Free Sudden Death by Nick Hale

one-touch, quick-fire passing. Jake hit a pass wide to the Argentine winger, Benalto, formerly of Corinthians.
    ‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘That was awful.’
    ‘Hey, chill,’ said Devon, at his side. ‘We all make mistakes.’
    ‘And Bennie makes more than most,’ chipped in Calas. He’d played for the Spanish under-21s in the World Cup.
    Benalto chased Calas across the length of the pitch, both players laughing.
    As the practice went on, Jake started to relax. He kepthis passing short and crisp.
Nothing fancy,
he told himself.
Keep it simple.
    They moved closer to practise short headers in groups of three. Jake was with Devon and the massive French defender called Janné.
    ‘So,’ Devon said, ‘what’s it like to have Steve Bastin as a dad?’
    ‘It’s OK,’ Jake said. ‘I’ve been mostly living with my mum though. Dad’s so busy, y’know.’
    ‘Must be tough,’ Devon said. ‘I don’t see my dad much either.’
    Jake concentrated and didn’t miss a single header.
    After a while Devon called to his team-mates, ‘Let’s go two on two.’ He turned to Jake. ‘Jake, you wanna play with me?’
    ‘Sure,’ he said, trying to keep his composure.
    They squared off against Benalto and Calas, passing back and forth, trying to keep the ball from their opposition. Jake took the ball through Calas’s legs and the Spaniard came after him. He clipped Jake’s ankle with his boot, but Jake managed to slip a backheel to Devon. Benalto got there first and for a few passes the other two had the ball. When Calas tried to chip a cheeky ball to Benalto, Jake intercepted, taking the ball on his chest and laying it off to Devon. A second later the Argentine came steaming in, catching him full onwith a shoulder. Jake sprawled on the turf, his anger flaring. He sprang up, fists clenched.
    ‘What the hell was that!’ he shouted.
    Benalto raised his hands in a defensive posture. ‘Hey, chill out,’ he said in a thick Argentinian accent. ‘It was just a barge.’
    Jake took a step forward and realised the others had turned to face them. Calas was grinning like an idiot.
    ‘Relax, dude,’ said Devon, coming up behind him. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it, Bennie?’
    Benalto nodded.
    Jake’s own face flushed with shame as his anger dissipated.
    One by one, the other players returned to their passing, and he tried to do the same. Benalto went easy on him now, which made it even worse.
    When they wound up and jogged over to the upright goal for distance shooting practice, Devon slapped him on the back.
    ‘Looks like you could give your dad a run for his money, Jake.’
    It was the greatest compliment Jake had ever received, but he laughed it off. He couldn’t help thinking Devon was treating him with kid gloves.
    Suddenly, there was a commotion on one side of the ground, and a man was shouting. Two security guards were struggling with a shaven-headed man, prising a camera from his fingers.
    ‘Damn paparazzi,’ said Devon. ‘How did he even get in?’
    The security guard finally got hold of the camera and threw it on to the ground, smashing it into several fragments. The owner brought his hands to his head in dismay, then glumly scooped up the pieces. He was escorted roughly through one of the tunnels.
    ‘Apparently, Mr P wants everything kept private until opening night,’ said Devon. ‘Paps aren’t allowed in till then.’
    The goalkeeper, all six-foot-seven of him, was standing between the posts, stretching his massive frame. Australian Brad Emery, formerly reserve keeper for Barcelona. Jake knew he was a great shot-stopper, if not the best tactical player.
    ‘We’ll line up thirty yards out,’ said Devon. ‘One guy lays off the ball, the shooter shoots, then takes on the laying-off role. Got it?’
    Everyone nodded.
    Jake passed the ball first into Janné’s path. The big defender skied it way over the bar.
    ‘This is soccer,’ laughed Devon, ‘not rugby!’
    Janné grumbled and passed a new ball into