1.47 - Painkillers [T1] (Patreon)

47.

Watching me and Raffi did something to Graham. Instead of trying to do insane video game tricks every time he got the ball, he got simple. Simple pass, move into space, track back. Don't overcomplicate things. Yes, mate! Yes!

I walked past Raffi and murmured, "Let's see if we can get these guys on the scoresheet, yeah?"

"Aight."

And that's how we played the next five minutes. There was a lot of dribbling towards the sides of the pitch to attract defenders, a lot of fake shots to draw the goalie to one side of his goal, followed by switches of play to where Graham, Hugh, or Musa had a chance to score. The pressure of being on the end of such beautiful moves got to them, though, and they kept missing or hitting the crossbar. Not their fault - none of them had high finishing. Ziggy would have scored tons.

By now I was moving freely, while really pushing my luck in a way that infuriated me when I saw other people doing it.

I took a loose ball, burst into the corner, and waited for a defender to come and challenge me. It was Public Enemy Number 1. The guy who'd tried to do me. Well, I was way past caring about that little shit, but thought I'd give him a bit of a razzle-dazzle, just out of principle, before setting up one of the others. When he came towards me - a lot more cautiously than before - I did some little pump-fakes with my right foot. I'm going left! I'm going left! But then I really did dab the ball to the left, and instantly flicked it back to where it had started.

As I accelerated past him, pushing the ball away with my left foot, he lowered his head to see where the ball had gone. His forehead crashed into the bone around my left eye. I fell to the ground. Half of my face felt numb. I tried to move but I was simply stunned. After a few seconds I felt my face and it seemed enormous. But it couldn't have swelled up that much in such a short time; it must have been some trick of the nerves.

I saw Raffi appear over me - he was pushing the thug away. The push contained a warning.

"That was an accident! That was an accident!" the thug was saying.

After cooling whatever the sitch was, Raffi bent to check on me. "How you doing?"

"Fine," I said. "Lift me up. I'll drop to the half-way line. You take the free kick, play it back to me on my left foot." I'd power home a low, curving thunderbolt. I could already hear the sound of it bursting through the net and hitting the board behind. Swishthunk! Matthews takes the free kick... and Mortensen has won it!

Raffi tsked at me. "Mate. You're done for the day." He turned and called 'sub'.

"No fucking way, man. We're just getting started." I tried to pull myself up. It's 1953, bro. There are no subs.

He put a hand on my chest and pushed me down. "You get off the pitch right now or you can kiss your contract bye bye."

That's when reality bit. Stan Mortensen wasn't the agent for Stanley Matthews. I had to get back in my lane. And fast.

***

XP balance: 1313

***

Friday.

Someone - Jackie, I think - had organised an ice pack and a pair of crutches. I was able to get home and pour painkillers down my throat.

Next morning I could think, but I couldn't drive, so I took the bus to the call centre.

No-one at work mentioned the crutches.

No-one mentioned the enormous black-and-blue bulge around my eye.

We thank heavens for small mercies.

***

Manchester City Under 16s were playing before the Met Heads. I went an hour early to watch them. Did I get 25 extra XP for paying close attention to the first half? Did I fuck. I was off my tits on painkillers. I got about 6.

As the ref blew for half-time, I shuffled across the pitch at what I thought was ramming speed, but I was overtaken by two City girls, one walking backwards to face her friend. Well, the turtle beats the hare, doesn't he?

Sandra, City's coach, was looking at her notes. She was about to give her half-time team talk. I wiped away the drool that had built up over the last 15 yards. "Hi, Sandra! Can I have a quick word?"

"I'm doing the half-time team talk."

"It won't take long. Anyway, you always overdo it. 30 seconds is enough."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yeah! You want me to demonstrate?"

"Be my guest. Ladies, meet your new coach, Captain Blackbeard."

"Huh?"

"The fierce pirate. I'm suggesting you're a brute. Not only because of your fresh new look."

"Wasn't he from hundreds of years ago? You need to update your references." I looked at all the tiny little faces peering back at me. The pain vanished. Absolute clarity. Just then, I was City's coach. My only defence is that I really was in agony. "All right, ladies, listen up. My name's Jake Paul." A chorus of complaints. "What? Not up to date enough? Jesus. Forget that. I'm some foetus who's got a TikTok. Fuck."

"What happened to you?" It wasn't Sarah Greene. It was the other midfielder. That didn't narrow it down. They were all midfielders.

"I was playing 5-a-side last night and I got Meghaned," I said.

There was a huge uproar; they loved it. Meghan gave me a double-barreled middle finger.

"Here's my 30 second team talk. You ready?" I took a breath, nearly wobbled over. "We're going to play 1-3-2." I pointed to the midfielder that had been playing as City's main striker and used my fingers to demonstrate positions on the pitch. It was hard because taking my hands off the crutches meant risking falling over. "You. You and Carmen, you're the strikers. Play wide of the D. Don't track back. I know you want to come back and get involved, but you can't. Every time you do that, that's bringing the Beth Heads closer to winning. Yeah?" They weren't playing the Beth Heads. That was the pills talking. "Stay up there. Meghan, you're the one in the 1-3-2. The defender. Everyone else, you're the three in midfield. But you know what? It's more like 1-3-0-2. Those strikers need to be waaaay up there." Big wobble on the word 'way'. I steadied myself. "Midfield, do your Man City thing. But the strikers will be occupying two or more defenders, so you'll get loads of shots off. Wait for good chances and hit low into the corners. Piece of piss. And! And, get this, Sarah, where's Sarah? You and that one. Sorry, I don't know your name," I lied. "You two can dribble sometimes. What you're doing wrong is dribbling and taking a shot. Taking the mick. That's why you're getting kicked by brutes like me. So dribble with the aim of pulling one of the last defenders out of their pockets, then pass to a striker. Carmen's got good finishing. She'll have an open net. Don't overdo it and you're golden. Any questions? No? Good. One last thing, if you're through on goal, don't score a no-look backheel nutmeg."

I let that hang. Meghan put her hand up. "Why?"

I used my nose to point at my foot. "Coz this is what you get."

That unleashed a tirade of disbelieving taunts and mockery. Sandra, smiling, moved next to me. "Thanks to Loki over here. Okay, here's the real team talk." She waited until her squad was paying full attention. Then she grinned and jabbed her thumb at me. "What he said."

***

"Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

"What?" The City kids had run onto the pitch to experiment with their new formation. Carmen, their only true striker, looked terrified. I was wondering if I'd just dropped one of my trademark tactical nukes. The ones that tended to explode in my own face. But I'd achieved my main goal of ending the team-talk early so I could chat with Sandra.

Sandra was looking at my leg as though she might be able to X-ray it. "You winced or something. Are you in pain?"

I sighed. "No, that was social pain. I didn't mean to... show you up or be a dick or anything."

She reassessed me. "Your idea is weird. I love it. Teaching me isn't showing me up."

"Yeah, but," I started. I stopped myself and took some of the heat out of my voice. "But I didn't come over to teach you or anything of the sort. You're miles ahead of me. Look, I... Thing is, I've got a player for you."

Some kind of barrier came up. Fuck! I'd done it all wrong. Quelle surprise. But I had to get through this before the second half started. And before I collapsed from ingesting more painkillers than calories. "Thing is, I'm not a coach. I'm not a tactical thinker. There's one thing I know I'm good at, and that's spotting talent. I've found a girl and she's amazing. Almost as good as Sarah Greene. Attacking midfielder. Everything I've seen tells me this City team, under you, is the right place for her. I'd love you to give her a chance. You might not see it right away, but after like 3 weeks you'll be the one harassing me."

"Harassing? Why?"

"I'm her agent. I'm saying she might not blow your mind on day one. She'll be nervous and stuff! I don't know how much attention you give newbies. Not much, probably. I get it. But she's different. She's a top prospect. She just needs a start." I shook my head. "She's going to end up at City. She might as well start here." Sandra gave me a look. I knew that look - it was the face of a woman about to refuse to give me her phone number. So I dived in. "Wait wait wait." I took a deep breath. Wobbled. "If the problem is me, which is legit, that's fine. I'll cut myself out. You can deal with her mum instead. Just let her train with you for a month. You'll see. Really. You'll see."

"If I say yes, will you go to the hospital?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Fine."

"Wait," I said. "Get Meghan."

"According to you, she's our entire defence."

"Get Meghan."

Sandra whistled and Meghan jogged over.

I squinted at where she seemed to be. "Meghan. Sorry again for the thing."

She shrugged. "We checked. Someone did get their leg broke."

"Yeah. But the other thing. Remember when we played you? I told this girl to say something mean to you. So we could win. But... that's on me, yeah? Don't blame her."

"I don't. It's all right. It wound me up but I need to get used to that sort of bottom feeder mentality."

Ouch. "Right. Well, she's going to try out with you lot. I'd love it if you showed her the ropes."

"Why me?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because you're class?"

She tutted, but she seemed to like what I said and how I'd said it. "I mean, I'll show her around, but I doubt we'll ever be soulmates."

And again, just for a moment, the pain cleared. I pointed at her. "You don't know that. You really don't know that. I thought I met mine. Gorgeous blonde from Newcastle." Meghan and Sandra looked at each other while rolling their eyes, which is literally impossible. I continued. "Turns out my real soulmate is a two-footed box-to-box midfielder from Longsight."

And while I stared into the distance like Ryan Reynolds in the 6 out of 10 movie The Proposal, Meghan mimed that she wanted to vomit.

I smiled at her. I hoped she'd find one some day.