Lost Love, High Stakes: Soccer King's Comeback

Ian crushed out his cigarette and clapped his hands together.

"The NWA Soccer League game is on at 10:00 pm, the Maran Leopards versus Brondale United," he declared with a grin. "Check the odds. Brondale United is giving half a goal. I'm betting on Brondale United."

One of his lackeys checked the stats online and immediately started laughing. "Ian's got this in the bag. Brondale United is giving half a goal? That's basically free money."

"Do you even know how to read the odds, Craig? Do you know what giving half a goal means? Don't end up losing the shirt off your back before being forced to lick Ian's shoes."

Ian leaned back in his chair and let out a puff of smoke.

"That's enough," he said lazily. "Let him study the odds all he wants."

The arrogant look in his eyes made it clear he was certain he'd win, and I knew why. It was the same hustle I'd pulled ten years ago, the oldest trick in the book.

He had a satellite signal jammer, which let him intercept the match feed and receive it in advance. That tiny advantage was enough for him to place his bets before the odds shifted.

I knew that most of the money he earned in recent years, including the money he used to buy that Bentley, came from shady dealings.

I'd previously sent three bookmakers to prison for using the same tricks. Ian was basically delivering himself up to me on a silver platter.

Glancing at him, I said, "Sure. I'll bet on the Maran Leopards winning the game."

Ian's lackeys jeered once more.

"Hahaha! The Maran Leopards' front line is entirely made up of second-rate foreigners, while their defense is about as strong as a piece of paper! I guess you don't watch soccer at all, huh?"

"Are you even trying to win, Craig? Don't tell me you've already given up on life and have decided to jump off the building later."

I grabbed my phone. "I'm going to the restroom."

Ian snorted. "What's the matter? Are you so scared that you're about to piss your pants?"

I ignored him.

In the restroom, I logged in to an email account I hadn't used in three years and got in touch with Hugo Adams. Back when I was running the scene in Northwest Aravia, he'd been my most reliable right-hand man.

I typed, "Hugo, I need you to set things up for me—same old rules, the 10:00 pm match between the Maran Leopards and Brondale United."

Hugo replied almost instantly, his excitement palpable even through the words on my screen. "Boss! You're back?"

I told him to dig into the setup behind the match. I needed the source of Ian's feed for the game.

One of the bookmakers had slipped through my fingers back then. I hadn't forgotten about that. Perhaps Ian's attempt to taunt me would end up allowing me to kill two birds with one stone.

After exiting the restroom stall, I looked into the mirror and straightened my collar. The man staring back at me had a completely expressionless face.

Five years ago, on the night I quit for good, I sat on the edge of Nevean Harbor until the sun rose. As morning broke, I told myself I would never gamble again.

Alas, someone had insisted on dragging me back into the game.

When I went back inside the private room, Ian let out a guffaw and called out, "What happened to you, Craig? Did you fall into the toilet bowl? Or are you so terrified that you had to puke your guts out?"

He raised his hand and snapped the hair tie on his wrist. Nina shot me a mocking glance before resting her head against his shoulder. He proceeded to plant his hand on her fair thigh, rubbing her skin as he continued to eye me tauntingly.

"You'd better feast your eyes on this while you still can, Craig. My, my. This feels so good. Sadly for you, you won't get to feel this again."

Ian chortled before squeezing Nina's waist. She squealed coyly in protest and gave him a light punch, never once looking my way.

At exactly 10:00 pm, the match kicked off. 15 minutes in, the two teams were in a deadlock.

While the ball remained in Brondale United's possession most of the time, the Maran Leopards did a good job on defense, never letting the other team pass. The referee's whistle kept ringing, but no goals were scored.

While watching the screen, Ian toyed with his lighter, occasionally checking his phone with an unruffled expression.

My phone buzzed.

"I found it, boss. Ian's signal is coming from someone who goes by Krell. He went quiet for a while, but he resurfaced on the scene two years ago."

After reading the message, I chuckled. As expected, it was him, alright.

Hugo sent another message. "Want me to fix the signal? In just three seconds, I can turn his live feed into a recording with a five-minute delay."

"No need," I replied.

Since I was going to make Ian pay for this, I was going to take him for everything he had.

After telling Hugo I was certain that the Maran Leopards had been bribed, I had him reach out to the players on that team.

I also had him pass along a message to Felix Jennings, the forward striker for Brondale United. If Felix dared to lead Brondale United to victory, he could forget about keeping his legs.