Free Sudden Death by Nick Hale Page A

Devon’s path.
    He curled a beauty towards the top corner, but it didn’t have the pace. Emery tipped it wide of the post with his fingers. And so they went on, with Jake getting closer and closer to the front of the shooting queue. He didn’t know where he was going to put the ball yet. The keeper seemed to fill the goal with his imposing frame, and none of the shooters managed to score.
    When his turn came, it was Benalto who knocked the ball to him. Jake decided to go for power rather than finesse. He swung his right boot through the ball, catching it sweetly. It turned slightly in the air and screamed under Emery’s outstretched arm. The net ballooned and the other players went wild. They gathered round Jake, whooping and howling, slapping his back and the side of his head.
    ‘Beaten by the coach’s son!’ shouted Devon at Emery, who was glumly plucking the ball out of the net. ‘Great work, Jake.’
    Jake nodded and held up a hand to coolly acknowledge the cheers of the Tigers, but inside his heart was close to bursting.
I’ll know this is definitely a dream if Keira Knightley emerges from the dugout and pushes past Devon to get to me!
    They finished up the session with some set-piece practice, and after two hours Jake was ready to drop. Though he hadthe skills, his stamina was no match for older guys who trained five times a week.
    His legs were like lead as they headed to the changing rooms. They showered and dressed. Some of the guys were heading into St Petersburg that evening for dinner and Jake almost wished he could join them. They made their way to the car park together.
    ‘You want to come for a spin on the bike?’ asked Devon. He pointed to the sleek red Yamaha resting in the parking bay.
    Jake gulped. Yesterday he’d only seen Devon Taylor on TV. Now they were . . . well, like mates.
    ‘Dad would want me to stick around, I think,’ Jake said.
    ‘No worries,’ said Devon. ‘I’ll have you back here in half an hour tops.’ He popped out the spare helmet. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine. I’m not going to let anything happen to the chief’s son, am I?’
    So Jake climbed on to the bike and they roared out of the underground car park. It was almost four o’clock and the sun was dipping, but the air was still warm outside. There were several more motorbikes and cars which hadn’t been there that morning. They all started their engines as Devon and Jake swept past.
Paparazzi,
Jake thought.
    The American twisted the throttle and they left theentourage behind, but soon they were amongst the rush-hour traffic. Devon pushed the bike between the cars and buses, but the paparazzi bikes kept pace. Two on each, a rider and a cameraman.
    They passed grim apartment blocks on either side of the road, then crossed the bridge over the Neva River, which glittered in the late afternoon sun. The city seemed to Jake to be a mass of criss-crossed identical streets. At a traffic light, several paparazzi bikes pulled up beside them.
    Devon lifted his visor.
    ‘Why don’t you find something better to do?’ he shouted.
    The only answer he got was more flashes.
    As soon as the light was amber, Devon turned the bike left, despite the road sign forbidding such a manoeuvre. The paparazzi were almost all flummoxed, and stalled. Only one bike came after them.
    ‘Lost them!’ Devon shouted triumphantly.
    The call of a police siren cut through the air.
    ‘We’d better pull over,’ yelled Jake.
Dad’s going to kill me.
    But instead of slowing down Devon gunned the engine and steered down an alleyway lined with bins. Tall walls towered either side, as he swerved the bike around the trash. The police sirens disappeared.
    Looking back, Jake spotted the remaining paparazzi bikestill sitting right on their tail.
    This was getting risky.
Running from the press is one thing, but the police is another.
    They turned a couple of times, a left, then a right, and Devon took the bike down several steps. They entered a concrete