Striker Boy Kicks Out (5 page)

“This way, lads!” shouted Evans, jogging to the goal at the other end of the pitch.

Nat strolled after him with the strikers Dennis Jensen, Robbie Clarke and Nicky Sinclair. With first team goalie Chris Webb in prison, awaiting trial for the match-fixing scandal, the battle to become first-choice keeper was between the reserve team keeper Graham Dalston, a twenty-four-year-old who'd made seven first team appearances, and Jack Bell, a nineteen-year-old who'd so far only made it as far as the reserves. Both had played for England at youth level but up to now had missed out on further involvement with the national set-up. Ian Fox was keeping his eye out on several available goalies from other clubs, but he'd told Dalston and Bell that if they worked hard and played well, a new keeper could end up as third choice behind them.

Ian Fox had bought Nicky Sinclair from Aberdeen as soon as the summer transfer window opened. With Steve Townsend gone, he had to invest in another forward. He'd got Sinclair for an undisclosed sum, which often meant very little. Sinclair was twenty-five and had become frustrated by being a perennial substitute at Aberdeen. Fox had promised him he'd get a decent slice of first team action, so he'd been happy to move south, even though it meant uprooting his wife and baby daughter.

Sinclair was six foot one and wiry, with a shock of ginger hair jutting out from his forehead. He was quiet and only really spoke if someone asked him a question. But he was agile, good in the air and a hard worker – the sort of player Ian Fox and Stan Evans liked. In the strikers' pecking order, Nat assumed that Robbie Clarke and Dennis Jensen were now first and second choice strikers, with him third and Nicky Sinclair fourth. But you never knew how the boss was thinking.

“Alright,” said Evans, when he and the six players were standing by the goal. “Graham and Jack will face twelve shots each – you attackers will each take four shots at whoever's in goal. That means you'll all get to face both of them. Graham, you're first in.”

Dalston walked into the goal, bent his knees and stretched his arms in readiness.

The strikers lined up at the edge of the penalty area, with Jensen first, next Clarke, then Nat, and finally Sinclair. Evans stood next to a huge net of balls, twenty
yards to the right of the goal. He picked out a ball and lobbed it towards the penalty spot. Jensen hit it on the volley but Dalston tipped it over the bar. Evans whipped in another and Jensen skied it.

From then on, the balls flew into the area and when Jensen and Clarke had had their four shots, it was Nat's turn. He rubbed his hands together nervously as Evans lobbed a ball towards him. He let it bounce and caught it on the half volley. It hurtled towards the top left corner but Dalston dived and caught it. His second attempt was a cracking volley that hit the left post. He over-hit his third shot but his fourth, a curling volley, whistled into the back of the net. Dalston grimaced.

“Nice one, Nat!” shouted Evans encouragingly.

Nat was pleased he'd scored, but one out of four wasn't a great tally. For the next half hour, Nat and the strikers hit shot after shot at Dalston and Bell. Nat's average stayed at one in four, the same as Nicky Sinclair, while Jensen and Clarke averaged two. This strike rate bothered Nat and he felt a small wave of panic rising inside him. Dennis Jensen spotted his slightly crestfallen expression and said, “Don't be down on yourself, Nat. This is only our first session back. You're a great finisher.”

Nat felt a bit patronised by this comment but he knew that Jensen was just trying to lift his spirits.

Half an hour later, Fox shouted over, “We're going to play some five-a-side now.”

The strikers, goalies and Evans walked back down
the pitch to meet up with the others. Fox had a piece of paper in his hand. He showed it to Evans and they held a quick discussion.

“This is the first five-a-side team,” announced Fox, putting Nat in a team with Jack Bell, Sinclair, Emi, and the Wildman. The team they were to play included Dalston, Kelvin and Adilson.

From the kick-off, Nat saw little of the ball. He finally exchanged several passes with Emi and had a decent, dipping shot saved by Dalston. But despite trying to forget the shooting practice earlier, his poor goal-to-strike ratio was still gnawing at him. What had happened to all of the striking practice he'd put in over the last couple of months? He tried to shake this out of his mind, but it rankled, and he missed a good chance provided by a cross from the Wildman, by stabbing it wide. He then went on a decent run, bypassing Adilson's attempt at a tackle, but was blocked by Kelvin. The next few minutes saw the opposing team attacking – a period which culminated in Adilson scoring with a wickedly curling shot. Nat had another chance a minute later, but it sailed just over the crossbar.

When Fox called time, Nat was disappointed with his performance. This wasn't the way he'd envisaged his first training session back with the team.

Think about what Jensen said. Give yourself a break!

Another two teams fought out a one-one draw, and then Nat's team were selected to play a team consisting
of Graham Dalston, Andy Young, Pierre Sacrois, Paulo Carigio and Jermaine Clifton. Nat started this game well and linked up with Sinclair to strike a volley at Dalston, which the keeper saved. Pierre Sacrois, the right-sided, French midfielder, was on fire and twice he outwitted Emi and the Wildman to grab half-chances, the second of which he smashed into the back of Bell's net. Nat groaned.

I have to up my game here or I'll have no chance of playing in this tournament at all!

A minute later, Emi lofted a ball over Andy Young's head. Nat ran on to it, controlled it on his knee and hit a low volley. The ball flew at great speed, but it was too near to Graham Dalston and Dalston managed to catch it. Nat sprinted forward, hoping Dalston might spill the ball, but he held on to it tightly. Another shot – another missed opportunity.

As Dalston rolled out the ball to Paulo Carigio, something caught Nat's eye and his gaze drifted away from the pitch. In the stand nearest to where the action was taking place stood a lone figure, bathed in shadow. It was a rather spindly man, wearing a navy blue suit. He had short grey hair and held a briefcase in his left hand. Nat caught his eye. The man seemed to be watching him.

Nat couldn't see his features very well, but a feeling of unease suddenly seeped inside him. Could this guy be somehow connected to the match-fixing plot and Nat's
role in stopping it? Was he tied in some way to Chris Webb and his thuggish co-plotter Tanner? Nat was pretty sure he'd cost someone hundreds of thousands, if not millions of pounds. Nat's story had featured in the
Sunday Crest
as an exclusive, but all of the other papers had given it plenty of coverage too. What if this guy was out here in Spain to exact some kind of revenge on Nat? It was a horrible thought.

“NAT!” shouted a voice, dragging his brain from these thoughts. Emi had just played a ball to Nat at head height, but he was too late in reacting, and Pierre Sacrois out-jumped him, heading the ball to Jermaine Clifton, who ran on and fired it past a diving Jack Bell.

The Wildman shook his head and motioned that he wanted to restart the game as quickly as possible, to level the score.

“Come on, Nat!” shouted the Wildman. “Let's get back in this!”

“Definitely!” nodded Nat.

In spite of the sun's powerful rays, he shivered and quickly stole a glance back at the stand. But now there was nothing to see.

The man had gone.

Nat only touched the ball once more in the mini game and that was for a pass that went out. Another two teams played a final five-a-side game and then training was over. The players filed back towards the changing room while Stan Evans went round the pitch collecting all of the balls in a large net. Ian Fox, who was standing by the touchline, beckoned for Nat to come over to him. The Rangers manager waited until everyone else had left the pitch before he spoke.

“What's up?” he asked.

Nat frowned.

“You seemed to be somewhere else for those five-a-sides,” observed Fox. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Nat's eyes quickly scanned the stand again. It was still empty. Should he tell Fox about the man and his suspicions? Should he explain his fear of reprisal? Or was he being ridiculous? On balance, it was probably better to leave it. He didn't want Fox thinking he'd become
paranoid over the summer and sending him home. He also didn't want the Rangers boss getting the Spanish police involved if the man turned out to be just a groundsman or something.

“I'm fine,” replied Nat.

“You didn't look fine. You were all over the place. Your passes were off. Your shooting was poor.”

“I wasn't
that
bad,” replied Nat, his cheeks burning. He immediately regretted the defiance of his tone.

“Look, Nat,” said Fox, lowering his voice. “I know you're here in completely different circumstances from everyone else. I know you're only thirteen and that this whole assumed identity business is still mind-blowing for you. But we agreed at the outset that if things ever got out of hand you'd report to me, and that if your performances weren't up to scratch I'd report to you.”

“I know, boss,” replied Nat in a much calmer voice. “I'm sorry. Things haven't got out of hand. It's just getting back into the swing of things. I didn't quite get there today. But I'll be totally different in training tomorrow. I promise.”

“I'm not being harsh, but there's very little margin for error out here,” added Fox. “We have two, possibly three, games in the space of a week and if you don't catch up with the others, you won't be seeing any action. You have to understand that.”

“I do,” replied Nat, trying to hide the anger he was feeling.

I saved this club from relegation and bankruptcy and
Fox is down on me like a mountain of bricks because of one training session!

“Good,” nodded Fox. “Now go and get changed and then come back to the hotel and relax with everyone else. We'll see tomorrow's training session as a fresh start, OK?”

Back in the changing room, Nat spoke to no one. His heart felt heavy after Fox's comments. What happened if he didn't improve his game tomorrow? After his end-of-season highs, it would be so crushing to play no part in this tournament. He waited his turn to get into the showers, had a thorough soak and got changed.

The players were just about to move out of the changing room when there was some noise near the door and in walked a round-bellied man, with a smooth scalp and a thin moustache. His suit was charcoal grey and immaculately tailored. A crisp white handkerchief jutted out of the right pocket of his jacket. He was flanked by two burly men in less immaculate suits, who seemed closer to the ape species than the human one. Another man in jeans and a t-shirt was taking photos of him with an expensive-looking camera.

“Mr Mabena!” beamed Ian Fox, walking over to give the man a hearty handshake. The photographer snapped the two men shaking hands.

“Mr Fox! It has been a while since we last met. I believe it was during a Talorca v Arsenal game eleven years ago?”

The photographer snapped again.

“That's right,” smiled Fox, turning to address his players. “Gentlemen, this is Victor Mabena – the President of Talorca FC. I've known him for over twenty years. He pretty much built the club up from nothing by himself and he's the mover behind this tournament.”

The photographer took another few shots.

“You are very kind, Mr Fox,” smiled Mabena with an appreciative nod. “I have very great respect for English football and follow your Premier League closely, so it is an honour to have you here.”

“Thank you,” said Fox on behalf of the team.

“I have been visiting all the tournament teams,” went on Mabena, “and I am very much looking forward to the opening games this evening. My aim is to ensure that each and every one of you has a positive experience with us. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask a member of the Talorca staff and feel free to ask for me personally, should the need arise.”

“A Learjet would be nice,” whispered Kelvin. Nat had to smother a laugh.

The photographer clicked his camera several more times.

“I will of course be at the Talorca games when you play the games against Celtic and Lazio in your mini-league, but if you make it through to the final I will see you all at La Plaza Stadium, regardless of whether Talorca make it through or not.”

Mabena then shook Fox's hand again, posed for
some more photos and swept out of the room, his two henchmen and his photographer at his side.

“Come on, lads!” declared Stan Evans a minute after Mabena had gone. “Let's head for the bus and get some downtime.”

As Nat walked towards the team bus his mobile went.