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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This is why I had to split things and insert another episode. It would otherwise have been very long...
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.
Jón’s house was one of those houses where everything smelled of woodsmoke and jasmine, and all the furniture seemed far older than it ought to. Stef, for one, felt decidedly out of place, but the way Torben and Teitur also looked reverently around Jón’s hallway made him feel more at ease. Jón was forced to run a gauntlet of greetings from various extended family members, leaving the football boys at somewhat of a loose end amongst the gathering there to see the birthday boy. There was another set of boys their age stood together looking spare, too. Ingi smiled and nodded at them, before making to lead the group on to join them, but an adult stepped purposefully into their path.
He was a dark-eyed man, with thick dark eyebrows, dark hair – beginning to thin at the front – swept to one side. He held himself confidently as he regarded the boys, gazing down on them with a satisfaction that was difficult to place.
“I see you must be Jón’s football buddies,” he said, statement rather than question. The accent, too, was slight but palpable. Not a native Greenlandic speaker.
“Uh, yeah…” said Ingi, deciding he preferred to try to look around the man rather than meet his eye. “I go to school with Jón, too. I was just going to introduce our football friends to our school friends.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” the man smiled, parting thick lips to reveal his grin to the boys. “I’ll make sure to see you later. I’ve known Jón since he was small, so I’m keen to hear about his secret life as a football star.”
“…it’s not a secret?” was about all Ingi could muster, feeling under pressure to respond.
“I’m Daniel, by the way,” the man announced. “I work with Jón’s parents. I’m Dr Forsberg of the Computer Science faculty at the university.”
“Okay,” Ingi replied.
“Are you…” Kolbeinn began, before letting his voice rise and his question tail off.
“Go on?”
“Sorry,” Kolbeinn said. “Are you from Denmark?”
“Hah, no!” Daniel’s head rolled back as he laughed, revealing the disorienting sight of his palette and dark patches of decay in the crevices of his molars to the boys watching from beneath his head height. “Do I sound like I’m gargling a potato? I’m Swedish. From Västerås. It’s near Stockholm.”
“Oh,” Kolbeinn replied, looking around at the other boys for reassurance.
Ingi took a quick glance around the roadblock of Daniel’s body to check the boys from school still hadn’t moved. They hadn’t. Barely a minute had passed. Jón was still being fussed over by a grandmother, an aunt, and two younger cousins.
“Sorry,” Daniel said, sounding about as genuine as a nine hundred króna note. “I’m disturbing you. Guess I should go bug the birthday boy instead. See you later.”
Ingi visibly exhaled and let his body relax the moment Daniel’s back was turned.
“That… that was weird,” Stef blinked.
“So weird,” Teitur agreed.
“Honestly, guys,” said Torben, “if he comes and speaks to me again, I’m calling my mum to go home early.”
“Did anyone else feel as if… like… like he was looking through you?” said Oli. “Not through as if we weren’t there, but… I dunno. Like an x-ray or something. Like looking inside of you?”
“Guys, let’s just meet the others,” said Ingi. “Kol, you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Kolbeinn. “Fine. Just happy not to have to speak to that man anymore, is all.”
Ingi closed the gap to the other group of boys, standing around not doing much.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. He received some quiet greetings and nods from the other boys. They looked unsure about Jón’s football guests. “These are some of the guys from football, y’know, B22? This is Kolbeinn, Stef, Teitur, Oli, and Torben.”
More nods and quiet hellos.
“This is Vilhjálm,” said Ingi, gesturing to a thin, serious-looking boy with watery blue eyes and unkempt hair of nondescript colour somewhere between sandy and mousey brown. He put a hand on the next boy’s shoulder. A stockier boy with a round, slightly freckled and ruddied face, and short brown hair. “This is Óskar. And this is Arthur. Sorry I did you last.”
“That’s alright,” said the last boy, Arthur. He was the smallest and slightest, wearing a jumper that ballooned on his arms and baggy green combats. He had elfin features, pointed chin and nose, blue eyes, and shaggy chestnut hair that covered his ears. Stef went to speak, but Ingi wasn’t quite finished.
“Arthur is from England,” he said, nodding and grinning at Teitur and Oli.
“So, we can speak English all night then, eh?” Teitur immediately shot back, switching to his father tongue without the slightest change of gear.
Arthur blushed.
“Come on, you don’t have to be shy,” Oliver grinned, also now in the language he spoke at home. “It’s the rest of these fuckers who are going to be worrying about getting their grammar wrong.”
“I don’t speak English much apart from when I’m with my mum and dad,” Arthur answered. “It’s weird to speak it with other kids.”
“Wow!” said Teitur. “You really do have a British accent!”
Arthur laughed to himself a little and flushed again, looking at the herringbone floor before answering. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Maybe a Cambridge accent. I moved here from there when I was seven.”
The three-way display of native English-speaking had the other boys watching in quiet awe. The conversation was broken by Jón’s mum buzzing back through.
“Sorry, boys,” she said. “I should have told you! Come through here into the other room; we’ve brought Jón’s Nintendo down from his room for you and have all the food set up on the table!”
“Thanks, Ms Rúnarsdóttir,” said Óskar.
“Come on, now,” she said, gently shoving the boys in the desired direction. “I bet you’re all hungry. We’ve got pizza slices, and sausage, and roasted veg, and smoked fish… And there’ll be cake later, of course!”
“Thanks,” said various boys in disunion.
“Nintendo Switch,” said Torben. “Sweet!”
“Not quite PS4,” grinned Kolbeinn, “but it’ll do.”
“Nintendo is the best for party games, I think,” Óskar piped up, evidently finding his confidence with Jón’s other friends.
“Yeah,” said Stef. “Wish I had a Switch.”
“Stay retro, Stef,” grinned Teitur. “You love playing with your Wii.”
“Nah, Nintendo GameCube, man,” laughed Kolbeinn. “Stef’s proper old school.”
“Not even joking,” smiled Stef, “my dad still has a working Sega Master System!”
“GameCube had some classic games, though,” Vilhjálm offered.
“Yeah,” Oli agreed. “I played it at my uncle’s house in Ohio. You ever heard of Crazy Taxi?”
“Mario Kart, boys!” said Torben, who had ignored the others to investigate Jón’s selection of games with Arthur. “Who’s playing?”
“Me!” said Kolbeinn, launching himself onto the small settee positioned in front of the TV and snatching the proffered half-controller from Torben.
“I’ll play,” shrugged Vilhjálm, taking another half of a controller. “Anyone else?”
“Sure,” said Óskar, taking the final place.
“Hey guys, be there in a minute, just need to do some stuff,” Jón called as he bustled past, three little cousins in tow. That is, until they got distracted seeing three bigger boys playing video games.
A little boy and girl who looked around the same age – perhaps six – came trotting carefully over. A smaller girl, maybe a couple of years younger, shuffled along behind and grabbed the bigger girl by her hand from behind.
“Um, escuse me…?” the bigger girl said. “Can we play too?”
“We just started a championship,” said Óskar, nominating himself as the kind responder. “You can watch us, though. Everyone else is.”
“Okay!” said the girl, and led the way for the three to sit on the floor in front of the four boys playing the game. They watched the first race with enthusiasm.
“Who’s being Wario?” the boy asked. “He’s good!”
“It’s Kartmaster Kolbeinn!” hooted Kolbeinn. “Out of my way, Willy!”
Kolbeinn had leaned his entire body left onto Vilhjálm as he overtook him for the lead around a long left-hander on the virtual course. Vilhjálm remained stiff, trying subtly to push Kolbeinn off with twitches of his right bicep and elbow.
“Normally I’m better than this,” he said, trying not to let on that it was a frustrated whine.
“You just never raced Cockpit Kolbeinn before!”
“Oh no, cock-polisher Kolbeinn!” Teitur cried, leaning his entire body over the back of Kolbeinn’s seat and wrapping his forearms tight around Kolbeinn’s eyes. “It’s an ink attack!”
“It won’t work on me!” Kolbeinn replied with glee. “I could race this track in my sleep!”
Jón’s grandmother had entered the room. Though it seemed she hadn’t heard ‘cock-polisher Kolbeinn’, she still stood with her hands on her buttress hips, smiling sideways at the small children sat watching.
“Hildi! Marí! Come on girls, let’s go see Jón open his presents from you and your mummy and daddy.”
The smaller girl made to move to her grandmother until she realised her big sister wasn’t moving.
“Nanny, I want to watch the boys play Mario Kart!” the bigger girl responded.
“Come on, Marí, with me now,” it was clear that it wasn’t a request. The girls whined but moved. “Bergsteinn, I’m sure your nanny and granddad will want you to come, too.”
“I’m gonna watch more,” the boy said, not taking his eyes off the screen and responding in a steady lilt.
“Alright, well be sure to move quick if they come and ask you.”
The older lady was gone, and the boys could breathe again. Oli and Ingi giggled girlishly to each other.
“Jón’s other nanna is too nanna-y,” observed Bergsteinn, in the cadence of a children’s storyteller. Now alone on the floor in front of the television, he shuffled back on his bottom until he was sitting up against Kolbeinn’s shins, still not taking his eyes from the screen.
“Come on, come on!” Vilhjálm hissed to himself, leaning forward as he tried to hold onto the lead that Teitur’s slight interference had gifted him. “Crap!”
A blue shell that would surely have been intended for Kolbeinn’s Wario took Vilhjálm’s Toad out instead. He groaned as not only did Kolbeinn burst through to comfortably take the chequered flag over the home stretch, but Óskar snuck through to beat Vilhjálm down into third place.
Bergsteinn cheered.
“Why did you want to play this, Torbs?” said Ingi, watching the final boy pootle home in seventh place, behind three CPU players as well as the other three boys. “You’re terrible, mate.”
“I just had a bad race, okay?” Torben huffed. “I’ll get luckier in the next one.”
Stef found he had his chance to speak to Arthur, like he’d wanted to before, but was suddenly anxious without the cover of a group conversation. They both watched from the back-left corner of the settee, leaning behind Jón’s other two school friends. Stef looked across – they were roughly the same height – to try to talk to Arthur again, but catching his blue eyes staring at the screen, whites illuminated by the room lights, he stumbled once more.
“So… what’s England like then?” he blurted.
Arthur turned and seemed surprised Stef was talking to him. He shrugged.
“Depends how you mean,” he said. “You mean like, how is it different from here?”
“I… I guess?”
“Well, it’s warmer, and around Cambridge it’s really flat – not at all like Greenland – and I suppose the buildings and the people are different… I moved when I was seven, though.”
“Oh,” said Stef. “Uh… sorry. Stupid question.”
“S’okay,” Arthur shrugged again. “Everyone asks it.”
“What was it like to move countries when you were seven?” Stef tried again. “I bet it was really hard… and weird. Did you speak any Greenlandic before?”
“No, I had to learn everything again, just from going to school and being forced to talk with other kids,” said Arthur. “You’re right; it was hard and weird, but I guess little kids don’t notice much.”
Arthur cast a glance at Bergsteinn sat chatting away at Kolbeinn’s feet. Stef noticed and smiled, which Arthur returned.
“I have a two little brothers,” said Stef. “I get what you mean.”
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” Arthur responded, and looked back at the screen showing the first lap of the next race.
“How come you didn’t want to play?” Stef asked. “You were first over there with Torben.”
“I was expecting Jón to come back and show me something on his computer,” said Arthur.
“What?”
“It’s… it’s embarrassing really. Really nerdy. That’s why we were going to do it in his room.”
“Promise I won’t judge.”
“Well…” Arthur blushed a little again. He was watching himself fingering the corner of the settee with his dainty, elfin fingers as he spoke. “He wanted to show me around his latest save on a game called Civilization VI. You’ve probably never heard of it or think it’s really lame…”
“No way!” Stef chirped. “My dad has that game! I play it too sometimes, but I’m nowhere near as good as him. I have to play it on like, chieftain or whatever. That’s embarrassing.”
“You’re not teasing?” Arthur stared at Stef incredulously.
“No!” said Stef. “I’d never–” he caught himself before saying anything awkward. “I like that game too. It’s addictive!”
“Wow,” said Arthur, grinning and showing off two rows of even teeth, his cheeks dimpling. “I never thought a football lad would be into playing Civ!”
“We’re not all hooligans with half a braincell, you know,” Stef laughed.
“I guess not,” said Arthur. “You wanna go find Jón? Maybe he’ll show us it together.”
“Sure,” said Stef. “My name’s Stefnir, by the way, in case you missed it.”
“Nice to meet you,” Arthur replied. “I’m Arthur.”
“I know.”
Kolbeinn took the second race to the wire again, but eventually had it in the bag. He spread his arms and launched his fists in the air.
“Come on! Never in doubt!”
“Move your arm,” said Oli, pulling Kolbeinn’s wrist up. “Torben still hasn’t finished. You’re blocking his view.”
“Someone get Captain Kolbeinn a Coke!” Kolbeinn commanded. “Stef! Steffi?”
“He’s gone, idiot,” said Teitur.
“Where?” asked Kolbeinn, twisting his body around to look behind him.
“He went off with Arthur to see something in Jón’s room, or something like that,” said Óskar.
“You can’t take that boy anywhere,” said Kolbeinn, mostly to himself.
“What do you mean?” said Ingi, sounding confused.
“He’s always wandering off,” Teitur responded quickly, before jabbing Kolbeinn sharply in the back of his head with his knuckle when nobody else was looking.
“Argh– uh… I mean, ack, I’m starving,” said Kolbeinn. “Let’s take a mid-championship break for some smørgásbord. Vilhjálm needs to keep his strength up.”
“I’m really sorry he’s here,” said Teitur, as Vilhjálm looked straight forward with tight shoulders and stifled an enraged look.
“I’m sorry too,” said Kolbeinn, looking meaningfully at Teitur rather than at the boy beside him.
“Kolbeinn, are you going to eat pizza first?” said Borgsteinn. “Cos I’m going to eat pizza first, and then sausage.”
It took a few minutes for Arthur and Stef to prise Jón free of his extended family and their friends, then it was nearly half an hour until they returned to the rest of the boys. They had simply continued eating and gaming in the meantime. Daniel Forsberg came by a couple of times, but luckily was invited away by adults for wine or beer – an offer that adult party guests are apparently not allowed to refuse. Jón’s re-emergence allowed him to play and hang out with his own guests for a while, and to absorb more younger kids who had arrived with his parents’ colleagues from work.
The fun was interrupted for a while as everyone crowded around the table to sing to Jón while a thirteen-candled carrot cake – his favourite – was brought into the room for him to blow out, strictly for visiting kids only. Jón took a couple of blows to extinguish all the flames and stumbled over his thanks while his dad cut him the master slice. That was when Dr Forsberg interrupted again.
“Jón, I didn’t give you your present yet. I wanted to wait until all your friends could see.”
He handed a gift roughly wrapped in brown paper to Jón in such a way that the birthday boy was forced to stand in front of him, Daniel towering over Jón.
“It’s clothes,” said Jón, the ends of his fingers finding fabric beneath the paper. “It’s… oh, wow!”
He had the garment free, and the brown paper drifted idly to the floor at his feet.
“What it is, Jón?” his dad asked, smiling as if to indicate he already knew the answer, but wanted Jón to announce it to the room.
“It’s a Grønland-Vínland shirt, but an old one… and… and it’s signed by all the players!”
“It’s from the year you were born,” said Daniel. “It’s signed by the squad that went to the 2007 Gold Cup.”
“Wow!” Jón replied, holding the large adult shirt out before him with spread arms, smile almost as wide. “That means… it’s signed by Guðni Guðnarson!”
“On the front, under the team badge,” Daniel said.
“What do you say to Dan, Jón?” his mother asked.
“Thanks, Dan. This is really special!”
“Well, so are you,” the man said, holding out his arms in anticipation of a hug. “Come here, big lad.”
“All-right…” Jón agreed. He didn’t really want one of Daniel’s hugs in front of everyone assembled, but politeness dictated that he must. Daniel engulfed the boy in both arms, one hand on the back of Jón’s head, squashing it tight to his chest, the other resting strongly on the rear waistband of Jón’s jeans, controlling the movement of his hips and allowing the lower fingers to grip the top of his buttocks. Daniel’s hugs always lasted too long; seemingly the price of his kindness. Jón hung in place, still clutching his present in one hand. He knew to stay put until he was released. Though his mum was right; Daniel was very good to him.
“Enjoy the rest of your party,” said Daniel, smiling as he released Jón from his grip and ruffling his short brown hair.
“Thanks, Dan,” Jón said quietly, taking a step back and wishing there wasn’t so much colour in his cheeks all of a sudden.
“Get your slices of cake, kids,” Jón’s dad – Dr Heimir Snorrason, School of Political Science, Universitatis Groenlandiæ – breaking the moment and sparking the descent of children towards the table.
“Cool present, Jón!” Teitur said, coming to stand with him.
“Yeah!” said Torben. “Let us see!”
The boys ate their cake, and Jón’s signed shirt was spread out for them to go about deciphering the autographs. Daniel was pleased that several of them, evidently tired, had sprawled out on their tummies to examine the shirt on the floor. He squatted down behind them to point out a couple of names they couldn’t work out, chancing the opportunity to place a hand on the small of one of the redheads’ backs; the taller one with the more strawberry blond look.
Oliver nearly leapt over the settee with shock.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Daniel said, as the rest of the boys looked up with wide-eyed surprise, Oli having rolled onto his side against Teitur, kneeling next to him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just trying to make sure I had your attention.”
“Y-you… you shouldn’t–” Oli began.
“I know,” Daniel said, cutting him off before the boy drew the attention of everyone else in the room. “I shouldn’t surprise people like that when they’re so focused on something else. I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends.”
At the suggestion he should be embarrassed, Oli had blushed and looked away, still lain on his side against Teitur. Teitur subtly rested a reassuring had on the back of Oli’s head. Daniel looked around the room. Luckily, the party was winding down. It was almost ten, and many of the guests, having seen the cake cutting and finished most of the food, were taking turns to say their goodbyes to Jón’s parents. The fuss the strawberry blond kid was making had gone unnoticed.
“Guess I’ll leave you to it,” Daniel said, standing up and withdrawing himself to the food table.
“You okay?” Teitur said quietly to Oli, who pulled himself up to a kneel, bottom resting on his heels, and nodded.
“That guy is such a creep,” said Stef. “Sorry, Jón.”
“It’s okay,” Jón said. “It’s not like we’re related or anything.”
“It’s a cool present he got you,” Ingi said, “but he’s still a really weird guy.”
“I know,” Jón sighed, beginning to feel that it was somehow his fault. “I’m sorry, Oli.”
“You didn’t do it,” said Oli. “He should be sorry, not you.”
Kolbeinn watched as Daniel dolloped himself a helping of skyr from a large bowl on the table, watching them out of his peripheral vision. “I’ll find a way to make him sorry,” he said.
“Arthur,” Jón’s mother called. “Your dad’s here to pick you up.”
The little English boy slowly roused himself from the settee, where Jón’s school friends had begun playing another game after taking a cursory look at the signed football shirt. He called goodbye and thank you to Jón and made his way to the entrance hall.
Stef hopped to his feet to follow; he got to the front door just as Arthur was tying his shoelaces in front of a short man with wavy grey hair; evidently his father.
“Hey, Arthur,” he said, suddenly unsure why he was there or how to follow it up.
“Stef,” Arthur smiled. “Dad, this is Jón’s friend from football, Stef.”
“Hi, Stef,” smiled Arthur’s dad. He had a slight English accent, where Arthur had none. “Nice to meet you.”
“It was fun to hang out tonight,” Stef said.
“Yeah,” said Arthur, returning to his feet having tied his shoelaces, a thick black waterproof coat hanging down to his mid-thighs and inundating his arms so only the tips of his fingers poked free. “I got your number, so we can maybe game together sometime?”
“Totally,” said Stef, instantly kicking himself inside for saying totally. “Add me on Snap, too?”
“Sure,” said Arthur. “See you later. Say thanks and bye to Jón again for me.”
“Will do,” Stef said.
“Come on, Art,” his dad said. “Bye, Stef. Nice seeing you.”
By the time Stef returned to the main party room, the group around the shirt had split up, and most of them were back around the Nintendo Switch. Kolbeinn was stood to one side with Oli.
“Where’d Jón go?” Stef asked.
“His dad took him off somewhere,” Kolbeinn replied.
“His little cousins are sleeping in his room,” Oli explained. “I think they needed to get stuff set up so Jón doesn’t wake them when he goes to bed.”
“Oh,” said Stef, realising he wasn’t all that interested after all.
“You know what a danger wank is?” said Kolbeinn, eyeing the bowl of skyr again.
“No,” said Stef. “Why are you asking that now?”
“Give me a second,” said Kolbeinn, seeing no adults around, and marched over to the table to grab the big bowl of sour yoghurt from the table.
“What’s that for?” said Oli.
“Just follow me,” Kolbeinn said, walking across the front of the other boys’ view of the TV screen.
“Move, Kol!” Teitur growled.
“What’s he doing with that bowl now?” Vilhjálm asked exasperatedly.
“Oli, Stef!” Kolbeinn said, beckoning the boys who’d walked around the back of the settee to him. He was stood near the corner of the room, where the ceiling-to-floor curtain in front of the main window met the pine cabinet housing the television. “Stand in front of the curtain here. Don’t let any adults come this way.”
“No, Kolbeinn…” said Stef, realising it was a futile argument to begin to engage with.
“Do you want me to hold the bowl, at least?” sighed Oli.
“Too suspicious,” said Kolbeinn, against the sound of his trousers being snapped open and dropping down his thighs. He grunted as he began the naughty deed behind the curtain.
“What’s he doing?” Óskar asked, a giggle in his voice revealing he already knew the answer.
“Don’t ask,” Oli replied.
“How does he know the creep is even going to want more?” Ingi said.
“Aww, Teitur!” Torben whined, watching his character splat against the TV screen. “Why d’you always play as Kirby, man? Turning into a rock or a box all the time isn’t fair.”
“Negative play,” Stef agreed from the curtainside, as Kolbeinn caused it to flap and shudder behind him.
“If I make sure I don’t die, you can’t beat me!” Teitur laughed, dodging with his own body as he tried to pull Kirby away from Vilhjálm’s character’s attentions.
“Ugh!” Kolbeinn grunted. Oli and Stef were beginning to blush in front of the curtain. Oli giggled tunelessly with nervous embarrassment. Jón’s mum wandered through the room towards the back of the house, smiling at the boys as she went.
Stef released a heavy breath as she left through the rear door, blushed harder, and shook his head.
“Nggh!” Kolbeinn growled. “Uh, yeah… get in there. Right there. Yeah…”
“Oh my god…” Stef said, not sure whether to burst into hysterical laughter or sink to the floor.
“Has he actually done it?” Oli replied.
“Take the bowl, Oli,” said Kolbeinn thrusting it against Oli’s back until the boy grabbed it. “I need to pull my pants up.”
Oli and Stef looked into the bowl. There, clear for the eye to see, was a collection of shiny, transparent globules of various sizes, sitting on top of the white of the yoghurt, not wanting to fully mix. The two boys stared at it in dumb shock.
“Hey, what’s up guys?” said Jón, re-emerging through the door from the hallway. “Why are you three over there?”
Kolbeinn had emerged, ruffled but cool, from behind the curtain moments before Jón arrived. “Just looking at the skyr. It’s gone a bit weird. You shouldn’t eat any.”
“Kolbeinn’s made it weird,” said Ingi, while focusing on the brawl on screen. “Like he always does.”
“What d’you mean?” said Jón, as Oli and Stef leant against each other, trying not to burst into stunned hysterics. “What’s going on?”
“Jón,” his mum said, striding into the room, glass of red wine in hand, with Daniel following similarly behind. “What are you all doing with the skyr? I should put it in the fridge before it goes bad; nobody will eat anymore now.”
Oli handed the bowl over to her without saying anything, trying not to move too much or look at anyone lest he explode into laughter or tears. Or both.
“Hmm, looks like it’s already started to sweat,” Jón’s mum observed, tipping the bowl from side to side and watching the blobs of Kolbeinn’s watery cum reluctantly tumble with gravity across the surface of the yoghurt.
“Look’s okay to me,” said Daniel. “I may have some later. Can’t beat a bit of sour, salty cream, eh boys?” He winked at the boys and received the bowl from Jón’s mum.
“Dan will be staying the night,” Jón’s mum told him. “We need to set up the sofa as soon as all your friends have gone home.”
“Kay, mum,” Jón said, watching the adults leave the room again.
Every boy present, except Jón, broke into violent laughter as soon as they were both gone.
“What?” said Jón. “What is it? Is it because Dan has to stay here?”
“I cannot believe you’ve done that!” said Stef to Kolbeinn, through heaves of hysterical laughter. “That’s really the worst thing you’ve ever done!”
“What is?” whined Jón, tapping his foot on the floor.
“Never mind,” said Kolbeinn. “You kind of had to be there.”
“I don’t get you guys sometimes,” sighed Jón. “Can I at least play some Smash Bros with you? It is my party.”
Stef was in bed in just his GAS undies. It was Saturday night, and he was still a little tired from being active all day on Friday and being dragged to the shops with his mum and brothers earlier that day. Pétur had outgrown the shoes he normally wore, and Karl needed new trunks for swimming lessons with school. It was still a little early, but Stef wanted to be in top form for the game tomorrow; it would be his first full eleven-a-side outing with the team, after all – even if it was only a friendly.
He sat propped up against the headboard, looking at his phone. Arthur still hadn’t added him on Snapchat, though they had each other’s numbers. He’d thought about sending him a WhatsApp, but he didn’t want to seem like he was so desperate to be friends. Even if he was, a little. He cursed that there weren’t any boys like Arthur at his school, who could be clever and a little nerdy without being weird. But then, there couldn’t be. Too many jerks like Yohri Myrnasson and Haukur Daðason who’d just bully them mercilessly. Stef only escaped because of football.
A notification popped up. Arthur had added him! Stef grinned to himself and confirmed. A snap from Arthur soon followed.
Loooong weekend, read the caption, on the bottom of a picture of Arthur in bed, bare shoulders visible, as he let his head roll back over his own headboard. Game together tomorrow?
Stef quickly took a shot of himself, sat in bed with his bare chest visible. The lighting from only his bedside anglepoise made him look more tired than he felt.
Me too. Gotta get sleep for football tomorrow.
Arthur viewed it and began writing a message in return.
stupid football! so you cant play tomz?
Maybe evening, Stef replied. Let u know.
Stef’s bedroom door creaked and opened a crack. Karl shuffled in, quietly as he could for fear their parents would hear him.
“I can’t sleep!” he stage-whispered to his big brother. “Pétur has a cold and he’s snoring. Can I sit with you?”
Cool =D, Arthur responded.
Stef sighed, trying not to get annoyed, and shuffled over in his bed. He patted the space next to him. Karl smiled and bounded softly into place. He was wearing only black pyjama bottoms, so he pushed the bare skin of his arm against his big brother’s as he leaned against him on the bed.
“What ya doin?”
“Messaging a new friend,” said Stef. “He’s Jón’s friend who I met at his party. He’s cool.”
“Will you send him a pic of us together?”
“Guess,” said Stef.
My bro is here now, Stef wrote. Wants to send snap ok?
Arthur responded with a thumb emoji. Stef readied the selfie.
“Looks good,” Karl approved, looking over the snap. The two boys, though one bigger than the other, were clearly brothers, leaning topless against each other while sat up in the bed. Karl had leaned his head over Stef’s shoulder, so was smiling sweetly into the middle of the shot, looking very tired.
He’s not ginger!!!! Arthur responded, followed by two crying laughing emojis, a smile emoji, and a blushing emoji.
It was true. Karl was more a dirty blond, while Pétur was a lighter colour than both of them, more strawberry blond than Stef’s carrot top or Karl’s sandy colour.
Nobody is more ginger than me, Stef replied, with a winky emoji.
What’s his name?? Arthur replied.
“Karlsefni!” Karl giggled, reading the exchange, now from under Stef’s armpit as he leaned ever deeper into his brother. He let out a long yawn.
Karlsefni, Stef replied.
A few moments later, another snap from Arthur arrived. He was leant back topless in his bed, only his scruffy chestnut head propped up by the pillow, mouth open, showing off his teeth, and thumb up right against his cheek. Hi Stefnir and Karlsefni, it read, followed by two snoozing emojis, a bed emoji, and a nerd face emoji.
It made Karl giggle. Stef told Arthur so. He replied with another nerd face emoji and a thumbs-up.
“He looks cool,” Karl said. “I like him.”
“Me too,” said Stef.
Karl yawned deeply and loudly again. He had managed to dig himself into Stef’s side so he was cradled by his big brother’s arm, horizontal in the bed but for Stef supporting him.
“Karl,” Stef said, shaking his arm. “Karl, you need to go back to your own room. You’re gonna fall asleep in my bed.”
“Aww,” Karl whined, high-pitch and breathless. “Please, Stef.”
“No,” Stef said. “I have to sleep for football tomorrow. Sleep in your own bed.”
“No!” Karl grumbled.
“Fine,” said Stef. “I’ll just get mum and dad.”
“Grrmph,” Karl responded, burying his face into Stef’s side before pushing up off him. “I’ll go then, if you’re gonna be like that.”
“Night, Karl,” said Stef, gently scratching the back of his brother’s scalp as he climbed from the bed.
“Night, Stef,” Karl replied. “See you in the morning.”
Anders had picked up Joorsi, Ali Abbas, and Faisal easily enough; they all lived pretty much in the same place. The real chore was in then having to drive back across town to get out to Jón’s house and pick him up too. At least in the time it took to get to Grársandi, it was clear Faisal was going to be quiet. If anything, he seemed a bit tired, which was less than helpful if he was going to play a half of football in the next couple of hours.
He left the car running with the three other boys in the back while he headed to Jón’s front door to give it a knock. A stout old lady with hips like airbags opened it and beckoned him in. Anders felt powerless to say no, and followed wordlessly.
“Jón’s coach is here,” she croaked loudly through a long adjacent room.
“Hi Anders!” came Jón’s voice, sounding very chirpy.
“Sorry, we’re running a little late; it’s been a mad house all weekend,” his mother’s voice followed. “Come through to the kitchen if you like.”
Anders didn’t really like, but the old lady waved him on and put a hand on the small of his back to direct him, so there was no arguing. Jón’s family home was large, and their kitchen wide, light, and airy to match, traditional black and white tiling on the floor and pine fittings everywhere. Jón grinned as he sat on the floor in the new kit, yanking on a troublesome boot.
“I’m so sorry he isn’t ready for you,” his mother was saying, hair far less controlled than usual and dark circles beneath her eyes as she cleaned up the remains of breakfast from the pine table.
“I am ready,” said Jón, boot struggles done, bouncing to his feet. “Is my drink in the fridge?”
“Yes,” his mother responded. “Take some fruit, too.”
“Alright,” he said, swinging the door of their metallic Smeg fridge-freezer open with far too much force.
“Be careful, Jón,” the old lady croaked, finally removing her hand from Anders’ back. “Eat some of that skyr, too. Give you strength.”
“I think it’s gone bad,” said Jón, bottle of sports drink under one arm, two bananas under another. Anders refrained from vocalising his thoughts on how strange it was to refrigerate bananas.
“Nonsense,” the old lady said. “Take a big spoonful, Jónsi.”
“Kol told me not to eat any on Friday night,” Jón responded.
“Honestly,” his mother sighed heavily. “If Kolbeinn told you to run up the hill and jump off the cliff, would you do that, too?”
“Why would Kolbeinn tell me to do that?” Jón answered.
“Don’t cheek your mother in front of your coach,” the old woman scowled. “Eat your skyr.”
“Fine,” Jón answered, with a huff, placing his bananas and bottle down on the table and returning to dig a large tablespoon into the bowl of yoghurt in the fridge. He tentatively lipped some from the tip of the spoon. “Yuck! Kol was right! This has gone off!”
“Don’t be so silly, Jón,” his mother said. “Dan had a whole serving bowl of it yesterday, and he didn’t say anything about it being off.”
“If Jón’s ready,” Anders interjected, “we really do need to get going. I have some of his teammates waiting in the car for us.”
“Go on, Jón, you’re holding everyone up!” Jón’s mum snapped, snatching the spoon of yoghurt from his hand. “Get going! I’m so sorry about this, Anders.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Jón whined.
“C’mon, kiss goodbye,” his mum said. Jón stomped in front of her and let himself get kissed on the forehead. “Good luck, okay?”
“Grandmama too,” the old lady demanded, forcing Jón to stoop slightly to her level and kiss her on rough-looking lips.
“See you later,” Jón sighed, rushing to leave the room and hoping Anders would follow quickly. He did.
“Busy weekend, Jón?” said Anders, making conversation as they made progress south and west along the highway.
“Yeah, I had my party on Friday, then my family were staying over on Saturday, and we went out to lunch in town and went around the shops, and looked at some of the sights, and went into, like, an arcade café for a while, which was cool, and then we had a fancy dinner all together and then we went to a play, but it had to be, like, a play of a children’s book because we had my little cousins there…”
Anders was certain he’d never once before seen Jón so animated and effusive. It must have been an exciting weekend for him indeed.
“I hope you’ve saved some energy to play football today,” he said.
“I’m looking forward to playing our first proper eleven-a-side,” Jón nodded. “Anders, have you ever seen the play called Lady Chatsby’s Lover? I saw a poster for it at the theatre and it had two people standing in the bushes on it, and it looked like they might not have any clothes on, and I was about to ask my dad about it but my grandmama saw that I was reading it and came and slapped my head hard and told me I was dirty.”
“You mean Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” Anders corrected. “That is probably a bit too grown up for you right now, in fairness.”
“Oh; okay,” Jón said. He looked out of the window for a while. “Could we put some music on?”
“I can put some music on,” said Anders. “But I don’t want any arguments. It’s my car and we listen to my music, so it’s Ali Farka Touré or nothing.”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Jón. He sat and looked through the window a little more. “It must be better than just engine noise,” he decided.
“Fine,” Anders replied. He checked the rear-view mirror. “Everyone okay in the back?”
Miniscule nods. The other three were just sitting around in awkward silence. Anders turned the CD player on.
“Is there something in here we could read to stop us getting bored?” Jón asked.
“We’re nearly at Hvalsey now, Jón,” Anders said. “Look; we’re just about to go into the tunnel under the water.”
“That’s still ages away,” Jón retorted. If this was what a weekend as the centre of attention did to him, Anders hoped Jón’s family would suddenly find Jehovah and never celebrate birthdays again.
“Look in the glove box,” said Anders. “There will be some maps and stuff.”
Jón popped the little door open and pulled out a small, square book.
“Haikus to live by,” Jón read, flicked to a random page, and began reciting its poem a loud.
Life has granted me
Seven bells of purest brass
I ring them daily
“I don’t get it,” said Jón. “What’s that meant to mean?”
“You’re a clever lad, Jón,” Anders sighed. “Why don’t you sit and think quietly until you work it out.”
Jón began to blush, suddenly realising he was being very annoying. How embarrassing! What a baby everyone must think he is!
“Sorry, Anders,” he said quietly.
“What for?” Anders replied.
“I… I dunno. It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t apologise for being yourself, Jón,” Anders responded.
“Oh, it wasn’t…” Jón began. He stopped and looked out the window again, but now they were halfway through the tunnel and he couldn’t pretend the view was distracting him. “Thanks, Anders,” he said.
Anders’ plan was to give every player at least a half of the game – so 35 minutes of action – so as they could continue to get used to playing with each other, playing with a full 22 players on the pitch, and playing the system he thought would suit them best. In truth, all he wanted from this trip down the fjord to Hvalsey was a good performance from his boys on the slick artificial surface at Kýrin. Still, everyone wanted to win. Which was good.
He announced his starting line-up to the boys once everyone had arrived and got warmed up. Thom began in goal as his number one. Stef and Ingi were right and left full back – Sam would have to wait for his chance to dislodge either of them. Chigs, captain for the day, was partnered by Jónatan in the centre of defence – Anders hadn’t been pleased with Geir’s attitude, so thought not giving him an immediate start might be the kick up the backside the boy needed. Kolbeinn was picked as the starting holding midfield player, but not over Joorsi – the new addition to the squad took the box-to-box midfield role ahead of Kris, who was dropped from the starting XI as well as the captaincy. Torben had the more creative central midfield role. Ahead of him as a wide left forward was Teitur. Ali Abbas was dropped immediately into the squad to pay as an inside forward on the opposite side. Mass led the line in the centre.
Anders was annoyed already, seconds into the game, when the boys failed to implement the kick-off drills he’d been doing with them and did their own thing instead. He was hopeful they’d not need another opportunity in this game to show they had learned something about kick-offs, but it was still irritating. Hvalsey won the ball from Torben in midfield and immediately looked to play backwards and wide. They had set up with a sort of 3-5-2/5-3-2 system. If Anders’ boys put them under enough pressure, they’d be stuck with a flat back five rather than wing backs who could escape and threaten, but that in itself would still be difficult to break down. This was what Anders had expected; Hvalsey were not a bad side and this age group had been together with the same coach since age seven. Even adapting to playing with two more players, they were going to have excellent organisation.
B22, however, were clearly still getting used to the changes their team was going through. Kolbeinn was caught out of position in transition, having sat too deep and allowed a gap to emerge between himself and the two other midfield players, into which a Hvalsey player dropped and received the ball. Between Kolbeinn and Joorsi pressing from opposite angles, B22 quickly had the ball back, but the learning curve still appeared steep for these young boys, talented as many of them were.
Ten minutes into a half that had mainly involved two sets of boys passing the ball back and forth for alternating periods and not making up much ground before giving it away, Jónatan won a tackle against one of the two Hvalsey forwards, who was trying to shield the ball from him. Kolbeinn picked up the loose ball facing towards his own goal and spread it wide to Ingi. Ingi took two or three quick steps forward, looked up before coming under pressure, and angled a lofted ball towards Joorsi, who was closed down by a Hvalsey midfield player. Joorsi used his chest to flick the ball immediately on to Torben alongside him in the centre circle. Torben, almost without looking, played a first-time volleyed pass on his left foot as the other two Hvalsey midfielders crowded in to close him down. They were taken immediately from the game, as the ball zipped beyond them into Teitur’s path. He’d beaten the Hvalsey right wing back for pace. He took the ball under the control of the inside of his left foot and bore down on the rightmost of the three Hvalsey central defenders, who had stepped out and up to meet him. Teitur feinted right, then left, then moved the ball right on his weaker foot. It ran too far ahead of him, and the central defender of the Hvalsey back three slid in to meet it. Teitur bravely slid with him, scooping the ball onwards toward Mass. He had the last of the Hvalsey back three for company, who stood him up. Unable to fashion a shot for himself, he directed the ball into space for Ali Abbas, but it was too long. Ali Abbas slid in with the tracking Hvalsey left wing back to reach for the ball, and he got there first – but was only able to send the ball dribbling harmlessly wide of the home goal.
“Well done,” Anders applauded. “Good, quick attacking play. Keep going!”
Unfortunately, it was looking as if that might be the only moment of note in the first period of the match. Around twenty-five minutes had gone, and though the sun shone, it was windy, and thick drizzle had begun to drift sideways over everything below. These were not conditions for samba football. They weren’t even conditions for disco football. They were barely conditions for golf.
So, it was around this time, the artificial surface glimmering in greyed-out sunshine beneath the waves of vapour fizzling through the air, that both sides suffered their first casualties of the elements. Joorsi won a tackle in midfield that broke backwards and sideways for Kolbeinn. He looked wide and found Ali Abbas with his back to goal, the wing back with a handful of his shirt. Ali Abbas looked for Stef arriving in support down the right. Stef took a touch and struck an inch-perfect arced switch pass over the heads of the midfielders to find the run of Ingi down the left. He took a touch past the wing back closing him down, but then couldn’t control his momentum going forward on the slippery ground. Neither could the Hvalsey boy. They crunched into a sickening full-frontal collision, smacking heads against each other and both tumbling to the ground.
The referee was on the whistle immediately, beckoning for both coaches to enter the field of play.
Torben and Teitur, being the closest-positioned players to Ingi on the pitch, were already on the scene squatting down beside Ingi by the time Anders arrived. Ingi was sitting up and rubbing a very sore-looking right eye.
“You okay?” Anders asked, opening the first aid bag.
“Oi bith by tung,” Ingi complained, spitting crimson on the pitch.
“Open wide,” said Anders.
“Aaaaaa,” said Ingi, even though he hadn’t been asked to.
“Looks like you just chomped down on it with your molars as you bumped heads. It’s just cut and will be sore for a while. Here.”
Anders squirted water into Ingi’s mouth and let him rinse and spit.
“Up you get now,” said Anders. “We’ll let Atli and your dad have a look at you and check everything’s fine. Sam’s warming up ready.”
Ingi didn’t argue. His eye and his tongue hurt, and he had a headache. Though, looking beyond Anders’ shoulder, he realised he’d gotten off the lighter of the two players.
“What’s your name?” the referee asked. “How old are you? Who do you play for?”
“I…” the boy said, lying full on his back on the ground, moving his head up, thinking better of it, and lying it back down. “I was playing football… and…”
“That’s good,” said the referee. “What’s your name?”
“My name?” the boy giggled for some reason; he had no idea why. “Órri. My name’s Órri.”
“Your coach is here now, Órri. You know who he is?”
“My coach…? That’s Pétur Osvaldsson.”
“That’s it, Órri,” the coach said. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel… I feel…” Órri screwed up his face. “I’m twelve. He asked… asked me my old how I was, and it’s twelve.”
“Okay, mate. Can you tell me whether you’re hurting anywhere?”
Ingi was able to walk off to applause from the watching parents, his white-blond hair matted and clumped light brown again, revealing rivulets of scalp beneath, as it took the rain from the air.
“Ready for ten minutes extra, Sam?” Anders asked.
Sam nodded. The little brown-haired boy was alabaster pale, his blue eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of his feet.
“Just relax,” Anders said kindly. “Be yourself. Get used to it all. It’s just a friendly.”
“Good luck, Sámuel,” said Kris, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder blade as the boy readied himself to begin jogging onto the pitch.
“Good luck, Sam,” Jón added.
“Good luck!” said Kristinn.
And as Sam entered the pitch to applause, the rest of his teammates waiting on the bench wished him luck in turn. Except Geir. Once Anders had finished swelling with pride, he ordered Geir to go and warm up in the rain for the remainder of the half.
Órri, finally having gone some distance back toward his senses, was removed at the far side of the pitch to more parental applause. B22 had the business of a free kick in an attacking position wide on the left. Having gone to take up Ingi’s position, Sam found himself amongst the boys over the ball, offering to take the kick. Teitur nodded assent and withdrew up the touchline to offer a wide short option. Torben was less keen to give up the opportunity to hit an in-swinger on his favoured right foot but relented when he realised Sam was lining up a lofted cross with his left.
Chigs and Jónatan had gone forward, trying to take up the sorts of positions they had practised in training. Sam raised his left hand arbitrarily and hit the free kick into the box. Massawa running away from goal as the kick was taken distracted the two boys stood around Jónatan just long enough that he got a leap on his boy and rose high above him, while the boy marking Chigs panicked at the danger and charged into action, stumbling into Jónatan’s back. The shove put Jónatan off balance, squeezing him into the boy leaping with him and forcing him to steady himself with a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders. The tangle took them all out of the path of Sam’s ball, but Chigs was now completely unmarked. He rose tall, uncontested, and pinged a perfectly-executed header across goal – unaware that the referee’s whistle was sounding – that nestled the ball in the bottom corner of the net.
Chigs turned to celebrate, but his grinning face quickly turned to confusion. Black-and-white striped shirts and dark-light halved blue ones surrounded the referee. Massawa had sprinted to pick the ball out of the net, grappling for it with the FK Hvalsey goalkeeper, expecting a penalty to take. Instead the referee seemed to be signalling for a defensive free kick for FK Hvalsey.
“What for, ref?” Jónatan asked.
“Climbing on the defender.”
“I was pushed in the back!” he spat.
“Leave it, Jónatan,” Chigs sighed, reluctantly taking his captainly duties seriously. “He’s not gonna change it now.”
The players retook their positions as B22’s lead was struck off and the FK Hvalsey goalkeeper prepared to restart the game.
“Great ball, Sam,” Jónatan said, slapping the full back on the shoulders as he retook position alongside him.
“Quality free kick, Sam,” Chigs added. “Nice one.”
Three minutes later, Sam was back on the ball, having tidied up a loose long Hvalsey pass. He passed calmly inside to Kolbeinn, facing his own goal again, who acted as a pivot to move the ball wide right to Stef. Stef saw space ahead of him and set off at a sprint with the ball. FK Hvalsey were backing off, perhaps tiring as half time rapidly approached. Stef approached them as rapidly as he could, too. He exchanged passes with Ali Abbas around closing defenders to free himself once more into a crossing position from wide on the right, level with the penalty spot. His scooped cross was touched away by a defender from Massawa, and by extension also Teitur ghosting in at the far post beyond him. Instead, it fell to the feet of Torben. The second-youngest boy on the team let the ball drop and bounce once before hitting a scything half-volley that followed a banana parabola across the FK Hvalsey goalkeeper and into the bottom right corner of the net. 1-0 to B22.
The boys gathered into a ten-player group hug, huddled halfway inside the FK Hvalsey half, only Thom left out. The goalkeeper instead beat his gloved hands together, turned his back, and went to take a celebratory squirt of drink from his bottle.
Anders used half time to introduce the remainder of his substitutes. The change of personnel necessitated a change of system, as he had neither the numbers nor the balance of players to go like-for-like with the same formation. Instead, it would be a bog-standard 4-4-2. From right to left: Mark; Kristinn, Chigs, Geir, Sam; Kris, Jón, Faisal, Teitur; Oli, Barty.
FK Hvalsey came out to play. There was no let-up in the weather, but the home side had obviously decided at half time that they had a score to settle regardless. They moved the ball around the pitch much more crisply – as far as the elements would permit – and B22 had to adjust to this change as well as not having done any work on a 4-4-2 system. Faisal spent thirty seconds twisting and turning himself further into trouble on the ball as all three Hvalsey midfielders gathered around him, before the ball was lost and FK Hvalsey had it out on their left. An incisive slide-rule from their left wing back split Chigs and Geir. One of the Hvalsey front two received the ball and loomed before the onrushing Mark. It was Sam, sprinting into a full-length slide, using every hint of lubrication the drizzle had left on the plastic, riding his shorts halfway up his back, who was on hand to save brilliantly. Despite receiving no warning call from Geir, he’d read the game perfectly and was there in the nick of time to block tackle at full strength and slide the ball clear of goal for a corner.
The reaction of the substituted players sat dripping on the B22 bench was wild; the players on the pitch took it in turns to pat Sam on any free patch of body as soon as Mark had lugged him back up to his feet. Anders watched with quiet pride and vindication. He still had work to do to have the boy’s mother completely onside (though, she seemed very into it at that particular moment – as did his two younger siblings), and there was still work to do on giving the lad the confidence he deserved, but at least Anders had been right. There was something there. Sam did improve the team.
The corner came to nothing; Kris flicked it clear on the edge of the box as it came in from the left, and Jón was onto it. He dribbled clear of the Hvalsey player tracking him and drilled a low forward pass into Barty’s feet. He took two touches too many to get the ball under control and ended up blasting the ball high and wide from distance under pressure. Disappointing, perhaps, but a key moment of danger had passed, and momentum seemed to have shifted back in the away side’s favour.
Two thirds of the game had now gone. Kristinn won the ball back defending in his own corner, and he laid it forward down the line to Kris. The non-captain strode forward and laid it inside to Jón. He put his foot on the ball. Faisal was out of position and too far forward, not offering him an option or any support inside. He turned and went backwards to Chigs instead, who angled the ball wide and left for Sam to take down. Sam drew pressure to himself before releasing Teitur down the left flank. Teitur hugged the line, a natural and comfortable winger as opposed to Kris playing on the other side, who operated more as a wide midfielder. Teitur had powered on into a crossing position and hooked one left-footed into the box. Bart couldn’t win his aerial duel, and another defender had wrestled in front of Oli to clear the danger before it could break in his favour. Jón was screaming at Faisal for support, as the little boy ambled blithely from a much too advanced area of his pitch for his role and the context of the play. Kris came in to support him, but they were still two against three in the midfield, and the ball came free in FK Hvalsey’s favour. The home midfielder on the ball was able to maraud forward before playing a one-two with the forward up against Chigs, giving him the angle to slide the ball for the other forward to run in behind Geir.
Geir knew exactly what was going on. He turned to give chase to the small forward running off him, but the shorter, daintier boy was far nimbler than the gangly defender. As he turned his body around, Geir tangled his legs with the FK Hvalsey forward, who was immediately felled and bounced roughly on the artificial turf. Penalty kick.
“Well done, Faisal,” Kris growled sardonically.
“I’m only little; I couldn’t get back to you guys so fast!” Faisal whined.
“You shouldn’t have to get back,” Jón grumbled. “You should play your actual position like everyone else.”
“Yeah, well nobody will give me the ball wherever I go!”
“You think the little Afghan lad is learning?” Atli said to Anders.
“I don’t know,” Anders said. “I honestly don’t know.”
The Hvalsey player who had been inadvertently tripped got straight back up and rifled the penalty into the top corner. There was absolutely nothing Mark could do in the B22 goal. 1-1.
“No need to panic boys,” Anders said. “Keep going and keep trying the new things you’ve learned.”
This was at least cue to the team to attempt one of the planned kick-off routines, but it didn’t go much to plan with them employing a different tactical shape. The game petered out once more, as the home side, with a smaller squad and fewer fresh players on the pitch, looked tired. B22, to Anders’ slight annoyance, were playing effectively as if they had only ten players; Faisal was trotting around the pitch dejectedly, sometimes not even looking at the ball, and nobody else was passing to him.
“Stay in shape, boys!” Anders shouted. “Use all eleven players now you have them!”
There was a chance at one last hurrah. Jón picked up the ball in midfield and played it into Oli’s feet. He was watched by two defenders, so he couldn’t turn and face goal. Instead he played the ball wide into Kris’ feet. Kris dummied the ball and left it to run behind him, having heard Kristinn’s call. Kristinn ran on and lifted a cross towards Barty at the back post. He won the header but could only flick back down into Jón’s feet. He hit it first time into the left channel for a burst from Teitur. He saw the chance of a shot and got a powerful drive on target, but too close to the FK Hvalsey keeper. He was at least forced into a palm-stinging parry. Oli chased the ball into the corner, using his body to hold off the defender he was racing. He tried to backheel the ball against the defender’s legs and out for a corner, but it just came back and got trapped under his feet. Another defender arrived and instead tried to play the ball off Oli’s ankles for a goal kick. Oli adjusted himself and the ball was deflected back infield. Barty tussled with a central defender for the loose ball. It was touched on to Jón. He set himself to shoot. Seemingly from nowhere, Faisal arrived and had the ball off Jón’s feet, hitting a swirling curled effort. It thudded off the outside of the post and wide for a goal kick.
“Wha… why?” said Jón. “I was about to shoot from a better angle!”
“I nearly scored a goal!” Faisal retorted.
“Nearly,” said Bart. “Guess you’re not as good as Torben or Jón in that case.”
The game was shortly over. It had been an enigma, and there was plenty for Anders to mull over. After he’d had a final chat with the boys, they were sent to warm down with Atli and then dismissed. As the three boys travelling in his car gathered to him, Anders wondered what best to say to a thoroughly grumpy and disheartened Faisal, and when. Then he was distracted.
“See you on Tuesday, Sam!” Teitur called as boys and families parted ways to get into cars. “Really good game today!”
“Thanks!” Sam replied. “See you soon!”
Sam was beaming with abandon. Anders looked from him to his mother, who was also grinning with pride. Whatever else had happened today, Anders thought, it had been far from a total write-off. Very far indeed.
Anders had finished his dinner, alone in his apartment, and he cracked himself a bottle of Icelandic Einstök, relaxing back into a comfy leather chair and looking from the French doors to his balcony out over the fjord, and the lights of the skyline and the bridge. He bid his sound system start up, and he was going to let it continue where it left off with Jeff Buckley’s album, but then he thought that he couldn’t really stand Hallelujah, so he unlocked his phone to select something different. He picked instead Do You Like Rock Music? by British Sea Power, specifically because it reminded him of being thirteen. He skipped the intro and started with the second track, smiling as he relaxed back into his chair and took a drag of Icelandic ale.
Stef was sat on his bed with his dad’s laptop, having been allowed to use it to play some games while his parents worried about getting the younger boys bathed and put to bed, and packed lunches ready for school tomorrow. He didn’t have his own headphones or mic, but those built into the laptop were sufficient enough that it was almost as if he had an invisible Arthur there with him in his room, playing the game along with him. Though of course, Arthur wasn’t actually all that far away. Maybe they could meet up sometimes as well as playing online together?
Sam ate dinner around the table with his family. Everyone wanted to talk about his game, and how well he’d done, and he sat and grinned from ear to ear. Even Martin had to join in and listen, rather than zoning out like usual whenever Sam’s mum wanted to talk about him having done well at school, or football, or anything else. Martin couldn’t even talk over him or change the subject like when he thought Sam was talking too much. No; tonight was his night to be appreciated. And he couldn’t wait to tell his dad next week and do the same thing all over again.
Jón lay exhausted on the sofa, his back on his mum’s lap and his legs on his dad’s; his bum like a plug between their legs. They were tired too, and they sat and idly watched television together; some subtitled British noir detective show imported from the BBC, set on tiny, windswept islands. Jón’s mum asked if he’d enjoyed his birthday weekend, and he nodded yes and let her stroke his chest. His dad had one of his knees in a loving grip. He laid his head further back into the arm of the settee and thought how nice it would be to just let himself drift off to sleep, like a boy half his age, and have his dad carry him to bed.
Kolbeinn and Teitur were in their rooms, playing Call Of Duty with each other on mic. They had agreed to play naked, and they were trying to distract each other as they played by describing girls in their classes at school, making up stories about what they’d do to them if they had them there naked with them. In the end, they stopped playing and dirty-talked each other to orgasm as they jerked off, sharing filthy visions of how Kolbeinn would treat Dina Brandsdóttir if she were there with him, naked and helpless on his bed, devoid of her fancy jewellery, clothes, and makeup. Kolbeinn had the strangest thought, as he lay with small splatters of his transparent semen over his bare tummy. When he saw Dina tomorrow, would he imagine Teitur’s voice in his head?
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.