28

The next day, I fought the jump again.

It was easier this time.

I found I just had to focus on something so much that it was all I could see, even when I closed my eyes. Like the work on the board at school, or Chris Matthews flicking ink over Bradley White’s shirt, or the way a potato chip bag drifted across the courtyard when the wind picked up.

I stared and stared and clenched all the muscles in my stomach and focused the whole time, and the tug stopped.

At breakfast, Dad had mentioned how hard it had been to write last night. I kept expecting him to barge into a lesson today yelling, “I NEED TO WRITE!” But he didn’t know about me getting written in and there was no way he could know about me fighting it.

Part of me felt bad, because the writing was helping. I knew it was. I’d seen it in so many different ways. But with the game tomorrow, I wanted to stick around, just for one more day. I wanted to be me—Owen Smith—not inside Jack’s head in the wasteland.

All through school the guilt got worse. I barely talked on the bus, and even though I tried to listen as Danny told me about Westfield’s tactics, I kept zoning out.

When I got back, I hesitated outside the front door.

That’s weird, I thought. There were no lights on. I opened the door and called out, but there was no answer. Quiet—the whole house was so quiet. I even checked out in the shed, but Dad wasn’t there either. Where was he? I flicked on my phone, but there weren’t any messages. There were no notes left round the house. Something squirmed inside my stomach now, but it wasn’t the tug of Dad’s writing. What if something bad had happened and it was all my fault?

When I was sure the house was empty, I chucked my bag down and went upstairs, loading up FIFA to take my mind off it. But I kept the volume low, so I would know if Dad came back.

Before long, I heard the crunch-crunch-crunch of footsteps on the drive.

I dropped the controller and rushed across the landing to the window.

He was walking up the driveway slowly, like his legs couldn’t be bothered to work. When he finally unlocked the door, he just stood there cast in shadow by the light from the house.

In Art we’d started doing pen-and-ink drawings, where you used white paper and the darkest ink and nothing else. You couldn’t see any features, but that was what made it look so good.

That was what Dad looked like now. A pen-and-ink drawing.

I tried to imagine what was going through his head. I wondered if he pictured Mum like I did, pictured her smiling face in his mind. Maybe she was fading for him too.

Finally Dad walked inside. I heard his footsteps trailing into the living room. I didn’t know whether to go downstairs or not. He might not have been in the mood to talk. But I couldn’t just leave him.

Taking a deep breath, I walked down to the living room, and curled up next to him on the sofa. We sat there in silence, not saying anything at all. He stroked my hair and hugged me close. He smelled of beer and that stale smell you got in pubs sometimes, but I didn’t mind.

The starlight twinkled on Mum’s urn, and as I watched it, I had to talk about her.

“Dad?” I said. “What is something you loved about Mum?”

He cleared his throat and I thought he was going to speak, but he didn’t reply.

“I loved her smile,” I said, the words bubbling over now. “When she saw me, no matter how bad her day had been, when she saw me she smiled and—”

“That’s enough,” Dad said. His eyes were red and rimmed with tears. When he blinked, one trickled down the side of his face. He swiped at it with his hand. “I can’t do this. Not now.”

“I just thought—”

“I can’t, Owen. Not yet.” He sighed, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

I sat back on the sofa, listening to the occasional drone of traffic outside the house, and the steady breathing of Dad, beside me. A sharp snort told me he’d fallen asleep.

A few days ago, he’d said he would come to watch our second game. But the game was tomorrow, and I got the impression he wouldn’t be on the sideline again.

“One more day,” I said. “Just give me this match, and then I’ll finish the story.”

It was amazing how easy it was to tell him about it when I knew he couldn’t hear me.

After school the next day, I waited for Danny outside the sports center.

It was the day of the big match, and . . . I crossed my fingers just in case, for extra good luck—I was actually going to get to play in it! I hadn’t felt the tug all day.

I swatted away the guilty feeling that twisted its way among the nerves. Dad had been so quiet last night, and it was all my fault, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t fought the jump, if I’d let him get on and write, he’d still be smiling.

I hoped he was okay—but I forced myself to focus, just for now. Just a few more hours.

The scout was already here.

Bradley White had seen him arrive and the news spread round school in minutes.

All that talk of the quarter finals had been a bluff. Maybe he’d wanted to catch us out, to see how we played naturally.

Normally when 3:15 hit, kids couldn’t wait to get home, but now they crowded the courtyards, kicking footballs around, and marching in groups onto the field.

It was going to be the biggest crowd we’d had all season. And because I fought the jump, I was going to get to play. As long as I could keep it under control.

I closed my eyes, trying not to think about what would happen if Dad wrote me into the story in the middle of a game. No one had noticed so far. Danny forgot even when he watched me vanish. But I’d never had a crowd see me disappear before.

“All right?” Danny said, striding toward me.

“All right,” I said.

Now that the bell had gone, my stomach bubbled with nerves. Everyone called them butterflies, but they didn’t feel like butterflies. Butterflies were light and airy and they didn’t flap their wings very fast. This felt more like a nest full of hummingbirds waking up and flapping their wings at the speed of light.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Danny said, pulling me to one side.

“What do you mean?”

“The story,” he said, leaning in so no one could hear us. “You know, getting in contact with that other camp. You can’t do it in front of the others, so that rules out the radio. But maybe you don’t need to use the radio anyway.”

We were at the changing room door now, and Mr. Matthews was beckoning us in. Normally around a game Danny was focused on nothing but the match. Even away from the game, he barely talked about anything else.

“The plane,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It’ll have one of those things, won’t it? Those black boxes. Whatever it is they use to track it. Maybe if you find it, you could get them to contact you.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I said, smiling widely.

I thought back to Quinn, telling me not to go looking for the wreck. But I had to, didn’t I? If I got the black box, I could take it to the hill when we went out Hunting. Take it right up to the highest point, where the radio tower was.

Mr. Matthews waved at us again, blasting his whistle. We jogged inside and joined the rest of the team in the dressing room. Music played from someone’s phone, and the clattering of studs filled the room as we changed into our uniforms and slipped our cleats on.

“You know the drill,” Mr. Matthews said. “They’re a good team, these lot. They hammered us last time, but it’s a brand-new game. It’s 0–0. And we’ve got the home advantage now. Don’t think about the aggregate, and definitely don’t think about the academy scout on the sideline. Just think about getting that ball in the back of the net.”

He went through the starting eleven, and everyone clapped as the names got read out. Most games, we played a 4-4-1-1 formation. I was the number ten, behind Danny up front.

Mr. Matthews read through the defenders and the midfielders, then—

Danny stared at me. The whole team was staring at me. Mr. Matthews’s voice rang in my ears, but it wasn’t my name. He didn’t call my name.

“Sorry, Owen,” he said, clanking over to the door in his cleats. “I’m not sure when it was, but I’ve got down here that you missed training. You know the rules. No training, no start. Even for you.”

No . . . I had to play!

A ball of fire formed inside my chest, burning and burning and getting so hot I thought it might explode. He didn’t call my name. He always called my name, and now I was on the bench for the biggest game of my life. It wasn’t just the academy scout I was worried about.

Dad had said he’d come too.

I scanned the crowd as we headed onto the field, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.

Maybe he was running late. He’d probably be here in a bit.

“He’ll put you on,” Danny muttered. “He’s got to.”

Then the players lined up on the pitch, and Danny ran to the center circle. I shoved my hands in my pockets against the cold. It got dark so early now that the floodlights were on, and I looked up at them, wondering what would be happening in the story if I’d jumped instead of fighting it.

Westfield was a good team. Their players were big and strong—the kind of kids who looked like Year 9s even when they were still in Year 7. They started the game confidently, and why wouldn’t they? They had a 4–1 lead in the bag.

They snatched the ball quickly and almost broke through, but Scott Charles slid in and made the tackle. He passed it out to Aaron on the wing, and all of a sudden we were away.

Aaron sped down the sideline and Westfield couldn’t get back in time . . .

“Cross it!” I yelled, running along the edge of the pitch. “Get it to Danny!”

Aaron swerved it in, and Danny rose up and connected with a perfect header.

Just like that we were 1–0 up. Two more and we’d be through to the next round!

The goal must have stung Westfield, because they soon cranked up the pressure. I was still annoyed at Mr. Matthews for not letting me play, but I quickly forgot about it because I didn’t have a second to think. By half-time they’d had most of the ball and we’d barely got back inside their half.

At the break, Mr. Matthews brought round a bowlful of sliced oranges. As he moved past, he nodded at me and said, “Warm up.” An electric surge shot through me. I glanced over at the home crowd again. I could see the scout making notes on his clipboard. But there was still no sign of Dad.

I tried not to get too disappointed, but I really thought he’d come this time. Where was he? Was it me? Was it because I fought the tug of the story?

I jumped up and down to get warm, shaking the thoughts from my head. As soon as this match was over, I’d stop fighting the tug, but for now I needed to focus.

This was it. I was playing in front of the academy scout.

I lined up right beside Danny when the whistle blew. Westfield kicked off and tried to keep possession, but Danny rushed in to pressure them and I scampered round, cutting off their options.

Frustration bit and they went for a long ball—and that was when we struck.

Dom intercepted the pass and threaded it through to me and I ran at them, just ran without caring. The change of pace must have thrown them off guard, because I got by one and then past two and a lane opened up for me to slot in Danny . . .

The crowd roared as he latched onto the pass and tapped the ball past the keeper to send us 2–0 up. I glanced across, dodging excited thumps and bear hugs. Mr. Matthews was grinning like mad. The scout looked right at me, then scribbled something on his pad.

But we still needed one more.

Down by two, Westfield started to panic. You could tell by their quick, snappy passes. They wanted to control the game, but their plan had fallen apart and now they didn’t know how to react.

Aaron intercepted a ball and played me onside down the right wing. I quickly looked up, trying to find Danny, but they had him well marked. Time was running out. I had to do something.

The defender lunged at me with an outstretched leg, and I dinked the ball past him and ran round and into the box. Everything moved so slowly now. The keeper crouched low, watching me with wide eyes. Another defender was closing in. People were calling out, shouting different things, but I didn’t hear any of it.

I didn’t even think—just reacted.

I rolled the ball left, past the second defender, and smashed it with my left foot.

It was my wrong foot, but I didn’t have time for anything else.

The ball rocketed into the left post—

It ricocheted—

And rolled across the line. It was in. It was in!

An explosion of noise erupted and the crowd ran onto the pitch. Students and teammates and even one or two teachers rushed on to mob me and I fell tumbling back onto the grass.

Crushing pain shot through me every time someone leapt onto the pile, but I didn’t care.

“You’ve done it!” they said.

“We’ve won! We’ve won!”

The referee’s whistle trilled five long blasts as he tried to get everyone under control. I didn’t know how long it was before I could finally get back up. I brushed the grass off my elbows and straightened out my uniform, and my cheeks burned from the giant smile that wouldn’t leave my face.

The game got back underway, but before long the ref blew the whistle again—three sharp blasts. The cheers rang out louder than before. I stood there in the middle of the pitch, taking long, deep breaths, letting it all soak in.

“We’re through!” Danny yelled, dragging me into a hug. I winced at the sharp pain in my ribs. “Well played, mate. Really well played!”

“You too,” I said. “Talk about a good header.”

He shoved me away, ruffling my hair.

The school chant started up in the background, ringing out over the emptying field.

“Lads,” called Mr. Matthews, and I turned to see him standing there beside the scout. He beckoned us over. “There’s someone here who wants a word with you.”

I glanced up at the sky, wondering if Mum was up there somewhere. Wondering if she saw. Wondering if she had anything to do with it.

There were no hummingbirds in my stomach anymore.

Just a tight ball of excitement shuddering away, ready to burst.