Man of the Match (4 page)

 

 

“See, everyone?” Harry Armstrong was saying. “If we just give the ball to this guy, he can work magic for us. Do things that no one else can do. He is a special player.”

Bertorelli had just bent a perfect free-kick right into the top corner of the goal and Harry Armstrong had stopped training for the third time to personally praise his new signing in front of everyone else.

It was becoming too much for Jamie. It was almost as though Harry was sucking up to Bertorelli.
Why don't you just go over and kiss the bloke if you think he's that amazing?
Jamie thought.
But you don't know what I know. You don't know the truth about him . . . why he's really here . . . what he's planning. . .

“OK,” said Armstrong, now strolling over to the kit bag and blowing his whistle hard and loud. “Gonna mix it up a bit now, bring a little competitive spirit into things. Full-size game, proper match tempo, and we're gonna have the youngies versus the oldies. Under twenty-fives in bibs that side, over twenty-fives that side. I want a hundred per cent but no crazy tackles . . . we've got a big game on Saturday.”

It had been ninety minutes since Jamie had heard Bertorelli's phone call. Heard his plan. His plan to fix a game. His plan to cheat.

Every minute had seemed like a week, with sickness pumping through Jamie's body like poison as he tried to work out what he should do, who he should tell. . .

Now he was watching Bertorelli juggling the ball in the centre of the training pitch. Bertorelli was chewing gum, looking around him at the other Hawkstone players. It was so clear to Jamie now. So clear that Bertorelli thought he was better than anyone else here. He did not respect them. He did not respect football.

Even before the practice game kicked off, Jamie could feel his forehead glisten with a film of sweat. Tension raged within him. He had to do something to stop this traitor. . .

And then suddenly, as Bertorelli picked up the ball and started doing his fancy skills, the answer came to Jamie in a flash. There
was
a way to stop Bertorelli; a way to prevent him from being able to carry out his plan. It was so simple Jamie couldn't believe that he hadn't worked it out earlier.

He had to take Bertorelli out!

Jamie did not like the idea of fouling another player on purpose – and he certainly would not have considered doing it to any other player – but for Bertorelli, for a cheat, he was prepared to make an exception.

Jamie turned and charged at Bertorelli.

He quickly built up to his top speed and then launched himself at Bertorelli with a flying, waist-high, kung-fu tackle. He gave him everything he had. He had to take Bertorelli out of the game for months . . . it was the only way. . .

But Bertorelli was too quick. He swerved out of the way before Jamie could make contact.

Jamie went flying through the air, studded boot outstretched, a look of pure aggression etched on his face. But he got nowhere near Bertorelli.

And now he had been exposed.

“Eh!!” Bertorelli shouted furiously, throwing his hands up into the air. “You crazy! What you do, little boy? You want to kill me, you idiot?!”

“I'm no idiot!” Jamie roared, springing up off the ground and sprinting straight at Bertorelli. “I know what you're doing, you che—”

But before he could get the words out, before he could tell everyone what he'd found out, what was going on, he felt his legs and his body being lifted powerfully from the ground and marched off the pitch. He struggled but he couldn't release himself from the grip.

Both Harry Armstrong and Rigobert West, Hawkstone's titan of a centre-half – the man they called The Beast – had hold of Jamie and they would not let him go until he was far enough away from the other players not to be a threat.

“Get rid of him!” shouted Bertorelli as they dragged Jamie away. “I not play in same team as that idiot!”

“It's him!” Jamie screeched, pointing at Bertorelli, unable to control his voice and his emotions when they finally put him down. “We've got to stop him. You don't know what he's up to!”

“Go and wait for me in my office!” shouted Harry Armstrong, so angry a vein was bulging out from the side of his forehead.

“But Harry!” Jamie said. “You don't understand! It's Bertorelli! He's going to f—”

“Now, Jamie! Get in my office NNNNOOOWWW!”

 

 

 

Jamie sat in Harry Armstrong's office, waiting. His heart was still racing and his fists were still clenched. He wished he'd had the chance to give Bertorelli everything he deserved. He might not get another opportunity.

How could Bertorelli do it? How could he cheat football?

Jamie wouldn't allow him to. He couldn't stand by and watch this traitor use Hawkstone like this.

Hawkstone was the team that Jamie thought about when he went to sleep. It was the team that was written in his blood.

And that meant that he
had
to stop Mattheus Bertorelli.

Because he was the only person who could.

“I'm disappointed in you, Jamie,” Harry Armstrong announced, sweeping into the room like a hurricane. “Seriously disappointed.”

He was staring at Jamie now. His eyes were harsh and cold.

“I'm sorry, boss, but you don't understand . . . it's Bert—”

“I haven't finished yet,” Armstrong barked. “The reason I'm so disappointed in you is that you're a Hawkstone fan. You're always going on about how you were a mascot here when you were eleven, about how proud you are to play for this club. You, of all people . . . I didn't expect you to react like this.”

“React to what?” Jamie asked. “I don't understand.”

How come he was the one who was in trouble when it was Bertorelli who was the cheat?

“React like this to us signing Bertorelli!” said Armstrong, his face reddening with anger. “Bertorelli is the single biggest signing this club,
your
club, has ever made.

“And how do you react? Like a spoilt child! Just because the guy plays in your position, from the minute he walks through the door, you go into a strop and start causing problems for the rest of the squad. I mean, what was that out there today? It was an absolute disgrace! That's what it was!”

“Boss,” said Jamie, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation facing him. “Boss, it's not like that. I haven't got a problem with Bertorelli because he plays left wing. It's . . . it's something else. . .”

“What is it then, Jamie? If it's money, then you can forget it; you've just signed a new contract. You're the highest-paid teenager in the country, for God's sake! There's no way you're getting another—”

“No,” said Jamie. “It's not about money . . . well, not as far as I'm concerned, anyway. . .”

“What are you talking about, Jamie?' Armstrong demanded. “And let me tell you, this had better be good, because I'm rapidly losing patience.”

“Bertorelli!” Jamie spluttered. “He's a . . . cheat! A fake! He's planning to throw a game! I heard him admit it on the phone this morning!”

Now he'd said it, Jamie felt the relief seep through his body. It was as though a huge pressure had been released. A burden lifted. Now Harry Armstrong knew the truth and he could deal with Bertorelli himself.

Jamie sensed Harry Armstrong's stare zoning in on him.

“Who's he working with?” asked Armstrong.

Jamie suddenly felt as though he were the one on trial.

“I don't know,” said Jamie. “He didn't say.”

“Which match is he planning to throw?”

“I don't know,” stammered Jamie, searching his mind for what he'd heard. “I think one at the end of the seas—”

“OK,” said Harry Armstrong, with no trace of emotion in his voice. “I think I've heard just about enough. This is not what I wanted to do, Jamie, but the way I see it, I don't have any other choice.”

And then, right there in front of Jamie, Harry Armstrong took out his phone and called his old friend Raymond Porlock – the manager of Seaport Town Football Club.

It was that quick. Before Jamie had a chance to say another word, he was out of Hawkstone United.

 

Jamie was told not to report to Hawkstone for training the next day but to head to Seaport Town instead. Tiny little Seaport Town. In the third tier of English football. It may only have been twenty miles from Hawkstone, but it was a football world away.

“A three-month loan period,” Harry Armstrong had explained on Hawkstone's website. “To allow Jamie to rediscover his form and confidence away from the pressure of the Premier League. It's the best thing for him right now. He'll come back to us a better player.”

But Jamie knew the truth. Jamie knew that he'd been shipped out of his club because the manager thought that he held a grudge against the star player. Because the manager thought he was there to cause trouble.

And most haunting of all were Armstrong's last words as he practically shoved Jamie out of his office:

“If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone – and I mean
anyone
– if you undermine the best season that this club has
ever
had, I swear, Jamie, I'll see to it that you never play for Hawkstone United again.”

 

 

“Don't worry, I'll make sure it's still there when you get back,” said a familiar voice as Jamie cleared out his locker the next morning.

It was 7.30 a.m. He was supposed to be at Seaport Town at 9.30 to meet their manager, Raymond Porlock, in his office.

Jamie turned around to see Archie Fairclough, Hawkstone's assistant manager, standing behind him.

“That's if I'm ever allowed back,” said Jamie. There was a tear in his eye, and when he looked at Archie, Jamie could see that he was upset too.

After all, when Jamie had arrived at Hawkstone like an injured puppy, barely able to walk, let alone run, it was Archie who had patiently but brilliantly coaxed him back.

When it looked like Jamie's body had been broken, like he had no future in football, Archie was the one who had fixed him.

Jamie would never forget that. Ever.

But now all their hard work, everything they had achieved together, was going down the drain.

As rain pelted against the roof of the Hawkstone training ground, the pair of them stood in silence for a second or two.

“I don't understand why he's doing this,” Jamie said, his voice breaking. “Why is he sending me away, Archie?”

Archie Fairclough pursed his lips. It looked as though he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

“Sometimes, Jamie,” he said, trying to find the words he needed. “Sometimes . . . things happen for a reason. We don't know why at the time, but when we look back . . . when we see things for what they really were . . . then we understand.”

“I don't even know what you're talking about, Archie,” said Jamie, putting his bag over his shoulder as he prepared to walk out of the Hawkstone training ground. “All I know is that I love this club. And now I'm being chucked out.”

“Look, Jamie,” said Archie firmly. “You've been through worse than this and come back from it. So get your head down, work hard and just make sure you get back here as quickly as you can. OK?”

Jamie turned and looked at Archie. He knew how much Archie wanted him to succeed.

“OK,” said Jamie. “See you around, Archie.”

“Hey!” shouted Archie, as Jamie opened the door to leave. “Remember . . . never bet against Jamie Johnson.”