Kids@RandomKids@Random
Kids@Random
.
. KIDS TEENS TEACHERS LIBRARIANS ABOUT US RANDOMHOUSE.COM .
. FAVORITES NEW RELEASES AUTHORS GAMES and CONTESTS .
.
. READ AN EXCERPT .
.
  

Advanced Search

 
NEWS AT THE HOUSE

NEWSLETTER

Sign up for the Read & Play Newsletter for age-by-age recommendations, discounts, news about upcoming books, literacy activities and more!
Click here for more info...

NEW RELEASES


Hot off the press! Check out some of this month's reading highlights...
See New Releases

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT
Author Photo

Meet Jeff Stone, author of Phoenix

Jeff Stone lives in the Midwest with his wife and two children and practices the martial arts daily.

Read more

RANDOM HOUSE RECOMMENDS


Click here for age-appropriate recommendations on our bestselling pre-school, chapter, and middle-grade book series!

For a full list of book recommendations try Search by Theme!

FAVORITES
Seussville


From Dr. Seuss to Dora the Explorer, Random House has books featuring your favorite characters!

.
.
ABOUT THIS BOOK
QUOTES
AWARDS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
READ AN EXCERPT
Buy this book online
Buy this book from a local store
Ordering information
Search Again
.
Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four (The Sports Beat, 1)

Written by John FeinsteinAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by John Feinstein


· Yearling
· Trade Paperback · Ages 12 and up
· June 27, 2006 · $8.99 · 978-0-553-49460-0 (0-553-49460-0)

.
Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four (The Sports Beat, 1)
Enlarge View
Upgrade to the Flash 9 viewer for enhanced content, including the ability to browse and search through your favorite titles
  • Add to Barnes and Noble Wish List
  • Add to Good Reads
  • Add to Librarything
  • Add to Shelfari

EXCERPT

Excerpt from chapter 5 of Last Shot by John Feinstein

“Nothing here,” Susan Carol said. “I guess we–” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Hey, look who’s here.”

She pointed across the dark, open area to the outside door. Stevie could see a group of young men in purple-and-white sweats coming through the doorway. “Straight down this hall to the end and turn right gentlemen,” someone they couldn’t see was saying. “Your locker room is the first one you come to on your right.”

“As if they can’t read the signs,” Stevie said.

“He must have forgotten that they’re student-athletes,” Susan Carol said.

Stevie laughed. He hated to admit it, but she was kind of funny.

“Well,” she said. “Should we head–”

She stopped in mid-sentence again. Stevie turned and saw one final purple-and-white suited player walk through the doorway, peering around as if to make sure no one was there. Stevie recognized the floppy blond hair right away. It was Chip Graber. Right behind him was a man in a charcoal gray suit who was also looking around in a suspicious way. Instinctively, Stevie took Susan Carol’s arm and stepped back so they were hidden behind some rolled up Astroturf.

Graber and the charcoal suit finally seemed satisfied they were alone, then walked towards the loading dock until they were almost directly below Stevie and Susan Carol–who were both frozen with surprise and curiosity.

“Okay, Chip, we’ve got about two minutes to get this straight before the press conference,” the suit said. “You can’t get cold feet now.”

“I never had warm feet,” Chip Graber answered in a stage whisper, still plenty loud enough for Stevie and Susan Carol to hear. “What if I won’t do it?”

“Then the team gets stripped of all its wins and your father gets fired. We’ve been through this. . . .”

There was a long silence. Stevie wondered if perhaps the conversation had ended, but there were no signs of movement below. Susan Carol started to open her mouth to say something, but he put a finger to his lips to indicate she should stay silent.

Just when Stevie thought he was wrong, he heard Graber’s voice again. “This is unbelievable.”

“Hey, Chip, the world’s a cold place sometimes. Cooperate and you’ll be a millionaire in a couple of months. Your dad will get a big contract extension for making the Final Four. Quit whining, do what you need to do, and we’ll all walk away happy.”

“But what if we lose Saturday? There’s no guarantee we’ll win that game. Why does it have to be Monday?”

“That’s not something you need to worry about. You just play your butt off against St. Joe’s and choke against Duke. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“I’ll get you for this. All of you.”

“Please. You don’t even know who we are. And if you try anything with me, the roof will fall in on you and your dad. Now let’s go. You’ve got a press conference.”

This time they could hear footsteps walking away. Stevie and Susan Carol stood stock still for a moment looking at one another.

“What did we just hear?” she asked finally.

“Well, unless I’m crazy, we just heard the best player in the country being blackmailed to throw the championship game.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard too. But he has to win tomorrow. Isn’t that weird? I don’t know very much about gambling, but if someone is trying to make a lot of money by betting against Minnesota State, why wait until Monday?”

“That’s what Graber asked. There’s got to be a reason why it has to be Monday. And he said he had to lose to Duke on Monday. How’s he know Duke will win tomorrow?”

For the first time since they had met that morning, Stevie thought Susan Carol looked lost. “What do we do?” she asked.

Stevie shook his head. “I don’t know. Tell someone?”

“But who?” she asked. “Who’d believe us?”

“Good question,” he said. “I barely believe us. Man, I wanted a story no one else had, but this is insane. Let’s get out of here. It’s spooky.”

She didn’t argue.

As they opened the doors that led back to the hallway and the bright lights hit Stevie’s eyes, he felt like he was leaving a movie. But there was no leaving. Now he and Susan Carol were part of the movie.

Excerpted from Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four (The Sports Beat, 1) by John Feinstein Copyright © 2005 by John Feinstein. Excerpted by permission of Yearling, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

.

.
.
. .
.