Chapter 9: Eight

Friday was a nervy day all round at Cobham. We knew Liverpool would be a tough match – it always was – and with Kyle injuring himself in training and Rodrigo ill, it was looking to be slightly tougher than normal. Because Rodri played such a big role in our midfield, Frank had been spending a lot of time with Jody talking tactics since the Spaniard had been absent at training all week. He'd eventually decided to change the formation to four in the midfield and two up front, meaning we'd focused on doing tactical drills rather than conditioning drills most of the week.

Due to the nature of the game, I had been expecting another repeat of the Norwich game. We were currently sitting third on the table, which was great, except Liverpool were ahead of us on goal difference. Beat them, and we'd go top. Lose, and we'd surely be replaced by City or Leicester or Spurs or one of the other teams hot on our heels. At least we were playing at the Bridge and not at Anfield just yet.

Frank named the squad on Friday after training, as per usual, and once again a spark of excitement hit me when I heard my name, but less so than I'd felt before the Norwich game. Still, I headed home and got a good night's rest on the odd chance that Frank decided to place too much trust in me.

Frank had named Rodri in the squad despite his only returning to training on Friday. When I arrived at the team hotel on Saturday for our lunch, I spotted him instantly sitting with Elena and Valentina. He looked pale still and the plate of food in front of him was barely touched. Fran came up next to me as I was checking him out.

"He looks bad," she commented with a tut. "Can't believe he's here."

"We struggle without him." I shrugged and slid out a chair, taking a seat opposite David and Olly. "I don't really think he had a choice."

Fran rolled her eyes. "He can barely stand up! We have to learn without him sooner or later; he's not going to be around for every game."

I could feel Fran's frustration coming off her. She was normally pretty vocal about how she felt, but she seemed to hardly get upset about things. Now, though, she looked like she was fuming about something.

"He's just on the bench," I pointed out gently. "It's not like the gaffer will start him."

"Yes, and we have three perfectly healthy midfielders who could have been in his place."

"Geez, Fran, why are you so concerned about this?" Olly chimed in with a chuckle.

Fran rolled her eyes and took a spoonful of soup. "Everyone treats him like the only one that matters. It's just irritating."

Mason arrived and, clearly sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject. I kept an eye on Fran throughout lunch, though, and decided I'd try chat to her once Frank had announced the team. He called for our attention a while later, when it seemed that everyone was finished eating.

"Right, guys, big one today." He stood to the side of the buffet table; he wasn't an exceptionally tall guy, but had the ability to captivate a room as soon as he opened his mouth. "I don't want to say too much – I think we covered most of what we needed to in training – but a couple of things to think about."

He went on to mention some key strategies he'd focused on, namely making sure we kept possession in the midfield and were willing to push forwards in attack while not leaving ourselves vulnerable to their fast counter attacks. He told us to keep our cool and not think about the magnitude of the game: there was a certain type of pressure that we wanted to put on ourselves, but too much would force us to make mistakes.

"Okay, so, starting eleven," he said finally, glancing at a small, crinkled piece of paper in his hands. "David, Tommy, Annika, Emil, Elena at the back. Our four in the middle are Spence at the back, Fran at the front, and then Mase and Val holding the middle. Abs and Olly up front." I swallowed back disappointment again, keeping my eyes on the gaffer as he looked around the room. "Come on, team, I know we have this in us. Bus leaves in a half hour."

The team started moving about, taking their plates or finishing what was left on them. I thanked Mase as he gathered our table's plates, and watched as Fran stood up. She was headed towards the bathroom, and I decided it would be a good time to corner her.

Fran was plaiting her hair in the mirror when I entered. I stood next to her and watched as her fingers quickly and confidently weaved her blonde hair into a beautiful French plait.

"What, Beck?" she snapped. "I'm trying to get in the zone here." I tried not to be too offended as I swallowed.

"What's up, Fran? Why are you so upset about this Rodri thing?" The Belgian sighed and shook her head, the frown on her face deep. When she didn't reply, I added, "It's just not like you."

"The gaffer just makes such a fuss over him," she mumbled irritably. "This whole week has been changing the game because of one missing player. It's ridiculous."

"He's a really important part of our team," I reminded her again. "We struggle defensively without him there."

It was true: the Spaniard was a world-class defensive midfielder. His passing and composure were one of the best I'd played with, not to mention his fight and spirit. He was as vocal as they came on the pitch and never let his head drop, which became vital when the rest of the team started dipping. Sure, someone like Fran was crucial, too, but Rodri really held us together during important games.

"Yes, I know that," she retorted. She finished her plait and started wrapping a hair tie around the base of it. "I just... he's not even playing today. He's not involved and everything is still about him. There's been stuff I wanted to do this week but no: Rodri's sick so we drop everything to replace him."

"Are you upset because he's been getting so much attention?"

I frowned at Fran. It wasn't like her to be nasty about other players, especially players in her own team. The only reason I could think of to explain her behaviour was that she felt overlooked during all of this. She kept quiet.

"Fran, you're just as important as Rodri," I said slowly. "You just do completely different things on the pitch. Your–"

"Thanks, Beck, but I don't want to talk about this right now."

I was shocked as Fran shrugged and walked out of the bathroom midway through my speech. Hurt washed over me as I saw the door shut behind her and I reminded myself never to try and cheer up Fran Steiner when she was in a bad mood.

I boarded the bus later, making sure to avoid Fran right at the back. Instead, I took the empty seat next to Annika, who was motioning for me to come over.

"Hey, Beck," she started saying as soon as I was seated, "don't worry about Fran." I rolled my eyes but, before I could make a snarky comment, Annika carried on talking. "There was this Sky video released yesterday and these pundits really laid into her."

My stomach dropped at the upset expression on Annika's face, and at the realisation of why Fran was sour. "What did they say?"

Annika shook her head, her blue eyes wide. "It was so bad, Beck. They called her lazy and said she can be replaced overnight and that we don't need her." My stomach sank further as I lowered myself in my seat. "Yeah. She was very upset."

"Aw, man," I muttered. "She doesn't deserve that. She played so well for Belgium."

"Said it was luck," Annika said with a shrug. "And that she played well for us because of others like Rodri making her look good."

There it is. I nodded knowingly and turned back so that I could look over the seats at Fran. She was still sitting alone, her headphones over her ears, staring out of the window with a frown.

"Poor Fran. But she can't take that stuff too personally. Everyone gets talked about sometimes."

"Yeah, well, I would just leave her until after," Annika carried on. "I tried to talk to her yesterday and she also shouted at me."

I nodded again and sent a silent prayer to the universe that Fran would have a cracker of a game today, just to say a big fuck you to those stupid pundits.

***

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. The only positive thing was that it wasn't only Fran playing badly: the whole team looked shocking. We had been doing fine until Fran lost the ball on the top of their box after a corner and a couple of passes got them away from our midfielders, leaving their front three facing only two of our defenders. From there, things got steadily worse.

Our forwards weren't making any runs, our passing looked sloppy, our defenders looked as if they'd never made a tackle before. Three of our players were on yellow cards and, if it weren't for David making some crucial saves, we would have been much worse off at half time. The score was flattering and we were two nil down, which said everything it needed to.

I was relieved I wasn't in the changing room at the break. Frank had been fuming for most of the game, pacing up and down, throwing his arms up in the air just about every three minutes. The only player on the pitch who appeared half-decent was Emil, and that wasn't really a surprise.

Spencer, who looked the worst of the lot unfortunately, departed at half time and our formation changed to a midfield of three, with Fran pushing up to the wing and Olly playing number nine. I thought I would want to be on the pitch more, but honestly I was quite content just staying out of this disaster.

With our new formation and without Spencer, things seemed to be going a little better. Fran even had a shot on target, which was impossible in the first half. However, Thomas van der Berg, my replacement at left back, made just about the worst pass of the season ten minutes into the half: straight across the box and directly to their striker. She just had to fire it in behind David hard enough and they were three nil up.

"Okay, that's it," Frank muttered, collapsing into his chair in front of me. He was silent for a second, before he quickly stood up again and faced the reserves. "Beck, you up for this?"

My heart jammed as I widened my eyes. This was not what I expected at all. I blinked at Frank silently, my palms sweaty. He raised his eyebrows.

"Well?" he demanded. "You said you were ready. We need you out there."

I nodded and, silently, stood up to remove my bib. With shaking hands, I pulled my match top on and sat back down to tie my boots. Jody crouched next to me, illustrating a scenario that kept happening on a piece of paper. I think I blanked out; I was too nervous and too fired up with adrenalin to focus on lines and dots.

Before I knew it, Frank had his arm around me and was talking into my ear, telling me to do this and not do that and mark this player and watch this other one. I nodded along as if I completely understood, but meanwhile my head was just a bunch of fireworks going off.

You're playing again you're playing again you're playing again!was all I could really hear.

I stood on the by-line, stretching my hamstrings as I waited for Thomas to come off. He hardly high-fived me as he departed, and then I was sprinting towards the opposite end of the pitch, my body freaking out.

I didn't have time to dwell on the enormity of the moment, because ten seconds after I took my position, Liverpool were charging down the pitch towards me. Narrowing my eyes, bouncing on my toes, I watched the ball and the player's body as they sped closer. Timing was crucial: too early and they'd go around me, too late and it would be a foul. Fancy, showboating feet danced over the ball as Philippe Hernández approached me. I waited, drew closer, and then dived in, winning the ball as cleanly as possible. I offloaded to Mason with a triumphant roar echoing around the Bridge.

I was back.  And boy did it feel good.