Read Online In Pieces by Nick Hopton - Free Book Online Page A

away quickly. The man said nothing, but Si could feel his eyes burning into him as he hurried on down the street and turned into the warm yellow embrace of the pub.
    With relief, Si sank back into the deep upholstery of the snug bar and waited for Jimmy to bring over the pints.
    Roberta arrived as they were merging with the fug over their second drink.
    â€˜Jimmy, this is Roberta.’
    â€˜Hi,’ nodded Jimmy without getting up.
    Roberta didn’t seem fazed by the cool reception. She’d heard a lot about Jimmy and suspected that their first meeting wouldn’t be easy. In her experience close male friendships rarely included women without some initial friction. Many such attachments excluded women completely, such as the ones in her own country.
    â€˜Jimmy, it’s good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.’
    Jimmy immediately reacted. ‘Yeah? Like what? I suppose he’s told you I’m a failed soccer player.’
    â€˜No, quite the opposite. He said you had great prospects.’ Roberta smiled.
    Jimmy, disarmed, just grunted. ‘Some prospects,’ he muttered.
    Si felt it time to intervene. ‘We were just getting another round in. What would you like?’
    â€˜An orange, please.’
    Jimmy raised an eyebrow. As Si moved off to the bar he made a conscious effort to pull himself together. ‘He really said that, did he?’
    â€˜Said what?’
    â€˜That I had great prospects.’
    â€˜Yes, he did.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Jimmy furrowed his brow. ‘Where’s the Sudan, anyway?’ he asked.
    Later, as they left the pub and Jimmy prepared to peel off home, he leaned over to Si and whispered ‘She’s all right… Not bad at all.’
    Si smiled. ‘I know. I know.’
    ~
    Jimmy was exhausted. Ninety minutes of running about in the slush playing for a second-rate football team was not his idea of fun. The stadium was on the point of collapse and there was no money to rebuild the crumbling stands with their warping cantilevers and cracking, concrete floors. Vast swathes of orange plastic shone out from the gloom beneath the holed, wooden roofs—empty seats witnessing to the club’s dwindling support and dire financial situation. And as for the pitch… The Chairman had clearly resorted to grazing cattle between matches to raise money, such was the state of the churned up turf: more mud than grass.
    Jimmy had enjoyed scoring the goal which separated the two teams, but if there weren’t any scouts watching, then what was the point? Here he was already twenty-seven, and no prospect of making the top flight. Jimmy knew he was living proof that Nick Hornby had got it wrong when he wrote that there was no such thing as a genius striker failing to get noticed in the lower divisions; thescouting system was
not
foolproof and
everyone
did
not
get watched. But despite this conviction and a growing sense of injustice, Jimmy knew that time was running out for him.
    The whistle went. Thank God. He exchanged desultory handshakes with the other team and made his way towards the dressing room.
    â€˜Well played, laddy… Although you looked a bit bored out there, if you don’t mind me saying.’
    Jimmy looked at the man. He was in his fifties, wearing a heavy-duty nylon anorak. His broken capillaries and windburnt face testified to many hours exposed to the elements. ‘Thanks. Who are you?’
    â€˜Mike McDonald. Pleased to meet you. I think we might be seeing more of each other soon.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah? What makes you so sure?’
    â€˜Oh, I just know. Trust me.’ With that McDonald walked off in the direction of the stairs leading to the Directors’ box.
    Jimmy sat down and pulled off his boots. Weird guy, he thought.
    â€˜I see you met Mike, then?’ It was the manager, Steve Burns. They got on all right, but he knew that Jimmy was desperate for a greater challenge than the Second