“Hard luck!” said Jamie’s mum, ruffling his hair, as she had always done since he was a little kid. “We thought you did some great kicks.”

“Thanks,” said Jamie, moving his head away from her hand. He wished she wouldn’t try to talk about football.

“So, did you get our note that Jeremy and I wanted to talk to you about something important?” she asked brightly.

Jamie wasn’t in the mood for talking. He’d just lost a Cup Final.

“Mum – I already know!” he said bluntly. He’d known about his dad coming back before she had.

“You know? But how?” she said, a little confused. “We only decided last night.”

“Decided what?”

“We’re getting married, Jamie! That’s what we wanted to tell you!”

 

As his mum and Jeremy walked hand in hand back to the car where they said they would wait for him, Jamie’s eyes scanned the pitch. It was big news that they were getting married, but he couldn’t think about it now. Not with the remnants of the Cup Final still freshly scattered in front of him.

The Breswell players were draped in one of the big banners their supporters had brought. They were jumping up and down with the Cup, singing: “Championés! Championés! Oh way oh way oh way!”

In front of them, the photographer was snapping away.

“That’s it, lads,” he was saying. “Cheeky smiles. There’s going to be a big splash for you boys tomorrow!”

Jamie couldn’t help but think it should be the Kingfield boys up there on the podium. He could almost see him and Ollie lifting up the Cup and then running around the pitch with it. Kingfield had come all this way. And now they were going away with nothing.

Instead of celebrating, Jamie’s teammates were silent; some of them were even crying.

It occurred to Jamie that maybe this was the way his professional dream was supposed to end. He’d had his bit of personal glory coming off the bench to score but, ultimately, his team hadn’t been good enough to win the Cup Final.

Maybe this was the footballing gods giving him a little nudge. He was fourteen. If it hadn’t happened for him by now – and it hadn’t happened for him today – it was never going to happen.

Jamie should enjoy his football as a hobby but give up the idea of trying to go professional.

Perhaps that was the real reason that he’d got so annoyed with Jeremy lately. Perhaps somewhere, deep down, he had understood that Jeremy was right. Jamie hadn’t been angry with Jeremy. He’d been angry with the truth. . .

The truth that Jamie should start thinking about life in the “real” world.

The truth that the time had come for Jamie Johnson to accept that he would never be a profess. . .

“Well played, Jamie.”

He felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

“Dad!” Jamie said. The word slipped out before he could stop it. “I didn’t think you were here . . . sorry I lost . . . I—”

“Don’t sweat it, Jamie – you were brilliant. We both thought so.” His dad gestured to the man standing next to him. “This is my friend Steve Brooker.”

“Hello, Jamie,” said the man shaking Jamie’s hand. He had the firmest handshake Jamie had ever felt.

For a second the three of them stood there in silence until Jamie’s dad added: “Steve’s Academy Director at Foxborough, by the way.”

He said the words so casually, as if he were mentioning that it was forecast to rain tonight.

“What?!” said Jamie. “Foxborough as in Foxborough the biggest club in the country?!”

“Yes,” said Steve, laughing. “Well, we like to think so, anyway.”

“Oh my God!” said Jamie. His eyes were practically popping out. He couldn’t stop staring at Steve. Now he noticed the little Foxborough club badge on his coat. “I can’t believe you’re actually here!”

“Well, when your dad told me that there was a gifted left-winger playing today, I had to come down and take a look,” said Steve. “We’re all looking for left-wingers at the moment.”

“I’m a left-winger!” Jamie exclaimed.

“I know,” smiled Steve. “You’re the one I came to see.”