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  Ryan had to look up and down the street to see them. It took a few seconds, but there they were. Craig, definitely. Daniel, he thought too. And the other figure looked like James, but Ryan knew it couldn’t be him. James wouldn’t be so stupid as to do what Steve had told them not to do.

  Ryan followed quickly. He wanted to get to them as soon as he could. Make them stop, make them see sense.

  But it was hard. There were still a lot of people about. Most of them were going to or coming away from what looked like the ice rink Ryan had seen from the coach earlier. The roads were busy and noisy. It was hard to cross any of them. And people didn’t move out of the way to let Ryan get by. They seemed happier to walk into him or barge him out of the way.

  It wasn’t until he reached the rink that he caught up with the others. They were standing by the entrance under a massive Christmas tree. Craig was going through his pockets.

  Looking for money, Ryan assumed. Then James caught his eye.

  Ryan went over quickly. He saw James’s face fall.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ryan said.

  ‘Come to join us?’ Craig said. ‘It’ll be a laugh.’

  They were standing in a circle now: Ryan, Craig, Daniel, James.

  But James hadn’t registered that Ryan was there at all. He was staring over Ryan’s shoulder, still looking sad – or scared.

  Ryan looked behind him, then back at James.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘You were followed,’ James said in a low voice.

  Ryan looked round, puzzled, expecting trouble.

  Then he saw Steve. And Paul. And James’s dad. All three with faces like thunder.

  Red Card

  ‘What’s this?’

  Steve was the only one to have spoken, and in a quiet voice. Nobody was used to Steve talking in a quiet voice.

  ‘An ice rink,’ Craig said.

  James couldn’t believe Craig. What was the matter with him? He was breaking rules, answering back, like he couldn’t care less. Craig might do that with teachers. What could they do? But with Steve? The United coach? It was madness.

  James looked at his dad. His dad appeared calm too. He was just looking at James with a question in his eyes.

  ‘Ryan?’ Steve said, turning to his team captain.

  James broke in. ‘Ryan has only just got here. He was trying to get us to come back. He’s nothing to do with this.’

  Ryan looked at James. His plan to save his team-mates from getting into any more trouble had failed.

  ‘Is that right, Ryan?’ Steve asked.

  Ryan nodded.

  ‘Right, you go back to the rooms with Paul. Is that OK, Paul?’

  Paul nodded and headed off back the way they’d come, with Ryan alongside him.

  ‘Anything else to say?’ Steve asked. His voice was getting louder. He looked at the three boys in front of him.

  Nobody spoke.

  ‘Right. Craig, Daniel. Come back with me. You’re both getting the train home in the morning.’

  Craig and Daniel said nothing. James could see they were trying to look like they weren’t bothered, but he could tell they were. They knew they’d made a huge mistake.

  ‘Cyril. James is out of the team tomorrow. I expect you’d like to walk back with your son alone?’

  ‘I would,’ James’s dad said.

  Steve set off back to the accommodation. Craig and Daniel followed behind, without him having to ask them to.

  ‘What’s going on?’ James’s dad said.

  He asked this as if he was expecting a reasonable explanation, that James had been with Ryan trying to stop the others breaking such a big rule.

  They were walking back now, the ice rink and its noise and music fading behind them.

  ‘I was with Craig and Daniel,’ James said.

  ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was going ice-skating.’

  James’s dad stopped walking. ‘What?’

  ‘I wanted to get out. Be on my own.’

  ‘So you went ice-skating with Craig?’ Dad’s voice was louder now.

  James noticed a couple of older girls looking over.

  He wasn’t sure what to say. But one thing he wanted was to be honest. And more than that, he wanted this to be the moment he told his dad he didn’t really want to be a footballer.

  But how could he get the words out?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Dad said again. ‘It’s so unlike you.’

  ‘What am I like?’ James snapped.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dad replied.

  ‘What am I like?’ James repeated. ‘Do you know what I’m really like?’

  James could feel himself becoming more and more angry. And he realized this was good. If he got really angry he might be able to spit it out: tell his dad how he actually felt.

  ‘I think I know what you’re like,’ Dad said, calm again now. ‘You’re hard-working. You’re respectful. You’re a good lad. I thought you’d had a good day.’

  ‘Not a good day,’ James said. He could feel tears coming into his eyes, but he held them back.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not good. I hated it.’

  James’s dad stopped. ‘Hated what?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘But…’

  James wanted to push his dad, find a way of getting him to understand. But all he could say was ‘what’, over and over again. It was driving James mad.

  So he just said it.

  ‘I don’t want to be a footballer, Dad. I want to give it up.’ Then he looked at his dad’s face, waiting for a reaction.

  The Fan

  Dad took James to a cafe rather than go straight back to the student accommodation.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Dad said when they were sitting down. He seemed really sad.

  ‘I don’t want to play any more,’ James said. ‘Not training two days a week. Then playing. I want to –’

  ‘Have I pushed you too hard?’ Dad interrupted. ‘I thought you enjoyed it. All this.’

  ‘I do, but…’

  ‘So why? You always said you were happy with the football.’

  James was finding it hard to speak. His dad kept interrupting and his voice was getting louder. People were starting to look over.

  James could see in his dad’s eyes that he was struggling, but he couldn’t be sure if it was anger or disappointment. Or both.

  James wanted to tell him the truth, the reason. About the other thing he wanted to do. But he was interrupted again.

  ‘Think of all the time we’ve put into this,’ Dad said. ‘All the money.’

  And then a man was standing beside them. He was tall with short brown hair, maybe thirty or forty years old, and carrying a guitar. James noticed a small West Ham badge on his guitar case.

  ‘Excuse me? Am I interrupting? My name’s Jim.’

  James’s dad turned and smiled. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. And he was wearing the face he wore when he spoke to fans. A smile. A nodding head. It was a face James knew well.

  James wanted to shout at the man, to tell him to go away.

  Dad talked to him. The fan wanted to chat about the cup final, the famous goal, how grateful he was. And could he have Cyril’s autograph?

  James watched the other people in the cafe. They all seemed so excited, all talking. Talking, talking, talking.

  James wished he was at home in his room with his music on full blast and his eyes closed.

  When the man had gone, Dad looked at James.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What were we saying?’

  ‘That says it all, Dad,’ James said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That. I don’t want that.’ James gestured at the fan who was leaving the cafe.

  Dad looked at the man and turned back to James. Then he nodded. ‘I see. So what do you want?’ His voice was quiet.

  James shrugged. He was feeling confused. He didn’t know what to say. The words wer
e stuck.

  Dad stood up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. I can’t deal with any more of this tonight.’

  James stood up too and followed his dad back.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Missing

  Breakfast was even weirder on the second morning than it had been the first.

  Again, few people were speaking.

  Jake was sitting next to Yunis. He leaned over to James. ‘Where’s Craig and Daniel?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ James said, deadpan. There was no feeling in his voice.

  Jake wondered what had happened to him the night before. He’d come in late, but said nothing.

  ‘What?’ Yunis cut in.

  ‘Steve sent them home,’ James answered. ‘He’ll tell us all about it, I’m sure.’

  Steve had just come into the canteen. He stood and looked at the boys from the doorway. James’s dad came in behind him, walked to a table and sat down.

  ‘More news,’ Steve said to the room. And then he turned to look at James. James wasn’t sure, but he thought Steve was trying to smile at him. Then again, it could have been a frown.

  ‘Last night,’ Steve went on, ‘some of the squad were caught outside again. Craig and Daniel have been sent home. They’re on their way to King’s Cross station with Paul now.’

  Silence. No one dared say a word.

  Steve paused. ‘That’s it. Let me eat my breakfast then I’ll tell you what’s happening the rest of today.’

  Everyone went back to their cereal and toast. Some conversations started up, but only quietly.

  James stared at his dad. What was going on? Surely Steve should have announced that James was dropped from the game? He ran through the conversations he’d had with his dad the night before.

  James hadn’t expected his dad to be angry. He didn’t normally get angry.

  He saw his dad gesture with his head that James should come over to talk to him.

  James pushed his chair away and walked to his dad. They sat alone at a table.

  ‘I talked to Steve last night,’ Dad said.

  James nodded. What had they talked about? Had he pulled in a favour? Don’t drop James because he’s my boy, the son of an England international? Something like that?

  ‘Go on,’ James said, still unsure how his dad felt about him today.

  ‘I told him you wanted to pack it in,’ Dad said.

  James swallowed. Now it was real. Now he couldn’t go back. He said nothing.

  Neither did his dad.

  ‘Right,’ James said eventually.

  ‘I won’t say I’m not disappointed, James…’

  James looked down at his hands. This was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  ‘But,’ Dad went on, ‘I talked to your mum on the phone late last night and if that’s how you feel, then that’s how you feel. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.’

  This was his answer. It was agreed. Mum and Dad had talked about it. James felt half scared of what he’d done. And half freed by it.

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he muttered.

  ‘So, James, what do you want to do so much?’

  ‘Well, er…’ James hesitated. He was dying to tell his dad, but somehow it still wouldn’t come out. Again, there was something in his dad’s voice. That disappointment. He wasn’t sure how his dad would react. He might laugh at him and think he was stupid.

  ‘Steve asked me to try and change your mind,’ Dad said, ‘but I said I wouldn’t.’

  James nodded gratefully.

  ‘Then I asked him not to drop you for today. That today would be your last game. As a favour to me.’

  James looked into his dad’s eyes. His dad looked sad. It was his dream to see his son do what he had done. But, all the same, he wasn’t forcing James to do anything. He was respecting his son’s choice.

  ‘Thanks,’ James said again.

  ‘And your mum’s coming down to see it too.’

  James smiled, then saw his dad turn and nod at Steve.

  An Announcement

  Steve looked out across the canteen, watching the boys slurping from bowls, stuffing toast into their mouths, drinking three kinds of fruit juice all mixed into one.

  ‘Today,’ Steve said, ‘is going to be a long day. I wanted to run through it with you.’

  The team and the other adults all stopped eating and talking. They were – as usual – quiet for Steve. And people wanted to know what was going to happen today. But also what was going on.

  ‘We leave in an hour for West Ham. There’s thirty minutes or so for some light training once we’re there. Then we watch the losers’ final.’

  A cheer spread quickly through the canteen. Steve grinned, then put his hand out to silence the lads.

  ‘Then it’s us and Chelsea. The final.’

  Another cheer.

  ‘After that,’ Steve said, ‘we come back here. And we stay here.’

  There were a couple of muted laughs. Somehow Steve had created a good atmosphere, even after the news about sending two lads home.

  ‘And tonight,’ Steve said, ‘we’re going to be having a party.’

  This time the cheer was louder. A couple of chairs fell over.

  ‘We’ve food and drink. And…’ Steve did a drum roll on the table. ‘… a karaoke competition.’

  The next noise the lads made was half cheer, half groan.

  Once it had gone quiet, Steve held his hand out again. ‘There’s one more announcement.’

  He looked over at James. James nodded.

  ‘Today is James’s last game for United.’

  Several voices spoke at once.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Is he signing for West Ham?’

  Everyone was looking at James.

  ‘James,’ Steve said, ‘is going to move on and do other things. He is not signing for West Ham!’ He paused again. ‘James has been a great player for United. I’ve worked with him for a few years and I’ll miss him. As a player, but mostly as a good lad.’

  A round of applause echoed round the canteen. James smiled, then put his head down.

  ‘Today,’ Steve went on, ‘is going to be a tough game. But I think we’re going to play well. This is James’s last game. So shall we win it for him?’

  The cheer that went up this time was deafening.

  Chelsea v United

  A large crowd had gathered for the game. There must have been over four hundred people along one side of the pitch and behind the goals.

  And the Chelsea team were big. Very tall for eleven-year-olds.

  Steve gathered the United team together into a huddle.

  ‘So, we’ve talked about this. They’re big lads. We saw how they beat West Ham. They’re not playing long ball, but they do put a lot of crosses into the box. And they do it early, so we have to be on our guard.’

  The team nodded. James felt that there was a good team spirit. He really believed that they could win this.

  ‘So we hold on to possession. We pass the ball about. We try to keep it down. We’re not going to win a lot in the air. OK?’

  Twelve voices said ‘OK’ back at the same time.

  Steve grinned. ‘Good lads. Let’s do it then.’

  Steve had been right about how Chelsea would play: they fired dozens of crosses into the box in the first half. It was an aerial assault.

  But Tomasz was having a brilliant game. Every time a cross came in he’d be there, either grabbing the ball and holding it to his chest or punching it out of danger. And when United managed to get the ball, they did well, pushing Chelsea back.

  Jake was working really hard on the left wing. And the right back – who was supposed to be marking him – was struggling to stop his runs.

  The best chance in the first half for United came after twenty-three minutes. Ryan passed the ball ahead of Jake. Jake ran on to it, then played a quick one-two with Chi. That left J
ake time and space to cross the ball into Yunis on the near post.

  Yunis couldn’t reach it, but Will could. His header slammed against the crossbar and out for a goal-kick.

  Steve was bubbling at half-time.

  ‘Great stuff, lads. We’re matching them. Just keep doing what you’re doing and we’ve got a chance to win this.’

  Ryan looked over at the Chelsea team. Most of them were sitting down.

  ‘They’re tired,’ Steve said. ‘If we can hold them off for another forty-five minutes, it’s ours.’

  The rest of the team put their hands together in the centre of the huddle.

  ‘For James,’ Ryan said.

  ‘For James!’ the rest of the team shouted out.

  And the whole United under-twelves team cheered at the same time. Ready for the challenge.

  One–Nil

  United’s under-twelves went on to the pitch feeling confident, strong and fit. And only a minute into the second half, Ryan found Jake with another pass. Jake made to run down the wing, hoping Yunis would be there for him on the near post. But, as he drew his leg back to cross the ball, he was tackled superbly. The Chelsea player who had tackled him gathered the ball and passed it to his team-mate, who launched it up the pitch.

  Suddenly it was four against two. Four players in blue were sprinting towards James and Connor. And with a couple of passes they had cut both defenders out of the game.

  Now it was down to Tomasz and his goalkeeping skills.

  As the Chelsea striker brought the ball towards him, Tomasz ran out of his goal to narrow the angles and smother the shot.

  But there was no shot to smother.

  The ball was sailing over Tomasz. A perfect chip into the net.

  One–nil to Chelsea.

  The way the Chelsea players celebrated was hard to take. And even worse was the way the crowd of four hundred celebrated: they were mostly Chelsea fans.

  United trudged back to their positions. They were losing.