Golden Goal (9 page)

 

 

Jamie was alone in his bedroom the next day when he finally made himself listen to it.

He knew he had to do it sometime and, in a sense, he wanted to. But he also knew it would be one of the most painful things he would ever do.

He called the voicemail on his phone.

“You have one new message. To listen to your messages, press one. First new message left on Friday, January twenty-second, at 8.49 p.m.”

Then Mike's voice came on. He sounded a bit down but he was making an effort to be cheerful for Jamie:

“Hiya, JJ, only me. I was just wondering if you wanted to come and watch the Hawks game with me tomorrow. It's a big one! They need our support! If we lose tomorrow, I reckon they should just give the job to Harry Armstrong; he couldn't do any worse than this lot!

“Maybe see you tomorrow, then. But don't worry if you can't… I'm sure you've got lots on.

“I'll stop rambling on now, but give me a call sometime when you've got a second, JJ… You've been so quiet since you got back… I miss you, mate…”

And that was the end of the message.

Jamie took in a massive gulp of air. The woman on voicemail was asking Jamie whether he wanted to delete the message. Jamie would never do that. He pressed
save
. He would keep it for ever.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw his mum walk past his room. Then she stopped and came in, slowly putting something down on his bookshelf. Neither of them said a word.

“Mum … can I have a hug?” Jamie suddenly asked.

“Of course,” she said, opening her arms wide.

Jamie clasped his arms around her and hugged as hard as he could.

“I love you, Mum,” he mumbled, almost nervously. He wondered why it took such a bad thing to happen for him to be able to say it.

“I love you too, Jamie. You know you're the most important thing in the whole world to me, don't you?”

Jamie nodded. His heart was throbbing in his throat.

“And I'm not the only one who adored you,” she said, turning to pick up the book that she had laid on top of the bookshelf when she came in.

“Mike wanted you to have this,” she said, handing it to Jamie.

“What is it?” asked Jamie.

“It's his diary.”

Jamie sat down on his bed and opened the diary at the beginning.

Jamie shut his eyes to try and hold in his emotions. Then he turned the page.

Jamie touched the pages of the diary as softly, as tenderly as he could. He wanted the tips of his fingers to connect with the ink that had come from the pen that Mike had once held in his hand.

As he read and touched Mike's words, for the briefest of moments, Jamie felt Mike's presence surround him.

Jamie slowly closed the diary. Then, for the first time in months, for the first time since the accident, he did what he most needed to do. He cried.

 

 

It had been so long that Jamie almost couldn't find it. But then he spotted it, beneath the huge oak tree that looked naked now, without its leaves.

Jamie sat down on his favourite bench in Sunningdale Park. He looked at the football pitches in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and allowed all the memories of the games he'd played here crash like a tidal wave around his mind.

“Thought I might find you here,” called a familiar voice.

Jamie looked up and he couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe who it was.

Jack looked even prettier than the last time he'd seen her. She was just wearing jeans and a T-shirt but she still looked better than any of the supermodels on TV.

“Can I sit down?” she asked.

“Course,” said Jamie, shifting up to make space. “It's as much your bench as it is mine.”

They both smiled as they looked at the engraving they'd made years before on the bench, using Jack's keys:

J & J 4ever

They sat in silence for a few moments before Jack said, “I'm so sorry about Mike, Jamie.”

“Cheers,” said Jamie. “Mike always liked you, you know. He said I should make sure that I hung on to you.”

Then Jamie tried to begin the speech he'd rehearsed in his mind so many times over the last few weeks.

“Jack, listen, I'm sorry about … what happened when I was at Foxborough,” he began. “I was an idiot. I—”

“Oh, forget about it,” she said nonchalantly.

Jamie couldn't believe his luck. He couldn't believe she was making things so easy for him.

“Really?” he beamed.

“Yeah, forget about it,” she repeated. “I forgot about it months ago.”

“OK, cool … great, so we can be…”

“Friends. Yeah, we'll always be friends, Jamie.”

“Friends? Oh, yeah … right… It's just I thought … friends. Yeah … friends.”

When they were younger, Jamie and Jack had always sprinted down to Sunningdale from their houses. They'd had races to see who could get there first. Of course Jamie had always won. He had natural pace.

He could have been a professional sprinter if he hadn't loved football so much.

But now they were just walking. Slowly. The doctor had said it would be at least another few weeks before Jamie might be able to start running again.

The sky was a dense white sheet, smothering the sun that lay buried above. Jamie felt as though he hadn't seen the sun in years.

“What am I going to do, Jack?” he suddenly asked. He'd stopped walking.

“What do you mean, JJ?”

Jamie smiled. Jack and Mike were the only people who'd ever called him JJ.

“I mean: what am I going to do without football? Football was my life. Without it, I've got … nothing.”

Jamie looked at the ground. His emotions were all jumbled up. He didn't even know if he was making sense.

Then Jack took Jamie's hand softly but firmly into hers. Their hands fitted together as neatly as they always had done.

“So get back into football, then,” she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

 

The rain was beating down so violently on the groundsman's decrepit old shed that Jamie could hardly hear the knock of his fist against the weathered wooden door.

When it finally opened, a man stood in front of him, holding a steaming mug of tea in his huge, rough hands. He had an aggressive expression on his face.

“Hi,” smiled Jamie, attempting to hold his nerve. “I'm here about the job.”

“What job?” snapped the man impatiently. “We haven't advertised a job.”

“I know,” nodded Jamie. “But I want one.”

 

As the heavy storm continued to pelt down, a fat drop of water snaked its way down Jamie's soaked scalp, tickling his neck as it trickled along its journey.

Jamie didn't flick it away; he was focusing all his attention on the man standing in front of him.

Meanwhile, Archie Fairclough, Hawkstone United's Head Groundsman and Kit Manager, looked the young lad up and down. What had brought him here on a Thursday morning in the pouring rain? Didn't he go to school?

The kid seemed keen enough, and Archie knew that, now more than ever, he could do with an extra pair of hands around the place… But he was always wary of people who came asking for a job at Hawkstone. What were their real motives?

Archie pulled his thumb and his fingers across his chin as his mind edged towards a decision.
Strange
, he thought to himself,
I could have sworn I'd seen this kid somewhere before.

“There ain't no money in it, if that's what you're after,” he grunted. “We're not on footballers' wages, you know… And we might all be out of a job come May anyway, if we end up going down.”

“I don't care,” the boy responded. “I'm not here for the money. I just want to help.”

And what's more, Archie Fairclough could have sworn he was telling the truth.