Kickoff to Danger

  Foul Play

  Star football player Terry Golden gave Chet Morton a big smile. “I couldn’t help noticing you had something dangerous on your lunch tray.”

  “D-dangerous?” Chet stuttered. He looked down at his tray as if he expected to find a bomb on it.

  Golden pointed to the piece of chocolate cake. “I’m talking about that!” Golden leaned in and ground his thumb into Chet’s cake.

  Chet stared, his mouth hanging open. He looked as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

  Chet began to come out of his trance. “Hey, you—”

  “What are you going to do, fat boy?” Golden’s sneer dared Chet to try something. “I’ve got teachers afraid to go up against me.” He gave Frank and Joe a smug grin. “That’s what happens when you go with a winner.”

  The Hardy Boys

  Mystery Stories

  #109 The Prime-Time Crime

  #110 The Secret of Sigma Seven

  #139 The Search for the Snow Leopard

  #140 Slam Dunk Sabotage

  #141 The Desert Thieves

  #143 The Giant Rat of Sumatra

  #152 Danger in the Extreme

  #154 The Caribbean Cruise Caper

  #156 A Will to Survive

  #159 Daredevils

  #160 A Game Called Chaos

  #161 Training for Trouble

  #162 The End of the Trail

  #163 The Spy That Never Lies

  #164 Skin & Bones

  #165 Crime in the Cards

  #166 Past and Present Danger

  #167 Trouble Times Two

  #168 The Castle Conundrum

  #169 Ghost of a Chance

  #170 Kickoff to Danger

  The Hardy Boys Ghost Stories

  Available from MINSTREL Books

  THE HARDY BOYS®

  #170

  KICKOFF TO DANGER

  FRANKLIN W.DIXON

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A MINSTREL PAPERBACK Original

  A Minstrel Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2001 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue

  of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-3704-7

  eISBN: 978-0-743-43704-2

  First Minstrel Books printing November 2001

  THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES is a trademark

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  THE HARDY BOYS, A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon

  are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Contents

  1 Saved by the Bell

  2 Hard Hitter

  3 Against the Odds

  4 Getting Away with Murder

  5 Lucky Catch

  6 Discovery in the Dark

  7 Big Trouble

  8 Fact Finding

  9 Hits and Misses

  10 Penalty Plays

  11 Big Break

  12 Cracking the Wall

  13 Bumper Cars

  14 Bad Medicine

  15 Last Down

  KICKOFF TO DANGER

  1 Saved by the Bell

  Frank Hardy looked up in surprise when the end-of-class buzzer went off. He hadn’t been watching the clock. All his attention had been focused on the math problem covering most of the chalkboard.

  Others in the class felt saved by the bell. Relieved sighs filled the air as kids began pulling their books together.

  “We’ll come back to this problem tomorrow,” Mr. Patel, the math instructor, said. “For tonight, review chapter five. The secret to cracking this problem is in there.” He turned to write on the board. “Also, work on problems three, seven, eleven, twelve, fifteen, and nineteen. If you can’t do those tomorrow, I’ll know you haven’t read the chapter.”

  Frank scribbled down the assignment and got his books. As he headed for the door, Callie Shaw joined him.

  “I almost thought we’d escape without homework,” she said.

  “Fat chance,” Frank replied with a grin. “Even if it’s the last class of the day, Patel isn’t going to let anyone rush him.”

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Callie said, glancing back through the door. Frank followed her gaze. Their teacher, neat as ever, was erasing the board before he left.

  “He’s a quiet little guy, but nobody ever steps out of line in his class.” Callie rolled her big, blue eyes. “Unlike Mr. Weak.”

  Mr. Weak, whose real name was Mr. Weeks, was Bayport High’s new English instructor. This was his first year teaching, and his inexperience showed. His class could best be described as a zoo.

  “It’s a shame he can’t keep a few people quiet,” Frank said. “It ruins things for everybody.”

  “Yeah—too bad nobody stirs things up in math class, instead.” Callie gave Frank a mischievous smile. “If I get another of those questions about the speed of a car…”

  She shook her head until her blond hair swirled around her face.

  “You need trigonometry if you’re going to be a physicist,” Frank said seriously.

  “Exactly how I plan to spend my future career.” Callie burst into laughter at the look on Frank’s face.

  “Hey, not everybody is a tech genius, you know.” She reached out and ruffled his dark hair. “Speaking of tech geniuses, how’s it going with that brain-busting college course you’re taking?”

  “It’s a challenge,” Frank admitted, “and a rush. This isn’t just a computers for dummies course. College seniors are taking this sucker. And I’m not treated like some punk kid who got in by mistake. They really listen to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Callie wanted to know. She patted Frank on the arm. “Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “In a frazzled kind of way.” Frank looked at his watch. “Nobody’s going to be listening to me if I don’t get to the university.” He looked at Callie. “Especially if I’m going to give you a lift home.”

  Callie laughed. “Then let’s move it, Hardy.”

  They stopped off at her locker, then at Frank’s. Finally they made their way out a side door in the south wing of the school.

  Frank had passed over Bayport High in a plane several times. Seen from above, the school looked like a giant capital E lying on its side. The back of the E was the original high school, built in the 1930s. With its red brick and central tower, the building looked like Independence Hall.

  Frank had been to Philadelphia and knew that Bayport High was much larger than the national landmark. The school stretched two blocks long and almost two blocks deep with the additions that had been made over the years. The south wing, added in the sixties, had made the school look like an L. Next came the north wing in the eighties. Frank could remember when the middle stroke of the E had been added. That section held offices, a new gym, and locker rooms. A loading dock jutted out from the rear of the gym, with faculty parking on either side. Then came the paved expanse of student parking, and beyond that the sports fields.

  Frank had parked on a side street north of the school, hoping to escape the dismissal traffic jam. To reach his van, he and Callie would hav
e to cut across the parking lot, passing one athletic field.

  As they did, the gym door banged open, and the football team headed out for practice. The guys were hustling along. One clown actually came out on the loading dock and jumped down to the pavement. Frank slowed up, watching his former team-mates run past.

  Callie slipped an arm through Frank’s. “Do you miss not going out for the team this year?” she asked.

  Frank shook his head. “I couldn’t turn down the computer class, once I got in,” he said. “Besides, Eddie Taplinger is just as good a quarterback as I was.”

  Still, he didn’t move from the fence as the team broke into squads for different practice sessions. The defensive linemen began setting up tackling sleds. Eddie Taplinger stood tossing a football in one hand, while the running backs took off down the field.

  “I think Joe misses me on the team more than I miss football,” Frank said with a laugh. The Hardy brothers had made a good passing team in other seasons.

  There was no missing his younger brother’s short-cropped blond hair. Joe raised a hand as he charged down the field, yelling to Eddie to throw the ball his way.

  Callie nodded. “Especially since that new kid joined the team.”

  “Terry Golden?” Frank shifted his eyes to another kid in a Bayport uniform. He was blond, like Joe, but he wore his hair longer. Golden was maybe an inch taller than Joe, Frank’s height, and carrying a little more muscle.

  “They’re starting to treat him like he is golden,” Callie said.

  “He helped the team start the season with three wins out of three,” Frank pointed out. “It’s kind of hard to argue with victory.”

  “Not to mention that he matched Joe’s record ball return,” Callie said.

  “And in the very first game he played for Bayport.” Frank shrugged. “The guy is good.” He looked for a moment into the stands. “In fact, I suspect he’s already being scouted by college teams.”

  Callie stared at him. “You think so?”

  “If you ask me, it’s going on right now.” Frank nodded toward a man sitting high in the concrete grandstand. He balanced a briefcase across his knees to act as a desk for the pad on which he was writing.

  “That guy up there is taking notes, and Coach Devlin hasn’t asked him to leave.” The coach was talking with the team manager, both of whom could see the figure in the stands. Neither seemed to mind his being there.

  “I can’t imagine the coach letting anyone see the team practicing plays.” Frank shook his head. “Not unless it would benefit one of his players.”

  “You really think some college is trying to sign up Terry Golden?” Callie watched Golden catch a pass from Eddie Taplinger. “Would he be leaving Bayport High?”

  Frank shrugged. “Pro teams recruit right out of high school,” he said. “Colleges have to wait for graduation.”

  “So we’ll still have the golden one to win games for us,” Callie said.

  Frank winced at the nickname as he watched the new star send the ball flying back to the quarterback.

  “Unfortunately,” Frank added, “Joe’ll have to live with being the second-best pass receiver.”

  “If you were the quarterback, you could cut Joe a break.” Callie gave Frank a sly smile. “And what about me? I liked dating a football hero.”

  Frank responded with a long look. “Well, then, maybe you should talk with what’s-his-face—the golden one,” he suggested.

  “I have talked with him,” Callie said. “He made me feel as if I should say ‘thank you’ for the honor.”

  Before Frank could answer, Callie pointed to the field. “Look! Eddie’s finally throwing one to Joe!”

  The quarterback launched a long, high pass down the field. Looking over his shoulder, Joe broke into a run, aiming for where the ball would land.

  Movement on the other side of the field caught Frank’s eye. Terry Golden suddenly launched into a mad charge, aiming for the same spot.

  Callie blew up. “Is he trying to make Joe look bad?”

  “Golden may be pumping it up for the college scout,” Frank said. “You’ve got to give it to him—he’s fast.” He shook his head. “But his little display may come off as showboating.”

  Still running, Joe shot a quick look over his shoulder. His eyes were aimed in the air, at the ball, not on the ground, though.

  “Joe doesn’t see him!” Callie’s voice was tight.

  “He’s still on course for the ball,” Frank said. “And Golden is right behind him.”

  “But, Frank—” Callie cried. “He’s not stopping!”

  The football came spiraling down. Joe raised his arms to catch it. Behind him, Terry Golden came pounding up.

  There was no way Terry could get his hands on the ball. But he would be just in time to ram into Joe. . . .

  2 Hard Hitter

  One more step, Joe told himself, as he brought his upraised hands together. Perfect catch!

  He just managed to get his fingers hooked on the pigskin when what felt like an eighteen-wheeler smashed into his back.

  Joe tumbled forward, the ball flying from his grip.

  He didn’t land flat on his face—not quite. At the last second he managed to get an arm out and break his fall. A quick roll, and he was back on his feet.

  The first thing he saw was Terry Golden.

  Joe’s back throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to the fury roaring through his brain.

  “What—” Joe sucked in some air to keep from yelling. “What do you think you’re doing, Golden? That was my pass.”

  “Got to keep your eyes open, Hardy. What if I had been a guy from the other team?”

  “This is practice!” Joe realized his hands had curled into fists and forced his fingers open again. “We’re all supposed to be on the same team here. And I was practicing catching that pass, not broken-field running. What would you say if I clipped you the next time Eddie sent the ball your way?”

  “I’d say that would make you a poor sport.” Golden smirked at Joe. “And I’m sure the scout up in the stands would think so, too.”

  Joe glanced at the man up in the top seats. Then he noticed how Terry had placed himself. He was standing so the scout couldn’t see the expression on his face, but could plainly see Joe’s.

  Golden reached out and patted Joe on the shoulder, a picture of good sportsmanship.

  “No hard feelings, pal,” Terry told him. “We all have to try harder when the stakes are high.”

  He turned, scooped up the ball, and lobbed it back to Eddie Taplinger.

  Joe barely noticed how the rest of practice went. He was too busy trying to control his temper.

  It didn’t help when Coach Devlin called him aside and tapped him on the head. “Concentrate, Joe.” The coach turned to look up into the stands. “This isn’t a day to be in a fog.”

  The guys on the team said that Coach Devlin sometimes brought in scouts—or people he said were scouts—to keep the players on their toes.

  Joe didn’t have to worry about being recruited by a college team. His grades were good enough to get him into most schools. An athletic scholarship would be icing on the cake for him.

  No, if scouts were coming around, they probably weren’t after Joe Hardy. They were looking over the team’s new star—the golden one.

  Well, Terry boy can have all the attention he wants, Joe told himself. As long as he stays away from me.

  He ran back into practice, hoping to work off his anger with sweat.

  At least he got the sweat part right. By the time practice was over, his jersey was soaked. In the locker room Joe peeled off his uniform and jumped into the shower.

  He’d just toweled off and put on his pants when three quick raps sounded on the locker room door. A female voice called, “Everybody decent in there?”

  Joe took a quick look around. A couple of guys had no shirts on, but it would take more than that to keep Liz Webling from coming in after a story.

  “Al
l clear, Liz,” he yelled. “Come on in.”

  Liz was a reporter for the Beacon, Bayport High’s newspaper. She joked that printer’s ink was in her blood because her dad ran the Bayport Times.

  As Liz entered, her eyes flicked around the locker room, making sure Joe hadn’t invited her in too soon. She carried a notebook and a mini-cassette recorder, just like a professional journalist. Behind her trailed a tall, skinny guy with a camera.

  Joe hid a smile. Dan Freeman looks more out of place among the jocks than Liz does, he thought.

  Nobody would take the awkward, skinny boy for an athlete. He wrinkled his nose at the stink of sweat and liniment as he stepped in through the door. As he followed Liz, Dan managed to stumble but did recover before falling flat on his face.

  Dan Freeman not only worked for the Beacon, he had also made the front page the week before. The Bayport High debate team had scored well at the year’s first big tournament, and Dan’s brilliant arguments had played a big part in that success.

  “The big game against Seneca Tech is coming up,” Liz said to Joe. “How do you think we’ll do?”

  “That’s still a week away,” Joe answered as Liz made a beeline for Terry Golden.

  “Not when you’re working on a school paper,” Liz threw back over her shoulder. “This issue will come out right before the game. Just call me the early bird.”

  She stopped and smiled at Terry, who gave her a big smile right back. Golden rubbed his long hair with a towel, then let the towel drop and hang loosely from his shoulders.

  “This is my first year at Bayport,” he said in reply to Liz’s first question. “I can’t really talk about the way games went in the past. Everybody tells me that Seneca is the team to beat.”

  Terry grinned down at Liz. “Well, we’ve managed to beat every other team we’ve played this season, and I think we’ve got the right stuff—and the right guys—to handle Seneca.”

  Terry Golden’s humble act made Joe sick. In front of a microphone or at a pep rally, Golden was always modest, giving credit to the team. On the field, though . . .