Ark Angel

cross to the penalty area and a second later it had been headed into the goal. The crowd roared; the speakers blared. It was one-nil to the home side, and just five minutes later the Chelsea captain beat two defenders and powered the ball into the back of the net.
    Stratford East went into the break two goals down.
    There were more drinks served in the dining room during the interval but Alex was careful to avoid Nikolei Drevin. He remembered how he’d behaved at the end of the kart race. This was a thousand times more humiliating. The game was being shown all over the country. Drevin had spent a sizeable fortune building up his team. And the fact that he was being beaten by Chelsea—owned by another Russian—
    somehow made it all the worse.
    Cayenne James didn’t help. “Never mind, Niki,” she said in her silly, high-pitched voice. “It’s not over yet.
    I’m sure Adam will be talking to the boys in the dressing room.”
    “It would be nice if your husband were to touch the ball,” Drevin replied. He had a glass of champagne but was holding it as though it were poison.
    “He does seem a bit tired today. Maybe he’s saving his strength for the second half.”

    In fact, Adam Wright was barely visible when the game began again, and Alex wondered why the manager didn’t pull him off. He was playing in the centre but never seemed to be anywhere near the ball, and when he did take possession he didn’t create a single opportunity. Alex knew that the Stratford East captain had been given a bad ride by the press. He should never have left Manchester United. He spent more time modelling clothes and advertising aftershave than playing football. His last outings for England had been dismal. Half the country had turned against him, and perhaps it was now affecting his game.
    The next goal, when it came, was more of a fluke than anything else. There was an untidy scrabble in front of the Chelsea goal and for a moment the ball was invisible. Then a Stratford East player got his foot to it.
    The ball deflected off another player’s thigh and sailed past inches away from the Chelsea keeper’s outstretched fingers. It wasn’t pretty but it made the score two-one with fifteen minutes left to play.
    After that, Chelsea rarely lost control of the ball. Alex found himself willing them on, hoping they would keep their lead until the final whistle. He knew it was ungenerous of him; he was here as Drevin’s guest.
    But Chelsea were the better team and he’d been a blue all his life. He kept his emotions to himself, though, resisting the temptation to join the home supporters as they urged their team on.
    Full time. It seemed that Chelsea had it in the bag. But then, out of nowhere, three minutes into injury time, came the chance to equalize: a foul inside the Chelsea penalty area. One of the Stratford East players went down, gripping his leg in agony, and although Alex suspected he was faking, the referee believed him.
    There was a blast of the whistle. Another yellow card. A roar of disbelief from the crowd. But Stratford East had been awarded the penalty. It had to be the last shot of the game.
    Adam Wright stepped forward to take it.
    He couldn’t miss. He had taken penalties for England countless times. Alex had watched him perform brilliantly against Portugal in the last European Championships, firing the ball into the net with breathtaking ease. Surely he would do the same now.

    A peculiar hush had descended on the stadium. After making so much noise, it was astonishing that over forty-two thousand people could be so quiet. Alex glanced at Drevin sitting four seats away. The man’s entire body was tense but there was something close to a smile on his face. He knew there was no way Stratford East could win this game. But a draw would be enough. There was no humiliation in a draw.
    Adam Wright settled the ball on the penalty spot.
    The other Stratford East players were ranged behind him. The Chelsea keeper was crouching, rubbing his hands together. The moment seemed to stretch out to an eternity. The crowd held its collective breath.
    Adam Wright ran his hands through his hair. It was long this season, with blond highlights. The referee blew his whistle. A single, short blast. Wright ran forward almost lazily and kicked.
    Alex watched in disbelief.
    Something had gone terribly wrong. The keeper had been misdirected and had dived to the left, but the ball hadn’t gone anywhere near the goal. A clump of grass