Man of the Match Page 2

  It was going back to all the nights that Jamie had spent wishing, hoping that his dad would come back home, that they could all be just like a normal family again.

  And when his dad had got back in touch last year, Jamie had been the happiest person in the world. His dad had even helped him to sign for Foxborough. Everything had been perfect. Until Jamie got injured.

  Injured so badly that Foxborough said they had to let him go. Injured so badly it looked as though he would never play football again. . . And was Jamie’s dad there for him when Jamie really needed him? Did his dad say everything was going to be OK and that he would be right behind Jamie, no matter what?

  No. His dad had disappeared. Again. He’d just left Jamie lying there in the hospital bed. He didn’t even bother calling to see if Jamie was going to be al—

  “What do you think, Jamie?” Glenn Richardson was asking him. He was speaking out of the side of his mouth like a ventriloquist.

  “Er . . . yeah, mate. . .” said Jamie, vacantly.

  There was no way he could tell them that he had missed the entire conversation about what they were going to do.

  So it came as a something of a relief to Jamie when Glenn Richardson himself took three steps back, deliberately marking out his run up to take the free-kick.

  Good, Jamie thought. They’ve decided to let Glenn take it. I don’t feel like taking this one anyway.

  Jamie watched Richardson sprint up to the ball. Go around the wall! There’s a gap to the side of the wall! Jamie urged his teammate.

  Glenn Richardson arched his body and drew his foot back and then . . . he dragged the ball backwards . . . towards Jamie. . .

  That was it! The plan wasn’t for Richardson to take on the shot, it was for him to fake the shot, fool the keeper and for Jamie to have a go from a different angle.

  Now all eyes were on him as he raced towards the ball. He had to get there before the defenders, who had already broken out from the wall to charge down the shot.

  Jamie got there first. Just.

  He swiped his boot at the ball with all the power in his body.

  But no accuracy. He didn’t even look at the ball properly as he unleashed his strike.

  He was in such a rush to get in his shot that he had forgotten completely about his free-kick technique – keep your head over the ball, keep your body compact . . . and above all . . . keep your composure. . .

  Jamie knew the words off by heart. His granddad, Mike, had drummed them into him since the day he’d first kicked a ball.

  But Jamie wasn’t in touch with his either his body or his mind. His foot slashed wildly at the ball.

  The contact was awful. His toe only poked the side of the ball, sending it not curling handsomely towards the top corner but spinning crazily along the ground . . . to the touchline.

  In the end, Jamie’s shot went out for a throw-in to Foxborough. A throw-in! He hadn’t even managed to get the ball to go as far as the goal! How pathetic! Jamie could not have been more disgusted with himself.

  As the fans of both sides jeered his effort, Jamie put his head in his hands and, for a moment, dropped to his knees.

  If he could, he would have dug a hole in the ground and disappeared.

  Premier League Table – 17 October

  It wasn’t long before everyone began to notice. Jamie was not the same player.

  He’d lost something from his game. It wasn’t as simple as his pace, or his control, or even his skill. It was something else that had disappeared. And it was impossible for Jamie to try to get it back because he didn’t quite understand what it was . . . what he’d actually lost.

  But it was obvious that defenders were simply no longer scared of him. The reputation that he had had previously – the unstoppable Jamie Johnson . . . the winger with the sprinting speed of an Olympic champion . . . the attacker with the magic feet ­– had gone.

  Now defenders were told to “get tight”. To “put Johnson under pressure”. “He’ll crack . . . his confidence has gone.”

  Some of them had even started winding him up during games.

  “You’re not the real Jamie Johnson,” one defender had said. “You can’t be – you’re rubbish! You egg!”

  It became the norm for Harry Armstrong to substitute Jamie after sixty-five minutes, and pretty quickly, Jamie wasn’t even that upset to see the subs board going up. In fact, he was relieved. He knew he was not showing the real Jamie Johnson out there. He was not doing himself justice.

  The worst point came when, against Barnforth in the Cup, the Hawkstone fans actually cheered when Jamie was substituted.

  That killed Jamie. This was the club he loved. The whole aim of his life was to play for Hawkstone and to be a hero with the Hawkstone fans. For them to cheer him going off – for them to want to get rid of him – cut him like a knife. He was just pleased that Mike had not been there to see it.

  But even then. . . Even at that horrible moment, Jamie still had no idea what was coming next.

  Wednesday 20 January

  Jamie poured himself some cereal and turned on the TV as soon as he got in from training. As usual, nobody was around. His mum and Jeremy were spending a lot of time in Scotland these days.

  It was where Mike had come from and, since he had died suddenly last year, going back there had been Jamie’s mum’s way of coping.

  She had got really close to her family up there and had been up to visit three or four times. It didn’t bring Mike back – nothing could – but spending time with her dad’s family made Jamie’s mum feel better. He could hear it in her voice when she called him.

  Jamie was watching Sports News. He wanted to check the league table. Hawkstone had dropped points recently, and he was more to blame than most. Although they were still second, they were now three points behind Foxborough.

  Jamie was analysing the goal-difference because, at the end of the season, it could be worth an extra point.

  Premier League Table

  He turned the sound on mute so he could just concentrate fully on the figures. It was as hard as a maths test at school!

  And that was why it took a second for Jamie’s eyes to flick to the breaking news at the bottom of the screen.

  BREAKING NEWS … HAWKSTONE ANNOUNCE SIGNING OF MATTHEUS BERTORELLI … WORLD-FAMOUS LEFT-WINGER SIGNS FOR £13.8 MILLION … BERTORELLI SIGNS FOUR-YEAR CONTRACT … BERTORELLI BECOMES HAWKSTONE UNITED’S RECORD SIGNING … SHOCK SWOOP STUNS FOOTBALL WORLD … LIVE PRESS CONFERENCE IN HALF AN HOUR…

  Jamie spat his entire mouthful of cereal halfway across the room.

  “Jack,” said Jamie. “It’s me. Can you talk?”

  He’d called her immediately. He was panicking. He couldn’t stop thinking that Hawkstone had signed Bertorelli to replace him. He needed Jack now. Needed her to talk some sense into him.

  “Hi, Jamie! Yeah, I can talk for a sec. I’m at the ground. It’s mental here! They’re going crazy over this whole Bertorelli signing! They’ve even found some old pics he did advertising underpants!”

  “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Jamie could hear loads of noise in the background.

  “What? His pants?”

  “No, stupid! Him signing. It’s a disaster, isn’t it?”

  “Disaster? How? You’re not jealous, are you, Jamie? You should be proud. Hawkstone signing Bertorelli shows that they’re really ready to take on the big boys!”

  “Yeah, but think about it, Jack. Where’s he gonna play? He’s a left-winger. He’s here to replace me, isn’t he?”

  Jamie could feel his anxiety rising. He hated the idea of being dropped more than anything in the world.

  “That depends, doesn’t it?” said Jack. “Harry Armstrong will just pick his best eleven players – like any manager. . . Look, let’s talk about this later. The press conference is about to st
art. You need to trust yourself, JJ.”

  Jamie stared at Mattheus Bertorelli on the TV and shook his head.

  The man was wearing a pink shirt with about five buttons undone so everyone could see his bare chest, which, by the look of things, he’d had waxed! He was also wearing a necklace and an Alice band around his hair. He looked as though he’d come fresh from the catwalk, not a football pitch!

  “You look like a girl, mate!” Jamie said out loud. He couldn’t stop himself laughing. This guy was a joke!

  “So why Hawkstone, then, Mattheus?” a journalist was asking as the press conference to announce Bertorelli’s arrival kicked off. “You could have joined any club in the world – Milan, Madrid, Juventus, Barcelona – so what made you choose Hawkstone United?”

  Hang on a minute! Jamie thought to himself. I recognize that voice! And sure enough, the camera turned to show that the journalist asking the question was Jack!

  Jamie leapt up from the sofa. He couldn’t believe she was on TV! And she’d sounded so professional!

  Jamie looked at her face on the screen as she waited for her question to be translated.

  She was dressed really smartly. She looked amazing! And she even had a proper media pass pinned to her shirt. Jamie noticed that it said Jacqueline Marshall rather than just “Jack”. Did she want to be known as Jacqueline now, then? Jamie liked that name. . .

  “I can answer you question in simple way,” Bertorelli responded, running his fingers across his little goatee. “I am . . . how you say? Explorer in football. . . And to come to Hawkstone is new adventure for me.

  “I here to give joy with my football . . . to make many new friends with my skill.”

  “And what about Jamie Johnson, Mattheus?” another journalist was asking now. “He plays the same position as you and is a big favourite with the fans. Do you think you might face a battle for that spot on the left wing or are you confident of winning a place in the starting line-up?”

  “Soon the fans will love me,” Bertorelli answered immediately. “I am a special player. I have been blessed with my talent. Maybe in the future, this boy you talk about – Jonny Jackson – maybe he can be a very good player too. But now, is maybe the best thing for him to try to learn from me.”

  Jamie picked up the remote control and threw it at the TV. Hard. The control smashed into the screen and the batteries went flying in different directions.

  “What an absolute muppet!” Jamie snarled, kicking his own sofa in frustration. “Blessed with talent?! He’ll be blessed with my left boot if he’s not careful!”

  Jamie didn’t have to look up to know that Bertorelli had entered the dressing room. The thick waft of expensive aftershave announced his arrival clearly enough. His presence disgusted Jamie.

  And to make matters worse, all the other players were crowding around Bertorelli as though he were the coolest kid in the playground.

  Bertorelli was loving the attention too, telling his new teammates all the tricks he had picked up at his previous clubs.

  “No! No! No!” He was laughing. Even his laugh sounded fake. “No, you must never give all the autographs! They only sell them on Internet anyway! No, you choose the ones you give autographs. Give to the ones you like. . . Only the pretty girls!”

  The Hawkstone players cracked up, encouraging Bertorelli to further explain his off-the-field tactics.

  “And same with interviews,” he said, pointing his finger to illustrate his point. “No interviews . . . apart from with the beautiful ladies! Me? Maybe I give exclusive to the journalist who asked me first question! I remember her name: Jackie. Yeah, Jackie . . . she very pretty! I give her exclusive!”

  Jamie, who was putting on his boots with his back turned to Bertorelli, was just about to explode with rage.

  Thursday 21 January

  The next morning, Jamie was in the Hawkstone training ground car park. Doug, the driver, had gone to get a cup of tea from the canteen while Jamie sat in the car finishing off some emails on his phone before he went into training. He heard tooting and saw Bertorelli driving his Ferrari up to the security barrier at the entrance to the car park. Most players stopped to sign autographs for the fans hanging around the security booth, but Bertorelli just drove right past them! He pulled up in the space next to Doug’s car.

  Jamie slouched down lower in his seat. He had no desire to talk to Bertorelli.

  Jamie had done some digging on Bertorelli on the Internet last night. He’d found out that, during his whole career, Bertorelli had never stayed at any club longer then two years.

  He had always come in, been paid lots of money, won a trophy or two and then moved on for the next payday.

  And that was what made no sense at all to Jamie: Hawkstone were not a rich club. They were a good club, with a great history, but they did not pay any of their players mega wages. So if Bertorelli hadn’t come to Hawkstone for the money, why was he here? He had to be using Hawkstone for something. But what?

  Through the open window, Jamie realized Bertorelli was on the phone – and he could hear exactly what Bertorelli was saying. Jamie felt his heart pounding. Maybe if he listened, he’d be able to find out what Bertorelli was really up to. . . It felt as though his whole career at Hawkstone might just depend on it.

  However, the more he listened to Bertorelli’s conversation, the more embarrassed Jamie was becoming.

  “Yes,” Bertorelli was saying. “I will do lots of work with the charities and I will visit all the local schools. It is very, very important that I do the good work outside of the football. There is nothing more important than this.”

  Jamie felt his cheeks flush with shame. He had misjudged Bertorelli badly. Here Jamie was spying on him and all Bertorelli was talking about was what he could do for the local community. Jack had been right, like always – it could only have been jealousy that had made Jamie suspicious of Hawkstone’s new signing.

  Jamie sent his last email and looked at the time on his phone. Training was starting in twenty minutes. It was time to let this vendetta against Bertorelli go. Time to get ready for training. . .

  Jamie was just about to sit up and open the door when, through the wing mirror of Bertorelli’s car, he saw Bertorelli look around him, checking to ensure that no one was there. There was a look in Bertorelli’s eyes that seemed to say he was hiding something.

  Instinct told Jamie to stay exactly where he was. He slouched back down into the seat.

  “And the reason that I make myself act like this saint is that it means no one will suspect me!” said Bertorelli.

  And then he started laughing. The sound alone made Jamie shudder.

  Bertorelli was running his fingers through his hair now as he listened to the person on the other end of the phone.

  “Of course I can make it happen, you fool!” Bertorelli whispered angrily. “I already have a plan. It is simple but genius. In a very big game, near end of the season, I can make sure I get a red card after five minutes . . . I do a bad foul and swear at the referee or something. Anyway, I am sent off after five minutes. And then we know for sure that Hawkstone will lose this game. It is one-hundred per cent they will lose because they have stupid players. Without me, they are nothing. They will lose badly.

  “So, I tell you which game, you make the bets on Hawkstone to lose and you win your money. Lots of money. All the money I owe you and more. In one match. Like I say, is simple and genius.”

  Jamie felt his heart start to speed, start to hammer away inside his chest, while his brain attempted to decipher what exactly was going on.

  “Yes, I know how much I owe you!” snapped Bertorelli. “Why do you think I join this rubbish club? I’m here to do this. Just wait. Let me make good reputation first so no one suspects and then I call you and tell you which game. . . Don’t worry, I can do this. You will get your money! Now leave me alone!”

  And
then Bertorelli hung up the phone, looked around one final time, got out of his car and went into training.

  Jamie watched him go and, as soon as Bertorelli was out of sight, he breathed in a massive gulp of air. He’d been holding his breath for ages.

  He could not believe what he had just heard. Jamie thought Bertorelli might have been up to no good, but this – fixing matches – this was something else. . . And the feeling in Jamie’s stomach told him that there was going to be some serious trouble ahead.

  But there was no backing out of it. Jamie was a part of this now, whether he liked it or not.

  He knew exactly what he had heard and, more importantly, he knew he had to do something about it.

  “See, everyone?” Harry Armstrong was saying. “If we just give the ball to this guy, he can work magic for us. Do things that no one else can do. He is a special player.”

  Bertorelli had just bent a perfect free-kick right into the top corner of the goal and Harry Armstrong had stopped training for the third time to personally praise his new signing in front of everyone else.

  It was becoming too much for Jamie. It was almost as though Harry was sucking up to Bertorelli. Why don’t you just go over and kiss the bloke if you think he’s that amazing? Jamie thought. But you don’t know what I know. You don’t know the truth about him . . . why he’s really here . . . what he’s planning. . .

  “OK,” said Armstrong, now strolling over to the kit bag and blowing his whistle hard and loud. “Gonna mix it up a bit now, bring a little competitive spirit into things. Full-size game, proper match tempo, and we’re gonna have the youngies versus the oldies. Under twenty-fives in bibs that side, over twenty-fives that side. I want a hundred per cent but no crazy tackles . . . we’ve got a big game on Saturday.”

  It had been ninety minutes since Jamie had heard Bertorelli’s phone call. Heard his plan. His plan to fix a game. His plan to cheat.