Golden Goal Page 3

  He listened at the doors. The showers were on in both. At least another ten minutes to wait. By now, Jamie knew Bolt and Xabi’s morning routine better than they did.

  The boys were so close that it was strange to think that, had it not been for Foxborough, they would never have met at all.

  Bolt had been recommended to the club by Foxborough’s scout in Africa. He’d broken all scoring records in Ghana and, when the scout had sent back a DVD of Bolt in action, Foxborough had snapped him up immediately.

  Meanwhile, Steve Brooker, the Foxborough Academy Director, had himself come across Xabi Negredo during a youth tournament in Spain last summer.

  Xabi’s Spanish club had been very angry and accused Foxborough of poaching their young player – they had even threatened to take the case to court – but in the end the two clubs had come to an “agreement” which allowed Xabi to join Foxborough.

  Jamie Johnson, on the other hand, had perhaps had the most unusual route into Foxborough Academy. It had all started with a phone call that Steve Brooker had received. He’d been at his desk at the academy when a call came through from a man called Ian Reacher. How he’d managed to get through to Steve’s direct line was still a mystery.

  Reacher had gone on to tell Steve about a talent that he could not afford to miss. A boy called Jamie Johnson. A left-winger who was playing in the Interschool Cup Final that afternoon.

  “I’m his agent,” Reacher had said. “This boy is hot – believe me. I’m telling you, if you don’t snap him up, someone else will. It’s first come, first served…”

  Steve Brooker never normally followed up random calls like this. Nine times out of ten it was either someone playing a prank or else someone who hoped to make a quick buck. But he had heard of this Jamie Johnson from a couple of his regional scouts, so off Steve Brooker had gone, pretty much on a flyer.

  It turned out to be one of the best decisions Steve Brooker had ever made. Within twenty minutes of seeing Jamie Johnson kick a football, Steve had offered him a trial at Foxborough. He couldn’t believe his luck that Johnson hadn’t already been snapped up by another club.

  There was only one piece of the Jamie Johnson jigsaw that did not quite seem to fit for Steve Brooker. It turned out that Ian Reacher was this lad Jamie Johnson’s dad. Why hadn’t he mentioned that in the first place?

  “‘Rayyyy!” The Butcher and Bolt cheered sarcastically as Jamie came into the breakfast room. They were clapping him and laughing. Jamie had no idea what was going on.

  “Here he is!” joked Bolt. “One half of the famous couple! Sold the rights to your wedding yet?!”

  Jamie scrunched his eyebrows and looked at his teammates convulsing with laughter as they waved a newspaper around in front of him.

  “Guys … what are you going on about?” Jamie asked.

  “Show him, Xabi, show him!” shouted Bolt, ripping the newspaper out of Xabi’s hands, putting it on the table in front of Jamie.

  Jamie looked at the front page. He still had no idea what his two mates were laughing about.

  “‘Car Crash Kills Four’,” Jamie read the headline out loud. “What’s so funny about tha—”

  “Not there!” said Xabi, flipping the pages of the paper forward. “Here!”

  He opened the paper to page four and Jamie got the shock of his life.

  There was a huge photo of Jack under the headline:

  “Is This Soccer’s New Queen Wag?”

  Jamie sat down and, trying to ignore Xabi and Bolt’s banter, attempted to read the story.

  Jamie put down the paper. His face had gone bright red. No wonder Jack had been trying to get hold of him so desperately last night. He immediately got out his phone and called her. But it went straight to voicemail – she was probably already at school.

  Hopefully, Jamie would be able to see her tonight, though. Steve Brooker had told them that they might get the weekend off, so Jamie was planning to head back home.

  “Well?” said Bolt, thrusting an imaginary microphone under Jamie’s chin. “Any comment from the superstar?”

  “No,” said Jamie. “All interview requests must go through my agent!”

  As the three young prodigies waited for Hassan to come and pick them up, Jamie could not have been happier.

  He was settled in Foxborough and had just played the game of his life.

  It was all a far cry from the first few weeks after he’d left home.

  Before Jamie had been placed with Mrs Luscombe, he and his dad had had to share a room in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Foxborough.

  At first, Jamie had thought it would be fun and would give him and his dad a chance to get to know each other again, but Jamie’s dad seemed to have business meetings every night. That left Jamie by himself in the hotel room.

  Even though he was really homesick, he didn’t even want to call home in case his new stepdad, Jeremy, answered the phone. It made Jamie feel really weird, imagining another person living at his house.

  In those first few difficult weeks, the only person who Jamie could actually talk to was Jack. Every night, when his dad went out, Jamie would call her. He didn’t know how many free minutes he had on his phone deal. He didn’t care. He just knew he had to speak to her.

  Stupid things, like hearing what she’d done at school, what her mum had made for dinner – they were things that cheered Jamie up the most. In a different place, away from everything he knew, it was Jack that reminded Jamie of home.

  At exactly 10 a.m. Hassan hooted his customary three belts on his horn and the Three Amigos all piled in for the drive to training.

  As Hassan approached the security barrier outside the training complex, some of the Foxborough fans pointed and shouted at the car: “Hey! There are the youth team lads! Well played last night, lads! Future Foxborough legends, you lot!”

  The Three Amigos laughed and waved back. It was the first time any of the fans outside the training ground had recognized them. It showed how big last night’s game was.

  As ever, the First Team players’ cars made the training complex look like the forecourt of a luxury car salesroom. All over the place multi-millionaire footballers were arriving in their 4 x 4s, Lamborghinis and Ferraris.

  Jamie was looking at the Foxborough captain, Dave Lewington, as he parked his big black Bentley. Jamie thought that the car reflected Dave himself: top of the range, sleek and most definitely classy.

  It was life in the fast lane and Jamie wanted to be a part of it.

  “OK, firstly, well done again for last night,” said Steve Brooker, clapping his hands together. He seemed in a particularly good mood.

  “I’ve had a personal chat with the boss this morning—”

  “Get a pay rise, did you, boss?” teased Bolt, earning a laugh from his teammates.

  “Thank you for that, Antony!” smiled Steve. “Anyway, Mr Robertson asked me to pass on his congratulations to you. He says ‘well done’ and agrees that you all fully deserve your weekend off.”

  “Yes!” the Foxborough boys collectively responded. If Jamie caught the early train, he could be back home by eight o’clock.

  “I’ll assume that you’ll all be taking the opportunity to catch up on some lost sleep because, and you can correct me if I’m wrong, I believe I can detect a few bags under people’s eyes this morning.”

  Jamie, Bolt and The Butcher looked at each other and grinned. It had been a good night.

  “So let’s get out there and loosen those muscles out from the match,” said Steve.

  As the lads piled out on to the training pitch and started kicking balls around in different directions, Steve Brooker pulled Jamie back by his collar.

  “Boss wants to see you,” he said in a serious voice.

  “Me?” said Jamie. “Why?”

  “He’ll tell you himself.”

>   Jamie closed his eyes. He already knew the reason.

  Brian Robertson ruled Foxborough with both an iron fist and a soft touch. Everyone at the club, even the senior players, feared him. But at the same time, he could make you feel the greatest player in the world if he paid you even the slightest compliment. A “not bad” from Brian Robertson meant you’d just played the game of your life!

  When he’d said hello to Jamie on his first day in the Foxborough Academy, Jamie had thought he might explode with pride. That’s how he could make you feel, with just one word.

  But, if you got on his wrong side, he could destroy you. He had a special way of “disciplining” his players. He would come up close to you and shout so hard and so loud that you could feel his hot breath gust like a hurricane into your face. The players called it the hairdryer treatment.

  And, if there was one thing that Brian Robertson couldn’t stand, it was his players doing too many interviews. He thought it meant that they weren’t concentrating enough on their football. “You’re either a footballer or you’re in show business,” he’d once said. “You can’t do both.”

  And the worst crime of all in Robertson’s book was a young player getting involved with the press before he’d even made a name for himself in the game.

  With him and Jack plastered all over the papers this morning, Jamie knew what was coming. He prepared himself for the hairdryer treatment as he knocked timidly on the door, which had Manager emblazoned on the outside.

  “Come in,” was the reply. Robertson’s deep, gruff voice was one of the most famous sounds in football.

  Jamie pushed the heavy door open. Robertson was sitting behind his desk. He was on the phone and watching the scrolling headlines of Sports News on the TV at the same time. He motioned to Jamie to sit on the couch.

  Jamie nervously shuffled his way across the room. His back was to Robertson, who was now shouting angrily down the phone.

  “What?” he demanded. “They can’t suspend him for that! A fool could see that wasn’t a deliberate elbow! What do those idiots know about football anyway?! Tell them we’ll be appealing!”

  And with that, he slammed down the phone so hard, Jamie could feel himself flinch.

  Jamie looked around Brian Robertson’s office. He imagined Robertson signing world-famous footballers for Foxborough in this room … on this couch!

  “Do you know what I want to talk to you about, son?” asked Brian Robertson, as he sat down opposite Jamie. He was wearing training shorts, and Jamie could see a blue vein throbbing in his calf. He’d been a striker when he used to play.

  Jamie felt like he was in the head teacher’s office about to get the biggest telling off of his life.

  “Yes, sir … boss … Mr Robertson… I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again…”

  Brian Robertson stared at Jamie. As the clock ticked in the corner of the room, Jamie waited for his manager to vent his fury.

  And then Brian Robertson smiled.

  “Well, you’d better make it happen again, son,” he growled. “You were a different class last night. I want you to train with us today.”

  Jamie was still trying to take in everything that was happening when Tommy Taylor, Brian Robertson’s assistant, appeared at the doorway.

  “Morning, gaffer,” he said cheerily. “The lads are all here. Shall I take Jamie over?”

  Brian Robertson nodded and picked up his phone again. Jamie could sense it was time for him to leave. On his way out, he knocked over a pile of match DVDs that were resting on the table but he managed to pick them up without Robertson noticing. He hoped.

  Jamie took in a deep gulp of air as Tommy Taylor opened the door to the First Team dressing room. Jamie had always wondered what lay behind the door of a Premier League dressing room. And now, as that door opened, a new world revealed itself to Jamie.

  The Foxborough stars were all there – every single one of them. They were the league leaders, about to be crowned Premier League Champions for the second season in a row. Every single one of these players was a multi-millionaire. And Jamie was staring at them, open-mouthed, as if they were an exhibit in some kind of football museum.

  Putting his arm around Jamie, Tommy Taylor said: “Lads, this is Jamie Johnson, the winger from the Youth Team last night. He’s with us today.”

  Jamie could feel his whole face burn with embarrassment.

  Not that any of the players noticed. In fact, none of them had even looked up because, although Tommy Taylor was Robertson’s right-hand man, he didn’t have the same authority as the manager. As far as anyone could tell, all Tommy Taylor seemed to do was agree with Robertson and repeat what he had just said back to him!

  The First Team players barely registered any reaction to Tommy and Jamie’s presence. They simply carried on with what they were doing, which was talking on the phone to their agents or their girlfriends.

  Jamie couldn’t believe the amount of bling there was in one dressing room. There was enough to open up a diamond shop!

  “Well played last night, mate,” said Dave Lewington, the Foxborough club captain, finally acknowledging Jamie’s existence. “Good to have you with us,” he smiled, shaking Jamie’s hand firmly. “Enjoy it today.”

  For the warm-up before training, the Foxborough players divided themselves into pairs, leaning on each other as they stretched. Jamie didn’t have a partner so he stretched his hamstrings by himself.

  He could feel every muscle in his body tighten when he saw Brian Robertson walk out from his office to take his place on the side of the pitch. Then Tommy Taylor got training under way.

  First it was set pieces, followed by shooting practice. And then it was time for a game.

  Jamie knew that the worst thing that he could do was think. If he thought too much, he’d start to realize that he was a fifteen-year-old training with the Foxborough First Team. And if he realized that, then his game would most likely go to pieces.

  Instead, he imagined that he was a South American superstar who had just signed for Foxborough for a world-record transfer fee. That made him feel more confident.

  Now he was ready to play.

  In the game, Jamie was up against the Foxborough right back, Rick Morgan. Morgan was a tall and athletic player who had made over three hundred appearances for Foxborough. He’d been one of the best right backs in the country for what seemed like decades and everyone at Foxborough called him Wolf.

  Jamie had no idea why his nickname was Wolf; the only thing he did know was that Morgan was thirty-two now and he’d started to lose a yard of pace...

  So, the first time he was one on one with Morgan, Jamie knocked the ball past him and took him on.

  Jamie screamed past Morgan. It was as if they were two different species. Jamie’s pace was frightening. Only his mis-control on the byline stopped him from getting in a cross. But he’d already shown what he could do.

  “Watch yourself,” Morgan sniped into Jamie’s ear as they jogged back into position. Then Morgan turned his head to the side, covered one of his nostrils with his thumb and blew out a load of snot from his other nostril.

  The clear, phlegmy liquid landed on Jamie’s boot. Jamie could have sworn Morgan had done it on purpose. He stood and stared at Morgan. What was his problem?

  Jamie had heard that you weren’t supposed to take the mickey out of senior players in training, but that wasn’t what he was doing. He was just playing his normal game. If that happened to make Morgan look like a fool, well, that was his problem. Not Jamie’s.

  Jamie only knew one thing: he would never have a better opportunity to impress Brian Robertson. He had to show him every skill he had in his locker.

  So, the next time Jamie got the ball, he did a double step-over. His feet were lightning quick as they flashed over the ball.

  However, by now, Rick Morgan had had enough. He
swiped his foot violently through both Jamie and the ball, leaving Jamie in a crumpled heap on the ground.

  Jamie’s shin was racked with pain. He tried to get up, but he could only put his weight on one leg.

  This was getting serious now.

  “Oi, Wolf! He’s only a kid!” shouted Dave Lewington as he sprinted to stand between the feuding players.

  “And the kid needs to learn some respect,” snorted Morgan, spitting out of his mouth now. This time he just missed Jamie’s face.

  “Not my fault you’re too slow!” Jamie snapped as he got back to his feet.

  Morgan pushed Dave Lewington out of the way to stand face to face with Jamie.

  “Who do you think you are, coming on to our pitch and giving me your lip, you little runt?” he raged. “You’re with the big boys now… Do you know the pain I can cause you?”

  On the sidelines, Tommy Taylor put his whistle in his mouth and was just about to blow. He didn’t want the kid to get massacred before he’d even played a game for the club.

  But, just as he was about to blow, Brian Robertson raised his hand silently in the air as if to say: Just wait a second.

  Back on the pitch, Jamie’s pulse was beginning to race. He’d been in this position before. People had always tried to bully him on the football pitch. It was their only way of stopping him.

  Jamie didn’t care how famous or rich Rick Morgan was; he was still a bully, and if Jamie had learned one thing, it was that you have to show bullies you’re not scared of them.

  Even if it meant pretending.

  “Yeah,” said Jamie. “Shame you ain’t quick enough to catch me then, innit!”

  Then Jamie jogged away. He could feel his body shaking, pumping adrenaline around his veins in case this turned into a real fight. He just hoped that wouldn’t happen. It would be a terrible way to end his first training session with the Foxborough team.