“Hi Archie, it’s Jamie Johnson.”

Jamie was still in bed, but he’d called the Hawkstone Assistant Manager as soon as he’d woken up.

“Jamie!” said Archie. “How are you? I heard you were back. I was going to come and see you straight after training. How are you doing, son?”

“It’ll take time, but I’ll get there. Actually … that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to ask you if you could help me. Like you did when I was injured before.”

Silence.

“Jamie. I’d do anything for you, you know I would. But I’m not a doctor or a physiotherapist.”

“I know and don’t worry – they’ve set me up with a doctor over here. But I also need to work with someone who knows me. Who knows my body. I need someone who can get me running again. Get me kicking a ball again. Come on, Archie, you did it before.”

It was true. When Jamie had been hit by a car three years before, it had been Archie who had personally coaxed him back to fitness with a specially devised exercise and strengthening routine that had set Jamie on the road to stardom. It had forged a special bond between the two of them and even though this was a different type of injury altogether, Jamie was absolutely convinced that Archie could do it again.

“I really need you, Archie,” he pleaded.

“You’re a Barcelona player, not a Hawkstone one … we have to remember that. But I’ll call Godal and see what he says,” promised Archie.

“Brilliant,” said Jamie. It was the first piece of good news he’d had since he’d woken up.

“Let’s start tomorrow.”