Free Striker Boy Kicks Out by Jonny Zucker

shouted Evans from the touchline. Foxstood next to him, the trademark inscrutable expression on his face. Nat had another shot parried and scored again a few seconds before the end with a blistering long-range shot. The Wildman patted him on the back after the final whistle.
    â€œYou’re fired up today, kid, aren’t you?”
    Nat gave him a relieved smile. He knew he’d done well, but he wasn’t going to rest on that – he’d try even harder in training tomorrow. He so badly wanted to play his way onto the subs bench for the Celtic game tomorrow night.
    It was only when training was over that Nat allowed himself the chance to take a look round the stadium. The stands were empty – the man in the blue suit wasn’t there. He breathed a sigh of relief and went in to join the others.
    Nat was pretty sure that, though he’d performed very well in training, Ian Fox wasn’t going to rush over and shower him with praise. And he was right. The boss gave him nothing, not even an encouraging nod. Fox could dish out criticism, but he was very sparing with congratulations – too many years at the coalface of football life had made him extremely wary of gushing sentimentality. Adilson, however, came up to Nat and shook his hand so hard he almost yanked his arm out of its socket.
    â€œExcellent goals, Nat,” he grinned. “Get a couple like that against Celtic tomorrow and we’ll be sorted!”
    â€œCheers,” replied Nat, grateful for the acknowledgement.
    It’s nice to be appreciated!
    When the players emerged from the El Mar Stadium, Nat spotted a small group of Spanish teenagers, wearing their country’s shirts and laughing among themselves.
    One of them, wearing a red and yellow baseball cap and a huge fake gold medallion, shouted to his mates and they scuttled over to Nat, Emi and Kelvin.
    â€œAlright, guys,” said Emi jovially.
    â€œIf you make it to the final, you will play Talorca,” said the boy wearing the baseball cap.
    â€œHow do you know Talorca will make it to the final?” asked Kelvin, with a broad smile on his face.
    The guy laughed. “Of course we will make it to the final. We will soon be Spanish champions – you will see!”
    â€œIf we make it to the final, I reckon we’ll beat you!” replied Emi.
    The lad quickly translated this conversation into Spanish. His friends laughed loudly and said something back.
    â€œThey say, ‘In your dreams’,” reported the boy.
    â€œWe beat Manchester United a few weeks ago,” Nat pointed out.
    â€œI know,” replied the boy, “but Manchester don’t have Alberto Tieras, do they?”
    â€œWe’ve dealt with far tougher players in our time,” grinned Emi. “Tieras is a kitten compared to some of them!”
    â€œWe’ll see about that!” said the Spanish boy, reaching out to shake Emi’s hand. All of his friends then insisted upon shaking Emi, Nat and Kelvin’s hands and after that, posing for photos with all three of them, and getting them to autograph several pieces of paper, two canvas bags, a notebook and the baseball-cap boy’s left shoe.
    When the team bus pulled up alongside the kerb, the Spanish boys shouted their thanks and farewells and made off, delighted with the autographs and photos they’d accumulated and still utterly convinced that if Rangers made it to the final, they’d come up against Talorca and get completely battered.
    â€œDo you reckon we’ve got a chance to make it to the final?” asked Kelvin as the coach pulled away and set out for the team hotel.
    Nat didn’t say anything. He was focusing solely on tomorrow night’s Celtic game and achieving the thing that he craved the most – some precious minutes on the pitch.

CHAPTER 11
Hidden from Prying Eyes
    â€œI’ve brought you some extra blankets, more food and scissors to cut your hair.”
    Carlos