Welcome to the North

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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I had written most of what I thought would be Episode 4 before realising that it's kind of a double episode. Suffice to say, Episode 5 is coming in very short order...

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.

I'm consistently very pleasantly surprised by how much of a following this series seems to have already. Thanks everyone who is reading, emailing, visiting the website for other stories, etc. On with the show, which I hope you'll find reason to enjoy. bard_boy at protonmail dot com to get in touch with me.

Episode Four

“Settling down now Class Six. Eyes to the front. Thank you. Thank you Emma, thank you Amba, thank you Stef. Yohri, looking this way? Thanks.”

“Ow! Stop it, you mong!”

“Yohri, poking Lóreley with your pen is not helping you do Geography. What do you need to do?”

“Sorry, sir,” said Yohri, putting down his pen and turning his body to face forward. He earned a filthy look from Lóreley as he did, and a suck of the teeth.

“Okay, Class Six,” said Mr Arkarsson, his granite eyes scanning the room. “Today we’ll be continuing with our work on population. You should all have been completing the starter activity on the board while I took the register. Let’s see who was paying attention. Who managed to define our word of the day? Yes, Emma?”

“A refugee is someone who has been forced to leave their home because it isn’t safe to be there anymore.”

“Very well done, Emma. Haukur? Listening in, thanks. So, a refugee is someone forced to leave their home for reasons of safety, often due to war, persecution, or natural disasters, or perhaps famine or disease. They’re a type of what we would call a displaced person, because they are forced to move from home to another place. How might that connect to what we’ve been studying about population change?”

Stef raised his hand. That was an easy one.

“Yes, Stef.”

“Last lesson we did about birth rates in more economically developed countries, and how richer countries need immigration to keep their population growing. Refugees are also a kind of migrant to richer countries even if they don’t choose to be, because rich countries are more likely to be safe countries.”

“That’s excellent, Stef!” smiled Mr Arkarsson. He was a young man, not particularly tall or imposing, but with striking, catlike features, and slicked-back brown hair. He wore expensive shirts with intricate patterning, and stylish shoes. Stef liked him, though the constant sibilance in the way Mr Arkarsson pronounced anything with an s always began to grate over the course of a period. “Did everyone hear Stef? Good. Okay. So, even though more developed countries, like ours, might be safe countries for refugees to come to, they might still face some difficulties in having to move to a totally new place. Let’s think of a couple together as a class, then you’re going to come up with five more of your own in your exercise books. Then we’ll watch a quick video, and you can see how many of our ideas were right! Okay, hands up – who has an idea for what might cause difficulties for refugees arriving in a safe country…”

Stef had an idea. He’d learnt it first-hand. He lifted his arm up stock straight above him and tried to catch Mr Arkarsson’s unsettlingly grey eyes.

“Yes, Leila.”

“They might not speak the same language.”

“Very good point, Leila. Well done. A simple but really important difficulty. They might not speak the language of the place they’re arriving in and will struggle to follow everything that’s going on.”

Mr Arkarsson turned to quickly scrawl Leila’s name on the smiley side of a rough table he’d drawn on the board, like a darts score slate, to indicate Leila was on her way to earning reward points.

“Stef,” he invited, turning around to see Stef looking at him with his hand raised straight. The teacher then realised he probably ought already to have had Stef’s name on his positive scorecard, so he turned to write the four letters as he awaited the boy’s answer.

“Migrant children might find life difficult because of cultural differences; some people are more conservative and not as accepting of different people,” said Stef, involuntarily shuddering as a tickle ran down his spine.

“Good, Stef,” said Mr Arkarsson, adding a tick next to Stef’s name to indicate a second strike towards reward points. “That’s right. Some people in countries like Greenland-Vinland might not feel comfortable with accepting people from different backgrounds straight away.”

“I meant the migrants might not be accepting of others…” Stef responded, voice sinking as his heart sighed in his chest.

“Oh,” said Mr Arkarsson, the slightest hint of bemusement straying across his face before he recovered a professional chirpiness. “Okay then. But the point is cultural differences, and that’s a really good answer because…”

The teacher went on, but Stef had already begun to zone out. Mr Arkarsson had stopped speaking, and the girl next to him at his desk, Melinda, had slouched to begin writing in her exercise book by the time Stef was brought back around by Yohri’s eraser bouncing off the side of his head.

Anders was relatively pleased that Monday evening’s draw for the local cup, the Strákamót Austerbygd, had been kind on his team. They had missed out on a bye to the Second Round, but Anders was much happier for his team to be playing a competitive match before their league campaign started, especially when it took them away to Kirkjan Klúbbur in the small town of Nyburg – a club not expected to progress beyond their first game in the cup, and who didn’t have anything like the resources to maintain the academy system that B22 enjoyed. The only issue was the tricky journey out to the sticks in order to get to the game; only around 65km as the crow flies, but a journey time of up to two hours depending on traffic in and around Brattahlíð and Garðar, and the weather conditions on the smaller country roads on the way to Nyburg. Kirkjan Klúbbur, perhaps pleased that their boys had been given the chance to test themselves against top-level opposition (at least by Greenlandic standards), had offered a solution.

“Hi Sofie,” said Anders, having dropped into the admin department and poked his head around the door of the teenage youth football office. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she said, not looking up from the email she was in the middle of sending. “I take it you’ve seen your Strákamót Austerbygd draw?”

“That’s what I was here for, actually.”

“Well, they’ve said they’re going to play it on the Saturday afternoon,” Sofie replied. “Not ideal, really, but I think it’s a big deal for them.”

“I’ve heard from their coach about that,” said Anders. “They’re offering to put our boys up overnight. The local community centre doubles as a hostel for tourists and backpackers in the summer. It’s off-season now. We can use it for free.”

“There’s still the cost of having you travel as a team, though,” said Sofie, flicking the spacebar particularly noisily with her thumb. “And the hassle of parental consent.”

“Boys who can’t stay over can carpool back and forth. I can drive one of the minibuses, so the only cost to the club is fuel. Come on, Sofie; this would be great for a bit of team bonding before the league season begins. If you say yes now, I have over a week to make sure all the proper consent is filed to you.”

“I’ll have to talk to Merete,” shrugged Sofie, pointing and clicking her mouse.

“Good, but ideally we need a decision before training tonight, so I can give the boys fair warning,” said Anders. “Plus, if I show we can make this work out, then it helps my case for getting stopovers for some of the more distant league games.”

Sofie finally turned to look at Anders directly.

“Anders,” she said, “I know from your playing days you’re used to being ferried around everywhere and lodged for long weekends in hotels – but we really don’t have the budget to be treating a load of 12-year-old lads to that.”

“I’ll speak to the board then–”

“Anders–”

“No; they said this was an unusually talented group, and they may be right. If they want me to prove that and get them on the long track to the first team, they need to give me the resources to kick start their development. Right?”

“Have your stopover in Nyburg,” sighed Sofie. “I’ll clear it with Merete. I’m sure it’s just lovely there at this time of year.”

“And talking to the suits about other trips?”

“Don’t push your luck. Right now, you have a team bus for the long trips like everyone else.”

“I’ll win you over yet, Sofie.”

“You can start by getting me some forms for those players you’ve tried to poach,” she said, turning back to her computer screen and rolling her eyes.

“Thanks,” smiled Anders. “You’re a star.”

“I have a boyfriend,” Sofie called sarcastically after Anders as he disappeared back down the corridor.

“That’s workplace harassment,” he returned, in the same tone, smiling to himself as he skipped off to set up the indoor pitches.

Sam was a one-boy butterfly farm as he arrived at B22 Þjálfunarsvæðið and entered the sports hall that had played host to the weekend tournament. He could feel tingles not just in his tummy, but through all his insides, including making his butthole contract and his private parts feel as if they’d shrivelled up. There was a nervous excitement alternating all the way through him. He was sure that if he had to hold anything, he’d end up shaking it everywhere.

He’d come pretty much straight from school. He took a short bus ride home, had the chance to dump his bag and find where Mum had laid out his training kit, and had just enough time to have a drink and a big, nervous poo before Martin had arrived and was ushering him out of the door. Sam managed to grab a sports drink and a banana to keep him going just before Martin got to the raised voice stage of insistence that Sam get in the white Transit van.

Sam didn’t mind Martin too much; Mum had been with him for maybe four years, and he’d been living with the family for around three, but he didn’t feel like a dad. It’s not that Sam disliked Martin, but he certainly didn’t love him. He felt more like a default adult caregiver than a parent; like living with a teacher, but not one of your favourites. Martin was just sort of there.

The stepdad made sure to remind Sam – twice – as they hit the main highway to take them the short distance to Brattahlíð, that he’d had to finish work early to make sure Sam could get to his first training session, so he’d better make the most of it. Sam was too nervous to care. He watched the traffic from the window of the van door, enjoying the way the road hugged the steep hillside above the blue-green waters of the fjord, and letting whatever crimes against music from the 1980s Martin had chosen to play wash over him.

And now Sam had arrived, right up the course of the fjord and over to the other side of it, the training ground nestled beneath a foggy mountain in view of the great Bivrøst Bridge. Martin had gone; being in Brattahlíð, he’d arranged to go pick up his own son for dinner. As Sam finished his first training session, Martin and Silas would be about to tuck into pizza or peri peri chicken – or something – somewhere in town. Mum would be coming straight over from work to pick Sam up. Henrik and Milia were being watched and fed by Aunt Sara until Sam and Mum got home.

Sam pulled his sports bag up on his shoulders, not really sure what to do other than enter the building. There were people around, but he didn’t feel all that confident in asking directions of people he didn’t recognise. As Sam walked through the door, he was nearly knocked over by a boy a little taller than him, with wild, messy, dark brown hair, sprinting in his direction whilst looking behind himself and laughing. Another boy, marginally taller than the last, with lighter brown hair and amused blue eyes, gave chase just behind. Sam dodged to one side and watched them carefully, almost then being guilty himself of bumping into a redheaded boy, more his own size, who had been slowly, somewhat resignedly, plodding after the other two boys.

“Oops, sorry,” the red-haired boy said, smiling. “My friends are a bit crazy sometimes. Are you here for under-13s training?”

“Um, yeah,” said Sam. “I brought my kit in my bag. Do you know where I should get changed?”

“Yeah, sure!” chirped the boy. “Come with me; I’ll show you. My name’s Stef, by the way. What’s yours?”

“I’m Sámuel,” said Sam. “But you can just call me Sam, if you want to.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Stef replied warmly, pushing through the weighted home changing room door ahead of them. “I think I might have played against you on Saturday, right?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam, looking around the empty room, and awkwardly removing his drawstring bag to place it on the bench where Stef had stopped. “I did play against B22 in my first game.”

“I remember you,” grinned Stef. “You were good and made it hard for me to join the attack. I preferred playing against you, though. The kid who replaced you nearly broke my foot!”

“Thanks,” Sam smiled bashfully. Stef had sat himself down on the bench, and it was marginally reassuring to Sam that another boy was willing to stay there and chat while he got changed.

“My foot’s better now though,” Stef added, almost as an afterthought.

Sam had removed the Hype sweater he’d worn to school, and simply nodded as he stood topless next to Stef. He opened up his sports bag and pulled out his kit and moulded boots for the artificial surface. He went to stuff his sweatshirt into the empty bag.

“You don’t need to do that,” said Stef. “You’ll screw up your jumper. You can leave everything safe on the benches; you’ll have your own space and peg. This is mine, but you can use it because I’ve come already changed today.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Cheers.”

He left his jumper in less of a heap on the bench, and pulled the sports top Mum had washed, ironed, folded, and provided. It was a Bayern Munich shirt in black. Beneath were his tracksuit bottoms. Sam unbuttoned the jeans he’d worn to school and shuffled them down, pulling them free of his ankles. He was slightly self-conscious, being down to his boxers in front of a boy he’d just met, but he didn’t want to seem babyish, so he ignored the anxiety and roughly folded his jeans to sit on top of his jumper on Stef’s section of bench. Sam quickly retrieved his bottoms, but felt a fissure of horror as he lifted them up. He’d expected a clean, rolled-up pair of sports socks to bumble free, but there, also beneath the trackies in the pile, was a change of underpants!

Sam felt his cheeks and ears burning, but quickly got on with getting dressed and hoped to high heaven inside of him that Stef the B22 boy wouldn’t notice the extra undies before he could hide them. What were they doing there? Was Mum trying to sabotage his place in the team before he’d even started? Sam could feel his hands quivering again as he hauled up the tracksuit bottoms into place around his waist. He plopped himself onto the bench beside Stef, putting himself between the boy and his rogue undergarment. Stef, who had been momentarily distracted by his phone, looked back at Sam as he busied himself with changing his socks.

“Looks like you got some extra clean washing from the pile,” said Stef, causing Sam to start and feel like his heart had dropped through his backside and started to trickle down his thighs. “It happens to me a lot when I’m in a rush, too. I have two little brothers, so sometimes I even end up with their clothes! Once, I even ended up with my littlest brother’s socks in my bag for PE… Luckily it was indoor so the teacher just made me do it barefoot and said I should take more care to make sure I’d brought my own clothes next time. It was really funny, though, afterwards!”

Sam was caught by surprise, expecting the worst. He pulled his boots over ready to finish off. A smile broke across his face.

“That is funny,” he said. “I bet some teachers would have tried to make you do it in really tiny socks.”

“Probably,” Stef smiled. “I think those teachers like me because they know I’m good at football, though. You probably have the same thing.”

“Not really,” said Sam. “I don’t think they dislike me…”

“They’ll be right up your arse when they find out you’re playing for B22!” laughed Stef. “Even if they hadn’t even learned your name properly before.”

Sam finished lacing up his right boot and went to put on his left. He caught Stef’s eye again and smiled. Then, noticing the difference between what Stef was wearing for training and his own clothes, he frowned. Stef was in black tracksuit bottoms that hugged the form of his legs, with his squad number and the club crest on alternate thighs. He had a black sports jacket, half zipped up, also with the club crest and his initials, SB, on alternate sides. A grey club training shirt – probably, thought Sam, also bearing his initials and squad number – was visible peeking through the top where Stef didn’t have his jacket zipped all the way up.

“Wha’s’matter?” asked Stef.

“I hope the coach doesn’t mind that I’m training wearing this,” said Sam.

“Anders?” said Stef. “Nah, he’s really chill. I like him. He won’t mind at all. Sides, you’ll get your own training kit when you’re all signed-up properly.”

“Wow,” said Sam, grinning. “That’d be, like, really, really good.”

“It’s not a special treat,” laughed Stef. “Everyone on the team gets one!”

“Right,” said Sam, feeling a little silly. “Yeah, course they do.”

“You know,” said Stef, “of all the pants you could accidentally bring, pink boxer-briefs are probably the coolest ones. They’re, like, here’s a kid who doesn’t give a fuck about his boxers standing out.”

“Yeah,” laughed Sam. “Actually, they’re one of my favourite pairs. Really comfy and warm.”

“My favourite pair is a blue pair like those, except the elastic band is big and white and says GAS on it all the way around. My mum and dad got them for me for Christmas, because my dad said that it was the perfect message to go with my bum!”

Sam smirked and smiled at Stef. “Have you ever worn them in PE?”

“My school’s a bit shit,” chuckled Stef. “A lot of the boys are more interested in embarrassing kids by pulling their boxers down while they get changed than reading what’s on them.”

“Here Steffi is!” exclaimed Kolbeinn, having burst through the door. “Watching people get changed again, you naughty little boy! Hey! Ty! I found him!”

“This is Kolbeinn,” smirked Stef to Sam. “He thinks he’s jokes, but mainly he is the joke.”

“Stop being mean to me in front of the new boy, Stef!” Kolbeinn protested, sticking his bottom lip out. “I’ll tell Anders on you.”

“Stef!” called Teitur, pushing through the changing room door. “Oh, hey. Are you one of the new kids?”

“Yeah…” Sam began.

“This is Sam,” said Stef. “He’s chill. These are Kolbeinn and Teitur. Teitur’s Canadian.”

“My dad is Canadian,” Teitur corrected, as he began to lead the foursome from the changing room.

“That makes you Canadian, too!” Stef replied, a gentle hand momentarily between Sam’s shoulder blades to encourage him along with the group.

“That’s racist,” responded Teitur, pulling at the heavy home changing room door.

“No, it’s not,” Kolbeinn interjected. “One: your dad isn’t black. Two: Canadians love maple syrup. Three: I know that Teitur loves maple syrup so much he rubs it all over his naked body instead of having a wash. And then… and then…” – a huge grin split Kolbeinn’s impish face – “then, he gets his dog to lick it off him!”

Sam was so happily laughing along that he’d forgotten he was leaving the changing room with his favourite pink undies still sat on top of his abandoned pile of clothing.

Teitur, Kolbeinn, Stef, and Sam arrived – in that order – in the main hall just behind Joorsi, who had apparently just arrived kitted out in his Vindbakke shorts and socks and a two-seasons-outdated B22 replica shirt.

“Hey, Joorsi!” Kolbeinn called out, snagging his new friend’s attention.

“Hi,” said Joorsi, smiling at the boys. “Hi Teitur, hi Stefnir.”

“Joorsi, this is Sam,” said Stef, gesturing to the boy beside him. “Have you met him yet?”

“No,” said Joorsi. “Hi Sam. Are you new too?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I came from Prøven Jets. What about you?”

“I’m from Vindbakke,” he said. “You know, the team, I mean. I live there too now, but originally I’m from Ilulissat.”

“Wow,” said Sam. “That’s way north.”

“Joorsi is our wild polar bear,” grinned Kolbeinn. “I’m the brown bear. We’re grizzly in the middle of the park together.”

“Shut up, Kol,” said Teitur, with a snigger-sigh. “You haven’t even played together yet.”

“Yeah, but when we do, it’s gonna be fierce.”

“Actually, my surname means Whale,” shrugged Joorsi.

“Maybe we should call Kol Ishmael,” laughed Stef.

“Who’s Ishmael?” said Kolbeinn.

Teitur shrugged. “I didn’t get it either.”

“You know,” said Sam, “like in Moby Dick.”

“Thank you, Sam,” sighed Stef. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“That must be the first thing to do with dick Kolbeinn has ever not got,” Teitur smirked.

“Yeah, well, I never saw whale dick before,” said Kolbeinn. “How do you fit it in your shorts, Joors?”

“Shut up!” giggled Joorsi, high and chromatic. “You’re a really weird boy. You know that?”

Other players had started to push past them through the door. Anders wasn’t far behind.

“Come on lads, you know that isn’t a clever place to hang around,” he said, before moving on to drop a pile of coloured bibs on the floor where he eventually wanted the boys to gather and sit around him.

Kris was next to arrive through the door, just as Joorsi, Kolbeinn, Sam, Stef, and Teitur were moving away.

“Hey Kris,” said Teitur.

“Yeah, hello,” said Kris, pulling expensive Bluetooth earbuds out and zipping them in his jacket pocket.

“Oh, hey!” said Joorsi expectantly. He took a few steps to follow Kris and broke into a different language. “I wanted to say hi to you, I’m Joorsi and I’m fr–” Joorsi had begun in rapid-fire Kalaallisut, before Kris turned to him, scowling.

“I’m Norse; I speak Greenlandic,” he hissed. “Fuck off with your click-click language, skræling.”

Kris turned and marched away to dump his jacket and ready himself for the start of the session, without once looking back. Joorsi had gone bright red.

“What the fuck?!” raged Kolbeinn. “I’m gonna fucking… ggrrrngh! Rich prick!”

“Kol, leave it,” said Teitur, wrapping a hand around Kolbeinn’s chest and holding him firmly on the spot. “Joorsi, are you okay?”

“Fine,” Joorsi said quietly.

“Just ignore him; try to forget about it,” said Stef. “He only thinks about himself; there’s no point caring about what he says.”

“It’s fine,” said Joorsi, more curtly. Sam watched with wide eyes but added nothing.

“I wanna fucking… I’ll kill him!” Kolbeinn growled.

“Kol!” said Teitur, wrapping an entire arm around his younger friend now. “Just leave it, yeah? Joorsi says it’s fine, so you don’t have to start on anyone for him.”

“It’s never normally like this,” said Stef, seeing Sam’s discomfort. “Hey, I’ll introduce you to some of the other lads. There’s Jónatan, he’s really funny. And Jón – he’s chill but sort of awkward. Oli is really cool; his parents are from America. And there’s Ingi, and Torben, and Kristinn…”

“Gathering in thanks, boys,” said Anders, voice raised just enough to carry across the hall. Stef cut off pointing out different teammates to Sam and quietly led the way to Anders’ feet to sit down.

Anders had explained that the team would be practising some basic set-piece routines – attacking and defending throw-ins, kick-offs, and goal kicks – before going ahead with a practice match. He said that set pieces like throw-ins and goal kicks would be really important to get right, as they happen so often in lower-level games. Small ball, he called it, borrowing a phrase from some American sport, or cricket, or something. The idea of the practice game was just to give the new players a feel for playing with their new teammates. It was all very simple, easy to set up, and soon ready to go.

“Okay, boys. First of all, I need three teams of six to start working on basic throw-in routines. The two goalkeepers can do drills with Atli while everyone else does this part.”

Jón’s hand was up.

“Jón?”

“Anders, there’s only nineteen of us.”

“Nineteen?” said Anders. “Wait, who’s missing, then?”

There was banging in the outside corridor, and the sound of a boy running. “I’m he-eere!” a little voice called.

Stef looked up at Anders with shock. He turned to look at Torben, who had instinctively placed a thumb and forefinger on his lightly bruised and cut nose. What’s he doing here? Stef mouthed at Torben with annoyance. Torben shrugged and looked up at Anders. The coach was distracted by Faisal’s arrival, and noticed neither of his players staring at him for answers – or, at the very least, tactically ignored them.

“Come and join us quickly, Faisal,” said Anders. “We’re about to start our first drills.”

Feeling more than a little betrayed, Stef tried his hardest to apply himself to the drills to take his mind off Faisal’s presence. He was probably just on trial because of his good performance, Stef reasoned. Anders was cool, and once he realised what a little toad Faisal was, he’d make sure the boy wouldn’t join the team. At least Anders had made sure he and Torben were paired in the same group, and not having to deal directly with Faisal.

The small-group throw-in drills progressed to whole-group kick-off routines, and then to a quick practice game. Anders had to pick the teams carefully to try to balance the positions. He put Thom, Kristinn, Ingi, Geir, Jónatan, Joorsi, Kris, Jón, Ali Abbas and Barty together on one team, leaving Mark, Stef, Sam, Chigs, Kol, Teitur, Torben, Faisal, Mass and Oli to make up the other team in luminescent pink bibs. Anders figured the second ten would work out best positions themselves. Kol would have to deputise as a central defender, but he was capable enough of that just for a training game. Teitur and Sam could work out between them whether Teitur was more comfortable out of position in a midfield three or out of position as a left back; Anders was confident Sam could play either position well enough. And, crucially, Faisal would be forced to work with Stef and Torben, and vice-versa.

It started just like a kick-off drill that carried on into open play. Soon the two teams of ten (and, given the imbalance in his squad between forwards, midfielders, and defenders, Anders reasoned, good practise for being down a player and having to chase a game with two strikers still on the pitch) were battling it out at almost normal match intensity. Anders soon realised that his attempts to get certain players together on the same team in the spirit of reconciliation had made life difficult for the pinks. They had Teitur, the only out-and-out wide midfield or attacking player in the squad, being forced to make up a central three with the attack-minded Torben and the free-spirited Faisal, whom Torben was still only passing the ball to begrudgingly. Set against the industrious Joorsi, the talismanic Kris, and the mercurial Jón, it was a total mismatch. Teitur tried hard to adapt to playing more centrally, but his positioning was sloppy, and his tackling didn’t get the job done with any particular regularity. Faisal was an irrelevance when pitted against a talented midfield trio with two solid defenders behind them. Torben, for all his talent, was not at his most useful while scrapping for the ball.

Chigs and makeshift defender Kolbeinn were increasingly called into action to stem the flow. Eventually, Barty was able to back in and hold the ball up long enough against Chigs to play into Ali Abbas’ feet, who released Kris into the space between Chigs and Kolbeinn. Kol’s red mist descended; he sprinted to cover Kris’ advance and launched himself into a tackle. He had no likelihood nor intention of getting the ball; that much he knew himself. He was supremely satisfied instead with a thick kick to both of Kris’ shins with his swinging, outstretched dominant leg.

Kris took a tumble and hit the floor with a grunt of pain. Kolbeinn laughed to himself triumphantly and pushed himself up from his knees by his hands to return to his feet. He didn’t stay on them long; Kris soon had a fistful of Kolbeinn’s pink bib and had hauled him back to the floor.

“The fuck you think you’re doing, you little clown?” Kris was over Kolbeinn on all-fours, as Kolbeinn was forced back down on his back on the artificial turf. Kris bore down on him, furious, apparently expecting Kolbeinn to respond; expecting him to apologise. Kolbeinn couldn’t help but laugh. Hard.

Kris grunted and slapped angrily at Kolbeinn’s ribs. Kolbeinn kicked out as if to go for Kris’ balls, giving him the chance to hop up onto his feet and away as Kris flinched back. He was soon back on the floor, though, as Kris took a furious swipe at both Kolbeinn’s ankles in one with a kick that drew a loud crack around the room.

By this stage, Atli and Odie were on the scene, pulling the two struggling boys apart. Anders stood quivering in place to the side of the pitch. There was no way he’d be chasing after those boys; they’d come to him and go exactly where he told them. The saving grace was that none of the other boys looked at all interested in the fight between Kris and Kolbeinn. They’d simply stood around watching them get on with it.

“Both of you. Here. Now!” Anders boomed. Kris and Kolbeinn looked up with startled surprise, never having heard Anders raise his voice in that way before. Kris sheepishly, face a picture of teenage fury, released himself from Atli’s guard and trudged his way across to where Anders was standing. Kolbeinn followed behind, not least because he thought he’d rather be punished by Anders than remain getting bear-hugged from behind by Odie.

“Stand apart,” Anders ordered. His voice was now quiet, but his tone was curt and assertive enough to convey his anger clearly. “Are either of you hurt?”

“No, Anders,” said Kolbeinn, swallowing his words and talking with his chin into his chest.

“No, coach,” Kris repeated, more coherently, but also tilting his head down to avoid Anders’ gaze.

“You’re to walk from this room now, apart, not acknowledging each other in any way, and Kolbeinn will wait for me in the home dressing room, and Kris will wait for me in the away dressing room. In silence. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. Get on with it.”

Kris began the march towards the door as the eighteen other boys watched on. Kolbeinn soon followed on behind at what was an acceptable distance.

“Excuse me, boys,” said Anders. “I’m so sorry to have to leave you in the middle of the game, but I have to go and sort out this ridiculous behaviour. I’m sure Atli and Odie will keep your game going.”

Anders gave the two boys plenty of time to take themselves to their assigned rooms. He went after Kolbeinn first, finding him seated looking at his knees on the first row of benches of the home training room. Probably, Anders reasoned, from anxiety, Kolbeinn was fingering a set of pink underpants left on top of another boy’s pile of clothing.

“Leave the clothes alone,” said Anders. “They aren’t yours.”

Kolbeinn complied and instead dropped his hands heavily into his lap. He squeezed them tight between his thighs, then let go.

“What happened?” said Anders, still standing over Kolbeinn, eyeing him sternly.

Kolbeinn looked at his hands in his lap, now wrestling each other for comfort, and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He began to cry, sobbing like a steam engine.

“Kolbeinn,” said Anders, taking a seat on the bench right beside him. “Kolbeinn, look at me.” Anders placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulders and tried to turn him a little to face him. “Come on, Kolbeinn. It’s not the end of the world. What’s got you this upset, eh?”

“You’re going to tell my mum and dad,” Kolbeinn blubbered. “And then they’ll stop me playing football forever.”

“They’re not going to do that,” said Anders, rubbing Kolbeinn’s shoulder blades and trying not to sound too amused at his twelve-year-old logic. “Come on; what’s happened today?”

“I was getting Kris back for Joorsi,” said Kolbeinn, sounding like he had an ice cube in his mouth.

“Why?” said Anders. “What happened?”

“He…”

“If you don’t tell me, Kolbeinn, I can’t do anything to try to make it better.”

“He was racist to Joorsi.”

“Kris was?” said Anders, taken aback.

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“I don’t wanna say it…”

“Kolbeinn, you have to tell me.”

“Joorsi tried to speak to Kris in Inuit. Kris was horrible to him.”

“But what did he say?”

Kolbeinn tightened his body, airwaves full of snot and the occasional tear still tumbling from the peaks of his cheeks. “He told him he was Greenlandic so he should speak Greenlandic to him, and he told Joorsi to f-off for talking to him in a clicking language. And he called him… He called him the – the s-word.”

“Kris called Joorsi a…” Anders paused and patted Kolbeinn’s back to make sure the boy was looking him in the, face, before mouthing the word to him. Skræling?

Kolbeinn nodded and sucked in a sniffle, squeezing his hands between his upper thighs and crotch again.

“What should you have done when this happened?” Anders asked.

“I should’ve told you,” said Kolbeinn.

“That’s right,” said Anders. “Then we wouldn’t be sitting here all upset, would we?”

“No…”

“Kolbeinn, you know it’s wrong to deliberately hurt someone, don’t you?”

Kolbeinn nodded.

“And you know it’s very wrong to use football training as cover to hurt your teammates, right?”

He nodded again.

“So you understand why I’m not happy with what you just did, don’t you?”

“Yes, Anders. I’m sorry.”

“I know you were just trying to defend your new friend and show him that you welcome him, even if Kris didn’t – but trying to hurt Kris and start a fight only makes things worse, you know?”

Kolbeinn gave a quiet nod again.

“Because now everyone’s training session has been disrupted. All the new kids, everyone else, you and Kris especially… It didn’t have to happen this way, did it?”

“No.”

“So what are you going to do in future if something like this happens again?”

“I’ll come and tell you straight away. I promise.”

“Okay, Kolbeinn. Do you have anything else you want to say?”

“Sorry,” Kolbeinn quickly blurted.

“Apology accepted. But you’ll also have to apologise to Kris and the rest of the boys, okay?”

“Are you going to tell my mum when she comes to pick me up?”

“Yes, Kolbeinn,” said Anders. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“Please!” said Kolbeinn, seeming like he might begin crying again. “You can’t do that! She’ll be so angry with me that I’ll be punished for a month!”

“I can be diplomatic, Kolbeinn, and I can explain why you did what you did,” said Anders. “But I’m still going to have to tell her you did it, okay?”

Kolbeinn dropped his head sadly and let out another pathetic little sob.

“Look, Kolbeinn, I don’t know what’s going on with you and your parents, alright? And it’s not my business to get involved, either. All I can tell them is what happened and why, and that we had this conversation and I was pleased with your reaction, and that I’ve had no other problems with you. Okay?”

“Okay,” sniffled Kolbeinn, high and quivering.

“You have to understand that our choices and actions have consequences,” said Anders. “You made a bad choice just now, but you’re learning from it.”

Kolbeinn nodded. A tear dropped onto the top of the thigh of his club bottoms.

“Alright, Kolbeinn. Since you hurt one of your teammates, I can’t let you go back and rejoin the game. I think you need some time on your own to process what we’ve just talked about as well, hmm?”

Kolbeinn didn’t say anything more. He simply sat, looking at his thumbs sticking upwards and outwards as he squeezed his hands between his upper thighs and groin, waiting for Anders’ judgement.

“Go back out into the main hall and pick a corner; any corner you like. You can sit cross-legged facing it in silence for the rest of the session.”

Kolbeinn nodded, and reluctantly got to his feet to follow the instruction. He used the knuckle of his right hand to clear the worst of the stray tears from his rosied face, then set out knowingly to perform a walk of shame to a corner of the main hall.

Anders ran his fingers across his eyes and followed Kolbeinn through the door. He watched him disappear through the double doors into the salle, where the sound of the rest of the squad continuing their training game bounced around jauntily. He pressed through the door into the other changing room.

Kris was stood in the middle of the room with his hands rested in the front of his club tracksuit bottoms, fingers within and thumbs hooked around the waistband. He stared defiantly at a point where the ceiling met the wall.

“So, do you want to tell me what happened?” said Anders.

“Kolbeinn Borgarsson tried to snap me,” grunted Kris. “So I hit him back.”

“Why did Kolbeinn decide to do that?” Anders asked.

Kris shrugged. “I don’t know why that kid does anything.”

“I haven’t been here long,” said Anders, “but I think I know Kolbeinn well enough to think he wouldn’t try to hurt someone without thinking he had a good reason.”

“Maybe he didn’t like something I did in the game,” said Kris.

“That doesn’t seem like a good reason for what just happened,” said Anders. “Are you sure there wasn’t another problem between the two of you?”

“I told you,” said Kris. “I don’t know why Kolbeinn acts like he does.”

“Kolbeinn told me he was angry with you because of something you said to someone else,” said Anders. “Why might that be?”

“I didn’t say anything to anyone,” said Kris, quickly. “Kolbeinn was probably lying so he didn’t get in as much trouble.”

“Is that true, Kristian?” said Anders. “Because I can ask Joorsi if you’re saying that Kolbeinn was lying to me that you’d been rude to someone else.”

“I… I… I didn’t–”

“First of all, Kris, how do you think I would expect any member of this club to behave towards a new boy on their first day?”

“But… I…”

“Answer the question.”

“You’d expect us to be kind and welcoming,” Kris sighed, looking at his feet with embarrassment.

“Were you kind and welcoming to Joorsi tonight?”

“No, but I never meant… not anything bad.”

“Did you say something mean to Joorsi?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Did you call him a name?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Did you call Joorsi a racist name?”

Kris was bright red. He looked at Anders’ midriff, chest and lips moving as if he wanted to say something but could only go through the motions of formulating it.

“Of all the people who should have known better, Kris,” said Anders, gently. “Why? I’m genuinely interested to know.”

“It’s… it’s just… embarrassing, to have someone speaking another language to me in front of everyone.”

“Why would that be embarrassing, Kris? Aren’t you proud that you know more than just Greenlandic?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you think your mother’s going to feel when she finds out you’ve been going around calling people the s-word?”

“Please don’t tell her!” squeaked Kris.

“I can’t just overlook a player making racist comments to his teammates,” said Anders, shaking his head. “You know that what you did was very wrong, which is why you’re getting embarrassed and upset about it now.”

“I didn’t want to make him feel bad!” said Kris, with a sniffle. “I just wanted him to leave me alone! I… I just find it weird. I don’t like it when people treat me like… like…”

“Like you’re different because of your background?”

“I guess…”

“Well, what did you just do to Joorsi?”

“I…”

“Think about it,” said Anders. “I need to get back to running training now, but this isn’t over. Is it your mum or your dad who’ll be picking you up tonight?”

“Probably Ksenia.”

“Who’s Ksenia?”

“Au pair.”

Anders sighed. “Alright, well I’ll need to have a conversation with your parents as soon as I can. I’ll probably give them a call later.”

Kris, still looking down, nodded vigorously his understanding. Now he was crying, too.

“For now, I hope you realise just how wrong and hurtful it is to make comments like that to anyone, particularly your teammates, and particularly new teammates we’re trying to welcome to the team. They aren’t the actions of a good captain, so you can forget about skippering the team for a while, understood?”

Kris nodded again, shaking a couple of teardrops to the floor.

“Go back into the main hall, pick any of the corners Kolbeinn isn’t sitting in, and sit silently in it like he is. You’ll apologise to each other before you both apologise to the team for disrupting their session. You can stay behind to apologise to Joorsi personally while I get him signed up properly.”

Kris got on with his own walk of shame, dumping himself in the next corner along from Kolbeinn, who was hunched over obediently in a corner at the same end of the room as the match was set up, but further away from the pitch than the corner Kris had been forced to occupy. The match seemed to be going fine in the meantime. Joorsi and Stef had just steamed into a challenge together, bouncing off each other in opposite directions, for the ball to be picked up by Jón, who did a little 360° dance around Teitur with the ball controlled by the very end of the toe of his boot, before Sam slid through mercilessly and had the ball away into Oli’s feet. Anders checked his watch. Fifteen to go. He’d have to get them warming down in five or ten.

“How have they been getting on?” he asked Atli.

“Good!” Odie interjected.

“Obviously it’s not an ideal exercise,” Atli replied. “But they’re giving it their best. You can see some of them starting to work out how the new players like to play and vice versa. What’s going on with those two?”

“Kolbeinn was playing vigilante,” said Anders. “Kris said something very bad to Joorsi as they came in, so Kolbeinn decided the best thing to do was kick him up in the air when he got the chance.”

“Sounds like kids,” shrugged Atli. “Sorted now?”

“Kolbeinn yes,” said Anders. “In Kris’ case, I’ll have to speak to his parents later.”

“That bad?” said Atli, raising an eyebrow.

“Which boys have been leading their groups well?” sighed Anders, by way of answer.

“Oof,” Atli replied. “Oli’s a calming presence. I like the way he talks to the others. Chigs is nice and vocal, too. All the centre backs are, in fairness. Thom’s naturally a good organiser, too.”    

“Something for us to monitor for the first few games,” Anders said.

The boys had finished their warm down and were directed to come and sit around Anders. Kolbeinn and Kris were finally called back to the group and gave each other awkward apologies and a shake of hands. Anders had them sit facing the rest of the group as he gave his debrief, eventually calling on them to stand and apologise to the rest of the team for their behaviour. He also announced the Strákamót Austerbygd draw against Kirkjan Klúbbur, and the weekend stopover that their parents needed to give permission for via the online portal.

As the rest of the boys were let go, Anders invited the new boys to fill in forms so they’d be ready to be registered if they and he agreed they wanted to stay for the competitive season. Kolbeinn and Kris were to stay behind and tidy up, plus Kris to apologise to Joorsi.

“Stef, Teitur!” said Jón, drawing the two boys to one side. “Um, you know it’s my birthday this week, right?”

“Oh yeah,” said Teitur. “Happy birthday, Jón!”

“It’s Thursday, right?” asked Stef.

“Yeah,” smiled Jón. “Thanks. I’m having a party at my house after training on Friday. I just asked Oli and Ingi and Torbs, and they said they’d come. I asked some others but they can’t come. Would you guys like to come?”

“Sure,” said Teitur. “I’ll ask my mum now. She’ll be waiting outside.”

“Me too,” said Stef. “I’ll ask my mum or dad; whoever is here.”

“Thanks!” smiled Jón. “I’ll wait and you can tell me right away. Where’s Kolbeinn? I was going to ask him too.”

“Still in trouble,” shrugged Stef. “You can always just text him later.”

“If his parents haven’t killed him,” Teitur added.

“Oh,” said Jón, pulling his mouth to one side. “Okay.”

Anders brushed past with Sam in tow, making a beeline for the boy’s mother.

“Hi again,” Anders smiled at Sam’s mum. “I was wondering whether Sam might be able to fill in some forms for us, so he’s ready to register straight away if he decides he wants to stay with us.”

“That’s fine,” she said warmly, before ruffling the back of her son’s sweaty head as he approached and smiled at her, the top of his head reaching the bridge of her nose. “Enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah!” said Sam. “It was really good. I really like it here, mum.”

“Good,” she said, stroking his chin and releasing him. “You forgot your passport at home, silly moo. I’ve got it here in my bag.”

“Martin was shouting at me to get out of the house, so I couldn’t pick it up.”

“I don’t think he was shouting,” she said. “You were probably just running a bit late. Anyway, here it is.”

“Come down to the office area by the changing rooms,” said Anders. “It’ll be easier to do it there, and it’s where the other new boys will be going, too.”

Sam was first in line to fill in his forms in the office, his handwriting boyish and uneven, but not overly messy.

Forename(s): Sámuel Flóki

Surname: Jacobsen

D.O.B.: 13/04/2007

Place of Birth: Prøven, Eíriksfjord, Austerbygd

Nationality: Grønland-Vínland

Passport No/ID No/Birth Certificate Code: P GRL JACOBSEN SAMUELFLOKI 223772770

Guardian Name: Sofie Jacobsen

Address: Kjuurgate 5, 0112 Prøven AUSTERBYGD

Contact No: +11 627 550 7789

Sam, his mother – apparently Sofie – and Anders all signed the bottom of the form.

“All done,” said Anders. “Mind if I keep your passport until Friday for the admin team to take a copy?”

“Friday?” Sofie enquired. “I thought you trained on Thursdays.”

“Sorry,” said Anders. “I mustn’t have explained properly before. It’s Thursdays if we have a game on Saturday, Fridays if the game is on Sunday. There’s an online portal where you can find all the information. Now we have your number, we can send you access to set up a parent account.”

“I wish you’d told me that before…” Sofie began. Then she looked at Sam, gazing up at her with wide, satisfied eyes. “It’s alright, I suppose. We can work around it, can’t we, Sam?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “Coach Anders, do you need a picture of me, too?”

“We can worry about that when your registration is put through to the GVFF. Get a nice pen pic of you modelling the new kit.”

“Cool!” Sam grinned.

“Okay, get lost now, you,” Anders smiled. “I need to deal with the other boys. See you Friday!”

“Bye, coach!”

“Where did you leave your bag and clothes?”

“I have to get changed in the changing room, mum. I’ll have my own place and peg soon. Wait for me here.”

“Faisal,” said Anders, turning to the next boy hanging around the office. “Are you ready to fill in your form?”

“I didn’t bring nothing with me,” said Faisal. “I’ll have to ask my dad to find my asylum card and write his number down and that.”

“Okay,” said Anders. “Could you just fill in what you can manage now?”

Forename(s): faisal

Surname: nasratullah

D.O.B.: 26 december

Place of Birth: khash afghanistan

Nationality: afghanistan

Passport No/ID No/Birth Certificate Code:

Guardian Name: javad nasratullah

Address: mandelaturinn 12A kastaníasvej brattahlíð

Contact No:

Faisal’s handwriting was, by comparison to Sam, extremely messy indeed. Anders simply put the paper to one side for now and moved on.

“How are you getting home, Faisal?”

“Ali Abbas is taking me,” he said.

“Okay, no problem. Ali Abbas, is your dad outside?”

“Tueal ya, baba!”

Ali Abbas’ dad entered the room, looking similarly warmly dressed as he had on Sunday. Anders switched to English out of courtesy.

“Good evening, doctor,” he said. “Did you bring the passport for Ali Abbas?”

“Yes, I have here,” the man grinned, handing over a blue-jacketed passport that seemed to open backwards. Anders could understand the English on the cover, and consequently the very similar French – Syrian Arab Republic / Republique Arabe Syrienne – but the rest was Arabic writing that he found impenetrable. Ali Abbas had taken the initiative to begin filling in the form already, in tiny, unjoined letters that perhaps gave away that Latin was not his first alphabet.

Forename(s): Ali Abbas Muhammad

Surname: Al Ahmad

D.O.B.: 27/01/07

Place of Birth: Homs, SYRIA

Nationality: Syria

Passport No/ID No/Birth Certificate Code: P N SYR ALAHMAD ALIABBASMUHAMMED 794556652

Guardian Name: Muhammad Jalal Al Ahmad

Address: Trollsviðshús 4, Valhnetasvej, 0103 BRATTAHLÍÐ

Contact No: +11 601 762 9914

“Brilliant,” said Anders, as the three signatures were applied. “Thank you both so much. See you on Friday.”

“Goodnight!” Ali’s dad chirped, before putting an arm around his son and switching to Arabic as they trotted out of the door, with Faisal – unable to understand the conversation in either language – bounding along in tow.

“Just me and you, then,” said Anders to Joorsi. “Is everything okay.”

“Great,” said Joorsi, bursting his face with a grin. “Training was amazing. Everyone plays so well and so serious!”

“You’re not upset about Kris?”

“Hm,” Joorsi grunted. “Maybe just a little bit. It’s okay, though. It happens sometimes.”

“But it shouldn’t,” said Anders. “I hope you know that. Kris certainly does. He’s going to apologise to you before he leaves tonight.”

“Alright,” said Joorsi, before quickly turning to the desk. “Here – I brought my GV-ID cos I don’t have a passport.”

“That’s fine,” said Anders. “You get on with the form then while I take a photo of it.”

Forename(s): Joorsi

Surname: ARFEQ

D.O.B.: 14/03/2007

Place of Birth: Ilulissat, INUITLAND

Nationality: Grønland-Vínland

Passport No/ID No/Birth Certificate Code: GV-IL173711744

Guardian Name: Mrs Aalaaraq Arfeq

Address: Þorfinnsturn 19, Gullgate, 0104 Vindbakke BRATTAHLÍÐ

Contact No: +11 632 960 5995

“Thanks, Joorsi,” said Anders. “I’ll just need your mum’s signature on it at some point, since you’ve given her name.”

“Okay. Do I sign it now?”

“Please,” said Anders, having added his own signature. “How are you getting home?”

“Bus to the airport and metro,” said Joorsi nonchalantly as he wrote his name on the player signature line.

“Uh-uh,” Anders replied. “It’s very dark out. You’re not taking yourself home. I’ll drop you if we can’t find someone going your way.”

“I know the way,” shrugged Joorsi. “I won’t talk to anyone and I’ll go straight back.”

“Not happening,” said Anders. “We need to find you a safer way to get home across the city from training.”

“Okay,” said Joorsi, as if it was nothing, looking at Anders for further instructions. “What do I do now?”

“Let’s find Kris, first of all,” said Anders.

They left the office to find Ína, Kolbeinn’s mother, standing around looking impatient and annoyed.

“Kolbeinn is taking forever to come out to the car,” she said. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s helping tidy up,” Anders said. “Excuse me for a moment; I’ll speak to you in a second.”

Anders entered the playing area with Joorsi to see that Kolbeinn and Kris were helping Odie to put the last of the balls in their big sack. Anders led Joorsi over to Kris.

“Kris,” said Anders, calling the boy a little away from Kolbeinn and Odie, “do you have something you want to say to Joorsi now?”

Kris trotted sheepishly across to where Anders and Joorsi were standing. He took a deep breath in the eye. Then he started making sounds that Anders had never heard before.

“I’m very sorry I was bad to you, small brother,” said Kris to Joorsi, in what sounded to Joorsi’s ear like babyish and slightly broken Kalaallisut. Kris held out a hand in reconciliation.

“I accept your apology,” said Joorsi. “I still want us to be friends.”

“Friends,” Kris repeated, as the boys shook hands.

“Well done,” said Anders. “Now we need to work out how to get you home, Joorsi.”

“Where do you live?” Odie asked, dragging the ball bag in their direction.

“Thorfinn Tower, Vindbakke,” Joorsi answered.

“Oh, man, that’s really close to me!” Odie responded enthusiastically. “I can watch him home if you need, Anders.”

“Fine by me,” Anders shrugged.

“Sick!” said Odie. “Come on, bro. You need to get changed?”

“I came dressed like this,” said Joorsi. “Just need to put my puffer jacket on.”

“Great,” said Odie, putting an arm around Joorsi’s shoulders, sack of balls slung over his shoulder, to lead the boy away.

“Kol, time to speak to your mum,” said Anders.

Kolbeinn gulped visibly and followed his coach very slowly indeed.

Kolbeinn had been in trouble with his mother for his behaviour toward Kris, but Anders’ assurances of Kolbeinn’s otherwise satisfactory behaviour seemed to spare him anything worse than a stern talking to and early bed for the night. His mum even seemed weirdly satisfied that he’d been the one standing up to a bully, even in a very misguided way.

Come Wednesday morning, then, all had been forgotten and forgiven. He was in a good mood when he arrived in school. He hung out for a while in the corridor near his first lesson – Language & Literature – with mates, while some of them ate breakfast rolls or morning pastries that they’d bought from the canteen. Miss Aas arrived just before the bell and welcomed them each individually into the classroom. Kolbeinn’s seat was in the middle of this classroom, directly behind his best schoolfriend, Fin.

“Did you see Napoli – Barça last night?” Fin asked, turning around in his chair to face Kolbeinn.

“No, I had an early night after training,” Kolbeinn replied. “It was a draw, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to Real v Man City tonight. That should be a class game!”

“Man City will want to win the Champions League cos they’re not gonna win the Premier League,” said Kolbeinn. “I think they might win it. Leipzig look really weirdly good though.”

“No, Liverpool will win again. They’re bossing the English league and they’ve gotta beat Athletico at Anf–”

“Þorfinn,” said Miss Aas expectantly. “Face the front and show you’re ready to learn.”

Fin did as he was told, and the conversation was cut short. Miss Aas began her lesson.

“Good morning, Class Five,” she said, appreciating that silence automatically fell around the bright, modern classroom. “For the time up until Easter, we’re going to be studying a book together as a class. It’s by an English writer and poet called Benjamin Zephiniah, and the name of the book is Refugee Boy. Do we all know what a refugee is?”

There were a couple of groans around the room.

“Miss, why do we have to read about people running away from poor countries?” Dina, a girl with bouncy, slightly waved brown hair, lip gloss and a slight application of blush across her cheeks, silver stud earrings, and a fancy, pressed linen shirt, called out. “It’s really quite depressing.”

“Why do you think it’s important, Class Five?” Miss Aas threw back at them, not challenging Dina’s calling out.

“So we can understand, like, why they’re like that,” a boy, Seb, suggested.

“Because bad things make an interesting story,” offered another, Jesper.

“I have to say, Class Five,” said Miss Aas, hands on hips. “I’m very disappointed with the tone of some of your answers, and very disappointed with the calling out.”

“Miss, it’s not really relevant to us,” offered another girl, Frida, unbidden.

“Yes, Kolbeinn,” said Miss Aas, with a hint of surprise at the sight of Kol, of all kids in the class, sat up straight and quiet with his hand respectfully in the air.

“There are some refugee boys on my football team, and they’re really nice just like anyone else,” said Kolbeinn. “One of them, Ali Abbas, just started, and he’s from Syria and a good player and really friendly. He said his dad’s a doctor but he can’t work in Greenland yet. Another one, Massawa, has played there as long as I have, and his parents had to move here a long time ago from a war in East Africa, I think.”

“Thank you, Kolbeinn,” Miss Aas smiled broadly, noting how quiet and decorum had returned to the classroom. “See, many of us in Brattahlíð especially will encounter people who have come to Greenland for shelter, so reading books like Refugee Boy are a good way to understand some of the challenges that they face. Even if it’s a book from a while ago set in England, it will still help us to learn to be empathetic. Kolbeinn, would you like to hand out the Kindles to everyone?”

“Yes, miss,” chirped Kolbeinn, getting up from his seat. It felt great, showing that he was the worldliest one in his class and standing up for his teammates. Kolbeinn shuffled around the classroom with a swagger as he handed out the Kindles for the class to read from. Smiling to himself at the thought that he was probably the only one who knew that not all schools could afford Kindles either, because Stef had told him so. He’d have to tell his mum about this later, when she inevitably asked about his day at school, he decided.

There was an auspicious peace between the boys at Friday training. No more nastiness or arguments, no more showing off or teasing. Jón bashfully accepted plenty of birthday wishes and jokes about becoming a teenager, and the team continued work on dead balls and restarts. It was, Anders reflected, exactly as he’d hoped it would be. Kris had even gone out of his way to be friendly with Joorsi and Kolbeinn.

Attentions during the post warm-down debrief first turned to the upcoming cup game and stopover with Kirkjan Klúbbur. Despite the fact that parents could indicate whether their child would be attending and acknowledge their consent online, many of the boys still wanted to inform Anders whether or not they’d be coming and why, sometimes four or five times over. He was relieved he didn’t have to teach them at school all day and have them each clamouring for his attention to watch them turn pages in their exercise books.

“Anders, I can play but I have to go to my granny’s house that night,” said Stef.

“My dad is taking me so he can bring me straight back home,” Barty interjected, barely giving Anders time to register what Stef had said.

“I’ve got a school presentation on Sunday morning,” added Kris, also indicating that he wouldn’t be staying over. Geir also went to speak, but Anders raised his hands and indicated he wanted silence.

“Thank you, boys,” he said. “Don’t worry; we can see who is coming to Nyburg next weekend and we don’t need to hear any excuses. Nobody is being judged if they can’t stay over.”

“Why do we even have to play in the first round of this cup?” whined Markus. “Why can’t the little teams just play each other?”

“The draw is random, Mark,” said Anders. “Anyone can get a bye or be drawn in the First Round. We have to prove ourselves just like anyone else in the draw.”

“But Kirkjan Klúbbur are rubbish,” he continued.

“How do you know that?” said Anders. “Have you played them? Who were the last couple of teams we played? Did we beat them easily?”

“Pre-season isn’t the same,” Geir added. “It’s not as serious, and all our games so far were only seven-a-side. Kirkjan Klúbbur aren’t in our league. They don’t have an academy. Nobody lives in Nyburg.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident,” said Anders, shrugging. “When I played Nordic League games for FK Viking against teams from the Faroes and Iceland, we knew their leagues weren’t close to the standard of ours, but we still did our homework as much as possible and didn’t go there expecting to thrash them ten-nil.”

The boys who had been whining went quiet. The mention of Nordic League games was a chastening reminder of exactly who they were being coached by.

“I bet you had to be prepared to go to places like Trinidad in the CONCACAF Champions League, too,” Oli offered, in awed tones. “Nyburg will be a bit like that for us, cos it’s not somewhere we normally go, so we don’t know what to expect or exactly what the level of the team will be.”

“Exactly, Oli,” smiled Anders. “Well done. Though I never played any Caribbean teams. I did play in Costa Rica and El Salvador, though, which I guess is the same as the point you made.”

Oli nodded to himself, smiling with excited satisfaction, suddenly sitting up very straight in his cross-legged pose. Anders even fancied he’d seen a shiver run down the boy’s spine at the notion of discussing away trips to Central America.

“Anyway,” said Anders, “we have next week to prepare for the Kirkjan Klúbbur game. Now we need to work out how we’re getting to Hvalsey on Sunday, since it’s nearby and there’s not a team bus for friendlies. Does everyone have a lift?”

The boys began to chatter. “I’m taking Jónatan and Kristinn in my car,” said Ingi.

“All I need is for boys who don’t know how they’re getting to the game to put their hands up,” said Anders. The boys quieted again, and, somewhat predictably, it was Ali Abbas, Faisal, and Joorsi who raised their hands. “Okay, boys. Looks like you’re getting a lift with me. I’ll pick each of you up from around ten on Sunday morning.”

Geir finally raised his hand, too. “I don’t think anyone can take me on Sunday,” he said. “And nobody else lives where I do.” He looked at Sam pointedly, as if to warn the smaller boy not to contradict him.

“I do,” said Atli, flatly. “You can come in my car.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Anders. “Right, everyone. Don’t forget to collect this season’s shirt from the dressing room on your way out, or else you’ll not have a kit on Sunday! Have a nice weekend and see you at twelve at the latest in Hvalsey!”

There was chatter once more as the boys got moving and began to collect their things and spy out any parents hovering around the sports hall doorway. Anders began to move too, and quickly crossed paths with Sam.

“Everything alright, Sam?” he asked. “You know how you’re getting to the game on Sunday?”

“That’s fine,” said Sam. “My mum is taking me and bringing my brother and sister to watch.”

“Sounds good!” said Anders. “It should be exciting for them to see you playing for your new team.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s just… It’s our weekend with our dad next weekend. That means I can’t go to the Kirkjan Klúbbur game. Is that okay?”

“That’s absolutely fine,” said Anders, placing a hand firmly on Sam’s nearest small, bony shoulder. “Your mum said that you’d be seeing your dad once each month, and that’s far more important than football. Don’t worry. Just enjoy your time with your dad!”

“Thanks,” said Sam, craning up to stare Anders in the eye and give him a small-lipped smile.

“Your mum’s here,” said Anders, using his free hand to point Sam in her direction, and removing his other from Sam’s shoulder with a friendly rub.

“Mum, did you bring the people carrier?” asked Jón.

“Well, I don’t know how else you were expecting us to get all your friends home,” his mother chuckled. “Now, did you tell your coach about Sunday?”

“What about it?” asked Jón, suddenly aware that the boys he’d invited back to his house were forming up around him and were party to the conversation.

“That you need him to take you to the game, silly!” Jón’s mum responded. “Dad or I can pick you up, but your uncles and cousins and grandparents are staying over all weekend to celebrate with you, so neither of us can take you first thing on Sunday.”

“But… I thought one of you would drive me,” said Jón. “It’s only one of you.”

“We can’t very well leave the house when we have your grandparents to see off, can we, silly sausage?” she said. “It’s not the end of the world. Go and tell your coach that you need a lift, quick, before he goes home!”

Jón could feel that his cheeks had turned a little pink, along with his ears, as he trudged to intercept Anders before he left the hall.

“Hello, Jón,” Anders said. “Everything okay?”

“Um, I need a lift on Sunday morning after all,” Jón said, pulling at his elbow. “Is that okay?”

Ah, Jón! Anders thought. Sweet, dependable Jón! He would tip the balance of boys in his car decisively to three sensible boys to one maniacally hyper boy. All the better.

“Of course, Jón!” said Anders. “I’ll pick you up last, probably closer to half-ten, since you’re a little more on the way than the others.”

“Thanks,” said Jón, not sounding remarkably enthused.

Kolbeinn – the one boy heading to Jón’s birthday party who had not gathered around Jón and his mother – skipped up energetically from behind, patches of his dark hair matted from training sweat. “Hey, Jón” he chirped, “I never gave you your birthday beatings yet!” He punched Jón roughly on his nearest arm, just below the shoulder.

“Ow!” Jón whined. “Don’t, Kol! That hurts!”

“Kolbeinn,” said Anders, tactically sounding bored, “if you touch Jón again without his permission, you won’t play on Sunday.”

“Sorry, Anders,” said Kolbeinn, deflated. “Sorry, Jón.”

“Jón!” called the boy’s mother, as Ingi, Oli, Stef, Torben, and Teitur made their way over to join Jón and Kolbeinn with all the coordination and fluency of a coalition of cats.

“Yes, mum,” sighed Jón, turning to face his parent.

“Why don’t you and your friends get showered and changed ready to go home,” Jón’s mum said, gesturing to the changing room. “Be quick now; the party’s waiting for its star man!”

“Mum…” Jón moaned, “can’t I get showered and changed at home?”

“Don’t be silly, Jónsi,” – Jón cringed visibly at his mother’s use of his pet name – “Go on with your friends. The quicker you’re all clean and changed, the quicker we can get home and have some fun, eh?”

Jón was the last boy in the showers, and had entered walking backwards, hunched over, arms and hands clamped in front of his crotch.

“Don’t look!” he pre-emptively whined at his party-guests-in-waiting as he took the cornermost shower head and turned his back to them. “That goes for my bum, too!”

Kolbeinn almost fell about laughing.

“Stop it!” Jón quailed into the corner of the room, the pitch of his voice raising babyishly.

“Hey, Jónsi!” Kolbeinn laughed, waving one arm to wave at Jón’s back while Axing the exposed armpit with the other.

“Don’t call me that!” said Jón’s snapping his head around to lean over his shoulder and glare at Kolbeinn.

“Look at this!” Kolbeinn guffawed in return, ensuring he was full frontal to Jón before thrusting his hips and slamming the interior pinky edges of his hands into the grooves of his hips to enunciate his flapping and flopping boyhood.

“Arsehole!” Jón hissed. He grumbled under his breath. “Why did I even invite you?”

“Don’t be mean!” Stef stage whispered at Kolbeinn, pushing him lightly on his slick bare chest, plenty of full palm contact. Kolbeinn ensured he fell dramatically into Teitur’s arms behind him.

“Thanks for inviting us, Jón,” said Teitur, taking the initiative while holding limp, naked Kolbeinn up by his armpits under the flow of warm water. “I’m looking forward to hanging out with your school friends.

“That’s cool,” said Jón, keeping his back to the others and scrubbing himself as quickly and privately as possible. “I want them to meet you guys.”

“They’re all chill,” said Ingi, running his fingertips through white-blond hair that had turned sparse and brown under the relentless torrent of warm water. Teitur took a mental note of Ingi’s flaccid penis, somewhere between Kolbeinn’s and Stef’s sizes, but with medium-length foreskin that suddenly bunched at the end of his cock and hung vacantly downwards, directing a jet of water from the end like an unceasing stream of transparent piss. It was on full display as he faced the other boys to speak, but Ingi was seemingly completely unconcerned. “They’re not as fun as any of you guys, though.”

“Oh, yeah!” grinned Oli. “You and Jón go to school together!”

“Who’s cleverer?” asked Torben, similar in height and build to Stef, and, Teitur wagered, similar in cock and ball development – or lack thereof – to Stef too, from the glimpses he’d caught while the youngest boy mainly kept his back to the group. It was a great feeling to come into the showers and know you were one of the oldest, biggest (where it counted), and most developed of almost everyone on the team.

“Jón, obviously,” scoffed Ingi. “Jón’s, like, the cleverest clogs of the boys in all our classes.”

“Vilhjálm is clever than me in a lot of classes,” said Jón, high voice reverberating off the tiling as he kept himself faced steadfastly toward the corner of the shower area, buttocks clenched defensively tight. “And Arthur does better than me in some classes. And Óskar is clever too.”

“What Jón means is that all the lads who are his besties are the other cleverest lads,” smirked Ingi. “He just invites me too because he has to.”

“No!” protested Jón. “I like you too, Ingi. And you’re not stupid either.”

“That’s okay,” said Ingi. “I’d rather hang out with you lot than with all the football lads anyway. They’re boring.”

“I won’t tell them you’re the Pokémon Go! champion,” bounced Jón’s voice from the vertex of ceramics, sounding like it was smiling.

“You play Pokémon Go?” asked Stef.

“Yeah,” Ingi grinned.

“How come you never said?” Stef asked.

“You got Let’s Go and Sword & Shield?” Torben asked.

“Duh, obviously,” Ingi replied.

“Aww, that’s cool,” Stef said. “I’ve not got a Switch. The last one I have is Sun. My brother Karl has Moon.”

“I’ve got Let’s Go,” said Oli. “Not Sword or Shield.”

“I’ve got Shield,” Ingi said. “What about you, Torbs?”

“I’ve got Sword,” Torben answered enthusiastically. “Wanna trade some time?”

“Yeah!” said Ingi. “You can come to my house after training one day!”

Jón used the cover of most of the boys being distracted by Pokémon to jog between them, hunched over with his forearms pressed between his hips so his hands managed even to hide his rear crevice, escaping to dry off and put his party clothes on in the main changing area. Kolbeinn grinned and went to follow, but Teitur pulled him into a tight headlock.

“My dad still has Red and Gold,” said Stef, not paying any attention.

“You can get all the old ones off the internet for free,” Oli replied.

Kolbeinn had begun to squeal dramatically, like a kicked puppy, as well as thrashing his arms around comically. He stopped and quieted once he realised that not even Teitur was paying him any attention. Then the headlock released.

The six party guests sat in the rear of the Mercedes Vito as Jón’s mum drove them across the bridge, lit up dramatically as the pillars emerged towering from the dark fjord. They stuck to the middle two lanes, overtaking occasional service vehicles and buses to their right, and equally being overtaken by motorbikes and speeding cars to their left. The boys were dressed in their party clothes, choked with body spray, while their kit bags bounced around in the back of the car. In the front, Jón’s mum was chatting to her freshly teenage son, answering questions about who would be at the party.

“Dan from work will be there, too,” she was saying. “That’s nice of him, isn’t it?”

“Great,” said Jón without enthusiasm, “Dr Forsberg.”

“Don’t be rude, Jónsi,” his mother replied. “You can call him by his first name and thank him for coming when he arrives. Daniel has been very good to you.”

“Fine, mum.”

Jón’s parents both worked at the university. His mum had the title Professor Rúnarsdóttir, while his dad was Dr Snorrason. Stef’s dad sometimes made jokes about it whenever he mentioned Jón at home, or if they hung out together during away trips, or whatever. He called him Professor Jón. It made Stef smile, but he never saw any reason to tease Jón about it himself. Everyone has different parents, and all of them are a little bit weird or goofy.

“How come Kristinn isn’t going?” came Teitur’s voice from the other side of the dark minivan. Stef was sitting on the left side of the middle row, behind Jón’s mum. Teitur was on the passenger side. Ingi sat between them.

“He got grounded for some reason,” Oli answered, from directly behind Stef.

“I nearly got grounded too,” Torben added.

“How come?” asked Ingi.

“I got detention,” said Torben. “I forgot to do my Art homework. I really hate Art though, so I don’t think the teacher likes me much.”

“Shove a 2B pencil up her arse,” Kolbeinn suggested, drawing stifled sniggers and giggles from the other boys. Kolbeinn did a double take in the darkness of the rearmost passenger seat, suddenly remembering that he was in a car with his friend’s mum, and she might well have heard him. He was relieved to realise her front-seat conversation with Jón remained ongoing and mundane, so he could safely suppose she hadn’t heard him being crude.

They exited the bridge straight into the tunnel through the abutting hillside, where the road made a steady ninety-degree turn to follow the coast south. This was always Stef’s favourite part of any drive – as dramatic as the Bivrøst Bridge might be – as the road emerged back out onto the hillside and began to descend, and eventually the hill on their right disappeared to reveal the sprawling lights of Brattahlíð, nestled in its little dell, the old town clinging to a hilltop over everything else, and the dark silhouette of an even larger hill behind it, the old castle nestled on its very top.

“I’m not going to take the seafront road this time on a Friday,” Jón’s mum explained to her passengers as she ignored the turning. “It’ll be easier to take the ring around the centre and go around the back of the university.”

It was not as if the boys could have objected and driven themselves. Stef was excited to see the route they took, anyway. Jón lived in a little village the other side of the great hill, further south down the fjord. Stef had never been there before, and the drive looked like it could be spectacular. B22’s stadium, Kirkjan Sviðum, passed by to their left, with Stef’s house somewhere amongst the terraces of little old industrial rowhouses patched into the incline behind it. Those too fell behind, as Jón’s mum took the turning to connect to the inner ring road, and Kolbeinn and Ingi talked animatedly about Sonic the Hedgehog. They skirted around the ankles of the old town, the seafront and university to their left, until the huge, looming rocky hill forced the main road to turn east, taking them down towards the banks of the fjord again.

“We’ll have to take the tunnel now,” Ingi chirped with excitement.

“Don’t you live in Grársandi too?” Teitur asked.

“No, I live just down there,” said Ingi, gesturing down over the university rooftops.

“How come you’re at the same school as Jón, then?” said Kolbeinn.

“There’s no high school in Grársandi,” said Jón, turning around in his seat to lean over and explain to his friends. “I take a special school bus over here every morning, unless my mum or dad give me a lift.”

They turned into a tunnel through the coastward edge of the great hill, constantly, steadily rising despite being underground. They popped free of the first leg of tunnel into an open-air stretch of hillside dual carriageway, the hill to their right held back by a thick retaining wall. Stef stretched to see if he could see the fjord to the left, but the upper lip of another retaining concrete structure kept interrupting the view, until soon they were back in a tunnel. As they popped out the other end, they’d stopped climbing. Instead, they were on a high concrete bridge over a marshy ravine, where rainwater ran off down into the fjord deep below. Here there were some intakes of breath and boyish exclamations of excitement from the view. Looking left over the fjord, not only did the lights of boats undulate and reflect on the water, but roaring water tumbling down a steep rock face on the far side of the fjord dominated the view over to the far shore, pitch black but for the warning lights on the hydroelectric dam responsible for the velocious waterfall.

They took an exit from the main road – the only exit – to take a dark, lonely country road that wound around another hillside, before beginning to twist and turn down towards a dark bight into the steep, jagged shoreline. All the while, the rush of dammed water from the glacial mountains on the far side or the fjord loomed large to the east, across the black of the water. As the road descended in sharp swoops, like yarn wound around a dizzy kitten, lights were visible in the dark land of the bay below. The village revealed itself as they finally approached sea level, the main rail line momentarily popping free of tunnels through the hillside here to run a single branch track alongside the road, halting at a little, tatty seafront stop, somewhere amongst the houses on the first of the three village streets. Looking east through the village, they stared directly back across the fjord at the otherworldly waterfall, bright lights of the airport only just interrupting the purity of the view from further north up the far coast.

“Welcome to Grársandi!” Jón said brightly. “Our house is just a bit further down this main street, opposite the fishing docks.”

Stef had guessed that there couldn’t have been more than a couple of hundred people living there as the lights loomed larger while they descended to sea level, and the sign welcoming them to the village at the first roundabout confirmed his estimate. Grársandi. Pop: 338. It really wasn’t much further until they pulled into the driveway of Jón’s house, several other cars crammed on, as also on the street outside.

“Bloody hell,” said Kolbeinn. “You live in a mansion, Jón.”

“S’not that big,” he giggled.

“It’s way bigger than my house,” Stef offered. “And five people live there.”

“It used to be the village high school,” Jón’s mum explained, sliding open the side door for the boys to get out. “But it was more practical to bus the big kids from here back into town for school, so it got sold off.”

“It was already a house when we moved in,” said Jón, “wasn’t it, mum?”

Stef reflected that it looked more like a village hall than any house he’d ever seen, but didn’t bother saying any more. Jón wasn’t trying to show off, after all. He just lived here. The boys followed Jón and his mum to the door, looking at the wide, low, grey stone house all the way. It was hidden mostly behind a hedge at the front, and a stubby Eiríksfjord tree next to the front porch – more properly a slate portico over a door on the side of the building – was illuminated through its eaves by an electric light built into an old lantern casing on the side wall. Jón’s mum pushed the door open.

“Happy birthday, Jón!” came an instant cheer from inside.

Jon stood in the light of the doorway, his smile pulled to one side of his face as his blue eyes darted around the assembled guests he could see through the door, and then returned to the doorframe. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he stretched out spindly fingers and then pulled on his right elbow with his left hand.

“Thanks,” he said, cheeks prickling with a smattering of pink. Then, as if his friends and relatives didn’t already know, he added: “It was yesterday.”

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.