Man of the Match (10 page)

 

Jamie skipped down the line. He galloped past the last defender like a racehorse jumping the final hurdle in a big race. Now he was level with the edge of the box. . .

He didn't even have to look up. Both he and Dillon knew the plan that Porlock had given them. If Jamie crossed as soon as he got level with the penalty area, his centre would be along the ground to the near post – Dillon's job was to get across the front defender and sweep in a shot. But if Jamie went all the way to the byline, he would always curl the ball high and in the air to the far post, where Dillon would be waiting to meet it with a bullet header.

That's how they had scored so many goals. They stuck to the plan. To other teams it looked as if Jamie and Dillon had some kind of telepathic understanding. They didn't. They just knew what was going to happen before their opponents did.

Jamie used the instep of his right boot to sweep the ball smoothly into the near post, where Dillon raced on to it and, first time, buried it high into the roof of the net.

He and Jamie came together by the Bester City goal and conducted their now-familiar celebration. No smiles, no hugs and absolutely no handshakes – there would never be a handshake. Just a solemn-looking high five.

They may not have been close friends or even on speaking terms, but in this league, with Seaport now winning practically every game they played, the pair of them were virtually unstoppable.

Jamie could see that the Bester players' heads had dropped. He knew that now was the time to attack. One more goal and the game would be over. Bester didn't have the mental strength to come back from two goals down.

Jamie called for the ball as soon as Seaport won it back and, as he took possession, he injected a serious amount of pace into his running. He put his foot on the gas and accelerated forward. Hitting top speed, he flew down the pitch, eating up the ground with each stride.

As he came face to face with the last defender, Jamie wiggled his hips in different directions. He lurched to the left and then feigned to the right before finally bursting on the inside to head directly towards goal.

The keeper came rushing out, but Jamie was in complete control. He saw everything in slow motion. The goalkeeper's face was anguished as he dived towards the ball at Jamie's feet . . . but Jamie was too quick, shifting the ball out of the way . . . and now, with the keeper committed to dive, his body clattered into Jamie's, knocking him down like the last remaining skittle.

Clear penalty. No doubt about it.

Jamie immediately bounced back up to his feet and picked up the ball.

He was just about to put the ball on the spot and take the penalty when he remembered something that Robbie had told him. And the idea that it had given him. . .

Jamie picked the ball up and walked over to Dillon.

“Here,” he said, pushing the ball firmly into Dillon's chest. “You take the penalty.”

“What are you talking about?” said Dillon. “You won it.”

“Yeah,” smiled Jamie, “but you need it more than I do.”

It felt good to do something decent. For someone else. He just hoped that Robbie would appreciate this.

“What do you mean ‘I need it'?” answered Dillon. “I've already scored.”

“I mean for the goal bonus. . . For you and Robbie. . . I know your mum's lef—”

But Dillon had pushed the ball back into Jamie's face before he'd finished talking.

“Get lost, you mug!” fumed Dillon. “Like we need
your
charity! And if you ever talk about my mum again, I'll knock you spark out, you little worm!”

 

 

“Ouuuuch!” yelped Jamie. “You definitely found the pressure point there, Steve! I'm in agony here!”

Jamie was getting a massage on his thigh in the small physio's room at the Seaport training ground. Training had just finished.

“Put on Sports News, will you, Steve, give me something else to think about while you're brutalizing – sorry, fixing – my leg!”

For some reason they weren't showing footy action on the TV. Instead, there were some rather unsteady pictures of a man being bundled into a car. A police car.

It was only then that Jamie registered the scrolling headline across the bottom of the screen:

 

 

BREAKING NEWS . . . MATTHEUS BERTORELLI ARRESTED THIS MORNING . . . POLICE MAKE DAWN RAID . . . BERTORELLI CHARGED WITH PLANNING TO FIX GAME. . .

 

“Turn it up, will you, Steve!” said Jamie, spinning his body around to face the screen properly. He felt as though he'd just had an electric shock. “Turn it right up!”

“And now more on the unbelievable breaking news story we've been bringing you in the last few minutes. And that news is that Mattheus Bertorelli, the Hawkstone United winger, has been arrested this morning . . . and I'm just hearing that we can now go live to police headquarters, where we believe Detective Colin Hutchence is about to read a short statement. . .”

“At five-thirty this morning, following a tip-off from an anonymous source, an elite police unit raided the home of footballer Mattheus Bertorelli,”
said the policeman, looking gravely into the camera.

“This unit, code-named Operation Searchlight, had for the last fourteen months been investigating and compiling a dossier into suspected match-fixing within football.

“In Mr Bertorelli's house and on his phone, they found detailed evidence of a plan to fix a forthcoming high-profile game, alongside arrangements to make millions of pounds through illegal betting on the outcome of this match.

“We believe that Mr Bertorelli himself has significant gambling debts and was being blackmailed by those organizing this plot. However, he is still likely to face a prison term for his involvement.

“We will also take into account the fact that Mr Bertorelli has provided us with the names of all the individuals who were orchestrating this plot. These suspects are currently being arrested and held for questioning.

“So, although the fight against crime continues, today is a significant victory for justice and a great day for the game of football.”

As Jamie listened to the words and watched the stream of images on the TV, at first his mind struggled to cope with it all. Then it sank in. Hawkstone were in the clear! He started to grin.

The words “justice” and “great day for football” began to echo in Jamie's ears. A rush of pure pride went through him.
The truth
, Jamie thought to himself.
Finally, now people will know the truth
.

Jamie reached for his phone. He knew exactly who he had to thank—

“Jamie! Jamie!” Stuart Cribbins was suddenly shouting as he sprinted into the physio's room.

“One minute, Stu,” Jamie said, scrolling down to Jack's number. “I've just got to make a quick call.”

“It's not me, Jamie,” insisted Cribbins. “It's Mr Porlock. Says he wants to see you in his office. Now!”

 

 

Jamie walked into Raymond Porlock's office to find him on the phone. He had Sports News on the TV too and a serious expression was painted on his face.

“Yes, he's here now,” Porlock was saying. “He's just come in.”

Then Porlock listened for a few seconds, nodded his head and said: “Sure, I'll tell him,” before softly replacing the handset.

Jamie felt his muscles tighten. Was he in trouble? Did the police want to speak to him too? What had Bertorelli told them?

“Sit down, James,” said Raymond Porlock, keeping his eyes fixed on Jamie as he nervously took a seat.

“I've got some good news,” Porlock opened. “You're going back to Hawkstone.”

“What?” asked Jamie. “When?”

“Today. Now. Soon as you get your stuff together. That was Harry Armstrong on the phone. They're going to have a light training session this afternoon. Set-pieces. He wants you there. . . What's the matter, Jamie? Aren't you happy?”

Jamie looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He was still in shock. But he also knew that Porlock was right; he didn't feel happy. But why not? He should have been jumping up and down with joy at the prospect of going back to Hawkstone. This was what he'd been working towards for the last three months. And now it was here.

“I dunno . . . it's just all so quick, isn't it? It's like one minute I'm here, and the next—”

“Look at the TV, James! It's just like you said – everything! So not only have you done something great for the game, but now, without Bertorelli, Hawkstone need you more than ever. You're going back to the Premier League, son. Where you belong.”

“Yeah,” Jamie smiled weakly. “I suppose I am . . . it's just . . . you know, this kind of feels like home now, that's all. . .”

And then suddenly an idea rushed into Jamie's mind. A brilliant idea.

“But what if I stayed?!” he asked, jumping out of his chair. “If I stayed with Seaport, we could get promoted through the play-offs this season. I know we could . . . and then one more promotion and we'd all be in the Premier League, together! Imagine it! Seaport Town in the Premier League! We can do it, Mr Porlock! Then I can go back to Hawkstone when I've finished my job here!”

But Raymond Porlock's expression did not reflect Jamie's excitement.

“Now who's the crazy one?” said Porlock, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” said Jamie. “What are you talking about?”

“You thought I was crazy when you arrived here, didn't you, James?” laughed Porlock. “Go on, you can admit it.”

“No, Mr Porlock,” Jamie lied. “Of course not.”

“Oh, James, come on, it was written all over your face the day you walked into this football club. I could see what you were thinking:
What am I doing here at Seaport Town, being managed by this madman?!
”

Jamie looked down at the floor. He could remember when he'd first stepped into this office and heard the rats scurrying under the floorboards.

“It's all right, James,” Porlock laughed. “Don't worry – you wouldn't be the first! I know what they say about me –
mad as a box of frogs
­and all that. And anyway, maybe they're right, maybe I am a bit crazy sometimes . . . maybe I am one or two players short of a full team. That's what happens when you've been married to this game for as long as I have.

“Anyway . . . let me tell you something that I
do
know for sure. Very few of us have got a special talent. A reason to be here, if you know what I mean. A promise that we need to fulfil.”

Porlock stood up straight. He looked taller than before. Then he walked around his desk and stood next to Jamie.

“You've got that talent, James Johnson,” he said. “Your reason for being on this earth is to play in the Premier League. To entertain people. To make them happy. To make them forget about everything else when they watch you play football. And if you waste that talent,
you
would be the real crazy one around here, not me.”

Jamie closed his eyes and replayed Porlock's words in his head. Porlock was right. Jamie had a football destiny to fulfil and it wasn't here at Seaport.

He stood up and looked at his manager.

“Thanks for everything, Mr Porlock,” said Jamie. “I won't forget you.”

Porlock smiled.

“Call me Ray.”