The boys gathered round Ravi’s computer. His hands flew about the keys like he was playing the piano. A video popped up on his screen. “Can I click play, sir?” he asked.
Mr McKlop nodded. “Good work, Ravi.”
A presenter their age appeared on the screen:
The video cut to footage of Brandon Cramond nutmegging two players before curling a perfect shot into the top corner.
Nerves began to crackle and pop in Calum’s stomach.
The presenter reappeared with a microphone, next to Brandon Cramond himself.
A smile crept across his face. He had black hair and dark eyes. Smiling didn’t come naturally to him: it seemed like something he’d practised in front of the mirror.
The interviewer glanced at the next question on his sheet, gulped, then looked up at the team captain.
Calum watched as Brandon turned to the interviewer and stared at him as though he’d just sneezed on his lunch. Brandon’s eyes had become as black as coals. It felt like the temperature dropped in the computer room.
The interviewer winced, turned back to the camera and tried to smile.
The computer room was silent. All the team could hear was distant shouting from the girls’ training session outside.
“See…” said Mr McKlop finally, after a long pause, “it’s always a good idea to know who you’ll be up against.”
