For a second, Jamie actually wondered if he was invisible to Hansard.

He’d been running up and down the touchline for the last twenty minutes and Hansard had still not so much as acknowledged him. This despite the fact that Kingfield had not even managed a shot on goal yet in the second half.

A line that Jamie had once heard in a movie rose into his brain.

“When you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said to himself in a rugged voice. Maybe Hansard didn’t want to acknowledge Jamie – but who said it was his choice?

Jamie sprinted up the touchline and stopped next to Hansard, putting his foot on the ball.

“Hey – Hilary. . .” he said, sharply and with confidence. He knew this was his last throw of the dice.

“WHAT did you call me?!” Hansard’s face was divided into the perfect mixture of anger and surprise.

“You used to be a striker, yeah?”

“Yes I did, and don’t you dare call me Hil—”

“So why are you such a defensive coach, then? Stick me on . . . even you know we’ve got to shoot to win.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Johns. . .”

But Jamie had already sprinted away down the line. He trapped the ball on his calf and flicked it over his head. He could almost feel Hansard’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his neck.