The Talent Game

By Rochelle Maroon

"You've got power—loser power!"  Max almost gives up football because of these words from his teammate. But he keeps playing. He wants to be brilliant at something. Anything. Then, a mysterious host invites him to play a different kind of game. The prize is extraordinary talent. Max gets brilliant at football. And keeping secrets. But the game grows deadly. Max must discover who to trust and what the game host really wants―or lose everything.
 

A thrilling urban adventure that weaves everyday sporting dreams with a mysterious game of strange magic. For new young adult readers 11 and over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rochelle Maroon
• Release date: May 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223409472

Book preview

Rochelle Maroon

The Talent Game

How far would you go to be the best?

First published by Rochelle Maroon 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Rochelle Maroon

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Rochelle Maroon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Rochelle Maroon has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Cover illustration Copyright Rochelle Maroon 2023

First edition

Cover art by Rochelle Maroon

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

For anyone who dreams of being the best

at anything.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

About the Author

ONE

Max looked past the goalie’s shoulder to a spot at the back of the net. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and began his favourite goal-scoring mantra.

Top left, top left. The ball slices through the air and into the net, top left, he whispered.

Instead of the ball flying towards the net, an image of an ancient, meditating, cartoon tortoise appeared in his mind. It was Master Oogway, from Kung Fu Panda, his favourite film when he was six. Not helpful.

He switched mantras. His teeth clamped shut, lips barely moving. I’m Max Serlby. I’ve got the power! I’m Max Serlby. I’ve got the power!

The problem was, he couldn’t stop the other voice in his head.

You’re Max Serlby. You’re going to miss! You’re Max Serlby. You’re going to miss!

Why did Old Grunty, a.k.a. Coach Grant, choose him to take the free kick? He usually picked a good player. His team, Clearwater High School, was one match away from the bottom of the table and they needed to score.

Then, DJ, Max’s best friend and greatest defender, gave him the thumbs-up.

He thinks you need encouragement, came the negative voice.

Max tried to ignore it. He focused, visualising the ball cutting through the air and into the net. He backed up, then let fly.

His boot connected with a disturbing thud, the ball rolling to the feet of the opposition’s best defender. The player sped along the muddy pitch towards the other goal like a possessed comet.

A groan from his teammates and their few Saturday morning supporters echoed around the grounds. Old Grunty just stared at him, his expression unreadable. Maybe his earlier grunt (true to his nickname) hadn’t been a signal for Max to take the kick. The coach only called good players by their names, so it was hard to tell. Whatever.

He kept repeating his mantra. I’ve got the power…I’ve got the power…

"You’ve got power—loser power!" Lucas Ramos, striker, sneered as he jogged past. Lucas had been born in Brazil and told everyone this gifted him with natural football talent.

So far, no one had any reason to doubt him.

Max felt his face burn, grateful the colour of his cheeks was hidden under mud. He struggled to think of some witty reply but realised the ball was hurtling down the pitch towards him.

Max reached it easily, keeping his first touch under control.

The goalie came way out—big mistake. Max sidestepped around him, moving the ball fluidly between his feet, finding a rhythm. A burst of confidence doubled the strength in his legs. He was about to score the goal of the game!

Watch and learn, Lucas, Max thought. You’re not the only one with Brazilian magic!

Whoosh, Max shot with his left foot, keeping it under the ball. The force carried the ball up, up…too far. Over the crossbar and over the fence. It zoomed on, apparently on a journey to outer space. Cheers from the opposition, more groans from Clearwater. The ref blew the final whistle.

The power to disappear was what Max needed now.

* * *

So, you had a bad game—move on! DJ turned his bike down Rimu Street, riding past the front of the school. See you Monday, he said with a wave.

Max lifted his arm in reply, which took great effort as every part of him felt like it was dipped in wet concrete. He was so slow to lower his arm that a junior-grade kid standing by the school gates thought Max was waving to him and waved back.

It was Ben Soane. Max recognised his top-heavy mop of dark hair flopping over his eyes and his ever-present violin case, which DJ said was surgically attached to him.

As if I would wave to you, buddy, Max muttered.

Immediately he felt guilty. It wasn’t that he had anything against Ben, but Max was a Year 10 on his way to becoming a senior. Fraternising with a Year 9 was not a good tactic for school popularity.

Neither is missing an easy goal, but you did that, the negative voice said.

Max ignored the voice. It was hard to think of negative things about himself when he was thinking them about Ben, who must have been at school for weekend music practice. He sure needed it. Ben’s music group performed at assembly last week and Ben played completely out of time. Max and DJ practically smothered each other to hide their laughter from the teachers.

Ben lost control of a box under his other arm. It tumbled to the ground, bursting open and spewing sheets of paper onto the street.

Max sighed. Juniors were normally lost causes, but there was always something extra going wrong for Ben.

One of the boys hanging around the school fence near Max sniggered. You gonna help your bestie?

Max made out he didn’t hear him and turned the opposite way to walk home, heaving his sports bag on one shoulder. Not much else could happen to make this Saturday more dismal. By Monday, everyone would know he played his worst game ever. Max wondered if he had any talent for football at all.

When Max was small, his father used to take him and Chantelle, his older sister, to the park to practice.

Football’s the beautiful game! You’ve got real potential, both of you, Dad said, even when Max or Chantelle missed the most basic strike.

Dad was the best player in his bright-yellow, fake Brazilian shirt—a colour that would look just as good on Lucas. He screamed Goooooooooal! when he scored, running around with his arms stretched out like an aeroplane, his belly emerging in an alarming way. Chantelle stopped coming after some kids from school saw them and laughed. Max was never sure if it was her father’s antics or her own abysmal playing that embarrassed her, but she showed no interest in the game after that.

Sometimes Max knew exactly how she felt.

Was he still playing to keep his father happy? No, it wasn’t that. Max loved kicking round the ball. The trouble was, when it came to playing real games, he was terrible. If every game was like practice, Max would be a star. If only the other team ever took it so easy on him.

No talent at all. Lucky your father wasn’t watching today, the voice in his head joined in. Max couldn’t argue.

Clearwater’s ever-present sea breeze had turned into a gale. He walked past the town’s mega shopping centre, zipping up his thin sports jacket in a futile attempt to keep warm. A gust freed discarded newspapers and other rubbish from the depths of a bus shelter. A mini twister formed in front of him, whirling through the mall’s carpark.

The twister rose to meet the huge billboard attached to the cinema advertising the latest blockbuster. The neon-lit hero clung to the side of a cliff by just one hand. But Max didn’t need to see the film to know the hero wouldn’t fall. As well as saving the planet, he’d be the best rock climber in the world.

How would that feel, Max thought, to be really good at something? No, not just good—to do something so well it made people stop talking and stare with open mouths like they couldn’t believe what they witnessed. How great to be exceptionally talented, even if he could only choose one thing to be talented at— football, of course.

Max narrowed his eyes. The mall carpark shimmered, replaced by the glowing emerald pitch of an enormous stadium—the Santiago Bernabéu, home of Real Madrid, in the middle of a World Cup game. Max was about to take a penalty. Eighty thousand fans chanted, Serlby! Serlby! He moved to shoot…

You’d miss.

The stadium melted away.

But the ball sailed on, wide left. Even in his imagination, he missed.

Did other people want to be the best? No one else in his family seemed worried about achieving greatness. Even his father, once a good striker, never claimed to be the best. Never wanted to be, he said. Dad just played for the love of the game.

Which was what his parents preached.

They always told Max and Chantelle that the most important thing is how hard you try. But Dad tried his best at his accounting job only to lose it —disestablished position, the company called it. Business never recovered from Covid-19. Then Dad decided not to get another job at all.

What a great opportunity to widen my career choice! he told them. He signed up for an online screenwriting course.

It’s a mid-life career crisis, Mum explained when Dad wasn’t listening. He’s following his dream.

Mum never spoke about her dream anymore, though. Before Dad lost his job, Mum talked about moving the family to a lifestyle block. She even came home with pet chickens. Think of the chooks as the first small step! she told them all.

That was ages ago. Now she just worked all the time, selling houses as a real estate agent while the chooks laid the odd egg and spent their days destroying the back lawn.

As for Chantelle, her dream seemed to be outdoing her friends in a fashion war. She spent most of her time posting photoshopped selfies like some sort of desperate celebrity, shopping, and trying to get some unfortunate guy to ask her out.

At least his sister had been on a date. None of the girls at school were interested in Max. He was ten years old the last time he told a girl he liked her. She threw her lunchbox at him. It hit him square in the chest. Even she had better aim than him.

Then there was Nan, who was always telling Max to study more and not waste too much time dreaming. That was easy for his grandmother to say. She was living her dream. She swapped her house for a mobile home and spent her days touring up and down the country.

Success means independence and travel. That was another of Nan’s favourite sayings. Look at me now, living in New Zealand and still having adventures!

Max thought that if travel was based on success, he’d never get out of Clearwater. He might not even leave home.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Probably Dad, finally remembering his game and wanting an update on the score. But no, it was a text.

PAUL POWERS on stage TONIGHT at the Regent 7pm.

Max vaguely remembered Mum talking about going to some magic show, but there was no way he was up for it. Not unless this magician could make his bad feelings disappear. Or better yet, reverse time and make one of his shots a goal.

As soon as he got home, Max jumped into the shower, letting the water get as hot as he could bear. He stood under the spray hoping the misery of the game washed away with the dirt and sweat. It didn’t.

Afterward, he peered at his reflection in the steamed-up mirror.

His body seemed like someone had stretched it after his growth spurt last month, his face narrower. Were his unruly eyebrows even thicker? Hopefully, they made his brown eyes look darker.

I’m so proud—my little boy is turning into a tall, handsome man! Mum had told him.

Unfortunately, Chantelle had been listening.

You need new contact lenses, Mum. He’s turning into a human ironing board. And what happened to your eyebrows, Max? Do those two black caterpillars on your face have names?

Max couldn’t be bothered combing his wet hair. He simply hoped it wouldn’t stick out when it dried. He dragged on a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and had just enough energy left to devour most of the contents of the fridge before collapsing on top of his duvet.

He barely closed his eyes when the theme from the last Star Wars film sounded. He fought his way towards his phone, searching blindly around his bedside table.

Hello? he mumbled.

Get up, idiot! That magic show starts in an hour, and there’s no way you’re getting out of it. Chantelle hung up, her laughter from the sitting room carrying down the hall.

Max stumbled out of bed into the kitchen to confront his mother who was dressed for work.

I’m way too tired from the game to go, he groaned.

Come on, Max! Mum pleaded. Your nan sent those tickets. She’d love for you to see the show. Mum grabbed her coat by the door and smiled as she wrestled it on. Remember her stories of how she helped her dad with magic shows as a teenager? And Chantelle’s been looking forward to it. I’d go if I didn’t have another house to show, and Dad’s sick in bed with a cold.

Chantelle rolled her eyes behind her new black-rimmed glasses. "No, I’m only going because you can’t. And I don’t see why I have to take this weirdo! She pointed at Max. I don’t want anyone from school seeing me with him."

That’s enough, Chantelle! Mum said. It’ll do both of you good to remove yourselves from the internet. You might even enjoy yourselves!

* * *

It was a miracle ― Chantelle managed to get ready in time to make it to the Regent Theatre twenty minutes before the show began. They handed their tickets to an usher in the foyer. Smiling too brightly, the woman bustled them away from the crowd down a narrow passageway at the side of the auditorium.

Would you like to meet Paul Powers before the show? He’s screening some of the audience. If you’re suitable, you could be part of the performance! You’d be perfect on stage! It’s just through the door along here.

No thanks! Chantelle walked back out into the foyer.

Max tried to follow but the usher called desperately after him. "Oh, go on! You don’t have to go on stage. After all, not everyone is suitable. But either way, you get a free twenty-dollar gift card!"

The gift card sold it. Moments later, Max found himself standing with about ten other people in a small room at the end of the passageway. A man in a dark suit faced them.

Welcome! I’m Paul Powers. Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time. I’m going to test your minds to see if you’re open to my powers of suggestion. I assure you, if I call you up during the show, you’ll remember everything.

Paul Powers sounded like he was trying to make his voice lower when he spoke. Max had only seen magicians at kids’ parties or on TV but decided the man needed serious help with his stage look. The magician’s black hair was plastered flat like it belonged on a kid’s action figure. His black suit hung loose on his slight frame, looking even more out of fashion than the one gathering dust in Dad’s wardrobe.

Chantelle’s words before the show came back to him.

It’ll be so lame. Everyone knows magicians pay people in the audience to pretend they’ve been hypnotised. Stooges, that’s what they call them. Chantelle had streamed an entire season of Dynamo, and so was a self-proclaimed authority on all things magic.

Relax, Paul Powers told them, his strange voice softer now. "Take a deep breath, let it out, slowwwwwly. You are feeling sleeeepy. Very, verrry sleeeeeeepy. I’m going to count from one, and by the time I get to ten, you’ll have closed your eyes and