Star Blaze (29 page)

The coach was rummaging through his sports bag looking
for something, clearly without much success. As the players began to arrive he turned to Johnny and said, “I've forgotten the oranges. Run back to the changing rooms and get them will you? Should be in the kit bag.”

“Why me?” asked Johnny, who rather thought the other sub from the year below was a much more obvious candidate. He struggled to physically speak the words—it was so cold his lips were beginning to freeze up.

“Because I said so,” replied the coach. “Get going.”

Owen winked at Johnny, who gritted his teeth and began the long jog back toward the changing rooms. “Faster, Johnny!” Mr. Davenport shouted after him and Johnny heard the rest of the team laughing as he picked up the pace.

It took an age for Johnny to find Mr. Davenport's other bag and, when he did, there were no orange segments. At least there was a tub of petroleum jelly—Johnny smeared a handful over his face to keep it warm enough for him to be able to shout in the second half. Someone would have to take charge on the field. The oranges turned out to be in the small kitchen area nearby. Johnny flung them into a plastic tub and ran back out into the cold. By the time he reached the huddle on the touchline, half-time was almost over. Johnny held the container out into the semicircle and greedy hands reached in to grab the segments, leaving none for the subs.

“Ash—I'm taking you off,” said Mr. Davenport. “You should be happy—all half you looked like this football pitch was the last place you wanted to be.”

“Whatever,” Ashvin Gupta replied.

Johnny was disappointed—he normally linked up really well when the two of them played together in midfield. He was even more disappointed, though, when the coach turned to the other sub and said, “Carlton—this is your chance. Don't disappoint me.” Next, Mr. Davenport picked up the matchball and held it
out in front of the team. “You seem to have forgotten this is your friend,” he said sternly. “Look after it, want to be with it and, whatever you do,
don't
keep giving it away.”

“Yes, coach,” mumbled the team, not sounding very convinced.

The referee blew his whistle and shouted, “Let's get going.”

The semicircle broke and the Castle Dudbury players jogged listlessly onto the pitch to take up their positions. Johnny looked round to commiserate with Ashvin, only to see him already halfway toward the changing rooms, kicking an empty tin can with plenty of venom as he went.

The second half didn't begin much better than the first had ended, but Simon partly redeemed himself with a string of fine saves. Johnny hated to admit it, but the only other player doing anything like a decent job was Owen from the year below, who looked as if he could be quite useful. Dave Spedding was the stand-in skipper, but was being just as quiet as in the chemistry lesson earlier in the day. Johnny started to warm up again, hoping Mr. Davenport would take the hint, but the coach showed no sign of wanting to make his last remaining substitution.

Twenty minutes into the second half, his chance finally came. Owen and Ian Marden jumped for the same ball, but neither of them called. There was a sickening crack as their heads came together, leaving both of them lying on the ground. Owen rolled around for a while before getting up, while Ian just lay near the center circle, totally dazed. Johnny ran straight over with Mr. Davenport as soon as it happened, but it was fully five minutes before it became clear it was safe to carry Ian off the pitch.

Johnny whisked his jumper off, threw it over the touchline, and ran back onto the field of play, immediately incurring the displeasure of the referee, who ordered him to remove his locket and the wristcom. Reluctantly, he took them over to Clara and
then had to wait a while before he was finally allowed to return. Once the ref eventually waved him on, he struggled to pick up the pace of the game—he'd been so worried about Ian, he hadn't had time to warm up properly and his muscles tightened as soon as he tried to sprint. What made it worse was that no one on his own team seemed to want to pass the ball to him. He was stuck out on the left wing, which was where Ian played, but everything was going down the right-hand side instead. When he finally got to touch the ball it was only because the Stortford right back smashed it straight into his face.

Johnny was lying on a patch of rock-hard ground while someone wiped his face with icy cold water. It took a few moments for him to remember where he was—then he recognized Mr. Davenport's silhouette leaning over him. The thing in his teacher's hand—a yellow sponge—was slowly turning red.

“Just a slight nosebleed,” said the coach. “But if you want to come off …”

“Course not,” Johnny cut in. “I'll be fine.” He stood up and, for a second, his surroundings seemed to blur, but he knew he had to hang on. He touched his nose. It hurt, but not as badly as after the encounter with Nicky. Zeta had done a good job on it.

“Sure you're OK, son?” asked the ref, as he pressed a button on his stopwatch.

Johnny nodded and the game restarted. If no one was going to pass him the ball, he decided he'd just have to go and get it himself—he didn't have to wait long for the chance. Joe Pennant played a one-two with Dave, but ran into trouble, a couple of defenders converging on him. Johnny was the obvious outlet, but when the ball didn't come he joined the opposition in what became a four-way fight for the ball and, after several
ricochets, emerged victorious. Finally, with the football at his feet, he could forget about the cold or his nose or having been sub, or even the fact that the Sun could soon explode, and he started running. With a clever stepover he beat his fullback on the outside and put in a left-footed hanging cross, which was headed behind for a corner.

Johnny ran down the small slope to collect the ball. When he climbed back, Owen was waiting by the corner flag to take the kick. Johnny held onto the ball and said, “Late run to the far post—Dave's going to flick it on for you.”

Owen stood his ground.

“Listen,” said Johnny. “Micky's not playing—you've got to take his place.”

“It's your own time you're wasting,” said the referee before jogging into position and, reluctantly, Owen turned and ran into the penalty area. Johnny placed the ball carefully in the “D” by the flag. Then he picked it up again, turned it through his fingers and put it back down.

“Get on with it,” shouted the referee.

Johnny took four paces back and looked up. Dave and Joe were in their right positions, close to each other near the penalty spot. Owen was looking disinterested on the edge of the area—Johnny hoped it was a ruse. He stepped forward and struck the ball hard, so it flew flat at head height. Joe blocked off Dave's marker, allowing the stand-in skipper to reach the near post unopposed and flick the ball on. It sailed over the keeper, as though in slow motion, before Owen arrived with a spectacular diving header at the back stick, powering the ball into the net.

The other Castle Dudbury players up for the corner chased after Owen who ran to the halfway line with both arms in the air, as if he'd just scored the winner in the Champions League Final. It seemed just a little excessive, thought Johnny, as with less than five minutes to go they were still a goal down. He
collected the ball from the net and carried it quickly with him to the halfway line.

No one congratulated Johnny on a great corner, but the next time Joe Pennant won the ball he played it straight out to the left wing. Johnny ran at his defender, who backed away. Johnny did a stepover to the right, as before, but followed with another to the left and then cut inside the fullback on the corner of the penalty area. Desperate to tackle Johnny, the Stortford boy stretched out his leg, but he wasn't quick enough and the ball had long gone. Johnny was sent tumbling a meter inside the box. As he was falling, he could already hear the whistle blowing. It was a penalty.

As Johnny lay on the ground he saw Owen run for the ball, picking it up and placing it on the spot. Johnny had always been the designated penalty taker and went across, but Owen said, “This one's mine, blondie—everyone knows you can't hit a barn door.”

Before Johnny could respond, Dave Spedding picked the ball up and handed it to Johnny. “You won it—it's your penalty,” he said. It was the first time he'd spoken to Johnny all day.

“Get on with it or no one'll take it,” said the referee. “Time's up already—this is the last kick.”

“I'm ready,” said Johnny, walking to the penalty spot and putting the ball down.

“No pressure,” said Owen, as he walked out of the area.

Johnny ignored him. He took four paces straight backward so he was in line with the ball and the goalkeeper. With that runup, if the goalie was any good Johnny hoped he'd think he was going to strike to the keeper's right. Focusing on the back of the ball, he pictured exactly what he was going to do—whatever happened he knew he mustn't change his mind.

He could hear voices in the background, several people shouting “come on, Johnny,” including Clara and then,
strangely, one that sounded like Alisha Leow. That was mad as he knew she wouldn't be seen dead watching a football match. Johnny shut out the noise, took a deep breath and ran forward. He struck the ball as hard as he could, but with the outside of his foot. As hoped, the goalie dived the wrong way, but even if he hadn't he'd never have saved it. The ball struck the net high up, just inside the post. Johnny sank to his knees as three blasts came on the whistle and the next thing he knew it felt as if the whole team had dived on top of him.

It was a while before the scrum pressing down on him lifted and Johnny was finally able to breathe. Everyone was smiling and taking turns to say they'd never seen a better penalty, and when Mr. Davenport saw Clara coming over with Bentley he said, “First time we've had our mascot for a while, Johnny. Just make sure he's there for the replay.”

Some of the other kids in Johnny's year were on the pitch celebrating with the team. Clara handed over Johnny's locket, which he slipped over his head—as soon as he did he felt a little warmer—and his wristcom, which he strapped into place, the red lights clearly visible.

“Good goal,” she said, smiling broadly. “Probably not offside.”

Before Johnny could respond an icy voice behind him said, “Who's she?” Johnny turned round to come face to face with Alisha.

“What? Er … hi Alisha,” he mumbled.

“Don't you ‘Hi Alisha' me,” she shouted, sounding absolutely furious.

Johnny could sense his team mates backing away.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't …”

“Oh you're sorry, are you?” Alisha interrupted. “You don't know the meaning of the word—yet.” With that she marched past Johnny, stopped to look Clara up and down, giving her an evil stare, before continuing on toward the school buildings
without a backward glance.

“What was that about?” Clara asked.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Johnny replied.

With Bentley wagging his tail by their side, they started walking slowly toward the changing rooms, not wanting to overtake Alisha who'd been joined by a few of her girlfriends. Johnny was partway through telling Clara about his strange meeting with Dr. Carrington when she whirled round, pointing at two figures, one much taller than the other, silhouetted against the setting sun at the very end of the playing fields.

“Is that Bugface?” she asked, suddenly serious.

Johnny squinted into the bright light. They were too far away to make out clearly and, at that moment, turned and walked down the slope and out of sight. “Stevens? Can't be … can it?” he said hopefully. “I've never seen a short Krun—it must have been a dad with his son, come to watch the match.”

“Maybe you're right,” said Clara, but she stayed staring across toward the tip.

“Come on,” said Johnny. “I'm freezing.” He resumed the walk to the changing rooms and, after a couple of seconds, Clara followed.

It was only nine o'clock at night, but an exhausted, fully clothed Johnny lay on his bed in the attic room of Halader House, with Bentley curled across his feet. The curtains intended to cover the large, dormer window were open, allowing the stars to shine down from out of a clear, moonless sky. Bram had only been gone a couple of days, but Johnny wished Captain Valdour would hurry up with the promised reinforcements. Of course he knew his friend would never let him down and coordinating a lot of ships so they unfolded in the same place was a difficult task, but he'd feel much happier with an Imperial fleet patrolling the solar system. Johnny gazed at the stars while absentmindedly reaching to rub his Old English sheepdog under the collar. At least it was the holidays—it was nearly Christmas—and Johnny looked to have gotten away with all his various absences from school and the children's home over the last few months. If he could have thought of anything suitable, he'd give it to Kovac as an extra special Christmas and thank you present rolled into one, but the quantum computer wasn't the sort of thing it was easy to buy for.