Game Over
The next day, my teammates and I huddled around Coach for our pre-game pep talk. “Come out strong. Make them play your game. Be aggressive. Even if you make a mistake, they’ll be afraid of what you’ll do next. Go for high percentage shots, and keep the ball in play until you can put away a clean winner. And most important of all: Don’t back off if you’re losing. Make your opponent beat you. If you’re going down, go down swinging.”
Coach held out his hand in the center of the huddle.
We piled our hands on top of his.
“Bring it on three. One, two, three—”
“Bring it!”
We brought that energy onto the court. Our team finished strong in the first round and moved on to the finals. It boiled down to this: Court three won, and court two lost. On court one, Rakhi and I had won the first set and lost the second. The Super Tiebreaker—first to ten, win by two—would determine the winner.
We dominated and got the score to nine to six. If we won the next point, we would win not only the match, but also the trophy. It was our opponent’s serve. We came out strong and rallied cross-court, but I blew it when I dove for a poach and tipped the ball out, nine to seven. Then on their next serve, Rakhi blasted an easy put-away out, nine to eight. Our turn. We would win if Rakhi held serve on the next point.
I took a deep cleansing breath and looked up to the viewing gallery. Vladimir was standing next to Mr. Cusimano. He flashed me an open hand, which meant one of two things: One, he was waving hello. Or two, he was signaling for me to poach.
It didn’t matter. This was my game, not his. As Rakhi bounced the ball on the baseline preparing to serve, Boris’s stats revealed that when we played Australian—when I lined up in the service box on the same side as Rakhi—we had won the majority of points when she served from the deuce side. I jogged to the baseline. “Let’s do Australian.”
She continued to bounce the ball and nodded. When we lined up, I flashed her an open hand behind my back signaling I was going to poach. When she served, and the ball slammed down on the line, I shuffled left to field the return. When the ball came through the middle, I pounded back a punishing volley and nailed the net player in the gut.
Winners.
I knew we would take the trophy and, since it was a special occasion, I came prepared with a bottle of French champagne I’d taken from Vladimir’s wine cellar: What’s mine is yours. After our handshakes and post-victory pow-wow with Coach, I rounded up the team and led them out back to Rakhi’s minivan.
Once everyone piled in, I popped the bubbly. I poured the champagne into the mouth of our trophy cup, and the girls squealed. We laughed and passed the chalice, reveling in our triumph. The cup made it all the way around back to me. As I sipped, I saw Rakhi’s caramel skin blanch. Somebody banged on the car window behind me. Coach opened the door. Every single one of us was underage. We were stone-cold busted.
Oh, shit. I dumped it out and said I was the only one who had a sip. I didn’t want anyone else to get in trouble for my stupid idea. He dismissed my teammates with the threat they were not absolved of guilt yet.
“Give me the bottle.” Coach’s face burned with condemnation. “Looks expensive. Where’d you get it?”
I was sure he already had a pretty good idea of where I got it. “I take full responsibility. The girls didn’t know I brought it until we got out to the car.”
“I’m giving you a chance to come clean. Name your source or you’re off the team.”
I crossed my arms and stared at him with pursed lips. I was no squealer.
Coach waited a moment and gave me a chance to change my mind. When I didn’t waver, he pulled the trigger. “Turn in your uniform tomorrow.”
“What? Coach, please—”
“End of discussion. Is your father here or at work?”
My father? Another man treating me like a kid. Ridiculous. When I didn’t answer, Coach scanned his phone. I reached out and tried to lower his hand. “No.”
He held it out of my reach. “Underage drinking is a crime. I have to report this. Would you rather I call your father or the police?”
Hold your tongue, Carter, Sophia said. There’s still a way out of this. “Dad—but don’t tell him at work. Can you call him later tonight at home?”
After a searing stare down, he agreed to call him later. At least that would give me time to figure things out. “Thanks, Coach. I’m so sorry about this.”
“I’m not done with you, Carter. I’m not stupid, and I’m not blind. One way or another, you’re giving up your source. All I can do is kick you off the team. The police, however, can press charges.” He shook his head. “What you—what he is doing is not right.”
My loyalty took over. Vladimir had given me a job. He’d let me drive his Ferrari—his Ferrari. He even invited me to live in his mansion. Vladimir was the most right thing in my life. “I’ll never tell.”
“I’m sure your father will convince you otherwise.”
I pushed past him and ran off toward the park. There was no way I could face Vladimir after I took his alcohol without permission. He’ll be crazy mad the police could be involved. I wanted to evaporate.
When I reached the park, I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. Vladimir honked and rolled down the window. “Well done, angel.” When he caught a glimpse of my tortured face, he parked, jumped out of the Rover, and rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?” He squeezed my shoulders.
I looked down, ashamed to utter the words. Tears dripped on my uniform. He led me toward a park bench, wrapped his coat around my shoulders, and sat me down. By the way I was acting, he must have thought someone had died. “You won.”
Bawling, I squeaked, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
No matter what he thought of me, I had to warn him. Once Coach called my dad, game over. I would never be allowed to leave the house again. “Coach caught me and my teammates celebrating with champagne after our match.”
“That’s it? You had a drink? What’s the problem?” He blotted away my tears.
I took a deep breath. “The problem is I’m nineteen. It’s illegal for me to have it. Coach said if I didn’t rat out my source, he’d kick me off the team. I told him I wasn’t a narc so…I’m out. He’s going to call Dad tonight and tell him.” I covered my face to mask my shame.
He lowered his hand from my shoulder. Over the last few weeks I’d spent more time at his house than at my own. I’d gotten comfortable. He treated me like a princess. Nice way to repay the man—steal a bottle of his fancy champagne.
“Why didn’t you tell him where you got the alcohol?”
“Because I got it from you. I wanted to toast my teammates. Not to get drunk or anything, just to celebrate.” The weight of my shame could have squashed a rhino.
“You got kicked off your team to protect me?”
“You could get in trouble. I understand if you never want to see me again.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “Your loyalty amazes me.”
“No. Don’t you dare be nice to me.” I pushed his hands away. “I did a horrible thing. You trusted me, and I let you down.”
He brought a finger to my lips. “Your coach would have let you stay on the team if you had named me?”
With his finger on my lips like a loaded gun, I nodded. He hugged me as if I’d taken a bullet for him. Then, he pushed me back and towered over me. “I’ll speak to your coach. He won’t call your papa. Go to practice as usual tomorrow. I’ll take care of your problem.”
I sucked in a mouthful of air. “Oh, no. I made a mistake. I’ll suffer the consequences.”
My rambling didn’t deter him. The pakhan pulled out his cell. I felt sick as I listened to him bark out orders in Russian. He sounded as angry as he had on my first day of work.
“Who are you talking to? What are you going to do?” What have I done?
He ended the call. “Go home and rest. Celebrate your victory. I give you the day off.”
“Please—”
“Coach is a reasonable guy, right?”
I nodded like a wind-up monkey.
“You look pale. What has your coach done to you?” He brushed my cheek in the exact spot where Coach had whacked me with a tennis ball a few weeks ago.
“Really, I’m fine. I’m going to go now, you know, in case Coach calls.”
An expression as sharp as the tip of a knife sliced across Vladimir’s face. With those cold blue eyes boring through my soul, my heart pounded in my chest.
“I told you, Coach will not call.” The pakhan gave my shoulders a tight squeeze. It seemed kind of hard for a “don’t worry” gesture. Then I brushed off the thought. He was strong and really agitated. He would never intentionally hurt me. Slowly he relinquished his grip and forced a smile. “Everything will be fine. Trust me.”