I was only supposed to play for ten minutes. But somewhere between the first interception and the third scrappy counter, I stopped checking the clock. The ball kept finding its way to my feet. The kids started yelling “Jamie! Jamie!” like I was the bloody talisman of Dunsvale FC, even though I only jogged more than ran.

  Every now and then, I’d stick a leg out to intercept something, then immediately pretend it was luck so no one called me out for trying too hard. The kids were relentless, though; tiny, chaotic meteors with no sense of formation. The sprinting kid kept yelling “I’m Haaland!” every time he touched the ball, all the while having the first touch of a GoPro on a mountain bike. The ball always bounced off him even worse than the average luggage at a RyanAir tarmac toss, and I had to fight every fiber of my being not to go full Roy Keane on him. Just one proper crunching tackle—clean, fair, educational.

  But no. I let him run past. Personal growth, or whatever.

  By the time the whistle blew (or rather, when the smallest one announced he was tired and that apparently ended the match) I’d been out there for over twenty minutes. My legs didn’t love it, but my head felt lighter.

  I glanced at the kids still kicking about and decided not to ruin the mood by checking stats right away. They’d already started arguing about who’d actually won.

  Fair play. Nobody keeps score in football that good.

  The first thing I did after I got home, however, was to check my stats.

  That was fair. I was a classic defender, solid in the air and strong in the challenge. My ball skills were serviceable, but my passing was actually a quiet strength; short and simple, but reliable. Even after years away, I still had good enough marking and tackling to play semi-pro. Bit proud of that, actually.

  I could’ve sworn I had a better work rate than 99, though. What seven years did to a man. My concentration had probably dwindled as well, but apart from that I still seemed the player I was.

  The legs weren’t what they were, but I was sturdy and still had the physical base of an ex-pro. The gym work showed, but long sprints would kill me.

  Seeing those numbers hit me harder than I expected. It was proof I wasn’t completely washed. Sure, the legs were slower and the lungs weren’t built for ninety minutes anymore, but the bones of it were still there. The reading of the game, the positioning, the bloody leadership stat at one-thirty-eight. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  The idea crept in before I could swat it away: player-manager. Not full-time, obviously—more of a part-time thing, chuck me in for the last twenty when the lads are flapping. I could still ping a pass, still marshal a line. And if I was going to be grinding away for Hungerford anyway, might as well do it properly.

  The only snag was the bossman.

  I could already picture his face: that same pinched expression, like he’d swallowed a wasp and didn’t want anyone to notice. Our first meeting had been bad enough; the thought of voluntarily talking to him again made my stomach turn. The bloke barely paid me enough to cover petrol, never mind boots.

  Still, the numbers didn’t lie.

  If I was going to lace up again, he’d have to pay more than one-fifty a week. That was Sunday league money.

  I’d want proper semi-pro rates; maybe two-fifty, three if he fancied himself generous.

  Then again, this was Hungerford Town. He’d probably have a heart attack at the mention of a contract clause.

  I stepped into the office again, and the bossman was there, shuffling papers like a nervous dealer.

  “Harrington,” he said, not even looking up. “Right, I’ve seen you out on the pitch today. Not bad. Legs still moving, I see. But listen properly this time. I want you not just coaching, yeah? Full defensive oversight. Set pieces, corners, free-kicks, shadowing the midfielders when they drift. And you said you want to play too?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you wanna work it as a player, I want you in every key match when it matters. Got it?”

  I nodded slowly. “Right, so . . . coaching and playing.”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning back with a smug smirk. “I’m not paying for half measures, Harrington. You’ll train the lads, manage the defensive structure, report on player performance, and while you’re at it, keep your own fitness up to match standards. Oh, and I expect input on transfers if someone decent pops up. “And for all that,” he said, tapping the laminated ‘Winners Don’t Wait; They Work’ poster, “you’ll get ￡250 a week for coaching. Playing? ￡60 a match. Clean sheet bonus, ￡20. Happy?”

  I stared at him for another second. It wasn’t terrible money for Tier 7, actually. Decent enough to keep me interested. But the responsibilities, fuck damn. He wanted me to do everything but bake the tea cakes and wash the kits myself. Honestly, I decided I should get a match bonus every time I spoke to him; maybe even double pay for breathing in the same room. Dealing with this man was a full-contact sport in its own right.

  After some bargaining, I managed to get my base coaching pay up to ￡280 a week for traveling expenses and another five-hundred-quid bonus if I could actually manage to get the Goal Scored Against stat to under 1.1 (money I’d probably never see), and I figured that was how much I could push my luck without the man piling up another mountain of bullocks responsibilities on me. Good enough.

  On the way home, my phone buzzed. Stella, probably, or one of the lads? Nope. It was from my other boss, the one who actually pays the rent.

  Boss: Shift tomorrow. 6–2. Make sure stock rotation is done.

  I groaned, swiping my thumb. Stacking shelves, tidying the fridge section, checking expiry dates, correcting misplaced tins . . . the usual grind. My “day job” had been a study in mind-numbing monotony since the ban: seven years of arms aching from lifting, back sore from bending, and brain screaming for anything with a pulse.

  I plonked my bag down at the bus stop and thumbed out a text.

  Me: Hey, need to take a day off tomorrow for personal reasons. Can you cover my shift?

  Sent. Simple, no faff. With enough flex days banked to retire on, I could call off tomorrow and turn every single shift into a minor apocalypse.

  Ten seconds later, my phone pinged.

  Boss: Approved. Don’t forget Monday though.

  Easy. Just like that, the prospect of returning to that fluorescent-lit, pallet-stacked purgatory felt suddenly, absurdly boring. I’d rather lace up and smell grass than sniff cardboard all day.