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  He dialled in.

  “You have … two new messages. First new message received yesterday at 2.26 p.m.”

  “Jamie! Robbie here! Have you seen my email yet? Come on, mate. I really need this favour. Call me when you can. All right, laters maters!”

  Jamie saved the message and shook his head. Robbie Simmonds was the most confident eleven-year-old in the history of the world. Not many eighteen-year-olds were mates with kids seven years younger than them, but Jamie and Robbie had got on well since the day, a few months ago, that Robbie had challenged Jamie to a game of street football without realizing who Jamie was!

  It was clear that Robbie didn’t have as much money as other kids his age, and Jamie wondered whether, in the future, he would fall into the trap of stealing the things that he wanted because he couldn’t afford to buy them. That would be sad because Robbie had so much going for him; he was a funny, cheeky kid and a brilliantly skilful young footballer too. Sometimes Robbie reminded Jamie of himself. Having said that, Jamie would never have used a phrase like “laters maters” – it didn’t even make sense!

  “Second new message received yesterday at 10.41 p.m.”

  “Jamie, this is Brian Robertson here. Listen, I’m going to be managing Scotland at the World Cup. Walter Sergeant’s just been admitted to hospital with a stroke. He’s going to be OK but there’s no way he can take a team to the World Cup. The news will come out tomorrow. Anyway, I’m going to do it and you’re the first call I’m making. I want to ask you not to make a decision on England or Scotland until we’ve spoken.

  I want you to play for us, Jamie. I’ve looked at the squad and the steel is there. Those players are solid as a rock. It just needs a bit of creativity to go with it. A bit of silk. It needs you, Jamie. You’re the final piece in the jigsaw, the key to our success. I just know it.

  I lost you at Foxborough, Jamie. There’s no way I’m going to let you slip through my fingers again. Anyway, don’t do anything until we’ve spoken and call me back when you get this message. It’s urgent.”

  “End of new messages. To hear saved messages press—”

  Jamie’s fumbling fingers put his phone back into his pocket as he stood for a second in complete and utter shock. There was no doubt about it – that was definitely the real Sir Brian Robertson. Jamie would recognize that voice anywhere. With eleven Premier League titles for Foxborough under his belt, Robertson was the most successful manager in the history of British football – a living legend. This changed everything. With him in charge, Scotland would suddenly be a completely different proposition: a team to be reckoned with.

  Injury had prevented Jamie from working with Robertson when he was on Foxborough’s books as a youngster, and that was something he’d always regretted. But now, out of the blue, here was another chance to realize his dream of playing under his favourite manager. It would be fantasy football, Jamie Johnson style.

  There was only one problem.

  It was too late.

  Jamie had already chosen England.

  Jamie couldn’t help laughing even though he was also trying to listen to Michelle, the England Team Administrator, who was explaining all the details about the journey to the stadium for the game against Greece that night.

  “So kick off is at eight o’clock,” she was saying. “And the coach leaves here at six-fifteen.”

  “Isn’t that a bit late?” asked Jamie, alarmed at the prospect of missing his England debut because of the traffic around Wembley. If there was one thing that Jeremy had drummed into Jamie since he’d become his stepdad, it was the importance of never being late for anything.

  “It’s OK,” smiled Michelle. “We’ve done this a few times so you can leave the arrangements to us. We get a police escort all the way from the hotel. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, right,” laughed Jamie, realizing his error. “Yeah … I knew that! I always get a police escort wherever I go! Oh – one thing I do need to ask you. Can I have your email address, please?”

  “What?” she asked. “Why?” She seemed a little flustered and her face was beginning to turn red.

  “It’s OK,” Jamie grinned. “I’m not gonna stalk you or anything! I just need you to help me sort out a favour – for a friend.”

  Jamie could not believe the size of his room. It was massive! Pretty much the same size as the house he and his mum had moved into after his dad had left when Jamie was very young. He had two double beds and he was the only one staying in the room.

  Jamie had stayed in some posh hotels with Hawkstone, but this pad, with its own golf course and two swimming pools, was something else. It was the kind of place you could imagine kings staying in. The servants – Jamie didn’t know what else to call them – had put rose petals on his bed the night before and even pulled the sheets down so the duvet was easier to get under.

  Jamie was just about to text Jack a picture of his bath, which was deep enough to dive into, when the breaking news banner popped up on the TV.

  It was the news that Jamie had been dreading for months. The news that threatened him in so many ways. Transfixed to the screen, he sat down to watch.

  BREAKING NEWS: Mattheus Bertorelli released from prison ... Hawkstone forward wins appeal against match-fixing conviction…

  The reports showed Bertorelli, standing outside the court, reading from a prepared statement. He spoke in Spanish, with an English translator by his side: “This is a great day for me and my family. We have been through a terrible ordeal that was completely unnecessary. I want to thank everyone at home in Argentina for their support. I’m going to undergo an intense fitness regime to be ready for the World Cup and I promise I will bring back the trophy for you. It is my destiny. It is our destiny. Justice will come to those who are responsible.”

  As Bertorelli and his family started to walk away, a journalist shouted out in English: “And what message do you have for the people that accused you of match fixing, Mattheus? Would you ever lose a game on purpose for money?”

  Jamie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt a cold, glistening sweat start to creep down his forehead. He was the one who had accused Bertorelli of match fixing, but he did not feel guilty about what he’d done. No way. Bertorelli had accepted bribes to throw Hawkstone games and that made him the worst kind of cheat. When Jamie had found out, he’d had no choice but to tell people and make sure Bertorelli got the punishment he deserved. But now, with Bertorelli out of prison, suddenly everything was different. It was Jamie who felt under attack.

  He stared at Bertorelli’s face through the television. Gone was the long black hair and perma-tanned skin which had won Bertorelli scores of modelling and endorsement contracts. Now, after nearly two months in prison, his head was shaved and his face had become thinner and paler. But above all it was his eyes that stood out. They were burning with anger and Jamie knew full well who that fury and resentment was reserved for.

  “In Argentina, we have a saying,” he said. His accent was as thick as ever and his voice rough and gravelly. “If you fight a bull, you must kill him, because if you don’t, the bull will take revenge.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the reporter. “Are you saying you want revenge?”

  Jamie turned off the TV. He couldn’t listen to any more of this.

  He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

  Bertorelli could not have made his threat any clearer.

  Jamie settled into his seat on the England Team coach. It was, without doubt, the classiest coach he had ever been on. The soft, smooth leather interior oozed luxury as Jamie slid into it.

  Every seat had a built-in TV screen but none of the channels were showing the Scotland game, so he turned it off and tuned into the radio commentary on his phone instead…

  “…And if you’re just joining us here at Hampden Park, the news is that, with half an hour
gone, Scotland are currently drawing nil-nil in this friendly international with Ghana…”

  Hampden Park. Just hearing that name brought all the memories back for Jamie. Going over to Mike’s to watch international football. They recorded the England games and always watched them later, but Mike insisted that Scotland came first. He was mad about Scotland and had to watch all their games live. He would sing all the words to the national anthem at the top of his voice and, if Scotland went on to win the game, he would be bursting with pride.

  The deal was always the same. If Scotland were winning at half-time, they would order a Chinese takeaway. If not, it was cheese on toast.

  Jamie didn’t know whether Mike had intended it that way, but the incentive of the takeaway ended up meaning that Jamie always celebrated Scotland goals just as much as Mike!

  “And here now, the big Scotland striker, Duncan Farrell, seizes possession of the ball on the edge of the area. What’s he going to do? Is he going to take on the strike? Oh he isssssssssssss! What a goal!!!!! What an absolute belter!! Farrell struck that so hard it almost broke the back of the net!!”

  Even though he tried his best to push his excitement back down, it was no use; Jamie just couldn’t keep quiet.

  “Youuu beauty!” he roared, launching himself out of his seat and punching the air.

  Suddenly, as he looked around, he became aware that every single England player and member of the coaching staff was staring at Jamie as though he were a complete madman.

  Jamie quickly sat back down and, trying to pretend that nothing had happened, tilted his head to look innocently out of the window.

  The unmistakeable shape of the Wembley Arch was now coming clearly into view ahead of them.

  Jamie licked his lips and smiled. He was sure he could taste Chinese.

  Jamie saw the substitution board go up and left his seat on the England bench.

  A wave of excitement rippled through the crowd. With England comfortably winning 3-0 and the game over as a contest, this was the moment that so many of them had been waiting for – Jamie Johnson’s England debut.

  Jamie walked over to the touchline. He could feel his heart begin to flutter with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. He was about to reach the highest level of football.

  He was about to become an international footballer.

  “And a substitution for England!” said the stadium announcer while the Fourth Official checked Jamie’s studs. Jamie looked on to the pitch and started to visualize the moves he wanted to make tonight. He wanted to give this crowd something to cheer about. He was going to entertain them. He was ready—

  “You will need to take off the ring now,” said the Fourth Official in a strong, German-sounding accent, pointing to Jamie’s finger.

  “This?” said Jamie. “Can’t I just cover it up?”

  “No. It is still dangerous for the other players. So please, you must take off the ring now.”

  Jamie didn’t like this. He had worn the ring every day since Mike had died. But it seemed he had no choice. If he wanted to make his international debut, he had to remove it. Slowly, reluctantly, he slid the ring from his finger. The skin underneath seemed pale and white – unnatural somehow. Jamie was about to hand the ring over but before he did so, he took one last look. And that was when he saw them.

  The four words that had been inscribed on the inside of the ring:

  Keep The Tartan Pride

  The words, engraved in the gold, seemed to shine out like a lighthouse in the dark.

  Keep The Tartan Pride

  The answer had been there all along. It was just that Jamie hadn’t been able to see it.

  “You must give it to me now,” said the Fourth Official, tugging the ring from Jamie’s fingers.

  “Coming off, number 7, Glenn Richardson, and coming on, to make his England debut, number 15, Jamie Johnson!”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” said Jamie, grabbing the ring away and putting it back on his finger. Back where it belonged.

  “But I will not be letting you on the pitch with it on,” said the now-panicking Fourth Official. “That is the rule.”

  “That’s no problem,” said Jamie, stepping backwards, away from the pitch, as a murmur of confusion now spread like a Mexican wave around Wembley. “Because I’m not coming on anyway.”

  “But the substitution is being made now. It is too late to change your mind!”

  Not quite, Jamie said to himself. Not quite.

  And with that, he turned around and – first in a jog, then in a sprint – headed back down the tunnel.

  At last Jamie had listened to his heart and it had told him exactly what to do.

  For the first time in weeks, Jamie knew just where he was going.

  “Welcome, Jamie,” said Sir Brian Robertson, stretching out his hand as he stood by the entrance of the Scotland Team hotel.

  It was late at night but Jamie had got a cab down to Buckinghamshire as soon as it had been confirmed that Scotland had beaten the deadline and been allowed to include Jamie in their final World Cup squad. After Jamie had called Sir Brian from Wembley last night, there had been a frantic rush to get all the paperwork done in time. Thankfully they had beaten the midnight deadline by minutes.

  Jamie looked at Sir Brian Robertson. He might have been in his sixties but he was still a fit and strong-looking man. The two had not spoken properly since the day Jamie had his accident as a young player at Foxborough. That was a long time ago and Jamie had grown up since then, but there was still something about Robertson which made Jamie feel like a little boy again.

  Robertson’s reputation went before him. Everyone in football knew that you didn’t argue with Sir Brian Robertson – you just listened.

  “Thanks, boss,” said Jamie. “I’m glad to be here.”

  “So am I,” smiled Robertson, putting his arm around Jamie. “So am I.”

  Jamie unpacked and had a look around his new room. Only one double bed this time and just a normal sized bath – Jamie was almost disappointed! He could see how some players quickly got spoilt. He’d only spent a couple of days in the England hotel but he had already started getting used to the VIP treatment. Still, it wasn’t as if he was slumming it with Scotland now; the Riverside Hotel had five stars by its name, it had beautiful gardens backing on to the Thames and it even had its own hairdresser’s! Not that Jamie would be requiring a visit – he used clippers these days to keep his hair really short.

  Jamie fished the World Cup Guide from the evening paper out of his bag. He’d been reading it in the cab on the way down but he’d saved the Scotland section to read before bed. He was late in joining up with the squad so this would be a good way to get to learn everything about the players who were about to become his new teammates.

  World Cup

  Your Ultimate Guide To Keep

  Our Special Profiles on Scotland’s Key Men

  THE BOSS

  Sir Brian Robertson

  Position: Manager

  Age: 61

  Games as Scotland Manager: 1

  Wins: 1

  Walter Sergeant’s illness may have been untimely but, in convincing Sir Brian Robertson to step in and take up the reins for the tournament, Scotland have pulled off a masterstroke. The managerial legend has won everything there is to win at club level and will fancy pitting his wits against the world’s best.

  Strength: Finest motivator in the game. Powers of communication and psychology are such that one former player famously said: “Sir Brian could convince a donkey to win the Grand National!”

  Weakness: This is his first crack at international management. His swashbuckling style of football may work in the Premier League, but how will it fare at the World Cup?

  LAST LINE OF DEFENCE

  Allie Stone

 
Position: Keeper

  Squad Number: 1

  Age: 27

  Caps: 39

  Strength: Charismatic figure in the dressing room and capable of outstanding reflex saves.

  Weakness: Clearly carrying a few extra pounds. Won’t be winning any 50/50 races to the ball.

  THE SKIPPER

  Cameron McManus (Captain)

  Position: Centre Half

  Squad Number: 5

  Age: 28

  Caps: 37

  Goals: 5

  Strength: Leadership and bravery. Former builder before turning pro, whose no-nonsense approach personified Scotland’s heroic march to qualification. Not a big talker – on or off the pitch – but hugely respected by his teammates. Leads by example.

  Weakness: Pace. Might struggle to contend with nippy, fast attackers.

  Jamie’s eyes scanned ahead to the attackers. He hoped they had him down as one of the “Key Men” but the only attacker they featured was:

  BATTERING RAM

  Duncan Farrell

  Position: Striker

  Squad Number: 9

  Age: 22

  Caps: 6

  Goals: 5

  Young striker, with the presence and confidence to play up front on his own. Standing 6ft 4in and with his trademark ponytail, he is a formidable physical force. His stunning overhead kick strike against Ukraine led to a two-week party for Farrell and secured Scotland’s qualification.

  Strength: Heading. An unparalleled leap makes him virtually unbeatable in the air. Also has a shot like a sledgehammer.