Jarrod Black: Chasing Pack E-Book

Texi Smith

• Herausgeber: Popcorn Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Jarrod Black
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 433

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Aussie footballer Jarrod Black’s life in the English Football League is going well after his adventures in Newcastle, but there’s no time to get complacent. The opportunity to play Harlowe Croft in the long-running action movie series has arisen and with it the chance to relocate to Australia. At the same time, our man finds out that dangerous criminals are on the loose and looking for him. Jarrod sets off, ready to balance football and a new adventure, not knowing the danger - or the excitement - that might be waiting around the corner.

This is the fourth in the Jarrod Black series of unashamed football novels, the fifth about the family was about Jarrod’s sister, Anna Black.

Leseprobe

JARRODBLACK

CHASING PACK

TEXI SMITH

First published in 2022 by Popcorn Press, a division of Fair Play Publishing PO Box 4101, Balgowlah Heights NSW 2093 Australia

www.popcornpress.com.au

ISBN: 978-1-925914-56-6 (ePUB) ISBN: 978-1-925914-55-9 (print)

© Texi Smith 2022 The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review), no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, communicated or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the Publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design and typsetting by Ana Secivanovic

All inquiries should be made to the Publisher via [email protected]

A catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

Contents

Throng

Betshed

Meadow

Croft

Licence

Downpour

Coach

Signal

Rovers

Wobble

Strong

Exotic

Beckoned

Perceptive

Military

Financial

Lebanon

Pride

Stark

Happiness

A-League

Plough

Bogey

Mood

Ripped

Volume

Mainstream

Turned

Cutting

Kick-start

Scones

Moscow

Turbulence

Sensation

Lewinsky

Lifestyle

Stone

Fox

Banking

Mediterranean

Angst

Studios

Buzz

Specialist

Number

Browning

Vegan

Bastard

Fish

Italian

Jigsaw

Cheer

Grind

Paella

Leathery

Trepidation

Mirror

Cringed

Partner

Badgering

School

Terror

Liberal

Pappadum

Flurry

Pizzazz

Dominance

Jeopardy

Risk

Volatile

Tempo

Bottle

Precision

Dividends

Jackpot

Departures

Assistant

Bicycle

Graduation

Manor

Holster

Acknowledgements

About the Author

DEDICATION

To me mam, Margaret, you’ll be glad you won’t need your mobile phone for this one.

01 Throng

“Jarrod,” shouted Des, the first-team coach.

Jarrod was miles away, lost in the thoughts of a chaotic pre-season that had seen him start at St James’ Park and end up back at the Arena with his beloved Darlington. He looked up at Des, puzzled.

“Warm up,” said Des through gritted teeth. He looked agitated.

Jarrod remembered where he was. He stood up and shuffled in front of his teammates in the dugout and leapt up onto the grass. Manager Gary was gesticulating wildly to his players as they toiled in the warm sunshine, unable to make in-roads into the Twente penalty area. An hour of the game had passed, and Darlington were two goals down, in danger of making this final home friendly of a high-quality pre-season a thorough disappointment.

Two minutes later, the change was made. Gav Selley trotted forlornly towards Jarrod, and they clasped hands. Jarrod’s appearance onto the pitch at least stirred some applause from the big crowd. There was suddenly a wave of excitement. Last season’s player of the season, the man brought in last year to steer the club successfully to promotion from League Two at the first attempt, the player who had landed a dream loan move to Newcastle and was back in town, was now in his usual midfield spot.

He slotted in beside Peter Van Vloten, signed from the visiting team right at the start of pre-season. Part of the deal to bring him to the club was to play a friendly, and a home game with a team with European pedigree was great PR for League One Darlington. Peter’s performances hadn’t been met with much praise, but he’d been played out of position on the left. Now, in this second half of the final pre-season game, he found himself in his preferred central midfield role, and was now alongside club captain Jarrod Black.

Peter seemed to sense his chance at forming a partnership with Jarrod. Jarrod was immediately on his wavelength, and in their first moment of action together, Peter went in bravely in a tough challenge. Jarrod was hovering just behind him to pick up the pieces, and immediately sprayed the ball out to Connor Naughton. The crowd over on the left rose as one from their seats. The tricky winger teased his marker and slid the ball nonchalantly through his legs as he lunged in.

Peter was already up off the ground and sprinting towards the penalty area, past Jarrod who was anticipating the scraps on the edge of the area. Connor’s arrowed cross was perfect for Peter to run in, almost stumbling, to meet the ball with a low header. His joy as the ball whizzed past the Twente goalkeeper and hit the net was clear to see. Centre forward Will Telfer raced over and joined him as he ran away to celebrate with the crowd, the rest of the players, including Jarrod, catching up and jumping on the goal scorer.

Jarrod had played in the team with Peter previously, but they had not been paired in central midfield before. There was a real connection, and Jarrod was keen to explore it further. The next moment came when a long clearance from the Twente keeper came towards Jarrod. He prepared himself to contest the header but heard a booming voice behind him bellowing ‘Petaaaaaaar!’ and stood aside. Peter flew past him to meet the ball, brushing aside the visiting player and clearing the ball long into touch. Peter turned and ran back past Jarrod, and they slapped hands. Jarrod was loving it.

The crowd was well and truly entertained now, following on from a first hour that had tested their resolve. Sam Basaan’s low ball down the right for the latest substitute Roni Verelo had the crowd on their feet again. A feign to pass inside and then a samba-like shimmy from the silky midfielder took him to the byline and he chipped in an inviting cross. The roar subsided as the crowd took a collective intake of breath, before on-loan Anton Broman connected and sent a header over the keeper for a dramatic equaliser.

The young forward—a cause for much optimism since he had caught the eye pre-season after joining from Newcastle as part of Jarrod’s own short-term and much-publicised loan the other way—stood in front of Bay 66 with arms stretched out wide, taking the acclaim. It was a great team goal though, and Darlington had looked good value since Jarrod’s introduction.

The final whistle wasn’t long in coming, the players making their way around the field to give thanks to the supporters for coming down on this Monday night ahead of the weekend’s opening league fixture. This had been a good result for Darlo in the end; Jarrod felt that he had done enough to merit a place in manager Gary Hollister’s line-up for the first day of the season at Shrewsbury Town. A pre-season return of two wins, three draws and a narrow defeat against highly fancied Championship heavyweights Derby County had given everyone at the club much optimism.

A third consecutive promotion was not out of the realm of possibility. Gary and owner Gerry Lincoln had expressed much more realistic expectations for the season to the media though, and quite rightly. This was a League One containing names such as Charlton Athletic, Huddersfield Town and Birmingham City. Mixing it with that calibre of club would be a big test.

“Well done, lads,” said Gary as he addressed the troops in the changing rooms. “That was a very important second half for us, and for our fans too. Well done, Peter, what a good goal that was, and well done, Wes, for keeping them out at the start of the half.”

The media throng just inside the foyer of the reception in the stadium was unusually big. Word was getting round of a potential big signing being made that evening. Gary was surrounded but shooed away the pack and suggested that they talk with “the real stars of the show, Peter Van Vloten and Jarrod Black”. The two of them were walking together past the crowd when they heard that and turned to each other with a little smile. They stopped and faced the media and smiled again.

02BetShed

Jarrod had not been back long from his loan spell at Newcastle. His dream of playing at St James’ Park for the club he had loved all his life had been fulfilled. Sure, it wasn’t in the Premier League, and of course it was a very short loan term, and his place was filled by some very expensive and experienced imports. But it had included a glamour game against Barcelona, and it had involved a dramatic comeback. Nothing would take that night away from him.

The drama that surrounded that game, Jarrod’s involvement in the bust of a multi-million-pound betting syndicate, was almost a distant memory. If it wasn’t for the almost daily contact with D.I. Allison of the Met Police with updates on the trials of the parties involved, he could have forgotten it completely. The trial of the main offender and foot soldier, Yannick Lefevre, appeared to be going nowhere and the detective inspector was concerned that he might get away scot-free.

The footballing public weren’t going to forget it quickly though. He was recognised even more now wherever he went, especially in Newcastle. There had been requests for TV interviews about the betting scandal, but the standard response email sent on Jarrod’s behalf by the police was enough to put off any media outlet looking for an exclusive.

One by-product of all the drama was Jarrod’s link to betting and money. Advertising and PR companies were all over him. Jarrod’s agent, Duddy Freiberg, who had masterminded the loan deal at Newcastle, was still managing Jarrod’s affairs in a somewhat unofficial capacity. He provided Jarrod with constant feedback as to the sort of wheeling and dealing that was happening behind the scenes. He had knocked back offers to be brand ambassador for at least two betting companies, and also one from a payday loan company of ill-repute.

Two weeks ago, though, an offer from BetShed—a new player in the crowded online betting marketplace—was deemed too good to turn down. Jarrod had been asked to spend a day at a film studio near London. It was an enormous day. Jarrod had caught a train from Darlington after training on the Sunday afternoon and was met at Stevenage by a car that drove him to the studio nearby. There he had a briefing with the producer and a run-through of what he would need to do and say.

After he had eventually gone to bed at midnight, he was picked up from his accommodation at 6:30 a.m. for a whole day of shooting. The previous six weeks had given Jarrod so many new experiences, so this was water off a duck’s back. The one thing that he had found intriguing was the amount of kit and the number of people needed just to shoot an advert. It was like all the gear from the whole of the Arena on game day, shoehorned into a space as big as a village church hall. People stepped carefully around and over mysterious black boxes. Jarrod stood on a small stage with blinding lights shining at him from all angles.

The idea behind the advert was pretty clever—Jarrod was on a stool in front of what he had assumed to be a green screen. He was dressed in a good suit, a Gibson and Brookes—he recognised the name—and it fit him perfectly. He was instructed to type something into the mobile phone he was holding, stumble off the stool as if surprised, and then start walking. He then did multiple shots of him walking at an increasing pace, then jogging. His jacket came off between shots, and his shirt then unbuttoned to reveal a generic football shirt. He eventually ended up in full football gear. The last shot was of Jarrod celebrating a goal, both fists in the air, head back and roaring at the sky.

Jarrod had been told what was meant to be playing behind him on the screen but had been unable to really follow what the director had been telling him. It had all sounded a little contrived, but he had no reason to doubt that it would be very impressive. He was told that he would get a preview of it anyway before it went to air.

Jarrod felt as if he’d made a few friends during the course of that long, long day, and remembered being exhausted when he arrived back home after midnight after a late train journey back up north.

He was given a preview of the ad, about a week ago. There were in fact a series of four different ads, all using the same footage, but all with totally different backgrounds. The idea was that a user of the BetShed app had placed a bet and that had prompted Jarrod to get off to his game, as if given instructions to score the winning goal. The user was in a different country and a different scene each time, but the result was the same: the winning goal. The ads all ended with Jarrod back on his stool as if he were ready for the next user of the app to place their bet.

Jarrod wasn’t convinced it was that good. He didn’t quite get the message, but the finished product looked slick and the background looked convincing. He was pretty happy with his own acting skills too. The ads were about twelve seconds long—long enough that Jarrod was sure he wouldn’t see them at prime time in the ad breaks in Coronation Street.

When the ads came out, they were everywhere, especially online. Every time he looked at any website or ventured into social media, he saw his own face. It had kind of grown on Jarrod and after two days of being bombarded with the same ads, he was able to look at it and say that it was a pretty good piece of work. The money that had been offered for the shoot was amazing too—eighty thousand pounds for a day’s work, and they’d even paid for everything while he was there.

After the payments had hit his bank account from the spell at Newcastle, this added to make an enormous amount of money sitting waiting to be put to work. Jarrod’s wife Marianne had been discussing investing in another house, maybe in Newcastle. Jarrod had always thought he should invest into something back in Sydney but was too afraid of the outrageous prices. Or it could just stay in the bank, and they could live quite comfortably off that for a while when Jarrod hung up his boots. They’d be able to do some travelling when he finally had the time; Jarrod had never been to South America and Marianne had visions of a Kombi van tour.

That feeling of accomplishment was immediately nipped in the bud the following day at training. No one had said anything about the ads until Dec Hines scored a cheeky goal in the small-sided game at the end, and raced into the corner of the field, raised his fists to the sky and roared. Everyone burst out laughing, Jarrod included. A chant of “BetShed, BetShed”, just like at the end of the ads, went up and all the players converged on Jarrod, jumping around him. It was as though they had just won the FA Cup.

Jarrod loved this bunch of players. They were all on equal footing; there was no grandstanding by anyone in the squad, or if there was a hint of it, the player in question would quickly be shot down to size. Jarrod was the club captain but there were more confident and over-the-top individuals than himself. He felt as though there was a trust between the players on the field that was there off the field too. Jarrod had enjoyed his time in the spotlight at Newcastle and was enjoying some airtime now, but he knew that his teammates would keep him well and truly grounded.

A video session to watch highlights of their opponents Shrewsbury included a link to an online clip of their last game of last season. Before the game started to play, it cut abruptly to an ad. It was Jarrod’s BetShed ad. He put his hand over his eyes as the rest of the squad cat-called and booed at the screen, a shout of “bor-ing!” getting everyone laughing. Keeper Wes Kellehar got angry the next day at his phone and shouted “Bloody Jarrod Black, you’ve taken over my phone …” as a pop-up played the ad for the umpteenth time. There was a lot of laughter in the changing room. Jarrod hoped that Wes wasn’t being serious.

03Meadow

The trip to New Meadow for the opening game took longer than Jarrod had anticipated. The leg after leaving the M6 to the stadium seemed to take hours, despite there being relatively light traffic. In the absence of Mitch Short, still on loan at Glasgow Rangers, Wes had started the comical introduction to the host town, a tradition that was revered on Darlington bus journeys. It was some great patter, big on sheep jokes, but he’d done it a little too early. As a result, Jarrod felt a little weary stepping off the coach, when he would usually feel invigorated by the tour guide spiel. He reckoned he wasn’t the only one feeling that way.

There was something not right, that was for sure. Jarrod was named on the bench when he was sure that he would be in the starting line-up. Peter was in midfield with fresh new signing Benson Gadriga, the formation much like Monday night’s starting eleven that misfired in the last friendly game. Gary and Des were deep in conversation in the corner of the changing room. Benson was still getting to know his teammates after arriving two days ago. He was a player of immense potential that Gary and his scouts had tracked all last season at non-league York City. He was on the radar of Championship clubs too, but the offers were not right for the player. Gerry had become involved as the transfer window approached its conclusion. Armed with the loan payments from Newcastle and Rangers for Jarrod and Mitch respectively, they went in with one last offer and that broke the stalemate. A handsome fee for a non-league part-timer was exchanged and the young midfielder made the short journey to Darlington the next day to get ready for the opening league fixture.

Jarrod had mixed emotions about being on the bench. He was club captain. That didn’t mean that he was guaranteed a place in the team, but his presence in the squad was deemed vital. Gary hadn’t offered any reason for his omission for this one, other than that he was taking a calculated risk. So many times, a new signing at a club had to be eased into the team after a few weeks, but Gary wanted to make a statement here and Gerry wanted his long-term target to make an instant impact.

The warm-up was a little laboured; at least that’s what Jarrod felt. The Darlo fans were out in force, but the usual sun-swathed conditions that heralded the start of a new season were replaced by driving rain. At least the supporters were undercover, and they were in good voice. Jarrod tried to instil a sense of urgency into the final warm-up and made sure that he put in an extra effort in a passing drill where he was trying to intercept. In the changing room after the warm-up, Jarrod felt strange to be in his tracksuit, but still made a point of pumping up his teammates. Connor received some strong words—Jarrod had always thought that he was capable of more and let him know that he should be running at his defender from the first minute.

He had encouraging words for Peter and Benson, instructing Benson to stay close to Peter when the opposition had possession, and to move quickly into position when they won it back. As the players walked out of the tunnel to the tune of ‘Catch Me If You Can’, Gary put his arm around Jarrod and squeezed.

“You’re itching to be out there, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” said Jarrod. “I hope I don’t have to come on when we’re losing. I hope we’re celebrating by the end of the ninety minutes.”

That was a telling statement. It was stinging and was meant to sow a seed in Gary’s mind. Jarrod surprised himself with his words. It was almost a veiled threat, the words of someone who would be tutting and shaking their head if it all went wrong. Jarrod felt a little uneasy at his thoughts. Des had an encouraging word as they made their way into the players’ seats behind the technical area.

“It pains me to see you on the bench, Jarrod,” said Des. “I know how much this means to you and how much you want to be out there leading the team. I think the fans will get a surprise.”

Jarrod took his place on the bench in between Roni and Ghali Barbera, and he felt surprisingly relaxed. The first eleven was in position now and a roar started from the crowd, growing in volume until the referee blew to start the game and the roar turned to applause. It wasn’t long before the supporters were absorbed in the game, the home team starting at a quick tempo.

The failings that were obvious in the first half of Monday’s game were evident here again. There was a gap between midfield and defence, with debutant Benson trying just that little bit too hard to get involved in the action. Anton up front was also finding the going tough, looking forlornly at the long balls played up to him with no chance of beating the central defender for height. At least Will Telfer, last year’s top scorer, was involved and was trying to find space for the flick-on.

The party atmosphere in the away end had almost disappeared as Darlo toiled and weathered a storm of attacks from the home side. A litany of telegraphed passes brought groans from the bench, Gary and Des getting fidgety. On the half hour, central defender Raynor Gunn clattered into his man on the edge of the box, a petulant response to some gamesmanship from the opposing centre-forward. After a minute of setting the wall and working out who could and couldn’t be in it, the Town left midfielder stepped up and looped a terrific shot over the defenders and past Wes for 1–0. Gary spun around in disgust. Jarrod nestled his chin on his clenched fist. New Meadow was rocking.

Half time in the changing room was no place for the faint-hearted. Jarrod had never seen Gary so upset. Physio Sash was tending to Connor who looked as if he’d been playing in the mud, his hair and face coated with dirt and his shirt ripped at the collar. Gary paced up and down the room, his demeanour changing from angry to pleading. How could they let their fans down with a performance like this? Jarrod was taking this all in. He’d find it useful at the sports psychology course he was enrolled in on Monday at St George’s Park as part of his long-running goal to get a UEFA A Licence.

There were no changes at the break, and Darlington responded to Gary’s words after half time. Suddenly there was composure, and Anton began to get some time on the ball. The running of Dean Minto and Connor was starting to cause panic in the home team’s defence. A long cross from the right by Connor was headed back across goal by Anton and Will lashed the ball against the bar and over. This was more like it.

Benson was toiling with little effect in midfield. The first change saw Ghali replace him in an unfamiliar central midfield role, but once it was clear that the replacement was finding it equally challenging, the second change saw Anton sacrificed, and Jarrod entered the fray. Ghali went up front and Jarrod found his place next to Peter and gave a rallying cry to his teammates around him.

The tempo was immediately raised, and Darlington started to press higher and higher. Defender Freddie Asquith found himself in attack as the away team broke away quickly from a Shrewsbury corner. Jarrod’s delicate through ball saw Freddie race clear of the last man and shimmy to dummy the keeper. His lack of experience in these situations though saw him push the ball too far towards the byline and the resulting shot was from such an acute angle that it flashed across the face of the goal and into touch on the far side.

With five minutes remaining, Darlington had been on the attack for the majority of the half. A momentary lapse in concentration from Raynor saw him caught in possession and the Shrewsbury striker picked his pocket, ran through on goal, and showed Freddie how to finish, through the legs of Wes for the decisive second goal. Jarrod was disgusted, but put his arm around Raynor to console him, as the stadium bounced along to the rock anthem that saluted the goal.

Jarrod booted the door when he arrived in the changing room after an extended PR session with the Darlington fans at the away end. Freddie followed him in and booted it again, then Raynor smashed it against the wall with such force that some of the paint flaked off the heavy wooden door. This was not the Darlington team that Jarrod knew and loved. Gary was calmer than at half time. After all, the game was over and there was nothing he could do about the result. He was full of praise where it counted. Peter was singled out for his never-say-die attitude, and Connor’s display earned him a lot of encouraging words. But they had lost and were unfortunate to be on the end of a two-goal defeat.

That could have derailed Darlo’s season, but Jarrod knew that his teammates had been a little off, even from the moment they stepped off the coach, and he wasn’t concerned. The Radio 5 roundup as the coach pulled away highlighted the damning reality of twenty-third place; only Lincoln City had lost by more and were keeping them off the bottom of the table.

Jarrod’s belief in his team to bounce back from that opening day defeat was justified. The first round League Cup tie at Barnsley on the Wednesday night was a massive shot in the arm. Jarrod started the game alongside Peter, and he was instrumental in a 3–1 win against one of their League One rivals.

By the time the following weekend was over, and the second round of league games had been played, Darlington were back in mid-table, a 2–1 home win against Plymouth Argyle at the Arena sending them up to the heady heights of fourteenth. They had two wins under their belts and the signs were good for more of the same as they looked to gain a foothold in this difficult division.

Jarrod had cemented his place in the side after those two commanding displays and Benson had to be content with a place on the subs’ bench, despite his obvious talent and much-hyped transfer. A victory for experience over youth, Jarrod thought, although he was genuinely concerned that Benson might not recover from his difficult start with the club.

04Croft

Jarrod had just arrived home from another all-day session at St George’s Park and was feeling exhausted. The lack of direct transport links to Burton-on-Trent had given him no option other than to drive and getting snarled up in some heavy traffic didn’t help the journey. It was now just after 9:30 p.m. The lights were off in the kids’ bedrooms. Marianne would still be up, but not for much longer. He pulled out his mobile phone. It had been buzzing in his pocket quite frequently the last twenty minutes, and he hadn’t checked it.

There were a number of missed calls from an unknown number, the same one four times from a London code. He was ready to dismiss it as yet another one of those junk calls asking him to sign up for a mobile plan or telling him that his home internet was suspended, but he saw that a voice message had been left on the final call. An Indian-sounding ‘James Thomas’ from the call centre in Bangalore wouldn’t have left a voicemail message. There were other missed calls and a few other voicemails. Jarrod had to listen to a couple before he got to the one from the unknown number.

“Hi, there, Jarrod,” said the voice, the use of his first name instantly making this a genuine call. “This is Stevie Mosseman of Barrowful Productions. We would like to chat with you about a new movie production that we have starting early next year. Please return my call on 0200 8000 4000 any time.”

The message had been received only a few minutes ago, so Jarrod had no hesitation in ringing the number. Strange number too; someone must have paid a lot of money to get a number like that.

“Thanks for calling back, Jarrod,” was the instant response after only one ring. “Stevie Mosseman.”

He accentuated the ‘e’ in his surname, letting Jarrod know that he was not all moss, just a little mossy.

“What can I do for you, Stevie?” asked Jarrod, still unsure of the context of the man he was talking to. He could be a salesman, an advertising man, he could even be looking for a reference for someone else.

“Your name has been thrown into the ring as the new Harlowe Croft in our next movie From the Gallows,” said Stevie. “We would like to meet you and have a chat face to face.”

“Okay,” Jarrod abruptly responded, agitated at the nonsense he was hearing. “Now is not a good time though. I’ve just arrived home after a big day. I’ll get back to you, hopefully tomorrow.”

“Oh, right, okay …” stuttered Stevie. “Well, goodnight.”

Jarrod hung up with a roll of his eyes and grumbled to himself, ‘What next?’, before leaping out of the car into the cold night air and jogging quietly over the gravel to the front door to let himself in.

05Licence

It wasn’t until the next morning that Jarrod thought about it again. He was on his way to training when the hosts of the easy-listening mid-morning show on Radio Teesside had a quick exchange about their favourite Harlowe Croft actor over the years. It turned out that heart-throb Craig Daniels had been dropped as Croft, the lead character in the long-running semi-serious British institution, and that a more youthful Croft was being considered. Youthful would be a loose term, however, as Harlowe Croft had been anything from thirty to sixty in the top-grossing movie series over the years.

Jarrod drove through the gates and found a spot. The seed of curiosity had been sown in his mind, and he quickly googled Craig Daniels and started reading. It was true all right: the onset of wrinkles and his increasingly baggy eyes had caught up with the actor. He was also no longer in shape, his larger frame belying the mystique of Harlowe Croft. Croft was always a slim figure, quintessentially English, who wore a suit well. It was time for a change.

There were many names thrown around; Murat, from the light entertainment duo Murat and Andoni, was in there. He did cut a slim figure, but his accent might be too strong to disguise as a Londoner. James Milner, the ex-Liverpool player, was also a name that Jarrod recognised, that chiselled chin a striking feature in anyone’s books, but not the perfect fit physically. Needless to say, Jarrod’s name was not in the frame, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be at any time in the near future.

He was just about to step out of the car when a further thought about how much these actors got paid flashed across his mind. With one foot on the ground and his leg keeping the door open, he disappeared down another internet rabbit-hole when the first figure of $15 million per movie popped up. That dollar amount, in US dollars, he assumed—wow, that was a lot of money.

He realised that he should make tracks to training when his leg was starting to get a little numb from the car door.

The morning training session was a light jog and preparation for the evening game at home to Bristol Rovers. Jarrod had missed yesterday’s late afternoon training session and was keen to get his muscles moving again after way too long driving there and back to the Midlands. He breezed through the reception area with a wink to the young receptionist who was on a call and raced up the steps and past Pauline’s office. Pauline, the head of media at the club, noticed him dashing past and called after him.

“Jarrod! Jarrod!” she shouted, Jarrod not realising until the second shout. He stopped and backtracked, poking his head around the door.

“Pauline! Did I hear you shout my name?”

“Yes, yes, come in. One minute,” replied Pauline, pointing at the empty seat opposite hers. Jarrod complied, although he made it look as if he wouldn’t be staying there long. He glanced at the pile of newspapers on her desk with the trashy mag on top with Craig Daniels on the cover.

“How was yesterday?” she asked.

“Yesterday was fantastic,” said Jarrod, instantly engaged now that someone had taken an interest in his epic UEFA A Licence. “We had a session about the different characters we might come across in a football team. I think I can categorise everyone in the squad now.”

“That’s good,” said Pauline. “Now, when does this end?”

“When does it end?” repeated Jarrod, with a puzzled expression.

“We’ve got Saturday, Tuesday for pretty much the whole season, especially if we go on cup runs,” said Pauline. “Are you sure you’ve got the time to give to your licence right now?”

Jarrod rocked back in the seat and stared at Pauline. He didn’t know what to say. He searched for clues in Pauline’s eyes. Was this coming from Gary, the coaching staff? Had Marianne said something? Did Gerry notice that he was away a bit more than usual? This needed a crafty response. After all, he’d stalled so long on this bloody licence, he couldn’t abandon it again.

“Oh yes,” he finally answered. “It’s all about preserving the body at this stage. Taking some time away from the training field is not a bad thing sometimes. I’m still active on these days away, you know, but at least I don’t get into game situations and risk injury.”

“Right,” was all that Pauline could respond with. She was clearly not convinced. Cristiano Ronaldo was fitter than he ever was at Jarrod’s age and wouldn’t miss a training session. To be fair, Jarrod wasn’t Cristiano Ronaldo.

“Can I go?” asked Jarrod with the hint of petulance that such a sentence always carried. Pauline showed her palm towards the door and smiled warmly as he left, holding her gaze as he walked out. That unspoken communication confirmed that it had come from somewhere else, and that Pauline was acting as the messenger. They had a fantastic working relationship, Pauline and Jarrod, and it would be as strong as ever this season.

06Downpour

Jarrod subconsciously wanted to show the coaching team just how fit and ready he was for the evening game, putting in extra effort and making sure he stuck to his marking task in the defensive drill. Bristol Rovers were blessed with an outstanding midfielder from Jamaica, Chilton Richards, a towering presence in the centre who had terrorised teams in the early stages of the season to help put his team top of the table. Gary and Des were working out who was going to be given the marking job: Jarrod or Peter. Jarrod was in two minds—on one hand he wanted to prove a point and be considered as the man for the job, on the other hand it would be a bruising ninety minutes.

Training was cut short by a heavy downpour, but the sun was almost out again by the time they had run for cover. The squad assembled in the changing rooms, unsure as to whether or not they would be continuing. Gary and Des walked in, and Gary closed the door. He strode over to the whiteboard and started to rub off the previous scribblings.

“Right, lads,” he said, using the ‘r’ to clear his throat and get everyone’s attention. “While we’re in here, let’s run through tonight’s starting line-up. Wes in goal.”

He started to write with the only working pen, first putting up the formation in dots, a conservative 4-4-2 with a diamond in midfield, then filling in the names against each dot.

“Right back, Steva, in the middle, Raynor and Freddie, Basa at left back,” he said, jotting the names down as he said them and then turning to Sam Basaan as if to reinforce something they had talked through together previously.

“Out wide in the midfield four, Connor,” he said pointing with the pen. “And Deano. And in the middle, holding in front of the back four, will be Oz, with Peter following the big lad around in front.”

Jarrod hadn’t heard that nickname for a while and smiled, looking at Peter who looked a little worried about the task ahead, but managing a raise of the eyebrows at Jarrod.

“Up front, A.B.,” Gary continued, pointing again with the pen at Anton. “And Will.”

Des then took the pen and started to write the names of the substitutes while Gary turned and addressed the team.

“Now, we know that Rovers are a pacy team,” he started. “Give yourself a chance, stay on your feet and don’t dive in. Steva, you were outstanding last week, I’m counting on you today for another big performance against their left winger. He’s fast, but you’re faster.”

Jarrod was analysing Gary’s delivery, thinking back to sessions he had been in at St George’s Park and forward to what he would say in a similar situation. It was good to hear Gary talking up one of the young prospects, although Jarrod may have preferred to make it a little less public. The pressure might be on young Steven Horton now, and a poor performance might derail his impressive start to first-team life.

Conversely, it was clear that Gary and Sam had talked about Sam’s role today, and that wasn’t deemed for the ears of the whole squad. It was fascinating, all this psychology, and Jarrod had become more and more aware of it now that he had studied it as part of the A Licence.

The players were ready to go back out for training, but Gary instructed them that they were done for the session, and they were due back for a late lunch at 3:00 p.m. The two hours’ gap that they had now was one that frustrated Jarrod in the early days, but as he got older and his life got busier as the years passed, he was appreciative of the time to be able to run errands and make phone calls. Today would be no different, and he installed himself in the deserted breakout area of the Arena, a space that doubled as a corporate lounge on match days. Out came the phone.

There was a missed call from that London number again, and just as he was heading to check the voicemail, the phone vibrated, and a call came in. Jarrod was startled and instinctively answered it, cursing that his reflexes had kicked in ahead of his brain. This was a number he didn’t know.

“Jarrod speaking,” he said in his politest manner.

“Jarrod, yes, Jarrod, oh, hi,” came the rather flustered response. “Robert Biscotti here from Zion Films, I was hoping to grab five minutes of your time. You may have spoken with my co-producer Stevie Mosseman already.”

“Ah, yes,” said Jarrod, remembering that he should have returned that call from last night and immediately feeling guilty for being so short on the phone. “Your colleague caught me at a bad time last night.”

“Understood,” said Robert. “Now, I don’t know how much Stevie discussed with you, but you may have heard the news that a new Harlowe Croft is being lined up. It’s all over the television today.”

“Yes, I must admit, since last night I’ve noticed it everywhere.”

“So, if I was to offer you the role right now and put you on the spot, what would your first reaction be?”

“I’d say I wouldn’t believe you,” said Jarrod. He had been plagued with junk calls early in his career, people trying to take advantage of him or bait him into agreeing to something that he didn’t want or need. “Who gave you my number?”

“Ah, yes, I do apologise,” said Robert in a theatrical tone. “My good friend Duddy may or may not have left his little black book open at the right page when I met up with him last week at the studios.”

“You know Duddy?” exclaimed Jarrod incredulously, before acknowledging that Duddy knew everyone. “Of course you do …”

“We’ve known Duddy Freiberg for years,” said Robert confidently. “He’s a football agent, but he’s also a very shrewd agent in the film industry. He loves movies. Has he not mentioned that to you?”

“I had no idea,” said Jarrod, starting to warm to Robert.

“Now, the movie is going to be shot on location,” said Robert. “Either in the States or in your old stomping ground in Australia …”

“Oh …?” said Jarrod as if he was divulging his interest.

“… and we’re confident that it will be Australia,” continued Robert, seizing on the crumb of interest. “Your name was thrown around a lot. Who do we know who would fit the look of Harlowe Croft, would be at home in Australia and can act?”

“I can act?” asked Jarrod.

“You can. It doesn’t take much to see from your post-match interviews and press conferences that you hold yourself well, like Harlowe Croft. Plus, your advertising debut …”

“You are kidding now.”

“No, it’s clear that you have what it takes.”

“Well, I’m blown away,” said Jarrod after a moment of silence.

“Think about it. Let’s assume that Duddy will be your managing agent. Shooting for the movie is due to begin in April next year, hopefully only just overlapping with the end of your football season by a week or two.”

Jarrod was silent for a moment while he processed what he had just heard.

“When do you need to know?” asked Jarrod. “I mean, that’s a big call.”

“Sure, we’ll give you a day or two before we need to cast the net if you’re turning down the opportunity. I’d urge you to think it through, and when you have, just let Duddy know that you’re ready to talk again.”

“If I need to discuss anything, should I give you a call?” asked Jarrod.

“Yes, this is my direct number,” replied Robert. “Save it in your phone. Contact me any time, day or night. This is a key decision in the whole process, and we’d like to have it resolved as soon as we possibly can.”

That cemented the importance of the call and added an element of urgency.

“Thanks, er, Robert, was it?” stumbled Jarrod.

“Robert Biscotti, Zion Films,” repeated Robert patiently and with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. “We’ll hear from you soon.”

That call prompted a quick Google search on Jarrod’s phone. Sure enough, the first entry for Robert Biscotti, even before he had finished typing the surname, was his entry on the Zion Films ‘Our People’ page. There were links to movie review pages, biographies on other websites. This was definitely a man with a lot of clout. Jarrod saved his number in his contacts list and typed in ‘Harlowe Croft next movie’ before he was interrupted by a door opening in the corridor and a cheery whistle, unmistakably the trademark whistle of coach Des Davis.

07Coach

Jarrod glanced up; Des took that as an invitation to come and sit in the seat on the opposite side of the table. Jarrod smiled. He’d always enjoyed his coach’s company and warmed to him as soon as he met him last year at the trials.

“J.B.,” said Des, using yet another nickname. “A quick word, if I may?”

Des was now sitting opposite with his elbows on the table, his two hands clasped in front of him. It looked serious. The body language didn’t look entirely positive, and Jarrod thought back to the brief discussion he’d had with Pauline earlier on. Maybe this was escalating up the chain.

“Hello, Des,” Jarrod said warmly. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know where to start, to be honest,” said Des in a low voice, to suggest secrecy.

Jarrod shuffled in his chair as if he needed to get closer to hear him.

“Hartlepool have been in touch …” he started, then paused to see if that rang any bells.

Jarrod was well aware of Hartlepool United. They were considered by the fans to be the main rivals, despite not having faced each other competitively for a number of years and despite Middlesbrough being closer geographically. Going back in time though, both teams were mainstays of the bottom division of English football and as a result faced each other very regularly. The ‘monkey-hangers’ of Hartlepool still came up in conversation quite often with locals. Jarrod was intrigued. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“Their manager is being courted for the vacancy at Aberdeen,” continued Des. “He’s an ex-player and he’ll definitely take it. Hartlepool have asked me to consider the position.”

Des was agitated about being the centre of attention. He had been manager of a couple of local non-league teams before coming to Darlington, so he was no stranger to being in the hot seat. But he was obviously going through the same emotional turmoil that Jarrod had gone through just a few weeks ago when Newcastle came knocking. Jarrod knew that empathising about his predicament would be of no use to Des.

“How good does it feel to be wanted?” he said instead, before following up with a practical question. “What’s the timeline for this happening?”

“I was given a heads up two days ago,” Des replied. “And they’ll have a vacancy to fill later today if everything goes as expected.”

Jarrod smiled. Football rarely involved long drawn-out decisions when it came to players and managers. One day you’d be enjoying life, family settled in the area, the next day you could be in a different town, a new club and even a new country. He felt privileged to be the one that Des confided in, but also happy to be able to impart some relevant advice to his colleague. Des would have come to Jarrod probably to make up his mind that he was going to take it. After all, Jarrod had a track record of decisively making and sticking to decisions.

“I’m going to take it,” said Des, popping that thought bubble and letting Jarrod know that there was no decision left to make. “It might take up to a week to happen, but if the opportunity arises as it is scheduled to do so later today, I’m throwing my hat in the ring.”

Jarrod’s eyes had widened further.

“Which means that we will need a coach to take my place,” continued Des, who had leaned even further forward and was speaking in a slightly slower and softer voice.

Jarrod pulled his neck back and gave the Ancelotti eyes.

“And Gary would like that person to be you.”

Jarrod sat and stared unblinking at Des.

“You’re close to getting your licence,” said Des. “You’ve got the right personality to be a leader, you know the game better than most, and you’ve still got something to offer on the field.”

Jarrod was piecing this together in his head. A quick appraisal of what it would look like if this whole scenario, that was all of fifteen seconds old, came to fruition. The shoe was on the other foot now; it was back to Jarrod being the one with the decision to make.

“Wow,” said Jarrod before puffing out his cheeks. “Should I wait for Gary to come to me, or is this an official approach?”

“No, no,” said Des, shaking his open hands in front of him and sitting back. “Nothing official. I just wanted to give you a heads up that Gary or even Gerry might be looking to speak with you after the game tonight.”

Jarrod watched as Des stood up, as if in a hurry to get out of there now that he had that news off his chest.

“Just a heads up,” said Des. “See you in an hour or so.”

As Des was about to leave the breakout area and go through the double doors, Jarrod intentionally called out loudly.

“Congratulations, by the way!”

Des stopped, turned and raised his finger to his pursed lips before smiling and disappearing with bluster through the doors. As they flapped to and fro before closing, Jarrod contemplated what he had just heard. And then he glanced down at his phone. It was a message from D.I. Allison asking him to call. He tapped the name, which opened the Signal 7 app and started the private encrypted call.

08Signal

“Jarrod, thanks for calling straight away,” said D.I. Allison.

“Detective Inspector,” said Jarrod, using his title instead of his first name for a change. “If you ask me to call, I call. What can I do for you?”

“Just a heads up,” said D.I. Allison, repeating the turn of phrase that Des had just coined. “Your friend Yannick Lefevre has been released from custody. You’ll see it on the news later tonight. He’s in London. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Jarrod could feel his skin tighten and goose bumps appeared on his arms. By ‘friend’, D.I. Allison was referring to an integral member of an illegal international betting syndicate that so nearly got away with a most daring match fix that would have changed the face of English football altogether. Jarrod had often thought back to how Newcastle United would look with those millions of pounds ploughed into the club. They would have an Indian corporate backer and an ageing and increasingly stressed-out midfielder ready to sacrifice his soul for the next fix while the police contemplated their next move to make that all important arrest. It was so close to happening and Jarrod was so grateful that it was wrapped up before it got to that stage.

“Shit,” said Jarrod. “That’s not good. Are you keeping tabs on him at least?”

“We’re not allowed to do that these days,” said D.I. Allison. “Although unofficially we’ll let you know if he’s close by at any point.”