Playing Captain (BL)

“Ladies and gentlemen, Idris Vale goes ahead to score. Oh, and he misses. But he seems to have gotten a hang of it and like an eagle circling his prey, he has returned! He has returned to the goalpost, if he gets the puck in, this will be him securing a position for his team in the semi-finals.” As the commentator’s ecstatic voice reverberated through the stadium, Milo Beckett sat quietly in a corner. He was sweating profusely, a phenomenon which had nothing to do with the weather as the stadium had over fifty air conditioners. He sat bouncing his leg worriedly on the floor, his hand wrapped around the ticket in his hands, almost crushing it. “And Idris scored! The eagle has done it again!” The commentator’s high-pitched announcement sent half the stadium into a joyful frenzy. “Just one more goal. One more goal from the Red Eagles and I’ll be going home with a hundred thousand!” The man beside Milo was all smiles, almost falling into him in his excitement. Milo swallowed, beads of perspiration trailing down his temple as he looked at his betting slip. Fuck. The intel had come out of nowhere, but he’d been told it was a sure thing, so sure he’d paid extra to get it two hours before the game started. Not to mention he’d pooled in everything he had to his name, including his rent which was due in a week, and even used his motorbike to take out a loan. And he’d promised everyone back home with full conviction that the Blues would win. They’d pooled their money, staked it, and handed it all to him. In total, what he stood to earn if the Blues won was over fifty-seven million. If they won. He sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the amount he had staked. The enormous figure glared back at him. 2,130,670. “And the eagle returns! It appears the Red Eagles are persistent on taking the trophy home this season. If they get the puck in before the clock strikes twenty, they will be moving on to the big leagues where they get to play with the likes of Harlow Hawks!” Milo stood up abruptly, pinched the bridge of his nose and walked to a corner of the podium. His eyes moved carefully across the stadium, clocking the placement of every camera. Then, slipping one hand into his pocket, he tugged out one of his shirt buttons with the other. He kept his eyes low, fiddling with it discreetly, his gaze fixed on Idris Vale who was steadily advancing toward the Blues’ goalpost. Everything slowed. The noise faded. He focused on Idris’s wrist and waited. Idris lifted his arm, preparing to strike. The stadium fell silent in anticipation. He had deceived the goalie perfectly so it was basically just him and the open post. Red Eagles fans were already celebrating, certain they had won the multiple bets they’d placed. Then Idris swung… and missed. The puck was snatched up immediately by the Blues, who slammed it away from their goalpost. The silence that followed was deafening. When the opposing fans realized what had just happened, joyful uproars filled the stadium and the final whistle blew. It was a tie. And to solve a tie, there would be a shootout, something the Red Eagles weren’t bad at, but the Blues were simply better. The whole game plan had been built around avoiding this exact situation, and now here they were. “No! No, I didn’t miss that. I had it. Someone threw something at me from the bench. Who was it?” All of a sudden, Idris Vale thundered across the ice, his orange hair moving with the wind as he skated to the other side of the bench. The crowd turned on him immediately. “Booo!” “Such a sore loser!” “There are cameras everywhere, how could anyone have done anything to make you fail?” “Come on, Idris, these things happen.” His teammates rushed over, trying to pull him away, but he shook them off and began waving his stick at the crowd, yelling. “One of you hit me! Who was it? Show your face, you coward!” The words were barely out of his mouth when something hit him square in the chest. Everyone turned to see a little boy, no more than five years old, pointing at Idris with a very serious expression. “Bad man.” The crowd burst out laughing. Then a man nearby scooped a handful of his ice cream and flung it at Idris. “That’s right, kid. This imbecile thinks he’s better than us just because he can poke around a few pucks!” “Hey! If Idris says someone sabotaged him, someone sabotaged him!” came a shout from the Red Eagles side of the stadium. “Can’t accept that your idol is actually incompetent and missed such an easy goal?” “f**k you! I know someone sabotaged him and you’ll pay for it!” And so it began… a full-blown food fight between both fan clubs, chaos erupting from every corner of the stadium. Security arrived quickly and began leading the players out. As they did, Milo slipped quietly through the crowd and made his way to the cashier’s desk. The game had been live streamed, and within minutes the internet had completely lost its mind over Idris’s accusation. But Milo had been careful. The cameras hadn’t caught him when he flung the button. Thus, the game organizers found no evidence of foul play and ordered the game to be completed. As expected, the Red Eagles lost the shootout badly. They left the stadium disqualified from the international tournament slated for the following year, furious and humiliated. Milo collected his check and walked out with his head down. Behind him, a middle-aged man stepped out of the stadium, two men trailing quietly behind him. He watched Milo’s retreating figure with calm, unhurried eyes. “Milo Beckett just won fifty-seven million from a game everyone staked against.” He straightened his jacket. “Bring him to me.”