The handshake was firmer than it needed to be.
‘Great game, Shayo. Jesus, youse were flying today. What ya fucking trying to do, stop us from winning the league?’
Butch slapped him across the shoulder, forcing Shay to adjust his footing. Butch was built like the proverbial. Shay could hear him shouting and roaring like a madman on the other side of the pitch as the game slipped away from them. Which it did. Canal United won, 3–2, thanks to Jig, who scored one and made one.
In between the cheering and roaring at the end of the game, Shay could see the face of Butch as he kicked a water bottle a good twenty yards. Fucking furious he was, like he’d swallowed a carton of sour milk. Now, here he was all matey in front of him. Shay waited for what he really came over to say.
‘Listen, that number nine of yers. What’s his name, James or something?’
‘Jig.’
Butch nodded his head, but his face gave his interest away.
‘His folks here?’
Shay slapped a few of his team on the shoulders as they passed, enjoying Butch’s obvious discomfort.
‘Nah. Never are.’
‘Right,’ Butch said, walking away slowly.
The rules were clear, Shay reminded himself. Either the boy’s parents or the coach had to be present if the manager of another club wanted to ask the boy to join them.
Shay cast a quick look around at the kids. No sign of Jig. He scanned the area, missed him at first and only spotted him when he stepped from behind an adult. Butch.
The cunt.
He was about to roar but, instead, strode over.
Butch glanced over his shoulder in Shay’s direction, handed Jig something, and walked casually away.
‘What you up to?’ Shay shouted, passing Jig.
Butch turned around, any pretence of friendliness vanished.
‘What?’
‘You know full well what,’ he said, pointing back at Jig. ‘You approach a boy, their parents or the coach have to be present.’
‘Don’t start crying, Shayo. Just gave him my card, asked him to tell his folks to ring me. That’s all, pal.’
Shay’s head began to swim as Butch strode off.
No fucking way Jig is going anywhere. Not now.
He turned back and grabbed Jig by the arm.
‘What that prick say to you?’
Jig wrestled his arm free. ‘Lay off.’
‘You know he’s not allowed to approach you like that?’
‘So?’
Some of the kids nearby listened in.
‘Jig, that fucker cannot be trusted. He shouldn’t even be talking to you. What did he say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t give me shite. What did he say?’
Jig looked up at him, confused and annoyed.
‘Just said to get me da or me ma to ring him, and gave me this.’ He held out the card in his hand.
‘What else?’
‘Said I was the type of player they wanted, that some other guys they took in had gone on for trials in England.’
Jig walked on and added, not looking at Shay: ‘He said no one in our club has in years. They have a thing with clubs over there, scouts and stuff.’
Shay leaned back, his mind racing.
‘You know what’s going on here, Jig,’ Shay said, following the boy, hearing the emotion in his voice. ‘He signs up talent from other teams, fills you with shite that such and such played for them, that he ended up in Man United or whatever. But what really happens is they sign you up and put you on the bench. Why? To remove you as a threat to them. I’ve seen it loads of times.’
He could see Jig was listening, as he twirled the card in his hand.
‘Show us that,’ Shay said.
‘No, fuck off.’
Shay stared at Jig as he walked away.
Jig is my ticket out of here. I can’t let anything stand in the way of that.
He stood still, labouring over what he could do, who he could turn to to nip this in the bud. There was definitely one person.