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says Franco. ‘Sounds fun, eh?’
    After a moment or two, Matt nods.
    â€˜Of course,’ says Ken, smiling, ‘we’re assuming you are a fan of our club.’
    â€˜Not really,’ says Matt. ‘I generally barrack for, you know, the less chunky clubs.’
    He can be really witty, Matt, when he’s paying attention.
    The visitors all chuckle.
    â€˜It is a very kind offer,’ says Dad. ‘But we’d like to talk about it as a family. Can we give you an answer in the morning?’
    The visitors glance at each other and nod.
    I can see they understand. Our family is a team. In a team, everyone has a say.
    Franco and the others don’t have to worry. Once Mum and Dad and Matt realise what an opportunity this is, I know we’ll all say yes.

After the visitors leave, Mum and Dad go to their room for a chat. Sometimes, before a team talk, parents like to have a parent talk.
    I go to Matt’s room for a manager talk.
    Matt is lying on his bed, flipping his school lunchbox from foot to foot.
    â€˜They’re right,’ he says gloomily.
    I want to shake him and tell him to snap out of it. But I don’t. When a family’s had a tragedy, it’s normal for people to get a bit despairing, even after two soccer seasons.
    â€˜They’re not right,’ I say to Matt. ‘OK, you’re slim, but this is soccer, not heavyweight wrestling.’
    â€˜I don’t mean that,’ says Matt. ‘I’m talking about what the surgeons told Mum. How if my legs get broken again, they can’t put the pins back in and I’ll be crippled.’
    Sometimes Matt looks so worried I just want to hug him. But you have to be careful of that with older brothers.
    â€˜Matt,’ I say. ‘Don’t be a dope. Your legs have got skill, the best protection in the world. Look at those cattle. Did they hurt your legs? No, they didn’t.’
    Matt frowns and rubs his bruise.
    â€˜That’s your shoulder,’ I say. ‘That’s different.’
    Matt doesn’t look totally convinced.
    â€˜Anyway,’ I say, ‘when people see you play, I’ve never heard one person go, ooh look how fragile his legs are. And when people see how you can score goals, they almost poop themselves.’
    Matt is still frowning, but a bit less.
    â€˜Your legs will be totally fine,’ I say. ‘Trust me.’
    Sometimes managers have to say things, even if they’re only ninety-nine percent sure. It’s their job.
    Matt grins.
    â€˜It would be Judas H incredible,’ he says. ‘Having a kick-around at a Premier League club.’
    He flicks his school lunchbox in my direction.
    I catch it on my knee. Matt’s been teaching me a bit of ball and lunchbox control. Sometimes I think if I could run I’d be pretty good.
    â€˜It’ll be more than a kick-around,’ I say. ‘Once we’re there I reckon we can get you a try-out with the youth team. Dad’s really ace at persuading people. Remember how he persuaded that woman not to put her tropical fish too close to her microwave?’
    I flick the lunchbox back to Matt. Sort of. It clatters into his wardrobe.
    Mum and Dad come in.
    I see their faces and my chest goes tight.
    â€˜We’re really sorry,’ says Dad. ‘We’d love to go to England, but we just can’t do it.’
    I’m struggling to breathe. Sometimes extreme disappointment can feel just like asthma.
    â€˜They want us to go in a week,’ says Mum. ‘But I haven’t got holidays for months. If I take extra time off work, I could lose my job.’
    â€˜And even if Wal gives me time off,’ says Dad, ‘I can’t leave Gran and Granpa.’
    Oh no. I forgot about Gran and Granpa. They’re so old they need help with everything on the farm. Sheep, chooks, fences, pills, everything. And Mum can’t drive their old tractor, the fumes give her vertigo.
    Frantically I