Page 13

“You okay if we head to the clubhouse to see if I can find out more about my family? I called earlier in the week, and they said it would be open.”

Ella gave her a firm nod. “Of course. We’ve seen the game, but that’s only half the job, isn’t it? You’re here to sleuth.”

Sloane smiled. Sleuth. She liked Ella’s turn of phrase. Super British.

They walked across the soft, slick grass – it had rained overnight – then stepped up onto the covered wooden porch and yanked open the white clubhouse door.

Sloane blinked. This was no grand clubhouse like one of those plush buildings with soft couches and lux bars in gated Florida communities. This clubhouse had a scuffed grey floor, white collapsible tables with red plastic chairs, and at the end, a small, almost apologetic bar. However, it was filled with fans, buoyed by their win, pints in hand. It might be a sad space, but the people inside were anything but.

“Shall I get drinks, or do you want to speak to someone?”

Sloane hadn’t arranged anything specifically. She pointed over towards the soccer photos on the far wall. “Let’s have a look at those first.”

When they landed in front of them, Sloane was drawn to the older black-and-white ones. If he’d lived, her granddad would have been 81. Her great-grandparents were both born in 1920, and he’d played here in the late 1930s. Did they even have photos back then? She was pretty sure they’d have one or two.

A hand on her arm made her look up at Ella. “What was your great-granddad’s name again?”

“Robert Patterson.”

“In that case, bingo!” Ella stabbed a framed photo right in front of her. “This is a photo of him about to score in a league game in 1938. Just before the war broke out.” She shook her head. “I feel a bit emotional, and it’s not even my family.” She ushered Sloane closer.

Sloane peered in, and sure enough, Ella was right. There was her great-granddad, with a crew cut, ball at his feet. A prickle of pride gushed through Sloane and happy tears threatened, but she swallowed them down. She’d hoped to find evidence of him, but she never thought it’d be this easy.

Beside the photos was a notice asking for club sponsorship. Maybe that’s why their shirts were sponsor-free: they couldn’t find a company willing to do so. It explained why the clubhouse was so tired if they were short on money.

A chair scraping along the ground behind her made her turn. In it, sat head-clash man. Sloane stepped sideways and gave him a grimace.

“How are you feeling? It was quite the clash back there.”

The man, a boxer’s cut above his right eye, heavily coated with Vaseline, gave her a weary half-smile. “I’ve had worse, but I might not be drinking ten pints tonight. I don’t need more of a headache than I’ve already got.” He touched his right temple, as if checking it was still there, then pointed at the photo. “I saw you looking at that when I sat down. That’s my great-uncle in that photo.”

Sloane’s heart almost stopped in her chest. She pointed again. “This guy?”

The man gave her a smile. “That guy.”

“Well, hot damn.” She gathered her breath and her thoughts. “That man is my great-granddad, so I guess that makes us related in some weird way.”

The man tipped his head to the right. “It does? But you’re American.” He paused, as if assessing her words. “Hang on. You’re related to Robert?”

She pointed to her chest with her index finger. “My great-granddad.”

“Fuck.”

Sloane leaned in and held out a hand. “I’m Sloane.”

He shook her hand slowly. “Ryan.” He winced again. “Sorry, this is not my finest hour.”

“Great goal, though.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

The team manager approached, carrying a pint of water. He put it on the table in front of Ryan. “Get that down you, lad. Stay hydrated at all times. No beer for you tonight.” He eyed Sloane, then held out his hand. “Matt Cook, team manager.”

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” She shook his hand. His shirt collar was half in, half out of his black sweater. Sloane imagined that was Matt’s signature style. “Sloane Patterson, new fan.”

Matt paused mid-shake on hearing her name. “Sloane Patterson? As in, US soccer sensation, Sloane Patterson?” His eyes widened.

Oh shit. She hadn’t expected to be recognised here. Sloane gulped, then nodded. “I wouldn’t say sensation, but yes, I play.”