Losers Take All (12 page)

Game time came and passed. There was a nervous energy crackling through the stadium now—it was clear that something odd was happening. Rumors flew around Gentry Field. According to league rules, it was a team's responsibility to show up, no matter what. If either team was more than an hour late, they would forfeit. I couldn't imagine Fremont forfeiting its home opener and ruining its shot at a state championship season. But as the digital clock ticked past 12:30 that began to seem increasingly likely.

Sirens sounded, and they weren't ambulances but rather fire engines and police cars. They raced into the parking lot, and from the bleachers we could see Fremont police and firemen sprinting into our school building. People around us speculated that someone had gotten sick or violent inside, but I couldn't dream up a scenario that would keep all members of the football team inside the building.

Then Dylan found us and told us what he'd heard. “Someone locked them in.”

“In where?” Meg asked.

“The Keep,” he explained. Our locker room is in the oldest part of the school, the basement. It was built more than a century ago, and there's a small room in the very back of the locker room nicknamed the “Keep” because it's like a castle keep—the oldest and strongest part of a fortress. Fremont teams traditionally gather in the Keep for pep talks and good luck. It has no windows and just one heavy old door. “But the Keep door is always open,” I said.

“You might not have noticed, but it's got a thick iron hasp and a loop built into it that look like they belong in the Tower of London. Somebody brought in a humongous padlock and locked the team inside.”

“Can't they cut the lock?”

“They tried. It's thick anodized steel.”

“Why don't they just take the hinges off the door?” Frank asked.

“They tried that, too, but nothing's worked so far,” Dylan said. “I heard they're trying to melt it now with an acetylene torch.”

Seconds ticked on. The bands played. The cheerleaders did routines. But all eyes were on the digital scoreboard that now read 12:47.

I spotted my father down on his usual bleacher, standing with his friends. He looked tense and frustrated, as if he were witnessing a car crash but couldn't help save anyone.

12:50 came and the bands had stopped playing. The stadium was eerily still. I imagined the football team crowded into the Keep, standing around the locked door, watching their season tick away.

“I can't believe this is actually happening,” Dylan said.

“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “It's freaky and kind of sad.”

“But interesting,” Becca said softly, so that only we could hear her. “I'd like to see Muhldinger's face.”

“I'm sure it's not pretty,” I told her. “But if they do forfeit the game, I'm sure he'll appeal it. It's not his fault someone locked them in.”

“Lots of luck with that,” Dylan said. “I remember when the Green River bus broke down and they arrived here seven minutes late. Muhldinger held them to the letter of the law, and said it was their responsibility. They appealed and lost. He's been a real hard-ass to the other coaches in the league for years. I'd like to see him try to explain to them why he deserves a second chance because he got trapped in his own locker room.”

12:55 came and passed.

Then at 12:57 the far gate swung open and the Lions sprinted through it. They weren't in their usual carefully choreographed formation. Instead, they ran in a panic, like they were late for the last bus home. Muhldinger was near the front of the pack, his face scarlet with fury. He sprinted over to the officiating crew and they had a quick conference with the Smithfield coach. Then the teams lined up for the opening kickoff and the game was on.

Fremont had clearly been knocked off stride. Smithfield jumped out to a two-touchdown lead, and when the Lions tried to claw their way back the game got rougher. My old friend Rob Powers had lost out in the battle to be starting quarterback, and because he was fast and a superb athlete he was on the kick coverage team. Halfway through the second quarter he was hit from the side and knocked to the turf so hard that he was carried off the field on a stretcher. I was glad to see him moving his arms and legs, but he was clearly in pain.

At the half, Smithfield led thirty to fourteen, and it seemed like Fremont's predicted state championship season was going to end before it began.

I don't know what Muhldinger told the Lions during halftime, but they came out so fired up it almost looked like they would burst into flame. Man for man, they were a much better team than Smithfield, and they fought their way back through old-fashioned smash-mouth football. They took over the line and made crunching tackles that knocked three Smithfield players out of the game.

Muhldinger urged them on, screaming like he was possessed. Watching him pacing up and down the sideline, I realized how much this football team meant to him—it was literally his life. The Lions finally tied the game in the fourth quarter and won it on a thirty-yard field goal as the last seconds ticked off the giant digital clock above Gentry Field.

Our home crowd gave a cheer, but it came out more like a collective sigh of relief. The band played our victory fanfare, but somehow it sounded a little sad, almost like a dirge. Fremont was supposed to be the best team in the state of New Jersey, but the Lions had used one of their nine lives to get away with a squeaker, and everyone knew it.

What was worse, someone had tried to sabotage our season, and it was clearly someone who knew Fremont High School well.

 

16

Muhldinger pulled the door closed, locking the two of us into his office, and his tiny black eyes fixed on me. “Talk to me, captain.”

I glanced at his office door. It had been replaced since he put his fist through it. This version was a darker wood, and it looked expensive. I kept silent.

“You know why you're here?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“You turned down my team for a bunch of losers. And then you came to our opening game.”

“It's the biggest show in town,” I said. “Everyone came. But if you think I had anything to do with what happened on Saturday, I didn't, so…”

A sharp command: “Sit.”

I sat and he sat down across from me and folded his massive arms. “Of course I know that. If I thought you were at all involved, we wouldn't be sitting here like this, having a friendly chat. I have my sources.”

“I'm sure you do,” I replied. “But I'm not one of them.”

Muhldinger smiled. “Sometimes you seem nothing at all like your father and your brothers, and other times you remind me of them. It's that cocky attitude you Logans get when someone pushes you. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I didn't mean to give you attitude. Can I go now?”

“It made your father a kick-ass football player,” Muhldinger went on, ignoring my request. “He had the speed and size to be very good, but certainly not first round draft pick material. But that Logan quality, ‘If you push me, I'll knock you flat,' made him a college star, and I think he would have done fine in the NFL if not for that knee injury.” I couldn't tell from the way he said it whether he was sad my dad's career had been cut short, or whether he was actually pleased. He leaned forward: “But, Jack, that cocky attitude cuts two ways. Twenty years later he digs holes on a construction crew. And you'd better watch yourself.”

“My dad's done just fine—” I started to say.

Muhldinger cut me off. “We're not here to talk about him. My point is that sometimes to get ahead in life you have to know your place. That goes for all of us.” He sat back in his chair and ran his eyes around his large corner office as if to say, “Look at my place. I'm the king of the world.”

“I didn't want to play on your football team, but I would never have locked you guys in on Saturday,” I said.

He nodded. “No Logan would do something like that. But I don't see your place as captaining a bunch of losers, one of whom just took a shot at this school and everything it stands for. I appreciate that you're loyal to your teammates, but you don't have to protect a dirtbag.”

“I never wanted to be captain,” I told him, “and I'm not protecting anybody.”

“Good,” he said, leaning forward. “Because a monumental tragedy was barely averted on Saturday. Someone almost destroyed our whole season. And that person will have to pay.”

“It could have just been meant as a bad joke,” I pointed out. “Nobody got hurt.”

“There are lots of ways people can get hurt,” Muhldinger snapped back. For just a moment his mask of self-control slipped, and I saw how furious he was. With an effort, he calmed himself down. “But the key question is who would do such a sneaky, cowardly thing?” he asked softly. “It was kind of like fighting without fighting, letting the terrain do the fighting for you. The way Hannibal did around that stupid lake in Italy, right?”

“It didn't have to be someone from my soccer team. I'm sure you have the police looking into it.”

“They may not have to look far,” he informed me. “There are security cameras all over this school. I already know who was in the basement on Saturday morning before the game. All of my sources point to your joke of a soccer team.”

“Great,” I told him. “Arrest whoever did it and leave me out of it.”

“Your girlfriend was there,” he said, studying my face carefully.

“Becca was with me in the stands, waiting for your team.”

“She was inside the school before the game was supposed to start,” Muhldinger said. “And I know what she thinks of me and my team. She's got as much attitude as you do, plus she thinks she's smarter than everyone else.”

“She is smarter,” I told him. “Becca's gonna be the valedictorian and she's never broken a school rule in her life.”

“I know her type and I don't trust her. Then there's your pal Sanders.”

“Dylan was at a stage crew meeting with a dozen other people,” I said. “His mother's on the school board.”

“His mother's a pain in the ass,” Muhldinger growled, “and he's a little snot.”

I kept silent.

“And that Chinese girl, Shin.”

“Chloe was doing stats for the pregame,” I pointed out. “And she's Korean.”

“The scoreboard controls are in the basement. She was fewer than fifty feet from the locker room. And I think she's got a thing going with that shifty son of a bitch who wears black. He was there, too. Slinky.”

“Shimsky,” I said. “I never saw him.”

“He was skulking around.”

I remembered Shimsky taking me aside after the soccer party, telling me we'd been punched and asking me what I was going to do about it. Had he decided to do something about it himself? And I recalled Becca on the bleachers telling us she wished she could see Muhldinger's face. She certainly hated him, but she would never risk her whole school career on a stupid prank. I also couldn't believe that Dylan or Chloe was involved, either. “It sounds like you have a really short list of suspects,” I said a little sarcastically.

“Short enough,” he told me. “Why don't you save me some time? Be smart and talk to me, captain. Your parents and I go way back. It's time to be a Logan.”

“Sorry, but I don't have a clue who did it,” I told him, standing up. “And even if I did, I wouldn't rat them out to you. But if you want me to tell you something, I will. There are dozens of kids at Fremont who hate being forced to play for a team and who are pissed off at the direction you're taking our school. Any of them might have done it, just to take a shot at you.”

Muhldinger stood to face me. “Since we're being frank, I'll tell you something back. You're dead wrong about your father. I've known him a lot longer than you have and he's not exactly thrilled with the way things have turned out, spending his life digging holes for people's bathrooms. Shoulda, coulda, woulda can eat you up inside, no matter who you're married to or how brave a face you try to put on it. You get too cocky, Jack, and you pay for it.” A dangerous look came into Muhldinger's eyes that I recognized from the moment when he had put his fist through the door, but this time he controlled himself. “And just so we understand each other, if someone takes a shot at me I come back at them a lot harder. Someone gave me a kick on Saturday, and that person—and everyone who protects them—are gonna feel my size thirteens on their backside.”

 

17

The Marion girls were already out on their gleaming emerald field when we drove up in our clanking yellow school bus. There must have been twenty of them in home white “Wombat” uniforms, running a shooting drill with machinelike precision. They weren't very big—after all, they were only in junior high school—but as we watched out the window, shot after shot whistled off their feet into the yellow netting at the back of the goal. Dylan was sitting next to me, and he muttered: “We're in a lot of trouble.”

A girl with a ponytail let loose a ferocious kick. The ball soared over the goal, zoomed above a chain-link fence like a guided missile, and slammed into the side of our school bus.

“No, we're not in a lot of trouble, we're dead meat,” Frank corrected him. “We're about to be obliterated by a bunch of feral wombats.”

“What exactly is a wombat?” Pierre asked.

“An Australian rat,” Becca said. It was probably on one of her vocabulary lists.

“Actually, I believe wombats are marsupials,” Coach Percy corrected her. He was decked out for our opener in brown trousers and an Argyle sweater, which looked like it might be the right outfit to wear to a foxhunt. “The interesting thing about wombats is that their pouches are backward to protect their young from getting covered with dirt when they dig burrows, which they do very splendidly.”