A few days later, there is an under-sixteens game against County. Granddad is still in hospital and he’s the only thing on my mind. I keep thinking about him in that bed with that machine breathing for him. What if he doesn’t recover? What if he does recover? How much worse off will he be?
In the changing rooms, before the game, all the lads are getting ready. Ryan sits next to me. He looks the same as he did when I first met him. He has still got that same skinhead.
“Alright, mate,” he says. “What did you do with your match-ball the other day?”
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“I would have framed it,” he says.
“As if you would ever score a hat-trick,” calls Ollie from the other side of the changing room. His blond hair is brushed back – he always has the latest style. He gives me this massive smile, with his super-white teeth.
“Everything alright, Jax?” Ollie asks me.
“Yeah, man,” I lie.
Then Liam, our coach, comes in. He gives us his pre-match talk, and the next thing I know, I'm out on the pitch.
It’s a cold Wednesday evening. I know I probably shouldn’t be here but I need something to distract me from worrying about Granddad. And anyway, if I’m going to be a pro and play for England with Jesse Walters, I need to be able to play no matter what is going on at home. I need to be professional.
The ref blows his whistle and the game kicks off. I get the ball and straight away their number 6 is on me. He’s an ugly thing, like a bulldog. He has got a scruffy beard and arms covered in tattoos. I shield the ball from him, but he kicks at my ankles, grabs onto my shirt. I try to shake him off, but he holds on.
I look to the ref, but he doesn’t seem to think I’ve been fouled.
I keep the ball, but the number 6 is still kicking, still grabbing. I try to turn. One way, then the other way. I try to get away from him but he’s still holding on.
Then I lose it and shove him away from me.
Now the ref blows his whistle. He holds his arms out wide, signalling for a free kick.
“At last,” I say.
He points in the direction of my goal. The free kick has gone to County.
“To them?” I shout. “Are you joking?”
The number 6 grabs the ball and shoves me out of the way.
“Move away from the ball now,” says the ref.
“Are you actually stupid?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” says the ref. “What was that?”
I say again, “Are you actually stupid?”
“Enough of your lip,” he tells me. “Any more, and you’re booked.”
Ryan jogs over, pulls me away. “Come on, man,” he says. “We’ve only just kicked off.”
“Jackson!” Liam shouts from the sidelines. “Focus.”
Their number 6 is at me for the whole game. Little kicks, little digs. The ref gives me nothing. I do my best to hold my temper, but it’s hard.
Then Ollie knocks the ball to me. I beat a man with a step-over, and I’m running towards their goal. I see him, the number 6, charging at me. I’m going to play it through his legs, and make him look like the mug he is.
But I don’t get a chance.
He jumps in, two-footed.
I jump the tackle, but he catches my foot.
I clatter against the grass.
Even though I’m in pain, I quickly get up again. He gets up too, the mug.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “You could have broken my leg.”
He just grins at me.
My temper boils over.
I grab hold of his shirt and pull him in.
Then I nut him.
His nose pops.
Blood everywhere.
All over his face. All over his shirt and all over me. Players rush in and everything is a blur.