Boy Meets Ghoul Read online

  He stood up, dusting his hands off like he’d just finished a satisfying day’s work. The rest of us stood there silently, not quite sure what to make of his pep talk. Not quite sure it had even been one.

  Chidi looked like he wanted to puke with nerves. Leroy looked like he might wet himself and then puke after.

  ‘Go on then – wait in the changing room till you’re called out.’ A smirk curling across his face, Jez turned and walked away.

  Our team headed slowly off the pitch, totally disheartened.

  In the changing rooms people threw themselves onto benches or slumped against the wall. It looked like we’d been defeated already. Only Freddie stayed standing, crossing his arms over his chest so tightly, I was concerned he might snap himself in half.

  He did snap, but not like that.

  ‘What are footballer players actually worth?’ he barked out finally.

  ‘United’s last signing was twelve point three million,’ Laurie replied sullenly.

  ‘Right, but that’s just what they’re worth to a club. For a few years, until they get injured or until someone decides they don’t live up to that figure any more. And it’s a stupid amount, anyway. Twelve million? You could equip a hospital with that kind of money, save lives. Who decides a footballer’s worth more than that? And how many players even make that kind of money, out of the hundreds of thousands who want to? That’s not worth; that’s just money. So what are footballer players actually worth? What’s football worth?’

  No one answered. Even I’d developed paralysis of the vocal chords again, for the first time since Freddie and me had become friends. But I’d decided I wasn’t going to do that any more. I wasn’t going to freeze up just because I didn’t feel good enough.

  ‘It’s worth something,’ I said finally. Even if I sounded like Miss Piggy’s younger sister, at least I was speaking. ‘It’s worth a lot for the look my dad gets on his face when his team wins. Or for the time me and my brother share watching the highlights. It’s worth it if you love it. But love’s the valuable bit. It’s pointless if you’re spending the whole time wondering if you’re good enough. It’s not us who have to be worth it – it’s the game.’

  Freddie was watching me. He had that intent look from before, intent enough that I figured out an escape route just in case he wanted to swing across the room on his kitbag and kiss me again. I didn’t think that was what it was about, though.

  ‘Yeah.’ Chidi was nodding. ‘Yeah, it’s only worth it if we’re loving it, and I’ve got to say, I’m not loving it with Jez as our coach.’

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  ‘So we ditch him,’ I said, feeling a thrill of rebellion. ‘He’s not with our team any more, anyway, so he can’t be our coach. And who are the opposition? A load of players who’ve been told they aren’t worth what they used to be.’

  ‘Feet of the Future versus Feet of the Past?’ Chidi laughed.

  ‘It’s a shame it’s too late to get that put on a banner,’ Freddie said. ‘OK, so let’s go out and see whether they can make this game worth it to us.’

  Noise was starting to creep in from the pitch. ‘Can we watch the cheerleaders first?’ Aaron called from where he’d been peering out of the door. ‘They’re doing that Dead Drop routine.’

  I knew they’d been practising it – that was why they were able to pull it off so quickly with us the other night. It would be cool to see it done when I didn’t have to be scared of something going wrong. ‘I think we could all use a bit of cheer.’

  I walked over to help Aaron hold the doors open so everyone could see, just as the cheer squad threw their smallest member high, high up into the air.

  And the whole crowd gasped as Kayla, in a cheer uniform with a little flippy skirt, spun towards the ground and vanished out of sight.

  THIRTY-NINE

  It was so unfair. Kayla had joined the cheer squad on the very last day of the camp, and now she was performing in front of everyone as if she’d been there all the time. Now I’d look like the only one who’d been keeping secrets from Mum and Dad.

  She shook her pom-poms at me triumphantly as the cheerleaders flounced off the pitch, and I only smiled incredibly proudly for a second. That would teach her.

  I hoped Mum had managed to snap a few pictures for Kayla to send to her dad.

  As we walked on, and the crowd started to make some noise, I tipped my head up and scanned the stands, trying to spot my parents.

  I noticed Freddie’s mum first. It wasn’t hard – she and his dad were sitting in the front row between two giant cardboard cut-outs of trophies with Freddie’s name on, while holding up a banner reading, FREDDIE ALTON: TOWERS OVER THE REST.

  When I looked a bit closer, I realized they were holding it up in front of the people sitting behind them.

  And when someone leaned forward and draped their own banner over the top of the one the Altons had, I realized who it was.

  The new banner read: FOR DYL KERSHAW, WE’LL ALWAYS ROOT, EVEN IF HE’S A SUBSTITUTE.

  My heart started beating so fast, it might as well have been vibrating. Was that a weird coincidence, or did they know? How did they know? And why didn’t anyone tell me?

  Quickly the lower banner was pulled down and put up on top of Dad’s one again. Then, moments later, my name was back on display, Dad’s banner blocking theirs. It looked like this battle had been going on for a while.

  Then, someone in green clicked her way through the terraces towards them. I couldn’t quite make out Lacey Laine’s Hollywood smile from this distance, but I could tell she was using it to its full effect.

  As if they’d been hypnotized into not making a fuss, two people sitting next to the Altons in the front got up and traded places with Mum and Dad. Before long, both banners were held up beside each other. I looked round to find Freddie and smiled the smile of someone dying on the inside.

  ‘After rocket science, do you think she could sort out world peace? Anyway, at least we’ve found the cringe section of the stadium. Do you think we can spend the whole match not looking over there?’

  ‘I think we can try . . .’ Freddie paused and frowned. ‘Is that music?’

  It sounded like it. I looked up at the speakers, wondering if someone had left the cheer squad’s tracks running. Only it didn’t sound like the kind of upbeat pop they did their routines to.

  It was a deep, melodic blast, like a human trumpet blare. After a minute, I thought I could make out what they were singing.

  It was, ‘Fauntlerooooooy.’

  ‘Oh my days – over there.’ Chidi sprinted past us, pointing frantically. ‘Someone’s brought a cult!’

  I turned to see where he was pointing. One whole section of the stands was filling up with men in suits and bow ties, all singing. In the middle at the front, wearing a dress with a red dragon emblazoned across it, was the woman I’d seen staring at me from a car last night.

  Leroy’s mum.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s brought an entire Welsh male voice choir.’

  As more of them took their seats, the song became so loud and booming, it drowned out all other noise in the stadium. ‘Fauntleroy, he’s our boy. Fauntleroy, he’s our booooy . . .’

  Now I understood why my telling Leroy no one would know if he was a bad captain hadn’t cheered him up. His mum must have bussed in the whole village. I looked around for where he was cowering now, only to find him standing right in the middle of us, beaming. He might have swollen to twice his size with pride. The nerves seemed to have evaporated in the warmth of the music.

  He noticed me and sighed happily. ‘Ah, there’s nothing like home comforts, is there.’

  Across on the other stand, even Dad and Freddie’s mum had let their banners sink to the ground, accepting defeat in the battle of the superfans. They’d be up and waving again soon, I knew, but I couldn’t really make myself mind.

  Dad knew I’d been made a substitute, and all he’d done differently had been to make up a ne
w rhyme. That was better support than a thousand banners held by a thousand choristers could ever be.

  I couldn’t help singing along to the Fauntleroy song myself as I went to take my place on the bench.

  Scowling, Jez stamped his way towards the centre circle to meet Leroy for a coin toss that would determine who’d pick the direction of play. A second later, Leroy punched the air and turned to nod to the rest of the team that we’d get to play the way we’d been training. The choir let out a joyful blast. It was a small point in our favour.

  Then the whistle blew, and the game was under way.

  Jez had told us beforehand what formation we’d be playing. Football’s a bit like chess, in that the players are like pieces, and part of the strategy involves positioning them in the right spots to move about on the pitch. Whether your team’s stronger in attack or defence, you can find a formation that plays to your strengths – or takes advantage of the opposite team’s weak points.

  Jez had given us a defensive structure, and that made me suspicious. After all, we had youth on our side, which meant faster legs, and even if Laurie Deering wasn’t a great person, he was a pretty great striker. Plus Freddie and Leroy were quick in the midfield, and Chidi ran so fast, you couldn’t see his legs moving – a perfect sweeper.

  The pros would have the skill to get around our defences. We had to attack. That’s what Leroy had messaged me to say earlier, and I’d agreed. It’s what he told everyone else right before they went out too. So the team lined up in one of the most aggressive formations in football. The one the big teams use when they’re out to destroy: 4 – 3 – 3. Definitely not what Jez had picked out for us.

  Across the field, our coach’s face was turning so red, he could have been mistaken for a stop sign, with a white line of gritted teeth across the middle.

  But there wasn’t any stopping us now.

  FORTY

  By the second half, after the team had come off to fuel up with energy drinks and power bars, and after Jez had completely ignored us to work with the pro team instead, we were playing at a drawn score of one goal to each side.

  Ending the match with a score of one all with a group of students wasn’t going to cut it for Jez, though. I watched him stalk smugly back on to the pitch and wondered exactly what strategy he thought he’d come up with to secure victory.

  Our own tactic was pretty simple: get the ball to Laurie. Freddie was the other option, but Laurie had scored our first goal, and he was our best shot at victory, in more ways than one. We’d have a couple of defenders marking the pro’s best strikers, but no matter how quick we were, they always seemed to find a way to dodge out at the right moment. So what we had to do was get the ball to Laurie – and get it there fast.

  So far, it was nearly working. We’d kept the ball in our own half more of the match than not, which was impressive on its own. But it seemed like there was always someone waiting to snatch it away before anyone got a chance at goal.

  Watching from a distance, I could see the opportunities when they opened up, and it was making me itch to rush out there and take advantage. I had my hands hooked under the side of the bench just to keep me there.

  Up in the crowd, I could see Dad had pulled out a new banner. This one said: SUB ON DYLAN, YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD. THE OTHER PLAYERS ARE FINE, BUT HE’S MUCH MORE GOOD.

  Dad’s rhymes didn’t get better when he wrote them in a rush. Anyway, he really needn’t have bothered. With about fifteen minutes left on the clock, nobody was coming off to let me sub for them. It would take a coach to decide that, and ours was playing viciously for the opposing team.

  The Altons were still waving their banner. With the choir having hushed to concentrate on the game, I could hear Freddie’s mum screaming his name.

  And next to them, there was a banner that I was sure hadn’t been there before. Printed on what looked like a leopard-print scarf, it read simply: GO, STUDENTS!

  It was being waved furiously by Lacey Laine.

  I was so busy watching the crowd, I almost missed what was happening on the field. But suddenly everyone was on their feet, yelling at twice the volume, and I turned my head to see Laurie Deering making an urgent dash up the pitch. This was the best chance he’d had all match: he was practically unmarked, except for one of the pro team gradually catching him up.

  At the last second, the pro player overtook Laurie, and I saw him look up and hesitate. The name on the back of the pro’s shirt read: DUTTON.

  I held my breath as Laurie’s confidence flickered for a second, but then he drew his leg back to take the chance at goal . . . just as Jez slid in and kicked the other leg out from under him.

  It was a clear foul; there was no mistaking it. Jez immediately started yelling that he’d been going for the ball, but there was going to be a boot-shaped bruise on Laurie’s shin tomorrow. The fall had sent him down at a really odd angle, and he lay motionless on the pitch while the medics were called out.

  I felt guilt twist up my insides. Laurie had been the hardest to convince to go against Jez’s tactics. He’d only agreed because the chance to impress the scouts meant more to him. But now he was the one being made to pay for the choice.

  Out on the pitch, everyone went quiet while the medics got Laurie to his feet to see if he could walk. He took a couple of wobbly steps forward and shook his head, holding out his arms for support to get over to the bench.

  The bench.

  I don’t know why it didn’t click right away. Maybe because Freddie had started miming some weird kind of strip routine in the background, and – even if he was just a friend – it was a bit distracting. But it took me longer than it should to figure out he was miming for me to take off the jumper I’d put on to keep warm and start warming up properly. I was going to be playing after all.

  I did some quick stretches and jogged on to the pitch, where Jez had somehow talked himself out of a red card for an obvious foul by telling the referee that he’d never intentionally tackle one of his own students. It was total nonsense – one of his favourite things was showing us how good he was at swiping the ball from someone else – but apparently he was being believed this time.

  I looked at Freddie, then up at the stands. Our parents would be staging a pitch invasion if Jez wasn’t careful. Dad had form. When I got fouled in a junior school match, I came off to find him declaring a thumb war with the eight-year-old who’d tripped me.

  ‘Focus,’ Freddie said softly. ‘They’re not there. It’s just you and the ball.’

  ‘Easier said than done.’

  I’d seen Dad change banners when I’d looked across. The new one was just a picture of me next to the line: THAT’S MY SON!

  Fifteen minutes. I had that long to not let him down.

  The ref blew his whistle, and they passed in a blur.

  It felt like we were doing well, but it’s never as easy to find the chances to score when you’re playing the game as it is when you’re watching. Somehow, every time I turned to pass the ball to Freddie or Leroy, or to see if Chidi could get it closer to goal, there was a pro player blocking me. All we were managing to do was drift from one side of the pitch to the other, and back again. Over and over. The crowd must have thought they were watching a tennis match.

  Then the fifteen minutes were gone, and we were into a final six of extra time, added on because of Laurie’s injury. After that, we’d be into penalties, and one of our best strikers was already down.

  Three minutes in, Chidi passed the ball my way, and for the first time I saw clear green space ahead. I ran for it. Jez ducked in ahead of me, a constant, malevolent presence, like one of those wasps that won’t leave you alone at a picnic.

  I passed to Freddie. Jez dropped back as another player loomed up on Freddie’s right. I kept running, unmarked while I didn’t have the ball.

  Freddie passed back.

  I was so close. I could see the open mouth of the goal. I could see their keeper locking eyes with me. Already, he was beginning the game of
figuring out which way I’d go.

  I turned, aiming my body the way I’d aim my kick – and Jez’s shadow fell across the grass in front of me. Things were moving at warp speed. Jez crowded in towards me, blocking any chance I had at goal, and I . . .

  Passed sideways.

  The ball flew across to Leroy, who was right in front of the goal. An unthreatening presence for most of the match, he didn’t have anyone on his tail.

  It was so quick that the keeper was still looking at me as Leroy’s goal went in. And the whistle blew to end the match.

  The crowd was deafening. Every single mum, dad and all the strangers who’d picked up a free ticket to see some former glories playing one more time joined in with the new chorus of ‘Fauntleroy, he’s our boy’ ringing out around them.

  Leroy pulled his shirt over his head and threw it in the air, whooping, ‘I told you I’m good under pressure!’

  And Jez fell over.

  Or he didn’t fall over, exactly. He tripped. I’d seen the loose lace trailing from his boot after he’d aimed that kick at Laurie. When he’d skidded back, confused by my sudden change of direction, it caught on the spikes of the opposite boot.

  He literally tripped over his own feet and sailed over backwards, smacking his head against the AstroTurf.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked groggily, as the medics jogged towards him.

  Freddie came up and threw an arm round my shoulder, looking down at where Jez lay. ‘I think you fouled yourself.’

  I pulled a face. ‘I hope that’s only in one sense of the word.’

  Freddie laughed, and I pulled him with me to join the rest of the team celebrating by leaping and spinning round in front of the goal. Leroy was doing the robot. Leo had been right. There isn’t that much difference between football and dancing at all.

  FORTY-ONE