He asked this as if he was expecting a reasonable explanation, that James had been with Ryan trying to stop the others breaking such a big rule.
They were walking back now, the ice rink and its noise and music fading behind them.
‘I was with Craig and Daniel,’ James said.
‘But why? I don’t understand.’
‘I was going ice-skating.’
James’s dad stopped walking. ‘What?’
‘I wanted to get out. Be on my own.’
‘So you went ice-skating with Craig?’ Dad’s voice was louder now.
James noticed a couple of older girls looking over.
He wasn’t sure what to say. But one thing he wanted was to be honest. And more than that, he wanted this to be the moment he told his dad he didn’t really want to be a footballer.
But how could he get the words out?
‘I don’t understand,’ Dad said again. ‘It’s so unlike you.’
‘What am I like?’ James snapped.
‘What do you mean?’ Dad replied.
‘What am I like?’ James repeated. ‘Do you know what I’m really like?’
James could feel himself becoming more and more angry. And he realized this was good. If he got really angry he might be able to spit it out: tell his dad how he actually felt.
‘I think I know what you’re like,’ Dad said, calm again now. ‘You’re hard-working. You’re respectful. You’re a good lad. I thought you’d had a good day.’
‘Not a good day,’ James said. He could feel tears coming into his eyes, but he held them back.
‘What?’
‘Not good. I hated it.’
James’s dad stopped. ‘Hated what?’
‘All of it.’
‘But…’
James wanted to push his dad, find a way of getting him to understand. But all he could say was ‘what’, over and over again. It was driving James mad.
So he just said it.
‘I don’t want to be a footballer, Dad. I want to give it up.’ Then he looked at his dad’s face, waiting for a reaction.
The Fan
Dad took James to a cafe rather than go straight back to the student accommodation.
‘I don’t understand,’ Dad said when they were sitting down. He seemed really sad.
‘I don’t want to play any more,’ James said. ‘Not training two days a week. Then playing. I want to –’
‘Have I pushed you too hard?’ Dad interrupted. ‘I thought you enjoyed it. All this.’
‘I do, but…’
‘So why? You always said you were happy with the football.’
James was finding it hard to speak. His dad kept interrupting and his voice was getting louder. People were starting to look over.
James could see in his dad’s eyes that he was struggling, but he couldn’t be sure if it was anger or disappointment. Or both.
James wanted to tell him the truth, the reason. About the other thing he wanted to do. But he was interrupted again.
‘Think of all the time we’ve put into this,’ Dad said. ‘All the money.’
And then a man was standing beside them. He was tall with short brown hair, maybe thirty or forty years old, and carrying a guitar. James noticed a small West Ham badge on his guitar case.
‘Excuse me? Am I interrupting? My name’s Jim.’
James’s dad turned and smiled. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. And he was wearing the face he wore when he spoke to fans. A smile. A nodding head. It was a face James knew well.
James wanted to shout at the man, to tell him to go away.
Dad talked to him. The fan wanted to chat about the cup final, the famous goal, how grateful he was. And could he have Cyril’s autograph?
James watched the other people in the cafe. They all seemed so excited, all talking. Talking, talking, talking.
James wished he was at home in his room with his music on full blast and his eyes closed.
When the man had gone, Dad looked at James.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘What were we saying?’
‘That says it all, Dad,’ James said.
‘What?’
‘That. I don’t want that.’ James gestured at the fan who was leaving the cafe.
Dad looked at the man and turned back to James. Then he nodded. ‘I see. So what do you want?’ His voice was quiet.
James shrugged. He was feeling confused. He didn’t know what to say. The words were stuck.
Dad stood up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. I can’t deal with any more of this tonight.’
James stood up too and followed his dad back.
Neither of them spoke.
Missing
Breakfast was even weirder on the second morning than it had been the first.
Again, few people were speaking.
Jake was sitting next to Yunis. He leaned over to James. ‘Where’s Craig and Daniel?’ he asked.
‘They’ve gone,’ James said, deadpan. There was no feeling in his voice.
Jake wondered what had happened to him the night before. He’d come in late, but said nothing.
‘What?’ Yunis cut in.
‘Steve sent them home,’ James answered. ‘He’ll tell us all about it, I’m sure.’
Steve had just come into the canteen. He stood and looked at the boys from the doorway. James’s dad came in behind him, walked to a table and sat down.
‘More news,’ Steve said to the room. And then he turned to look at James. James wasn’t sure, but he thought Steve was trying to smile at him. Then again, it could have been a frown.
‘Last night,’ Steve went on, ‘some of the squad were caught outside again. Craig and Daniel have been sent home. They’re on their way to King’s Cross station with Paul now.’
Silence. No one dared say a word.
Steve paused. ‘That’s it. Let me eat my breakfast then I’ll tell you what’s happening the rest of today.’
Everyone went back to their cereal and toast. Some conversations started up, but only quietly.
James stared at his dad. What was going on? Surely Steve should have announced that James was dropped from the game? He ran through the conversations he’d had with his dad the night before.
James hadn’t expected his dad to be angry. He didn’t normally get angry.
He saw his dad gesture with his head that James
