Playing Captain (BL)

Chapter 3 - Congratulations

The Architect took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“Congratulations, son. You have just become a member of the Harlow Hawks.”

Milo’s eyes went wide.

Then a face came on screen, one that every man, woman and child in the country recognized instantly.

“Rhett Calloway. The nation’s sweetheart.” The Architect chuckled, stubbing out what was left of the cigarette.

Rhett was drenched in sweat on screen, eyelids heavy, standing in front of a cluster of microphones with the kind of face that gave absolutely nothing away.

“My heart is with Jones and the Hartridge family, but we all have a clause in our contracts which states that team members will be replaced in the event of an accident.”

He paused briefly before adding, “As much as this is a trying time for the Hartridge family and we shouldn’t kick a man who’s already down, the game must go on.”

“Those vultures.” The Architect laughed softly. “They know the nation won’t get mad at their golden boy, so they send him to soften the blow.”

Milo blinked at the screen, gulping slightly.

Rhett Calloway: captain, defenseman, and arguably the most valuable player the country had seen in a generation.

Three times in the past, teammates had gone down mid-season and Rhett had simply covered their positions without dropping his own performance.

He’d played keeper and defenseman at the same time and still scored ninety percent of the time.

Since Rhett joined the Harlow Hawks, the team had not lost a single match. When he was made captain three years ago, the winning only got worse or better, depending on who you asked.

“Ever since Calloway joined the team, they’ve never lost a single match,” the Architect said, echoing Milo’s thoughts. “The international tournament is a year away and people are already staking money on Harlow winning it. Which is exactly why when you make them lose the finale, we are going to make an obscene amount of money.”

Milo was on his feet before he knew it. “You can’t be serious!”

“Sit down, Milo.” The Architect didn’t flinch. He scoffed lightly, finding the outburst mildly amusing.

But Milo’s face heated up in rage. “Our nation, for the first time in over a century, has a chance to win the international games three consecutive times. And you want to throw that away for a couple of millions?”

The Architect stood, walked to the door and knocked twice.

The door opened.

Milo moved toward it immediately. The Architect leaned against the wall, gesturing outside with the cigarette still between his fingers.

“If you walk out this door, you and the thirty-seven people who used their life savings to bet will not only be arrested for game-fixing. Their families and everyone they’ve ever borrowed money from will be arrested too. The DA will push the argument that they were all participants.”

He paused.

“Milo.” His voice was almost conversational. “Don’t you live in a gang-ridden area?”

Milo said nothing.

It had only been a few minutes since they met, but he had stopped being surprised by how much this man knew about him.

“Then you should know better than to play games with those people’s money.” He gritted his teeth.

The Architect laughed quietly and said nothing more.

Milo left, hurrying out of the hotel when he looked behind him to see he wasn’t being followed.

That’s right. If he went home and told everyone how that a man had intercepted him and taken the winnings, they would believe him.

They’d come back with him and take it back.

Simple.

That had seemed very logical on the walk home.

It stopped seeming logical the moment he got back and opened his mouth to narrate the whole ordeal.

He’d forgotten one crucial thing: the game had been live. Everyone had watched. Everyone had seen Idris’ accusation investigated and thrown out. No foul play found. Official.

So when he stood in front of them and told this story about how a man called the Architect stole their winnings, they all reached the same conclusion at the same time.

Milo had stolen from them.

They descended on him before he could finish the sentence.

By the time he realized what was happening it was too late to run, so he did the only thing he could; he covered his face and rode it out.

When it was finally over, someone crouched down in front of him and shook his fist.

“You may be smarter than we are. But if you don’t return every coin of our winnings by the end of the week, we will sell that brain you love so much to the highest bidder.” He spat at Milo and stood up.

Milo knew that voice. It was Ithiel’s. He was the one who’d given the most money.

Before Milo left in the morning, Ithiel had said half joking, or so Milo thought, that he’d kill him if he came back empty-handed.

Ithiel hadn’t taken him very seriously until now.

Hearing feets shuffle out, Milo sat up slowly, realizing he couldn’t open one of his eyes.