Spy Stuff

Chapter 3-3

The football boots were for, unsurprisingly, football.

Despite the cold, they were sent out onto the playing fields to do laps of the faintly-drawn football pitch, the chill encouraging them to run faster, and nobody noticed Anton’s chest at all. His T-shirt, on the other hand…

“This term is football!” Mrs. Salter shouted, her voice loud and carrying in the still winter air. “Today I want to see your abilities so I can start dividing you into appropriate teams later on. For now, pick your own. Anderson, Carter, Lewis, Neale, Patterson, Walsh, and Zimmerman, up front! You will be captains for this lesson, one team each until we run out of people. We’ll rotate through the register every lesson after this one. Questions?”

“Miss!”

“Thorne?”

“Why’s the new kid got a T-shirt on?”

For a brief second, Anton’s lungs seized. Then Jude laughed. “He doesn’t want you checking out his sick abs, Thorny.”

“f**k off, ginger!”

“Shut it!” Mrs. Salter barked. Her voice was like a whipcrack, and Anton shivered with the force of it. “Kalinowski, grow up, you’re past due. Thorne, is my permission for Williams’ attire sufficient for you?”

Thorne was a pale boy with pale hair, pale eyes, and a pale face. He didn’t look like he had enough blood to go as pink as he did. “No, Miss.”

“What.”

“I mean…I mean, yes, Miss—um, sorry, Miss,” he decided finally.

“Extra lap. Go.” Thorne went a violent red, but dutifully turned on his heel and started to jog down the pitch. “Faster, Thorne! Anybody else feel like questioning me?”

Silence.

“Good. Anderson, pick your first player.”

Anton hated being picked for teams. His old class had all thought him a total freak, which made him last to get picked in PE no matter how good he was. He wouldn’t mind so much for things like hockey, he was awful at hockey, it was fair enough to not want him on a hockey team. But he was good at football, and yet he felt the uncomfortable prickling sensation of flushing with embarrassment as, one by one, the other kids—with skills and friends and classmates who knew how good or otherwise they were—were picked and teams slowly began to form.

It seemed to be very friend-locked. Walsh immediately picked Larimer and then Jude; the same girl who’d picked Emma picked Isabel right after her, and—

“Williams.”

Anton jumped as Walsh drawled his name, and blinked. There were still a good…ten kids to go, and…

“Oi, Anton, move,” Jude ordered, and Anton fell into the cluster, a little startled. “Lemme guess,” Jude said, clapping his shoulder. “Last to get picked at your old school?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You can’t be any worse than Walsh,” Larimer opined.

“Oi! t**t, you’re the one who trips over the ball every game.”

“You any good at footie?” Jude asked, as Larimer and Walsh began to argue.

“Yeah.”

Jude grinned. “Yeah? What position?”

“Goal.”

Jude’s face lit up, and Anton’s stomach ached. “Yeah? f*****g sweet. We’re all s**t in goal. Walsh is a b***h of a striker, don’t get in his f*****g way if you’re in goal against him, and I do a mean defence, but we’re only any good with our feet. Catching s**t…nah.”

“What you gassing about, Kalinowski, you catch great with your face.”

“Yeah, and your gob.”

“‘Scuse me,” Jude said genially, still grinning, then casually retreated, seized both Walsh and Larimer by the hair, and knocked their heads together with a sharp clack.

“Kalinowski! Don’t ruin what little brains either of your gormless friends have! And Williams, wipe that smirk off your face, don’t pander to Kalinowski’s delusions that he’s funny!”

“No, Miss, sorry, Miss,” the other three chorused, and Anton bit his lip to hide the smile. There was a warmth in Anton’s stomach that was nothing to do with Jude’s smile or his proximity when he slung an arm casually over Anton’s shoulders as the captains finished picking. It was something a bit like belonging, something Anton had been chasing for years, and although he didn’t quite—yet—dare join in with the teasing, he laughed and didn’t try to defend Jude when Larimer retaliated with a battle-cry and rugby-tackle into the cold, hard grass, he felt he was supposed to be standing there, right there, in this new group.

“Larimer! Leave your overwhelming desire for physical contact with Kalinowski off the pitch!”

“Get in goal, then, Williams,” Walsh said, clapping Anton on the shoulder and nodding towards two cones set out in the grass. “And let’s see how good you really are.”

Anton got in goal. And when the kick-about started, Mrs. Salter prowling the edges of each game and making notes on a clipboard, he saved every one.