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Dylan’s legs felt heavy. Damn, he shouldn’t have stayed out so late with Taylor last night. He shouldn’t have had the champagne and the cocaine. What the hell was he thinking? He’d never gone near drugs before. But Taylor was snorting a few lines and they were drunk and she was very persuasive and they’d had fun.

He’d tried to leave at eleven, but she’d changed into a gold bikini and draggedhim into the hot tub in her garden. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes or his hands off her.

They’d ended up drinking until two a.m. between making out. She was like a drug, fun, sexy and with a body to die for.

He’d only gone home when the ugly step-sister had come in and screamed at them to turn the music down because she had some maths exam to study for and she was trying to sleep.

Hishead pounded. He tried to shake off his tiredness and sprinted towards the ball Harry had just passed him, but he didn’t make it. The defender got there first and passed it behind Dylan to the winger.

‘Come on, Dylan, look lively,’ Jordan roared from the sideline.

Dylan was sweating way more than normal. It was the bloody booze. He knew he shouldn’t have drunk so much, but he was seventeen.Wasn’t he allowed to have a blow-out now and then?

He’d stumbled home after two and had had to throw pebbles at Kelly’s window to wake her up to let him in. She wasnot happy and had hissed at him that he was an idiot to be out so late before a big game. She said she’d lied when Lucy came in from her night out and told her that Dylan was already home and asleep.

He tried to jump for a headerbut missed it. Normally he would have easily put it away, but he had no spring in his legs. His heart sank and Jordan flung his arms into the air and cursed.

He saw his mother pointing urgently to his boots, but her signal wouldn’t work this time. It wasn’t nerves. Dylan wiped sweat from his brow. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. How many drinks had he had? He tried to think back.A bottle? Two? Too bloody much.

The half-time whistle blew and he jogged slowly over to the sideline. He knew he was in for a roasting. Before he’d even picked up his water, Jordan was on his case.

‘What the hell is going on, Dylan? Your legs look like lead. Your head’s not in the game. Get some water into you and get it together. We need a bloody goal, lads. We can beat these guys – they’renot up to our standard. Now go out there and get one in the back of the net.’

Dylan could see his mother’s worried face under her woolly hat. He didn’t want to let anyone down. He poured water over his head in an effort to wake himself up.

The second half was worse. The little energy Dylan had was used up. He was outrun, out-skilled and out-defended. Paul, the right winger, sent in a beautifulpass, all Dylan had to do was pop it into the goal, but he missed. He could hear the groans of the St Jude’s crowd.

They were one–nil down with ten minutes to go. Jordan pulled Dylan off the pitch and replaced him with Alex. Dylan jogged off, head down. Jordan ignored him as he went past.

With three minutes to go, Paul came sprinting up thewing and chipped the ball over the left back’s head.Alex deftly controlled the ball with his chest, and volleyed it towards the goal. It went in.

The crowd cheered loudly. The team rushed over to congratulate Alex. Dylan thought he might throw up.

‘Brilliant, Alex, bloody brilliant,’ Jordan shouted from the sideline. ‘What a strike.’

Dylan glanced up and saw his mother standing at the halfway line. She was clapping and had a smile fixed on herface, but he knew she was upset. She’d be worried now that Alex would take his place, that he was blowing his opportunity.

Why had he been so stupid? Why had he got drunk and done cocaine the night before a game? Football was his life. Football was what had got him here.

The referee blew the final whistle. It was a draw. Alex had saved them from a loss. He was beaming from ear to ear. Dylanwanted to punch him, but went over and shook his hand instead. ‘Well done, mate.’

‘Thanks.’ Alex’s smile was huge.

After they’d shaken hands with the opposition, they huddled in for the usual post-game talk. Dylan, usually in the thick of it, stood slightly back. Jordan praised Peter and Alex and a few of the other players, but said nothing to Dylan. As the players walked off, he called himback.

Dylan walked towards his coach with a heavy heart. Jordan glared at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell you were up to last night, but you’re a mess. I’ve seen players blow chances all my life. Don’t be like them. Don’t screw this up. Get your shit together and don’t you ever turn up to a game again in that state. Whatever it is, or whoever she is, it’s not worth it. You need to focus on yourfootball. You’ve got a great opportunity here, son, so don’t be an idiot. If you ever turn up in this state for a game again, you’re off the team. Is that clear?’

Dylan nodded, unable to speak. He’d never let a team down before. He’d always been really professional. He could feel emotion welling inside him.

Jordan put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. ‘You’re a good kid, Dylan, but I’ve seen goodkids get sidetracked and lose everything. Stay focused. Your team and this school are depending on you, and so am I. Now go home and sort yourself out. Get rid of all distractions, come back on Monday and show me the Dylan I know, the striker, the grafter. That’s who I want to see.’

Dylan managed to croak, ‘Yes, Coach. Sorry.’

Jordan strode off. Dylan’s head hung low. He felt a hand on his back.

‘Hey.’