“Are you a hundred per cent sure about this, Jamie?” asked Jack, spitting on her gloves and smacking her hands together as she jumped up and down on the goal-line. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

Jamie didn’t answer the question. Instead, he smashed the ball high up into the air. He had to do this and Jack knew it too. They had both been thinking about it during the meeting and she’d been the one who had brought it up almost as soon as they’d left the Hawkstone ground.

“But what about your knee, Jamie?” she’d asked, before the Barcelona bubble got too big and burst. “You haven’t even kicked a ball since the World Cup, which, let’s not forget, you came back from on crutches. How long did the docs say you should rest for if you wanted your knee to get back to normal? Six months? And that was only a month ago. Won’t Barcelona be checking it out? It’s got to show up in the medical, hasn’t it?”

“I know,” Jamie had said, each of her questions pricking his happiness like sharp needles into full balloons. “I know all of that. That’s exactly why I need your help.”

By “help”, Jamie had meant that he needed Jack to have a kickaround with him – like in the old days. Her in goal and him smashing in the shots. He’d know in the space of five minutes whether his body, or more specifically his knee, was up to passing a medical to sign for Barcelona.

Although it had been a few years since they had played together in the park, it felt like the most natural sensation in the world for Jack and Jamie to grab a ball from Jamie’s house and head down to Sunningdale Park.

This was where they had honed the skills and the passion for football that would dictate the rest of their lives – Jack as the best young female reporter in football, and Jamie as one of the world’s most exciting young talents, albeit with a knee that seemed to be ageing and hurting more by the day.

He’d been advised in the strongest possible terms by the doctor for the Scotland National Team that the only way to fix his knee was complete rest. For at least six months. Only then would his injuries have time to heal. But Jamie had no time for rest. Not with Barcelona flying in tonight.

The plan was pretty simple. Jamie was going to go at this kickaround hard. Shots, sprints and skills. He needed to try out the lot. If they were all there – as good as ever – then he would know that the move to Barcelona was on. If he broke down, if his knee gave way, then the move was dead. And so was Hawkstone.

Jamie watched the ball drop from the sky. His football brain – the computer in his head – instinctively switched itself on to analyse the flight, pace and angle of the ball’s descent. He arched his body backwards, offering his chest as the perfect cushion for the ball to land on.

He juggled the ball from shoulder to shoulder before letting it drop to his famous left foot. He swished his boot towards the ball, lashing it with his instep high and fast towards the top corner of the goal.

It sang through the air, arcing through the late-afternoon sun in search of its target before the topspin kicked in to provide the last-minute dip.

However, between the sticks was no ordinary goalkeeper. Jack Marshall knew Jamie Johnson, both as a person and as a footballer, better than anyone. Almost as soon as Jamie had begun his juggling routine, she’d seen the volley coming. She had started back-pedalling towards her goal a full couple of seconds before Jamie had even struck the shot. She skipped across the turf to ensure she was now in the perfect position to tip the ball nonchalantly over the crossbar with what appeared to be only the merest exertion of effort.

“Fluke!” shouted Jamie. “You only saved that ‘cos you knew what I was going to do!”

“Being prepared is part of the game!” responded Jack, feeling their friendly rivalry start to reignite itself. “Anticipation’s what gets you ahead in football. I always say that when I’m coaching my girls. Why? Is that the best you’ve got?”

Those words alone were enough to fire up Jamie’s starter motor. Jack was already on her way behind the goal to collect the ball, but now Jamie was sprinting in the same direction. His pace was electric as he flew across the grass.

The wind whistled in his ears as he exploded forward. Jack turned to see Jamie coming but it was too late; he was past her in a flash, getting to the ball first and flicking it directly back over her head before running the other side of her to collect it.

Jamie stood there smiling, his foot resting on the ball. It had always been the same: him and the ball – together.

Both he and Jack knew that the pace he had just shown was not something that any normal footballer could replicate. But this boy wasn’t normal. He was special. And he was ready.

“That enough to convince you I can pass the medical?” he said cheekily, even blowing Jack a mischievous kiss – such was the confidence he felt with the ball at his feet.

“Nope,” responded Jack immediately. “Still need to see the overhead kick to know you’re really ready… And actually, if you don’t mind, I think I might film you doing it so I can show it to my team when I’m coaching them this week!”

The overhead kick had always been something unique between Jamie and Jack because, although it was now one of Jamie’s trademark moves and something the Hawkstone crowd insisted he demonstrate in the warm-up before every home game, it had actually been Jack who had learned how to do it first and taught Jamie when they were eleven.

“OK! I’m filming!” announced Jack, holding her phone towards Jamie. “Right, everyone, you may well recognize the boy on the screen now. His name is Jamie Johnson. Yes, THAT Jamie Johnson, and he’s very kindly agreed to show you all how to do the overhead kick. Because he’s been able to do it for eight years now … ever since a brilliant GOALKEEPER showed him how! OK, Jamie, remember to tell us what you’re doing as you’re doing it and … take it away!”

Jamie stood on the edge of the area and watched as Jack looped the ball towards him. Once again, the football computer in his brain took over, plotting the speed and path of the ball and calculating the optimum moment for him to launch himself into the air.

Then it was show time – with Jamie explaining exactly how he did it:

1 “As the ball comes to you, leave your kicking leg on the ground and jump into the air, leading with your other leg.”

2 “Keep your eyes on the ball. . .”

3 “Strike the ball with your laces!“

The kids that Jack coached were lucky because it just so happened that Jamie executed what was probably one of the best overhead kicks he had ever produced. It soared with the power of a rocket right into the roof of the net. He could not have caught it any cleaner.

“Not bad,” smiled Jack, saving the video and putting the phone back in her bag. “Shame Barça weren’t here to see that one. They’d have signed you on the spot, even if you only had one leg… So how does it feel?”

Jamie looked down at his knee. It wasn’t right. It probably never would be. He hadn’t played a game of football without pain for three years. And the problem was getting worse, not better.

But Jamie knew there was enough left in the tank for him to pass this medical and sign for Barcelona.

There had to be.