A soap opera by Bard Boy [bard_boy(at)protonmail(dot)com]
Disclaimer:
This is a soap opera about a season in the life of an Under-13 youth team of a professional football side in a counterfactual modern Norse Greenland. It is, quite clearly, a work of fiction. Boys a bit like this have existed and still exist, but this story is not based on any real people.
If it’s illegal for you to be reading this because of factors such as your location or age, it isn’t my fault if old Tayyip, big Vlad, your mother, or any other disapproving party finds out. Your responsibility. Use it wisely.
This story is the property of the other. Do not repost it elsewhere without prior consent.
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Renewed apologies for the inordinate delay in getting this story continued. I was poised to get this episode up pretty quickly after the second, but then my GPU went and blew up and took three weeks of good holiday writing time away from me, and I've been busy and not feeling the writing mood since. I have a bit more time on my hands again now, as for professional reasons a) I have coronavirus and b) My work is pretty much closed for the forseeable due to coronavirus.
I'm still keeping on top of my website, which contains a collection of all my stories and a growing encyclopaedia of the world of Welcome to the North, which might be helpful to avoid confusion with the huge supporting cast and references to so many places and organisations.
Anyway. My thanks again. On with the show, which I hope you'll find reason to enjoy. bard_boy at protonmail to get in touch with me
Kolbeinn was sat in the front seat of the Volvo, thinking about his day and trying hard not to get a boner next to his mother whenever he dwelled on the sexy bits. His mum was quiet. She fiddled with the radio a couple of times and tutted at other Saturday evening drivers as she picked her way across town from the training ground – out on the opposite side of Eiríksfjord, near the airport – to their suburb. They’d crossed the Bivrøst Bridge and were negotiating the central ring road when Ína decided to clear her throat and talk to her son.
“I’m very disappointed in your behaviour today, Kolbeinn Borgarsson.”
“Why?” shrugged Kolbeinn.
“You know very well why!” snapped his mother. “Being rude, being silly, showing off. You were an embarrassment to us both.”
“I was just having fun,” sighed Kolbeinn resignedly.
“You were being a naughty, disruptive, impolite little boy,” lectured Ína. “I won’t stand for it.”
“Just because I’m not as uptight as you,” Kolbeinn grumbled to himself under his breath.
“What did you just say, young man?” his mother shrieked. “That’s it! Straight to your room when you get home. No television, no video games, no internet! I’ll be informing your father as soon as we get back.”
Kolbeinn huffed dramatically and let out a long, high-pitched growl.
“And we’ll have less of that, too,” said Ína. “You need to learn a very stern lesson, and fast.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence, broken only by Kolbeinn’s occasional exaggerated sighs and huffs. On pulling into their driveway in Litlirraitir, his mother practically hauled him from the car and through the front door. He was happy to escape up the stairs as his mum went off to complain to his dad.
Kolbeinn was flopped dejectedly on the bed, checking his phone for any sign of communication from Stef, when his dad burst through the door.
“I wish I could say I was shocked you’d behave like that then speak to your mother like dirt, but you never learn, do you?” Kolbeinn’s father hissed. Kolbeinn continued idly browsing his phone. “Put that down and look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man!”
Kolbeinn sighed and threw his phone to one side on the bed. He looked up at his dad, determined not to blush or tear up, and consequently struggling to meet his eye.
“Undressed; showered; pyjamas on!” dad ordered. “I’ll bring your dinner up when it’s done and then it’s teeth brushed and bed for you.”
“I’m twelve, dad; I don’t wear pyjamas,” Kolbeinn grunted.
“You’ll do as you’re told, and maybe that will remind you of your place in this family!”
It was half past seven, and Kolbeinn was curled up on his bed, bored out of his mind. His parents had tripped the switch for the power outlets in his room, so he couldn’t use his PlayStation and was forced to lie in the glare of the main ceiling light. They’d also disconnected the wi-fi and would know from his data usage if he used his phone to do anything fun online. Plus, with no way of charging it in his powerless room, he needed to preserve the battery for when Stef finally got in touch.
Kolbeinn picked up an old comic that lay halfway under the bed, a stray dirty sock sat on top of it. He read a page and then lobbed the thing across the room in embarrassed frustration. His parents were forcing him to live in the stone age just for being himself!
It was at that moment that his phone vibrated. A WhatsApp from Stef with a video attached. Screw the data usage for the download; this was what he needed right now. He plopped off the bed, barefoot in the pyjamas of shame, to grab his headphones and turn off the light. Once in bed in the dark, he hoiked the pyjama bottoms down to the tops of his knees and played the video, his penis hard and wet with nervous anticipation.
Two hours later, Kolbeinn was exhausted, and his phone battery all but run down. His right wrist ached and his dick, somehow still hard, was red raw around the tip and beneath the skin. It had stopped producing liquid over an hour ago. His balls felt like they were being crushed beneath a millstone. His fingers, the hot, sticky air beneath his bedcovers, and probably the whole room, even, stank of sex; crushed garlic and black olives and a hint of sweat and urea.
He fell asleep a happy and satisfied boy.
Anders was refreshed when he arrived back at the sports hall on Sunday lunchtime, coffee from the main building in hand. He’d expected to be the first in, other than Mohammed the groundsman, but instead he found a teenage boy loitering in the hallway near the changing rooms.
“You’re Anders Dahl,” the boy said.
“Afternoon!” said Anders. “Are you someone’s older brother?”
“No,” the boy replied. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“Oh,” said Anders, not sure what to say next. He noted that the boy was in a monogrammed B22 sports jacket. “So…?”
“Erm… Merete said you needed a coach?”
“Yes?”
“So I’m here to help!”
“Okay?”
“You know…?”
“Oh! Oh. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen? And you’re a coach?”
“Yeah… Well, no. Not yet. It’s just that…”
Anders sighed. At this rate, the club’s help with extra coaches was going to be worse than no help at all.
“Alright,” said Anders, taking a deep breath, “let’s start again from the beginning. What’s your name, and what has Merete sent you for?”
“Odwin,” the boy said. “Odwin Brakmann – but you can call me Odie, if you like. It’s what my mates call me, at least, and…”
Anders scrunched his eyes. Odie must have seen his waffling was getting irritating, and he raced back to the point.
“I was under-16s captain last year, but I got a bad injury in one of the first matches. Snapped both legs, dislocated right knee, ACL tear…”
“Christ…” Anders commented involuntarily.
“Anyway, the club was gonna give me a scholarship, but even though I’m back on my feet now, they don’t think I’ll ever play at the right level for them again… so they said they’d put me through my coaching badges if I wanted to do that, so I said, yeah, deffo, and–”
“And so they sent you to me?” said Anders, cutting the lengthening story short.
“Yeah,” continued Odie, unperturbed. “I heard you were coming here, and I asked whether I could work with you, cos you’re sort of doing the same thing as me and that, so it’s an inspiration, I guess.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your injury, Odie,” said Anders. “You’re young. You might yet recover enough to play at a decent level. Don’t give up. In the meantime – well, I suppose I was hoping for someone with more experience, but… welcome to the team. I’m sure you’ll be great.”
“Thanks, Anders. I can call you Anders, can’t I? I was thinking, I can’t wait to meet the team cos I think they might relate to me, like – you know, as someone close to their age, and–”
“Just watch and listen today, okay?” said Anders, pushing open the doors to the main hall. “I don’t want to distract the boys too much when they’ve got the end of a tournament going on. If they talk to you, fine – have a chat and explain who you are if they ask – but just get used to them for now and watch how I am with them, okay?”
“No problem,” nodded Odie, somewhere between private taking orders and earnest puppy.
“And can I help you…?” said Anders, finding a tall, thin, nerdy looking young man – short, styled dark hair and glasses with thick black plastic frames – standing around gazing at his phone in the middle of the indoor pitch.
“Hi, my name’s Atli Edgarsson,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Merete asked me to fill a youth coaching vacancy here. I coach goalkeepers. I was coaching the main women’s youth side at BK Vatnaleiðum last year, as my sister was the goalkeeper. She quit to focus on handball, so here I am.”
“That’s great,” smiled Anders, shaking Atli’s hand warmly. “As soon as both goalies arrive, I’ll introduce you and you can get started on drills.”
“It’s what I’m here for,” Atli shrugged.
“You were at Vatnaleiðum – are you based in Prøven?” Anders asked.
“Yeah, I came in this morning on the train. It’s quite easy.”
“Perfect,” said Anders. “We have a couple of players who live over that way, and it would be ideal if you wouldn’t mind supervising them on the train if they can’t always get a lift from parents or whatnot.”
“No problem,” Atli shrugged again. “Shall I get a goal set up in the corner for warming the keepers up?”
“Sure,” said Anders. He spotted that Odie was standing around, smiling awkwardly. “This is Odie, by the way. He’ll also be helping with the coaching.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Atli, with bare minimum polite interest, before heading over to set up his workspace.
There was chatter in English and the sound of the door swinging open again as Teitur arrived with his dad.
“Hi Anders,” Teitur said. He noticed the two other people dressed for sports in the room. “Who are these guys?”
“That’s Atli heading off over there,” said Anders, gesturing to the new coach. “He’s our goalkeeping coach.”
“Cool!”
Odie was already buzzing in, gripping hands with Teitur far to enthusiastically.
“This is Odie,” said Anders, by way of explanation. “He’ll be helping with the coaching.”
“Hey, buddy!” grinned Odie. “Good to meet you!”
“Hi,” smiled Teitur in return.
“Honestly, Ty, who are these guys?” chuckled Teitur’s dad – evidently Joel, according to Teitur’s surname – managing to retain a Canadian accent even while speaking fluent Greenlandic. “Could you sound a bit less friendly?”
“I wanted to know,” Teitur grinned in return. “Oh, hey, it’s Stef!”
Stefnir joined the group, his dad in tow, looking slightly uncomfortable. Teitur evidently had more important questions to ask before enquiring as to how his friend was doing.
“My dad says you and Kol can come to ours for dinner after the tournament if you want,” Teitur immediately fired at Stef. “We’re having meatballs and you can stay for a while after. Will you come?”
“Cool,” said Stef. “Yeah. Dad, can I go to Teitur’s for dinner tonight?”
“No homework to do?” Stef’s dad asked, arriving to stand behind him. Stef shook his head. “Fine by me, then. What time do I need to pick you up?”
“Say eight to half eight?” Joel suggested.
“Nice,” Stef’s dad said, smiling at his son. “That means I get out of trying to force Karl into the bath before bed!”
Stef returned the smile. “Poor mum,” he commented.
“Have you spoken to Anders yet?” said Stef’s dad, with notes in his voice that didn’t fill Anders with confidence.
“Not yet,” said Stef.
“I think you need to have a look at his foot,” said Stef’s dad, leading his son slightly away from the gathering group of arrivals for Anders to follow. “It’s still bad from yesterday and is starting to bruise up a lot.”
“Come on, Stefnir,” said Anders. “Whack it out and give us a look.”
Stef plopped to the floor and set about removing his trainer and sock on the affected foot. Anders squatted down as soon as it was ready.
“Ouch,” said Anders, gently lifting up the boy’s foot to see it bruised bright purple ringed with yellow on its inside. “You’ve got some gnarly colours going on here. How does it feel?”
“I can move okay,” squeaked Stef.
“It seems a little bit swollen,” said Anders. “Is it tender? Does it ache?”
He put his fingers gently to the affected area, and a slight intake of breath from Stef answered his question.
“Sorry, Stef,” said Anders. “You should probably sit today out.”
“I want to play, though!” he whined.
“I already know just what you can do, though, Stef,” said Anders. “It’s not as if you need to play and impress everyone. I’d rather you were fighting fit again for training on Tuesday.”
“Can’t we just see how I go?” pleaded Stef. “Dad said maybe I could run it off if you give me a chance.”
“I didn’t quite say that,” his dad defended. “Anyway, you have to listen to what your gaffer says. That’s how it goes.”
“How about this,” said Anders. “I won’t start you in our semi-final, but if we’re comfortable, I’ll bring you on as a sub. That way you can have a run around and convince us that you’re fine to play the final. Okay?”
“Thanks, Anders,” smiled Stef.
“Don’t put anything back on yet,” said Anders. “Go in the first aid bag and find the heat cream. Get your dad to rub some into the bruise for you.”
“Right!” said Stef.
“I see,” his dad smiled. “Always dad who has to play masseuse, chauffeur, maître d’…”
Anders had turned back towards the doors in the hope of beginning to usher arrivals into the changing rooms, just as Kolbeinn was the next to appear.
“Kol, you wanna come for dinner at my house?” Teitur asked expectantly.
“No,” his mother answered, marching sternly through the door behind him. “Kolbeinn can’t go anywhere after the match today. He’s grounded.”
Kolbeinn looked moody, and at least a little embarrassed of his mother announcing that he was in trouble with his parents in front of everyone who was there. Anders was a little surprised that the lad seemed to be in so much trouble with his mother but reasoned he didn’t know what might be going on at home. Still, he took pity. He gave Kolbeinn an escape route.
“Go and make sure all the kit’s laid out ready in the changing room, Kol,” he said. “There’s a good lad.”
Kolbeinn turned and headed to take the escape. He shot Teitur a dejected look as he trotted past.
“Sorry, Kol,” said Teitur, apologetically.
Come 14:00, everything was ready for the two semi-finals to kick off simultaneously. Kristinn was not accompanied by Aron today, so there would be no dramatic announcements; just a typical Sunday of kids playing football as if their lives depended on it.
With SGV playing Vindbakke BK on the other pitch, Anders reflected that it was less than ideal that he wouldn’t be able to watch the players he was interested in taking as they faced off against each other, though it would hardly have been fair for one finalist to have less recovery time than another with two pitches in action. Plus, they needed a free pitch at 15:00 for the third-place playoff. Even the most meaningless of knockout tournaments has to have a third-place playoff.
Joorsi had met Anders’ eye when he arrived and given him an awkward thumbs-up. Anders nodded and smiled in return. Edin, the SGV organiser, had arrived leading two men with him, a hand on each shoulder. One was relatively well-dressed, khakis and a thick, cream knitted jumper, though prematurely greyed and thinned on his head, with silvering stubble visible on his chin. The other looked more awkward and bedraggled, also thickly dressed, but less kempt, eyes tired, jet black hair unruly. Edin motioned to Anders as they headed for their pitch, and the men looked at him with interest, the more together-looking man nodding imperceptibly and raising his fingers as if to wave. Anders acknowledged him in return. They must be the parents of the boy Anders wanted for his team, and the boy Edin was trying to foist on him.
In terms of preparing his own team, Anders had an enforced change to manage with Stef on the sidelines with his dominant foot on his dad’s lap, and he wanted to reward the boys who had played so well in the final match the previous day for their performances. So, he settled on a line-up of Thom between the sticks, Chigs in front of him, Kristinn in for Stef – at least until the second half – Ingi retaining the left flank berth, Kris as captain and deeper central midfielder, Jón keeping a starting role as a more advanced midfielder following his performance in the third group game, and Mass leading the line up front. That was perhaps harsh on Oli following his hat-trick, but Mass had been last season’s top scorer, and hadn’t started since the opening match of the tournament.
Anders was half-pleased that he didn’t think he’d need to call on Kolbeinn; the poor lad was sat cross-legged, slightly apart from the rest of the team, elbows on his thighs and chin on his fists, watching the teams line up under a furrowed brow. Anders was so distracted checking on the grumpy boy that he missed that KÍF had kicked off.
Konuglengurburg had been something of a disappointment to Anders. They were invited with the expectation that they’d be at least reasonable competition; meeting them before the final had not been part of the plan. However, none of their players had stood out in the matches he’d seen, and they’d managed to finish behind SGV in their group, albeit on goal difference. They’d be decent and surely want to prove a point, but Anders was expecting to see his boys simply stay calm and show they were better over the course of the short match.
Kris had already got amongst the green KÍF shirts in their defensive half as the visitors lost the ball and it was cleared away. He held the ball up and tried to flick the ball between two defenders into Jón’s feet, but the attempt was deflected and Jón couldn’t get it under control. Konuglengurburg seemed content to clear their lines and play direct. Chigs had the chance to head the clearance back and turn the game into a tennis match – perhaps what the KÍF players were anticipating – but instead used his head figuratively, taking a step back to chest the ball wide to Ingi. He immediately began a foray down the left wing, but – seeing his opponents were happy to keep seven boys behind the ball – instead played short to Kris.
The first half settled into this rhythm. Konuglengurburg’s coach had clearly told his boys just to sit and frustrate B22, forcing Anders’ boys to move the ball back and forth between them, looking for an opening for runs between the lines. Anders admired the effort, but something told him that a bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds on a small-sided pitch weren’t going to keep perfect tactical discipline for a whole game and force an opening of their own.
After a few minutes, the cracks were already starting to show. The boys in green were beginning to grumble at each other as Jón found space a couple of times, but he couldn’t quite link up with Mass up front. Anders realised the better choice might have been to stick with Oli, had he realised his opponents would set up in this manner. He wasn’t as quick and instinctive, but he had strength and technique. He’d be ideal in situations where the team needed to play around packed defences.
Still, the boys didn’t seem to be getting too frustrated by having to play patiently, and Anders didn’t feel a great pressure to convey lots of instructions to them. Kristinn speared a cross that a defender nodded away from Mass, only for it to fall to Jón, almost level with the penalty spot and slightly out to the left. He couldn’t quite sort his feet out, so scuffed his shot, which at any rate was deflected safely into the goalkeeper by a closing defender. Again Konuglengurburg went long, and this time a small, quick boy almost got away. Chigs used his long stride to catch up and force the boy wide, and Thom took his cue to smother the ball at the corner of his area. It was all very pedestrian, like watching the middle stint of a marathon.
A couple of cheers had rung out from the neighbouring pitch, but both times Anders had looked across, he hadn’t seen enough to work out exactly what was happening. Whatever it was, it must’ve been more interesting than what his team had offered so far. The referee checked her watch for the first time, the break approaching with all the inevitability of a winter sunset, as Kris broke into a little pocket of space. Ingi had played the ball into Jón, who tried to hold the ball up with his back to a defender but was hauled down. The ref allowed play to continue as Jón had poked the ball clear to Kris, who had the advantage. He slid in Mass, who fired hard and first time at goal, but met only the onrushing goalkeeper’s kneecap. He leaped in to head the rebounding ball, but on the stretch, and landing on the goalie, he could only head over the bar and give away a free kick for his efforts. Once it was taken, the referee blew her whistle for half time.
As the boys trotted off, Anders glanced again at the other pitch. He caught the eye of Joorsi, who happened to be walking off and looking in his direction at just the right moment.
I scored! Joorsi mouthed.
Anders smiled and gave a thumbs-up. Score? he mouthed in return. Joorsi held up a finger on each hand. 1-1. Then his coach noticed, and he stared at Anders with blankly but without welcome.
He had coaching of his own to do. The boys took on drinks and milled around, awaiting further instruction.
“I need more from you, boys,” Anders said simply. “They’re offering nothing. All you have to do is show you can find a way through them.”
In the main, they seemed encouraged. But Anders had another call to make.
“Mass, I’m sorry mate, but this really isn’t your game, I don’t think,” said Anders. “Oli, you’re in for the second half.”
Massawa frowned and let his shoulders droop, but said nothing. He took another long draw from his drinks bottle and sat down with a gentle thud near Kolbeinn. Moody boys’ corner.
“Move the ball quicker,” said Anders, as his boys moved to retake their positions for the second half. “Break the lines. Go direct in transition. Got it?”
Kris nodded. Jón seemed to shrug. Nobody else reacted at all. Anders blinked.
Whether or not the instructions had been absorbed and understood, it wasn’t long before B22 had a breakthrough. A couple of minutes into the half, Konuglengurburg’s defence cleared long again. It was an easy ball for Chigs to collect, and he spotted Ingi on the move immediately, pinging the ball straight into his path down the left. As Ingi took a couple of strides forward, Oli immediately moved to come very deep and offer short, perhaps halfway inside the opposition half. The defender marking him followed, his partner shouting a late complaint as he was dragged out to the B22 right by Jón trotting idly back onside from behind him. Kris spotted the yawning gap in the visiting defence and started a run. Ingi feinted to go short to Oli on his natural left foot but instead poked the ball some distance ahead of himself on his right. He sprinted after it and stroked the ball into the gap that Oli’s movement had created behind his marker, exactly where Kris had anticipated the opportunity. His blond hair bounced once, twice, three times with his stride as he burst through on goal, the defender who had been with Jón having to scramble over to cover him. Just as that defender began to slide against the friction of the artificial surface, Kris struck the ball, direct for the far corner, where Jón would be free to pounce on any rebound. There was no need. Kris Broberg almost burst the bottom right corner of the Konuglengurburg net, and B22 had the lead.
Anders allowed himself a satisfied fist pump. They’d sort of got it, and it had worked. Odie was a little more animated about witnessing his first goal with the team, but not even the boys sat around off the pitch seemed to be paying all that much attention to him. What did slightly surprise Anders was Atli giving him a slap on the shoulder and leaving his hand in for a squeeze. He smirked at Anders.
“You told them what to do, and they did it,” he said. “Either they’re smarter than they look, or you’re a lucky man. Both are good.”
“Some of us are pretty smart,” Teitur interjected.
“Yeah,” Jónatan chipped in. “Barty’s a friggin’ genius, aren’t you Bart?”
“Huh?” Bárður responded, evidently not having been paying attention.
Tension-free laughter rippled across the group. Even Kolbeinn seemed to have perked up. Stef had joined them, and had his foot in Kolbeinn’s lap, where Kolbeinn was loosely holding an ice pack to it.
“How’s it feeling, Stef?” Anders asked.
“Okay,” Stef said.
“Right,” said Anders. “Well, if we get a second, I’ll give you a run out so we can see.”
“Thanks, Anders.”
“Kol, if you’re feeling up to it, I might bring you on to tighten things up too, in case Stef isn’t 100%.”
“Great,” said Kolbeinn, without totally sounding great. “I always want to play.”
Konuglengurburg had thrown bodies forward from their kick-off, and eventually forced a corner as a player got in behind Kristinn and pulled the ball across from the byline, forcing Chigs to calmly cut out and send the ball behind. This was where Sam would be useful, Anders thought. Kristinn could fill in, but he was more a decent wide midfield option than a defender. Sam could offer competent cover – competition, even – for Stef and Ingi. As Anders finished his thought, the corner was floated in. Thom plucked it out of the air without fuss and stood in place with the ball held over his head, slowing things down and waiting for everyone else to retreat away from him.
“That’s it, Tommo; no rush!” Atli shouted. It hadn’t taken the aloof-seeming goalkeeping coach long to ingratiate himself.
Goal number two, and the cue for further substitutions, came with around three-quarters of the game gone. Jón hadn’t been particularly effective, but Kris profited from him losing out again to find himself with the ball in a bubble of space. He lifted it first time – just a simple chipped ball – as one defender came to close him down. With one still dealing with having tussled Jón to the floor, it was just down to Oli to think quicker than the defender with him and fill the space that had opened up in the path of the ball. He had the run on the defender and arrived fractionally ahead of the goalkeeper, who had rushed out hoping to clear the bobbling chipped ball. A poke with the outside of Oli’s boot was enough to see the ball dribble home off the inside of the post, front-on collision with the forward adding to the keeper’s dismay.
Oli was unperturbed. He clambered up to share a group hug and fist bumps with Kris and Jón. Strikers love scoring goals, and Oli was red hot this weekend, netting goal number four from all of fifty minutes of action. Anders decided to make Odie useful and told him to get Kolbeinn and Stefnir warmed up; the planned substitutions would follow in short order. A couple of minutes later, Kristinn and Jón were thanked for their efforts and replaced by Stef and Kol respectively. The game expired without much further incident. Kol smiled the more he got on the ball and was putting passes and tackles in. Stef trotted around fairly freely and had a few touches of the ball. As the referee sounded full time, there was no real reason for Anders and the boys not to be satisfied with their efforts.
“Thanks for the vid,” grinned Kolbeinn to Stef as they walked off the pitch.
“You’re talking, then?” teased Stef in return. “No problem. I wanked to it a couple of times but then I deleted it in case my mum or dad saw.”
“I don’t care if my mine see,” Kolbeinn said stroppily. “They can suck it.”
“I would love to see you telling your mum to suck it,” Stef giggled.
“I’d be like, suck my bellend, you bitch!”
Stef tittered and shook his head to himself. Teitur had wandered over aimlessly, with a drinks bottle in hand as an excuse for coming for a chat.
“Ty, man, did Stef send you the video of us too?” said Kolbeinn.
“No?” Teitur responded. “I forgot he was videoing. Is it hot?”
“I rubbed myself fucking raw!” grinned Kolbeinn. “My balls ran out of sperm!”
“So you wanked twice then?” Stef cut in. Teitur laughed.
“Shut it, Steffi,” blushed Kolbeinn, pushing gently at his friend’s arm. “Says you who can’t even squirt.”
Stef said nothing. It was his turn to go red in the face.
“Anyway,” said Kolbeinn, “my dick is so sensitive today it’s effort just to keep my pants on.”
“You always think it’s effort to keep your pants on,” Teitur shot back.
“Yeah, but I actually mean it this time.”
“Boys?” Anders’ voice cracked across their heads. “Come and join the team talk, please. Teitur, you weren’t even playing this game, so there’s no reason for you to be on your feet over here.”
“Sorry coach,” said Teitur, as the boys meandered their way to join up with the others.
The final was at 16:00, so there was a bit of recovery time for the boys before going again. Unfortunately for the two losing semi-finalists – KÍF and Vindbakke – they were back on again at 15:00 to play for third place.
Anders was joined by Edin again as he stood ready to watch Joorsi in action in the 15:00 game.
“Vindbakke have some decent boys,” he said. “But not as good as Ali Abbas or Faisal.”
“Did Ali score all three goals?” asked Anders.
“He scored two, for 1-1 and 2-1, and set up the winner for Bambo,” he replied. “I made sure Ali Abbas and Faisal’s fathers are here, since you’ll need to talk to them.”
“We’ll see about that later,” shrugged Anders.
Edin wandered away, and Odie appeared at Anders’ side. Anders watched the game quietly, and Odie mainly didn’t say anything either. KÍF had the better of the game, but Joorsi still looked lively, if a little tired.
“The Inuit kid is good,” observed Odie.
“I’ve invited him to train with us,” Anders replied.
“Good,” said Odie. “I like him.”
Anders went back to ignoring the teenage lad, so he didn’t notice when Odie gave a little involuntary twitch as Joorsi slid stretching for a ball, causing his shorts to ride up and flash the seat of his grey cotton boxer shorts.
“Unlucky, Joorsi,” said Anders, catching a tired-looking and sweaty boy as he left the pitch a 1-0 loser in the third-place playoff.
“Thanks, Anders,” Joorsi responded breathily. “They weren’t that good but they still did better than us. I think everyone was too tired.”
“At least you can have a rest now before you come to our training on Tuesday,” said Anders.
“Yeah,” Joorsi smiled.
“Excited?”
“Proper excited,” the boy said. “Thanks a lot for letting me.”
“You earned it,” said Anders. “Do you want to meet the boys and sit with the team for the final?”
“Okay,”
“I’m going to start getting everyone ready now. Have a rest and a drink and come find me before the game starts.”
Anders had informed the boys of his team selection and what he expected from them. There was, of course, no way that Oliver could not start. Stef was trusted to start the game at right wing back, and Torben returned to the starting eleven for Jón. The team to play the final was therefore Thom, Stef, Ingi, Chigs, Kris, Torben, Oli.
Atli was putting Thom and Mark through a few shot-stopping drills when Joorsi slightly nervously wandered over to join the B22 boys.
“Joorsi!” Anders said warmly, having notice the boy shyly arriving. “Come and meet some of the boys!” Anders looked around for someone trustworthy who wouldn’t be starting the match. “Kol! This is Joorsi. He’s going to be playing with us next week.”
“Hi,” Kolbeinn greeted Joorsi. “My name’s Kolbeinn. I play centre mid, like you.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Joorsi. “I remember playing you yesterday.”
“You got a couple of hard tackles in on me,” grinned Kolbeinn. “It’ll be good to have someone else a bit hard to play with.”
“The only thing hard about you is your dick when you look at yourself in the mirror,” Teitur cut in. “Hey. I’m Teitur.”
“He’s jealous cos his dick can’t get hard,” grinned Kolbeinn.
Joorsi was smiling, relieved to find that kids who played for B22 were still totally normal.
“I don’t have enough blood for it,” Teitur shot back, sniggering at his own cleverness.
“Why did they leave the new kid to talk to you fucking nerds?” Geir interrupted. “He’s been here thirty seconds and you’re already telling him about your dicks.”
“That’s Geir,” said Kolbeinn loudly. “Don’t worry about not being his friend. Nobody else is either.”
Geir walked off rather than bothering to say anything back, as the weird coach kid had arrived on the scene, and he couldn’t be bothered with having to talk to him too.
“Alright, lads – this is Joorsi, right?”
Joorsi nodded.
“Good to meet you, mate. I’m Odie. I’m going to be one of your new coaches.”
The game had kicked off, and Anders was hardly interested enough to even notice where Odie had got to. He watched the players on the field intently, Atli perched to one side on a bag of balls.
“They’re not holding the ball well,” Atli observed. “Reckon it’s probably early nerves.”
Anders nodded in silent agreement. SGV were an interesting proposition to face in the final, but it’s not as if they were another academy team. Despite it being a friendly match, the boys probably did feel some pressure around being expected to win.
“Keep it simple, boys,” called Anders. “It’s just a game. Do your thing.”
Ingi tried to feed a ball into Kris, but instead gave it straight away to Ali Abbas for SGV. He also gave the ball away cheaply in turn; a curled low pass to try to feed the little winger, Bambo, out wide, which Stef easily cut out. Just as Stef immediately looked to move forward with the ball, and Anders was thinking the boy clearly wasn’t being affected by his bruised foot at all, Stef was on the floor with a yelp. Faisal had come running in to challenge Stef and stamped straight on his bad foot instead of the ball. Anders waited for the referee to stop the game and invite him to check on his downed player.
“Are you okay?” asked Anders, leaning over Stef as he sat dejectedly on his bottom in the middle of the pitch.
“He went for my bad foot,” grumbled Stef, with a camp little sigh for emphasis.
“I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose,” said Anders, not fully believing his own words. “The main thing is whether you’re okay to play.”
“I’m okay to play,” said Stef. “Just a bit sore.”
“Good lad,” said Anders. “You’re a tough little nut.”
Stef said nothing and held out his hand for Anders to help him back to his feet. He dusted the rear of his shorts with both hands as the coach left the field of play.
“Okay?” asked Chigs, who had come over to take the free kick.
“Yeah. S’fine.”
“Cool. Just say if it’s not, though, cos I want to win the game. And I don’t want you to be hurt and that.”
“I’m good,” Stef repeated.
“Soz, bro,” said Faisal, smirking. Stef pointedly ignored him. “Yo, you deaf? I said soz.”
Stef brushed past the little Afghan’s goading to take up a position on the right again. Faisal couldn’t stop himself giggling, but he withdrew himself when he saw that the referee had noticed where he was. Chigs took the free kick long and direct towards the SGV area, but it was headed clear and then flicked further away by a player stretching to make sure Torben didn’t get to the ball. It rolled towards halfway, out towards the right of the pitch. Stef was quicker than Faisal and more aware of the opportunity, reaching the ball first and bursting into space in the inside right channel. His right foot throbbed, so he let his run take him further infield and checked onto his left instead. He heard Ingi’s voice, so he played a ball deep into the left corner, not knowing exactly where Ingi was, but assuming that’s where he would want it. Ingi did. He arrived and killed the ball with his first touch, then hit a driven cross from the byline, out-swinging towards the centre of the goalmouth. Oli’s left toe got there just before the SGV goalkeeper. Oli automatically turned his head to follow the flight of the ball, but he could hardly believe his bad luck that his ears picked up the hollow crack of the ball hitting the post rather than the swoosh of the ball against the net. By the time he had visuals on the ball again, it was in the air having been cleared away very long.
B22 had pushed up high during the attack, so the long ball had caught them out completely. Chigs ended up in a very difficult foot race with Bambo, which he couldn’t win. He tried to force the SGV boy to go wide, to at least give Thom a better chance if they managed to get a shot away. It sort-of worked; Bambo ran left to keep the ball away from Chigs, but still got a shot off from a tight angle. Thom stretched out his leg reflexively to keep out the low drive, deflecting the ball away with the inside of one of his thighs. Ali Abbas had read the situation perfectly, though, and positioned himself exactly where he needed to be, unmarked, to apply the finish. B22 0-1 SGV.
“No panic boys!” shouted Kris, voice cracking and quivering. “We’re better than them, come on!”
“Come on, boys!” Oli added, clapping his hands.
Stef sighed in frustration and retook his position for the kick-off. Faisal was buzzing around behind him again as he withdrew in the opposite direction.
“Fuck off,” Stef whispered under his breath.
Faisal was giggling to himself again. “Get in!” he shouted as he bounced past Stef, making sure their shoulders bumped. When Stef looked up to meet his eye, Faisal grinned. Dirty gayboy, he mouthed, as soon as he was sure Stef was watching. Stef didn’t know what to say or do. His chest and his face felt like they were burning, but his spine and legs were iced into paralysis. He may as well have been one of the little plastic blades of fake grass for how little his body would move.
Chigs, taking his place, noticed that Stef was red-faced and frozen in place. “You okay?” he said. “He say something to you?”
“It’s nothing,” Stef heard himself say, re-finding a voice from somewhere deep and distant inside himself, suddenly very self-conscious of what his voice sounded like when he spoke.
“Please, Stef, man, go off if you need to.”
“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice died and cracked in his throat as he said it. The match restarted, and suddenly the ball was at his feet, and the moment must have gone, because his legs were moving again, and he was carrying the ball forward.
Anders noticed as Stef broke forward that he was avoiding his natural right foot, and immediately began to wonder whether he should make a change. The boys were passing the ball around in front of SGV for a while, then another unsuccessful pass into the box had the ball break to Stef again. Little Faisal buzzed around him, and Stef shifted infield to use his left again. This time, he played the ball a little way ahead of himself and burst past Faisal, thrusting a hand behind himself to push the little Afghan boy away, hard into the stomach, as he left him in his wake. Still bursting on his underlapping run, the space opened ahead of him like he was casting a spell. Anders was pleased. SGV had no idea what to do with a wide player coming infield and running at the more central players, especially as Torben had read the situation and drifted wide right to make sure the defender on that side remained occupied.
Stef hit a low, hard ball into the box with his left, heart beating heavy in his chest, panting as he released. Oli got a touch, but a defender was in his way. He kept the pressure on; made it as hard as he could for the defender to get the ball back under control and away from his goal. The defender tried to make an angle and went to boot the ball, but Oli read it and stretched his own leg to get a partial block in. The ball bounced a couple of times in the box, against another defender’s hip and then against the floor. Kris found it at his feet and hit it straight away on the bounce. The goalframe rattled again; the goalkeeper stood watching. Torben had sprinted to join the action and arrived at just the most opportune time to meet the ball as it spun and twisted away from the goalpost. He got his body over the ball and hit it hard to apply the finish. 1-1, a good team goal, and a happy group hug for Torben, Kris and Oli. Stef, watching from a short distance, still recovering from his surging run, pumped his fist in silent triumph.
It wasn’t long after the restart that the referee blew again for half time. The boys gathered in around Anders, tense as they waited for instructions. The coach began to speak but was immediately distracted by Kolbeinn making some comment to Joorsi, causing the new boy to giggle loudly.
“Thank you, boys,” said Anders, irritation in his voice. “Kolbeinn.”
“Sorry,” he smirked. Joorsi had quietened but his lips quivered with the effort of containing a snigger.
“Okay,” said Anders. “We’ve been doing the right things. We’ve just been unlucky so far. What do we need to keep doing?”
“Move the ball around them,” said Torben.
“Find the spaces,” added Ingi.
“Good,” said Anders. “Keep the transitions quick and direct. Get it wide if you can, to open up the space in the middle. They have some good players, but I don’t think they have the same organisation as we do, or Konuglengurburg do. You know how to take advantage of that, right boys?”
“Right, coach!”
“Hands in!”
The boys reached in for a rallying cry. The starting players set about to quickly take on more drink before having to head to retake their positions. Stef was watching Kolbeinn and Teitur, wrapped up in sitting joking with Joorsi, water bottle to his mouth, when Anders quickly caught him with a ruffle to his head.
“All okay?” he asked.
“Good, Anders,” Stef replied, though limply and without eye contact.
“You’d tell me if it wasn’t?”
“Course.”
“Good lad.”
Anders left Stef to get on with it. There was no point in pushing him, though something told Anders that more than just his foot was getting to him. Stef seemed such a sensitive and shy boy. Confident and happy at his best, but easily disturbed. Anders reasoned it was probably that Joorsi was sat with his friends while Stef played and they didn’t. Boys can be so territorial about their place in the group.
The game kicked off, and the B22 boys immediately tried to set about moving the ball quickly into feet and drawing their opponents out of shape. Oli seemed to have interpreted the instructions as license to drift deep into midfield, which in other circumstances may have proven fruitful, but with Stef now drifting inside, and Torben pulling wide to replace him, it just left the team with minimal penetration with nobody free to run beyond the retreating forward.
Anders called to Oli to try to encourage him to hold his position, but the game simply wasn’t coming to him this time. Odie was asked to ensure Massawa was properly warmed up.
A defender hooked a leg around Oli as he struggled to hold up the ball and turn, prodding the ball away into space. Kris made to move onto the ball but stumbled as he changed direction, allowing Faisal to ghost onto the ball with the animation of a spindly wood sprite. He moved away from Kris and over halfway, Chigs finding himself motivated to stride forward and put the small SGV playmaker under pressure. Unable to pass the large defender, Faisal instead reversed the ball into the space exposed behind Chigs, where Ali Abbas was making a lateral run. He picked up the ball directly into his feet, though Ingi tracked him closely all the way. Stef was on hand to block off Ali Abbas’ leftward drift into the B22 right-back area. Ali checked and instead rolled the ball back into the path of Bambo, who was equally under pressure from Torben as he worked back to defend. Chigs tried not to get drawn into the ball too, and fell back, though he’d lost sight of Faisal. Kris evidently hadn’t, and he jogged back beyond Chigs’ position. Bambo went to clip the ball forward toward the B22 box, but Torben’s toe prodded the ball just as Bambo tried to direct it. It arced just clear of the reach of Stef’s head, setting up an aerial duel between Ali Abbas and Ingi. Falling backwards, fistfuls of the midriff of Ingi’s shirt in each hand, the Syrian boy was just able to flick the ball on towards goal. Chigs’ positioning was off, and he was taken out of the game. Kris had doggedly tracked Faisal and was goal-side, but that meant Faisal had time to control the flicked ball into his feet. Kris drew in to deny him space. Using his much lower centre of gravity, and showing excellent close control, Faisal feinted his weight over to his right, drawing an identical movement from Kris who looked to hold his man in place. Faisal quickly shifted his standing weight back to his left, twisting his entire body around to face goal, and taking the ball with him on his right foot. It machine-gunned into the bottom left corner of the net; Thom helplessly rooted. An utterly sublime move and finish had SGV back in an undeserved lead, and their contingent was delighted.
“Fuck!” spat Kris, kicking a leg in frustration as he watched Faisal wheel away with untrammelled delight and join a mob of teammates and adults on the pitch side.
“We got pulled all over the fucking place,” grumbled Thom, hoisting the ball out of the net on the toes of his right foot and booting it dramatically over his head in the same movement. “Step it the hell up!”
“Sorry, boys,” said Chigs. “I was fucking useless there.”
“Where was the foul?” whined Ingi. “I can’t jump with someone if they’re ripping my shirt down!”
“Come on, lads!” bellowed Anders, forehead cratered and ears burning red. “Hold your intensity. Heads up.”
Oli was beckoned to the touchline and touched hands dejectedly with Massawa, who jogged stony-faced onto the field of play. As the referee began to break up the impassioned SGV celebrations, individual parents called out encouragement to their boys, or the team in general if their sons were currently planted on their bottoms on the far side of the pitch.
Stef took his place for kick-off, shaking with fury and frustration.
“Hey, little bro,” said Chigs. “Whatever that lil prick did or said to you, use it man. You’re not a kid who takes any shit, fam.”
“Thanks,” said Stef, nodding, his eyes fixed on what Massawa was about to do with the ball.
Kicking off didn’t produce instant results, but Anders was heartened that the setback hadn’t caused his boys to give up. They kept the ball well, patiently moving back and forth. Mass held to the defenders’ shoulders, helping move B22 territory a good few metres up the pitch from where they had started the second half. SGV were impetuous, but it made them clumsy, as they were overdetermined to get on the ball and protect their lead.
After some minutes of tense back and forth, B22 in ubiquitous possession, a chance came. The inside drift of Stef again caused problems for the SGV midfield, and he was able to move the ball into space for Torben, wide on the right, in a great crossing position. He drilled the ball low into space between Mass’ advance (and the defender alongside him) and the goalkeeper’s position. The three arrived at exactly the same time, and the ball was deflected behind off the goalie’s stomach for a corner kick.
It being on the B22 right, Ingi sprinted straight across to deliver an in-swinger with his left. Stef remained on the halfway line to mind Ali Abbas’ loitering; Torben drifted outside the box in the right channel. Everyone else was crowded around the SGV goalmouth. Ingi raised his arm for no apparent reason other than it seeming like the done thing, took three bouncing steps, and delivered with his left instep, the ball fizzing in a descending arc in towards goal. B22’s height advantage was evident as Massawa towered over Bambo at the near post, though the height of the ball evaded them both, and Chigs ran through and climbed above SGV defenders toward the back post, his run and leap diagonal towards where the goalkeeper was hoping to be able to collect the ball. It didn’t get that far. It was Kris’ run from the edge of the box into the right-middle of the goal, surging past tiny Faisal, that did the damage. He met the ball straight on with his forehead, jump timed to get himself over the ball and direct it laser-perfect for the top corner of the goal. It was a thumping header of high quality. And the captain had his team back level at 2-2.
Kolbeinn, Teitur, and Joorsi were on their feet on the touchline. “Yes!” grinned Stef to them, pumping his fist on the halfway line at hip level.
“Come on, boys!” shouted Thom, clapping gloved hands loudly from the edge of the B22 box. The forward players and Ingi were involved in a team huddle-cum-group-hug in front of the SGV goal. Annoyed, the goalkeeper pushed at them to usher the players away. The referee arrived before matters could escalate, and B22 were trotting back into place seconds later.
SGV kept the ball for a few passes from their kick-off before Chigs had harried the ball away from Ali Abbas. He immediately looked up and half-volleyed the ball into Torben’s chest. Torben had to contend with the attentions of Faisal. High on confidence, he flicked the ball with his heel, sending the ball between the smaller player’s legs. In the split-second Torben turned to burst after the ball, there was a thud and he was checked, ending up on the floor. He yelped and held his face. As the volume of the watching adults momentarily dropped, it was clear to hear that Torben had begun to cry.
Before the referee could turn to invite Anders to the pitch with his first aid bag, Kris had arrived on the scene, and now Faisal was sitting on the artificial surface, somewhere between angry and pantomime villain, felled by a strong, two-handed push to the chest. Suddenly there were a lot of boys in a mob, pushing and shoving, arguing and crude names flying back and forth. The referee trilled on his whistle and was joined by both assistants in encouraging the crowd of boys apart. Chigs was making some angry point to the assistant, eyes widened to fully expose their whites and a long, slender finger waggling away. Stef had knelt down to Torben, who was still crying quietly on the floor with his hands to the middle of his face, and he looked to Anders and motioned for him to come quick.
The referee finally had a spare moment to signal Anders to enter the field of play. He jogged over with the injury bag and knelt over Torben. The brown-haired boy’s rugged little fingers were damp and crimson with his blood, held to the middle of his face.
“His nose is bleeding,” Stef stated, just in case it wasn’t obvious enough.
“Okay, Torbs,” said Anders, “lift your head for me; I know it hurts.”
Torben miserably shuffled up onto his elbows and raise his head to allow his swollen nose to be gently pinched.
“Sit up,” said Anders. “You need to lean forward.”
Torben did as he was told. Anders had a wet wipe around the end of the boy’s nose, and he asked him to pinch it for himself.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Anders said.
“That little boy elbowed me!” grumbled Torben, sounding somewhat as if he was underwater.
“You’ll have to come off,” said Anders. “You need to pinch that for ten minutes, leaning forwards. No use keeping you on the pitch doing that.”
“It’s not fair!” whined Torben. “Now I’m gonna have blood stains on the shirt when I get to keep it.”
“I know, I know,” sighed Anders, leading Torben away by his spare elbow. “We can stick some packers up there to stop it if your arm gets tired. Everyone will be calling you The Walrus.”
“He smacked me right on the nose with his elbow,” Torben continued to whine. “Just cos I’m better than him.”
Odie had been under orders to have Jón ready to enter the fray. Before he could, the referee called both Faisal and Kris to him, away from the other players, to brandish to each the yellow card. Only then, with Torben off the pitch, cross-legged and leant glumly forward pinching his nose, and Anders wiping his hands free of blood, was Jón allowed to jog on ready for the free kick.
“Sorry, sir,” said Faisal sweetly to the referee as he jogged away.
“Next time, I’ll put my fist through your fucking big Asia conk,” growled Kris. Faisal simply laughed and stuck out his tongue without directly acknowledging the B22 captain.
Stef was over the free kick. He played the ball short to Jón, to give him an instant touch, and jogged onward up the right flank. Jón moved the ball inside to Kris, who took a few steps forward but was faced with a tide of red shirts, so passed low along the ground back to Chigs. Chigs put his foot on the ball and surveyed his options. He chipped a long, quick ball into Massawa, who chested into the feet of Jón. Jón heard a call from Ingi, and curled a high ball left into space in the SGV right defensive corner for him to run on to. Ingi got there but was closed down inside and behind. He tapped the ball inside to Kris in support, at the outside corner of the SGV box. Kris was under pressure, but he prodded the ball back to Chigs. Chigs was halfway inside the SGV half but had every player other than Thom ahead of him. He moved the ball right to Jón, who had made a little sideways run into space off his marker. Stef, having confused the SGV left back by actually staying wide for once, gave a call, and Jón slid him in. Stef was quick and aware enough to beat the offside trap, receiving the ball deep in the corner near the byline, and touching it twice with the outside of his left foot to redirect himself towards the SGV box and the danger zone. With a defender coming out to meet him, and the left back tracking him from behind, Stef took a quick look up and sidefooted a slightly painful cutback across goal. Mass had slid across his man and got the touch. It was all he needed. He couldn’t miss. 3-2.
The boys were ecstatic. For the first time in a tough game that they had mostly dominated, they led as they had been expected to. Hugs of relief and vindication all round as B22 celebrated their deserved lead. SGV unhappily regrouped ready for the sixth restart of the game since the original kick-off.
As the teams settled back into the game with five or six minutes remaining, Anders decided he may as well make a final change and asked Teitur to warm up. Ingi had been excellent, but he wanted to give Teitur another run as a wing back under relative pressure just to see whether he could be a viable option there. Atli got him warmed up and ready to go, as Odie was busy gently bathing the dried blood from around Torben’s reddened, puffed-up nose.
Ingi came off to congratulations, hand slaps and fist bumps with the other boys. He sat himself down next to Torben.
“I called that little kid a dirty ass-cunt for you,” he smiled.
“Pass me those little soft packer things,” said Torben. “Then you can call me The Walrus.”
“Ewww, Torben’s putting tampons up his nose!” giggled Jónatan.
“Torben, leave your nose alone, thanks,” said Anders, without turning from the match. “There’s nothing wrong with it now.”
SGV had attempted a little foray forward, but Chigs had cut a box-bound ball out before it could find Ali Abbas and danger.
Kris gathered up the loose ball deep in midfield and stroked it immediately forward into Mass. Suddenly B22 had numbers and a break on. Only one SGV defender was back with Mass, and now Jón was bursting forward, too. Massawa played the ball far forward into his path, knowing it would be too far ahead for the defender to reach and hoping the goalkeeper wouldn’t get to it either. The goalie started coming – he had no choice, really – and scrambled into a sprint for the ball. The backspin Massawa had put on the ball meant it held its place despite its bounces, and Jón was favourite to get there first. He arrived a few seconds clear of the goalkeeper and struck the ball first time without any further touch. He let the momentum of his run provide the minimal power, leaning back to give the ball lift. His chip cleared the goalkeeper and held firm for the target. It ducked under the bar without drama, bouncing inside the goal and rippling the net on its upswing. B22 were winning 4-2.
Jón was extremely pleased with himself, but the celebrations across the team were more muted. This was job done territory now. They came, they saw, they wiped the floor. Onwards to the big boys.
As the final whistle blew, the B22 boys withdrew to their coach and teammates with quiet, satisfied congratulation. The SGV boys trotted off pensively and individually, or fell to their bums on the floor, glum and exhausted.
The SGV team was being presented with little plastic medals to commemorate that they’d played in a tournament at B22 and reached the final. Call it arrogance, but Anders had planned for a cheesy second-place prize with the expectation that his team would breeze through the mini-tournament and look in good shape for full-sized matches against more even opposition. It would have been embarrassing in many ways had SGV won, but not least that their prize was simply little plastic medals.
“What do we get?” said Kolbeinn.
“The satisfaction of playing academy football,” Anders replied.
“Huh?” said Kolbeinn. “How’s that a reward?”
Edin had broken ranks to collar Anders. “Anders Dahl, this is the father of Ali Abbas, Dr Muhammad.”
“Hi,” said Anders, shaking hands with the cardiganed man with the khakis and the greying hair. “How are you?”
“God,” replied the man warmly. Anders was momentarily thrown, but realised he was speaking to someone whose Greenlandic might not be quite at saga levels of competence.
“Your son played very well today,” said Anders, slowly enough, but not so much that he came across patronising. Dr Muhammad smiled back at him.
“Where is Ali Abbas?” Edin asked himself. “He can translate.”
“I can switch into English if you like,” said Anders, switching into English.
“Ah – okay! Good! Good!” said Dr Muhammad.
“So, you’re a doctor here?” asked Anders.
“No, no,” said Dr Muhammad, screwing up his face a little, before smiling to respond. “I am health volunteer in community centre. My Greenlandic is not yet good. I must first pass language test and prove my degree from Suriya.”
“I’m sure you’ll get there,” replied Anders. “Your son will be a big help with language. He’s a very good footballer, too.”
“Yes, I am very proud,” Dr Muhammad smiled warmly. “Ali Abbas is very good, clever boy. I am sad that he cannot be in our home, in Suriya, but Greenland is very good country. Many opportunity.”
“I’d like to give Ali Abbas the opportunity to play for my team,” said Anders. “Would you and he be happy with that?”
“Yes! Please! Thank you! Please! Ali Abbas loves football. Every day it’s Baba, football, football, even when I say, no, my son, homework! He will love to play. Where is he, my boy? Ali Abbas!?”
The boy arrived beside his father, looking at the plastic medal in his hand and running his thumb tip across the patterning.
“Hi, Ali,” said Anders, unaware that he was still speaking English. “I think you’re a very good player. How do you feel about maybe trying out for our team?”
Ali Abbas was apparently unfazed that the conversation was happening in English. Edin, however, had long since wandered off.
“I’d love it,” said Ali Abbas, huskily in the tones of a boy voice on the cusp of development. “I really love to play football, and… yeah… wow! To play for a real team!”
Anders caught his code error, and he switched back into Greenlandic to instruct the boy. “Training is on Tuesday nights at five and on either Thursdays or Fridays at the same time, depending on when and where we have a game at the weekend. You don’t need to pay, and usually we have transport organised to the away games.”
“That’s cool,” said Ali Abbas, carrying a stronger level of accent over into his Greenlandic than he had his English. “I can tell baba in Arabic, so he understands better.”
“You do that,” smiled Anders. “Oh, and Ali – make sure you bring along some ID and proof of your address and phone number so we can register you as our player if you want to stay with us.”
“Great,” grinned Ali Abbas. “Yeah, I will. No problem. Thanks, coach! Thanks a lot!”
“You earned it,” shrugged Anders, turning away and immediately into the face of Edin, who apparently hadn’t wandered off very far.
“So you’re taking Ali Abbas and Faisal,” he said; a statement rather than a question.
“I’m not sure about Faisal,” said Anders. “We have a lot of players in his position who play a very similar game.”
“Come on, he was great against your players! He scored a great goal!”
“He tried to cripple one of his would-be teammates and should really have been sent off for elbowing another,” replied Anders, drily.
“It’s a different style of play,” shrugged Edin. “He wants to win, whatever it takes. It’s not like the northern way, but it works.”
“But his team lost.”
“Only just.”
Anders sighed and looked up at the unkempt man he assumed must be Faisal’s father. He looked lost and disinterested, standing on his own amongst the buzz of the room, while Faisal did his own thing elsewhere, zipping around hyperactively amongst teammates as they chatted and played with their prizes.
“Okay,” he said. “But trial only. Make sure he turns up. And any problems, he’s gone. I mean it.”
“Why would there be a problem,” shrugged Edin. “He’s just a little boy.”
Stef and Teitur plodded across the hall, only momentarily drawing Anders’ view, as they headed for a quick shower in the dressing room to save vital gaming time at Teitur’s house. There were a couple of other boys collecting last season’s kit to keep, and the sound of the showers running, but it wasn’t busy.
It was only Oli with them in the showers, and the three didn’t feel the need to be bashful around each other; Oli was a friend, not the kind of boy to try to embarrass them or tease. Besides which, he was nearly done and soon on his way, his slightly smaller package than Teitur’s, still hairless but for a little blond border fuzz, bounced the way ahead of him as he withdrew to towel off, leaving Stef and Teitur alone.
“You okay?” asked Teitur. “You’ve been a bit weird. More than usual, I mean.”
Stef exhaled noncommittally through his nose and let his mouth pull a little half-smile at Teitur’s joke, but his head remained cocked diagonally away from his friend, looking down at the tiles of the wall as he stood in the warm stream of water.
“What?” said Teitur. “You’re not going to be like this all night, are you?”
“That little Asian kid called me a dirty gayboy,” blurted Stef.
“So?” said Teitur. “Fuck him. He’s a little loser. He smacked Torben in the nose because he couldn’t take it.”
“S’pose,” said Stef.
“He’s just a little fucktard,” said Teitur. “Ignore him.”
“But… Ty?” Stef stopped still in the water and looked up at his friend to catch his eye. “How can he tell?”
“Tell what?”
“How can he tell that I’m gay? Do I show it off? Is it obvious?”
“Don’t be stupid, Stefnir,” said Teitur. “Idiots like that thing use gay as an insult. He don’t know anything about you, and nobody else cares if you’re gay or straight or… I dunno… like sticking your dick in cheese sandwiches or something.”
Stef began to titter, then burst out in side-splitting laughter over the patter of the shower water. Teitur started laughing too.
“Cheese sandwiches, Ty!” spluttered Stef.
“Maybe it feels good!”
“You’re fucking crazy, dude!”
“Mmm… nice… tight… cheesy… sandwich… Ugh-mmmmm!”
“Butter my balls, cheesy baby! Cover me in your milky cream!”
“Ohh… cheesy… I wanna poke holes all the way through you!”
“Let’s do it Switzerland style!”
“Hey,” giggled Teitur, running his fingers through his hair as the water shut itself off. “Imagine getting breadcrumbs caught up your cock! That would be so itchy!”
By the time they were on their umpteenth game of FIFA, a sleepy Stef was flopped against Teitur’s side, barely caring that he was losing the game.
“What time are you getting picked up again?” asked Teitur.
“About eight,” Stef replied.
“Cool. We’ve still got some time then. You wanna have some fun?”
“Hm. Not really. I’m too tired. I can play with your dick a bit if you want?”
“How about we watch a series or something?” suggested Teitur, flicking up the streaming options on his bedroom TV. “We can finish off the crisps and we can touch each other if you want.”
“That sounds cool,” yawned Stef. “What should we watch?”
Teitur was flicking through different options that were allowed on the account his parents had set up for him. “Something easy. How about… Do you like Doctor Who?”
“It’s okay, I guess,” said Stef. “I saw some of the old ones on repeat, from when it’s that tall guy with the brown hair and suit and trenchcoat. Those ones are better.”
“Those aren’t that old,” said Teitur. “My dad’s a real nerd for it. He’s made me watch all the really old ones, from, like, the 1970s or something. They’re really corny. And none of the girl characters are as fit as in the modern ones, like that Karen Gillan girl.”
“I don’t mind,” shrugged Stef into Teitur’s side. “I’ll watch whatever you want.”
“How about this?” said Teitur, opening a suggested related series. “Torchwood. I’ve never watched it before.”
“What is it?”
“It’s like, from Doctor Who, but that era that you like,” Teitur explained. “And there’s this guy called Captain Jack, and he can’t die, and he’s from the future where they have sex with everyone all the time. I think this is, like, the more adult show about him. That’s why I’ve not watched it before.”
“Sounds cool,” said Stef, stifling another yawn. “Put it on.”
“I bet there’ll be some sex in this episode for when we’re playing with each other’s dicks.”
“Hm,” replied Stef absentmindedly, snaking his hand into the front of Teitur’s bottoms. He felt the warm and slight damp of Teitur’s cock and balls immediately. He squeezed and fondled at Teitur’s developing member, noting how it was fatter and longer than his own, and had some hairs around the top that tickled and scratched at the ball of his palm and his wrist. Teitur’s dick rose to fill Stef’s hand, which gently, slowly played around with it, not particularly aiming to give much of a hand job.
“Nggh,” Teitur grunted, watching the screen as the first episode started up. He reached over without looking to return Stef’s favour, taking a little limp willy and small set of nuts in his hand. Stef relaxed into Teitur’s side more, as they lay against the headboard of his bed watching TV. Teitur’s bicep cradled Stef’s head as his hand reached down to cradle Stef’s balls, the boys warm and relaxed, secured together.
You can find a collection of my stories, some unpublished extras, and a full guide to Greenland-Vinland, its places, the club(s), and the players at my anthology site here.