Sudden Death (8 page)

Jake took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and think logically.

The office was isolated, lodged high up from the ground. On either side were sheer windowless walls. Nothing to grab on to. He couldn’t go up either. The frame he clung to was less than an inch wide – there was no way he could pull himself up.

That left only one option. Down.

The office would have to be supported on steel legs. Jake let go of the top of the frame, and kept his body pressed against the glass. Thank God there was no wind inside the stadium today.

Gingerly, and keeping his palms on the glass, he crouched down. One wrong move, or a gust of wind to overbalance him, and they’d be scraping him off the stands below. He put one hand then the other on the sill beside his feet, gripped on as tightly as he could. He went down on one knee, then lowered himself off the ledge, so his legs were hanging free into the space below the office.

His shoulders started to burn almost immediately, but Jake hung on. He used to complain about the pull-ups Mr Gill, his old football coach, made him do, but now the tough training was actually keeping him alive.

Jake spied the stanchions that supported the office – thick steel A-frames jutting from the stadium wall. He twisted in the air perilously, trying to swing his legs round one of them. The first time his legs were just short. The second he
managed to kick the stanchion, but with each movement his fingers were slipping.

One last time.
He swung, stretching his legs, and managed to lock his ankles around the metal support. One hand came loose and for a terrifying moment he thought he’d lost it. But he frantically grabbed the stanchion and held on.

Sweat dripped freely from his head as he got both hands round the metal beam and gripped like a monkey. He half slid, half climbed down the diagonal support.
Nearly there.
When he reached the bottom near the inside of the stadium wall there were plenty of handholds in the form of huge bolts embedded in the cladding. He climbed quickly down then dropped the last six feet. He was right at the back of the top stands. The front of his T-shirt was streaked black from the filthy stanchion.

Jake found an exit passage and made his way back to the lower floors using the stairs. He went cautiously – the last thing he wanted to do was bump into his dad or Popov. The best thing to do would be to head back to the house now, clean up and act like nothing had ever happened.

A door in the passage opened and a group of young men came through, laughing and joking. They were all dressed in the same blue tracksuit, but they were all different nationalities – Jake recognised Lee Po Heng, the Korean
international at the front, then behind him Devon Taylor.

Jake stopped dead in his tracks and his mouth hung open.

‘Hi,’ he said, and immediately felt foolish.

‘You know the way to the changing rooms?’ said Heng.

‘Er . . . yeah,’ said Jake. ‘Straight along past the gym. It’s the third door.’

‘Thanks,’ said the Korean.

As the players walked past, Devon Taylor stopped and looked at Jake quizzically. He was shorter than Jake had imagined; they were almost the same height.

‘Say, kid,’ he said in a strong American accent, ‘you look a lot like Steve Bastin did twenty years ago.’

This is it
, thought Jake.
Make a good impression.

‘He’s my dad,’ said Jake as nonchalantly as possible.

‘No way,’ said Devon. He called to the rest of the team, who’d moved on. ‘Hey guys, this is the new coach’s son.’

The players all stopped and said hi. Jake stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Jake.’

The American smiled broadly and pumped his hand. ‘Devon. Devon Taylor,’ he said. ‘Say, Jake, the guys and I are going for a kick-around. Test out this new pitch everyone’s going nuts for. D’you wanna join us?’

Training with Devon Taylor!
‘You bet!’

Devon found Jake a spare kit. As Jake pulled on the jersey with ‘Taylor’ written across the back, he couldn’t quite believe it.

The others were almost as excited as they ran down the tunnel and out on to the virgin pitch. Jake hadn’t realised this was the first practice they’d ever had as a team; the Tigers had all been brought together by Popov at short notice. None had played together before. All were under twenty years old.

Not much older than me
, Jake realised.

Devon, he knew, was nineteen and a multi-millionaire. His sponsorship deal with Adidas alone was worth nearly five million.

The young Ukrainian, Babiak, carried out a net full of balls for the practice. Each one had the PI logo. They warmed up with some shuttles back and forth across the pitch, then some one-touch, quick-fire passing. Jake hit a pass wide to the Argentine winger, Benalto, formerly of Corinthians.

‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘That was awful.’

‘Hey, chill,’ said Devon, at his side. ‘We all make mistakes.’

‘And Bennie makes more than most,’ chipped in Calas. He’d played for the Spanish under-21s in the World Cup.

Benalto chased Calas across the length of the pitch, both players laughing.

As the practice went on, Jake started to relax. He kept
his passing short and crisp.
Nothing fancy,
he told himself.
Keep it simple.

They moved closer to practise short headers in groups of three. Jake was with Devon and the massive French defender called Janné.

‘So,’ Devon said, ‘what’s it like to have Steve Bastin as a dad?’

‘It’s OK,’ Jake said. ‘I’ve been mostly living with my mum though. Dad’s so busy, y’know.’

‘Must be tough,’ Devon said. ‘I don’t see my dad much either.’

Jake concentrated and didn’t miss a single header.

After a while Devon called to his team-mates, ‘Let’s go two on two.’ He turned to Jake. ‘Jake, you wanna play with me?’

‘Sure,’ he said, trying to keep his composure.

They squared off against Benalto and Calas, passing back and forth, trying to keep the ball from their opposition. Jake took the ball through Calas’s legs and the Spaniard came after him. He clipped Jake’s ankle with his boot, but Jake managed to slip a backheel to Devon. Benalto got there first and for a few passes the other two had the ball. When Calas tried to chip a cheeky ball to Benalto, Jake intercepted, taking the ball on his chest and laying it off to Devon. A second later the Argentine came steaming in, catching him full on
with a shoulder. Jake sprawled on the turf, his anger flaring. He sprang up, fists clenched.

‘What the hell was that!’ he shouted.

Benalto raised his hands in a defensive posture. ‘Hey, chill out,’ he said in a thick Argentinian accent. ‘It was just a barge.’

Jake took a step forward and realised the others had turned to face them. Calas was grinning like an idiot.

‘Relax, dude,’ said Devon, coming up behind him. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it, Bennie?’

Benalto nodded.

Jake’s own face flushed with shame as his anger dissipated.

One by one, the other players returned to their passing, and he tried to do the same. Benalto went easy on him now, which made it even worse.

When they wound up and jogged over to the upright goal for distance shooting practice, Devon slapped him on the back.

‘Looks like you could give your dad a run for his money, Jake.’

It was the greatest compliment Jake had ever received, but he laughed it off. He couldn’t help thinking Devon was treating him with kid gloves.

Suddenly, there was a commotion on one side of the ground, and a man was shouting. Two security guards were struggling with a shaven-headed man, prising a camera from his fingers.

‘Damn paparazzi,’ said Devon. ‘How did he even get in?’

The security guard finally got hold of the camera and threw it on to the ground, smashing it into several fragments. The owner brought his hands to his head in dismay, then glumly scooped up the pieces. He was escorted roughly through one of the tunnels.

‘Apparently, Mr P wants everything kept private until opening night,’ said Devon. ‘Paps aren’t allowed in till then.’

The goalkeeper, all six-foot-seven of him, was standing between the posts, stretching his massive frame. Australian Brad Emery, formerly reserve keeper for Barcelona. Jake knew he was a great shot-stopper, if not the best tactical player.

‘We’ll line up thirty yards out,’ said Devon. ‘One guy lays off the ball, the shooter shoots, then takes on the laying-off role. Got it?’

Everyone nodded.

Jake passed the ball first into Janné’s path. The big defender skied it way over the bar.

‘This is soccer,’ laughed Devon, ‘not rugby!’

Janné grumbled and passed a new ball into Devon’s path.

He curled a beauty towards the top corner, but it didn’t have the pace. Emery tipped it wide of the post with his fingers. And so they went on, with Jake getting closer and closer to the front of the shooting queue. He didn’t know where he was going to put the ball yet. The keeper seemed to fill the goal with his imposing frame, and none of the shooters managed to score.

When his turn came, it was Benalto who knocked the ball to him. Jake decided to go for power rather than finesse. He swung his right boot through the ball, catching it sweetly. It turned slightly in the air and screamed under Emery’s outstretched arm. The net ballooned and the other players went wild. They gathered round Jake, whooping and howling, slapping his back and the side of his head.

‘Beaten by the coach’s son!’ shouted Devon at Emery, who was glumly plucking the ball out of the net. ‘Great work, Jake.’

Jake nodded and held up a hand to coolly acknowledge the cheers of the Tigers, but inside his heart was close to bursting.
I’ll know this is definitely a dream if Keira Knightley emerges from the dugout and pushes past Devon to get to me!

They finished up the session with some set-piece practice, and after two hours Jake was ready to drop. Though he had
the skills, his stamina was no match for older guys who trained five times a week.

His legs were like lead as they headed to the changing rooms. They showered and dressed. Some of the guys were heading into St Petersburg that evening for dinner and Jake almost wished he could join them. They made their way to the car park together.

‘You want to come for a spin on the bike?’ asked Devon. He pointed to the sleek red Yamaha resting in the parking bay.

Jake gulped. Yesterday he’d only seen Devon Taylor on TV. Now they were . . . well, like mates.

‘Dad would want me to stick around, I think,’ Jake said.

‘No worries,’ said Devon. ‘I’ll have you back here in half an hour tops.’ He popped out the spare helmet. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine. I’m not going to let anything happen to the chief’s son, am I?’

So Jake climbed on to the bike and they roared out of the underground car park. It was almost four o’clock and the sun was dipping, but the air was still warm outside. There were several more motorbikes and cars which hadn’t been there that morning. They all started their engines as Devon and Jake swept past.
Paparazzi,
Jake thought.

The American twisted the throttle and they left the
entourage behind, but soon they were amongst the rush-hour traffic. Devon pushed the bike between the cars and buses, but the paparazzi bikes kept pace. Two on each, a rider and a cameraman.

They passed grim apartment blocks on either side of the road, then crossed the bridge over the Neva River, which glittered in the late afternoon sun. The city seemed to Jake to be a mass of criss-crossed identical streets. At a traffic light, several paparazzi bikes pulled up beside them.

Devon lifted his visor.

‘Why don’t you find something better to do?’ he shouted.

The only answer he got was more flashes.

As soon as the light was amber, Devon turned the bike left, despite the road sign forbidding such a manoeuvre. The paparazzi were almost all flummoxed, and stalled. Only one bike came after them.

‘Lost them!’ Devon shouted triumphantly.

The call of a police siren cut through the air.

‘We’d better pull over,’ yelled Jake.
Dad’s going to kill me.

But instead of slowing down Devon gunned the engine and steered down an alleyway lined with bins. Tall walls towered either side, as he swerved the bike around the trash. The police sirens disappeared.

Looking back, Jake spotted the remaining paparazzi bike
still sitting right on their tail.

This was getting risky.
Running from the press is one thing, but the police is another.

They turned a couple of times, a left, then a right, and Devon took the bike down several steps. They entered a concrete jungle, daubed with graffiti. The other bike was gone now too, but Devon kept going. The speedometer read forty miles per hour, but it felt faster. Devon turned to look behind, and didn’t see the pothole in the concrete.

The front wheel jammed and twisted.

The handlebars jarred sideways and the bike went into a skid. Devon must have squeezed the brakes. Jake’s foot went out automatically to stabilise himself, but he fell from the bike, hitting the concrete and rolling. His helmet smacked off the ground.

He heard Devon cry out as he too bailed off the Yamaha. There was a crunch as it hit a lamppost.

‘Jake?’ said Devon, scrambling over and pulling off his helmet. ‘Don’t move your neck!’

Jake couldn’t help but try. Thankfully, it responded fine. He lifted his head slowly and raised a hand to take off his helmet. The hand was bleeding from a graze and his shirt was torn, but other than that he was unharmed.

A plane crash and a bike crash . . . what’s next?

‘I’m OK, I think,’ Jake said. Then panic jolted him. What if Devon was injured? They’d be in a world of trouble. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I’m fine,’ replied Devon, helping Jake up. ‘Which is more than I can say for the bike.’

The front wheel was still spinning slowly. The axle was bent out of shape and fuel was leaking in a puddle from the tank.

‘Should we call the police?’ said Jake uncertainly.

‘Never mind that,’ said Devon. ‘I got two more of those back at the hotel. Let’s just find a taxi.’