered loudly. It had been a great run.

  As the offense set up for the first down, I saw Flynner shove Anthony. Anthony ignored him. Then Marco shoved him too. Anyone else who saw them probably thought they were congratulating him on the good play, but I knew better. They were yelling at him for doing a good job.

  On the first down, Marco ran into a pile of Miller State defenders. No yards gained.

  On the second down, Flynner threw the ball away even though he was nowhere near being sacked.

  Right before the third down, Coach suddenly called a time-out. “Hardy!” he yelled over to me. “Get out there!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Field goal attempt,” Coach said. “Now’s your chance to show us you belong here. Luis, you go hold the ball for him.”

  “But it’s only third down,” I replied. “Shouldn’t we try for a first down? Shouldn’t we go for the end zone?”

  “Usually, yes,” said Coach. “But the way we’re playing today, we won’t get it. And you’ll most likely miss on your first try. So I’m giving you two downs to score.”

  “That’s crazy,” Ken put in. “You can’t attempt a field goal twice.”

  “It’s unorthodox,” Coach agreed. “But we’ve got nothing to lose. Get out there, Hardy.”

  I had no choice. I grabbed my helmet and jogged out to the field. The goalposts loomed up in front of me as I set myself up behind the line of Mountain Lions.

  Just like in practice, I told myself. I got it through a couple of times there, and this is no different.

  But it was totally different. In practice, the guys coming to flatten me were my teammates. Here, they were a bunch of really gigantic, mean-looking strangers. In practice, the stands were empty, and nobody really cared if I missed. Here, the stadium was filled with eighty thousand people, all of them super-invested in me kicking through those posts.

  The sound of the crowd was unreal. From out on the field, I could hear it from all sides, a low throbbing roar.

  Tune it out, I ordered myself. Concentrate on the ball and the posts, nothing else. It’s a short field goal. You can do it.

  Luis yelled, “Hike!” And suddenly everything was moving—the ball flying through the air to Luis. Our offensive line running forward. Miller State’s huge guards sprinting toward me.

  Then the ball was on the ground, Luis holding it steady.

  I didn’t have time to think. I ran, my eyes on the ball. At the last second, I looked up at the goalposts. I aimed … and kicked.

  The ball flew through the air. A big guy grabbed me around the waist and hurled me to the ground, knocking the wind from my lungs.

  But I kept my eye on the ball—as it went straight through the goalposts.

  “Field goal!” somebody yelled.

  Field goal! a voice inside of me echoed. I’d done it! I’d scored! I had actually kicked a field goal for one of the most famous teams in college football!

  I ruled.

  My teammates yanked me off the ground and began hugging me and smacking me in the head and shoving me around joyfully. I laughed out loud, I was so happy.

  “First field goal?” somebody asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied, grinning.

  A hand grabbed my face mask and jerked me forward. Flynner’s face was right in mine, snarling. “It better be your last, too.”

  I raised my eyes from Coach’s computer screen—to see John Roque standing in the doorway.

  “Roque,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be out on the field?”

  “Coach told me to see what was taking you so long,” said Roque. “And now I see.”

  “I was just checking—,” I started.

  “Save it,” Roque snapped. “I can see the monitor from here, loser. I know what you’re looking at.”

  I’d never heard his voice sound so nasty before. And I couldn’t help noticing that the guy was blocking the door. The entire door.

  How come I never realized how big he is? I wondered. Roque might be a techie, but he had his father’s football-player build.

  Under the desk, I hit the Record button on my ATAC surveillance device. I didn’t know where this was going, but it couldn’t hurt to have a record of it.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, holding up my hands. “You caught me. I know this is your spreadsheet. I know you’re a bookie.”

  “Yeah? So?” Roque growled.

  “Look, I found this spreadsheet on Coach’s computer. In a locked personal folder. I think he’s planning to go to the press with it,” I told him.

  “What?” Roque’s eyebrows shot up. “Why would he do that?”

  “Your dad is trying to get him fired. If he discredits you, he’ll also discredit your father,” I explained. “Then the college board will have to side with him, not your dad.”


  “Wow,” said Roque. “You’re not too bright, are you?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I am pretty bright, in fact.

  “Coach Orman is the bookie, loser,” Roque told me. “I just keep track of things for him. And I make sure he doesn’t get caught.”

  I stared at him, the pieces falling into place. “The electronic voice when people call, that’s you hiding Coach’s identity.”

  “Obviously.” Roque leaned against the door frame. “I’ve only been working with him for a couple of years, but I’ve already taken his operation to the next level. I think I’m going to do fine when he’s gone.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Didn’t you hear? Coach is retiring. Why else would he bring out the big guns like this?”

  “The big guns.” My head was spinning. “You mean the conspiracy? Throwing the game?”

  Roque shrugged.

  “You are the one who’s been blackmailing Anthony Aloia,” I said. “We thought you were. But then your dad didn’t know about it.”

  “My dad’s not too bright either,” Roque replied.

  “You’re doing it for Coach, not for your father,” I realized. “Coach is the mastermind we’ve been looking for.”

  “You knew all along,” I said, realizing the truth. “You knew Joe and I were undercover.”

  “Nah, I didn’t know until I caught you hanging around in the locker room that night,” Roque admitted. “You and your idiot brother were obviously lying. So I asked Coach about it and he told me who you were.”

  “Wow. He didn’t tell you right away? Guess he must not trust you very much,” I mocked him.

  “Coach likes to keep things to himself. He believes in giving out information on a need-toknow basis.” Roque shrugged. “It’s one of the things I learned from him. The less you know, the less you can tell other people.”

  “That’s why Anthony and Marco don’t even know who Flynner’s so-called friend is,” I guessed.

  Roque rolled his eyes. “Flynner doesn’t even know who his ‘friend’ is. He got the electronic voice calls like everyone else. He just wanted to act like a big shot.” Roque twisted his head to the side, cracking his thick neck. “Coach will tell Flynner if he needs to. Otherwise, Flynner will just take the money and never have a clue who gave it to him.”