So, Iâm on the side of this freezing cold pitch, stamping my feet and totally wishing I had a special ankle heater. No disrespect to my little sister, but watching footie in the winter is a nightmare. Especially when there are no goals and the match is practically over.
Em plays on the wing in our local under-eights team. Sheâs dead keen and brilliant with it, and the whole family goes to watch her most weekends. Iâm proud and all, but why do footie matches always have to be so cold?
âPass the ball, Em!â yelled my dad, racing past me with his whistle bouncing on his tracksuit like a twinkly silver necklace.
âIâm not sure your dad should be telling Em what to do, Coleen,â Mum murmured to me as Dad pelted back the other way, still roaring instructions at my sister. âAs the ref, isnât he supposed to be neutral?â
âAsking Dad to be neutral in a game of football would be like asking me to wear school uniform at the weekend,â I announced between chattering teeth. I swear my toes were about to fall off.
Mum glanced at me from underneath her dark blue beanie hat. She had her famous annoyed-but-resigned look on her face. âGetting you to wear a coat would be a start,â she said.
My outfit was a little summery for a cold day, I have to admit. But Iâd spent ages customising my T-shirt that morning with a bunch of safety pins all threaded with these brilliant neon-coloured beads. They made excellent patterns all down the front and jangled when I walked. There was no way I was going to hide my handiwork underneath a coat.
âBoots might have been an idea too, Coleen,â Mum said wearily. âWho on earth wears sandals in October?â
âI wanted to try out my new nail polish,â I said, admiring my dark blue toenails. The cold was totally worth it every time I looked down.
âYour toes are practically as blue as the polish,â said my best mate Mel.
Mel was more sensibly dressed than me, with a scarf wrapped tightly round her neck and a woolly hat with a peak at the front sitting neatly on her head. Beats me how she got it on over her crazy curls. The hat is new: we bought it together yesterday, and it totally rocks. The colours are perfect for her.
Standing beside Mel was my other mate Lucy. Sheâs gorgeous, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Her plain blouses and ironed jeans drive me crazy, and I spend most weekends at the shops persuading her to try new stuff. Sheâs as different from Mel as France and England â which makes me the Channel Tunnel, I guess, cos Iâm the link that joins them together!
âWhich oneâs Em again?â Lucy asked, peering across the windy pitch to where a blur of muddy knees and blue team strip identified the Hartley Juniors.
âThâ¦thâ¦that one,â I shivered, pointing to the far side of the pitch.
A small, brown-haired streak of mud and energy was flying down the wing, dribbling the ball like a pro. As we watched, a little blond lad raced up beside her. Em neatly passed him the ball, totally foxing the boy on the other team whoâd been chasing her.
âGo, Em!â Mum yelled, clapping enthusiastically.
âYay!â cheered Mel and Lucy.
Believe me, I wanted to clap. But my hands were tucked too tightly into my armpits. So I clapped like mad inside my head instead.
The blond lad who now had the ball for Hartley Juniors raced on down the pitch. He dodged a couple of opponents, and then lofted the ball right up and smack into the net, just as the final whistle went. Goal! Our side of the touchline erupted.
âHartlee! Hartlee! One-nil!â
âBilly, Billy, Billy!â
âI guess thatâs Billy,â Mum observed as Em and her team mates clustered around the blond lad and tried to lift him off the ground in celebration.
I squinted at the lad. Iâd never seen him before. He was obviously a new member of the team. Then I forgot all about him as something blissfully warm settled down on my frozen toes.
âRascal,â I gasped, looking down at our hairy black spaniel who had curled himself up on my feet. âYou total hero!â
âPsst,â Lucy whispered in my ear. âColeen, look over there! Heâs gorgeous!â
I stared at where Lucy was pointing with one finger over her shoulder. A father and son were standing together on the touchline a little further along. Judging from how madly they were clapping and grinning and waving at the little blond goalscorer as he trotted towards them, I guessed they were his family. The dad was tall and strong-looking, with close-cropped blond hair. The lad standing with him looked about the same age as us.
I have to say that I find most lads boring â with the massive exception of Lucyâs older brother Ben. Ben Hanratty is totally the boy Iâm going to marry one day, when he opens his eyes and sees that thereâs more to me than just his kid sisterâs mate. But even I could see that the lad down the touchline was quite cute. He was blond, with a lovely straight nose and bright blue eyes whose colour you could see even in the sludgy October light.