I answered, “Yeah? Who’s this?”
“If you hang up, you’ll regret it,” a male voice said. “This is Mr. Smith. You will speak with me privately.”
“What the hell?” I pulled the phone away from my ear to stare at it.
“Problem?” Zeke asked.
I shook my head, not actually sure. “Give me a second.” I glanced around, then jogged down to the basement. Standing in the dimness in front of the washer and dryer, I snarled into the phone, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Money, Fitzpatrick. Mine and yours.”
“And my uncle’s?”
“Your uncle does as he’s told. And so will you.”
“I don’t listen to threats.”
“Oh, excuse me then. You won’t care if you get tossed off your team and blacklisted, eh?”
“Why would they?” I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Taking bribes. Throwing games.”
“Fuck you! I never.”
“Uh-huh. Then explain the two-thousand-dollar deposit in your account, after you let in a couple of easy goals and lost the game for your team last week.”
“Thewhat?” Sweat broke out on my forehead. “I never deposited anything.”
“And yet, there it is. Sitting in your account. What do you think your team will do if a little bird happens to mention that fact?”
“They’ll believe me. I’m the best goalie they’ve had in ten years.” But would they? What if that extra two thousand in my accountwasn’tGrandpa holding my cheque. My stomachclenched and acid bit the back of my throat. “I win games all the time. I have the second-best goals-against in the league.”
“And yet, sometimes you lose. One soft goal here or there, and the whole team goes down.” Mr. Smith chuckled. “Now imagine if a man knew in advance when that was going to happen. A man like that, who knew how to take bets on a team, might make some real money. And be appropriately grateful.”
“Are you asking me to throw games? Formoney?” I wished I could record this, have evidence, but I had no idea how to do that. I could put it on speaker and run up to Zeke, but he was a cop. What if he insisted on reporting this? Even a whiff of cheating could be the death knell to my career.
“Of course, for money. Not even very many games. I’m not a greedy man, and I do want you to move up to the NAPH. The betting’s much richer up there.”
“Do people even bet on the PHL?” I was still scrambling, my brain racing.
“Of course they do, son, or I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
“I amnotyourson!” I swiped the empty laundry basked off the dryer and it hit the floor. I wished I could hit Smith’s smarmy face. “No, not a chance, no way. I’m not letting in one extra goal. Not for all the money in the world.”
“And not for your grandfather?”
“What?”
“Callum, think.” I hated my name in this guy’s mouth almost as much asson. “Your uncle owes me money. He offered me a deal, access to you, and the tools to make you cooperate. If the money in your account isn’t enough incentive?—”
“I’ll give it back!” I insisted. The money must be real, the way he was talking, but surely, you could reject a deposit into your own account. Even find out where the money came from, right? “Just fuck off and leave me alone.”
He chuckled. “You know I’m not going to do that. If you don’t cooperate, I can think of a dozen ways for your uncle to fuck with your grandfather and his little store. But that gets messy, when this can all be simple. A couple of games, starting with the Archers a week from Sunday. You’re the big favourites. They suck as a team. You can beat them Saturday, drive up the odds. Then let in a couple of goals on Sunday, and we’re all set. Ten thousand to you, after the loss, in untraceable cash.”
“Fuck you!”
“Now, now. Be sensible. I hold all the cards. You can be a NAPH sensation, or you can go down as the goalie who got caught trying to throw PHL games. Your call.”
