Holly opened her mouth, but before she could protest, Shell had decided that she was going to take the free kick and placed the ball about three metres closer to the goal than it should have been. Everyone apart from Eve piled into the area. I followed the blonde girl to the left-hand post. I was trembling. The Queenies were at full pelt now. This was exactly the kind of situation they loved and I dreaded. Free kicks usually came in high and cried out for a header, one way or another: into the goalmouth from an attacker or out to safety by a defender. I did not want to be that defender.
As Shell kicked, my stomach began to heave and instead of marking up and defending the post, I darted forward, away from the huddle and into space.
At the same time – by some fluke – Shell’s feeble free kick landed right at my feet, and because I had been running forward, I just kept going. I ran with the ball as fast as I could, half expecting to be tackled any second – but I was so far ahead nobody caught me. I then squared it to Eve, who simply ran the last few metres to the goal, had a brief one-on-one with their unprepared keeper and scored!
“Wahoo!” I heard my dad cheer.
Lutton Ash fell to pieces after that and spent most of the time barging each other out of the way instead of us. Shell’s dad even had to blow the whistle once, when the blonde girl snatched the ball out of Shell’s hand after she’d tried to take another “free kick”. “Give someone else a chance! You always mess up!” she’d snapped.
“I’ll mess you up!” Shell retorted before taking the free kick – and messing it up.
The match ended 7–0 in the end. When Megan shouted, “Three cheers for Lutton Ash,” we all bellowed, “Hip-hip-hooray!” as loud as we could.
The Queenies had packed up, and I left the pitch feeling brilliant. We’d won and I’d been wrong about omens. Nothing bad had happened at all.
After we’d warmed down, Hannah and Katie gathered us round for the post-match briefing. “That was wicked,” Hannah told us. “You ignored all provocations and just dug in. It’s like my nan always says: ‘Cream rises to the top.’ ”
“We are top! Top of the league!” Megan grinned.
That set some of them off chanting, “We are top of the league! We are top of the league!”
“Don’t get carried away, girls,” Katie warned. “We’ve got the Belles next week!”
The chant instantly changed to, “We were top of the league! We were top of the league,” making us all laugh.
“OK,” Hannah announced when we’d calmed down. “On to today’s Player of the Match…”
“Let’s give it to Smelly Shell!” Eve joked.
“No way.” Hannah laughed. “For sheer brilliance, today’s Player of the Match goes to … Tabinda the tenacious!”
I stood there blinking as everyone clapped. I was delighted but a bit bewildered. Why had I won it? I hadn’t scored. I hadn’t had that much possession. Even Hannah’s explanation didn’t make sense. “The way you turned defence into attack after the Angels’ free kick was genius. And to set Eve up to score on top of that – double genius! Well done you.”
I blinked a few more times as she pressed the trophy into my hand. I’d done what? I thought as the rain began to fall again.
5
Dad was beside himself on the journey home. “Player of the Match! I knew it would happen one day. I’m so proud. So proud.” I looked at him. I actually thought he might cry. “Turning defence into attack? Is that what Hannah said? And you did. You did! Holly’s dad and I saw it. The move took us both by surprise.”
“It took me by surprise. Dad, I—”
“That showed real maturity as a player. Way above average for that level. I knew it was only a matter of time before your confidence improved. I just knew it.”
“Dad…” I began, but he had gone into his dream world.
“That’s decided me. First thing Monday, I’m going to find out who runs the nearest centre of excellence and phone them…”
My stomach lurched like a car doing an emergency stop. “Centre of excellence? Dad, no. I’m not good enough. And even if I were, I wouldn’t go. I like playing for the Parrs. They’re my friends…”
“Binda, darling, I hate to break it to you but you’re not going to be a Parr for ever. Half the team will be ineligible for the Under Elevens by summer. Then what?”
“We’ll become Under Twelves,” I said.
“No, no, no. It’s all going to change. Trust me on this one.”
“It’s not,” I said. I didn’t want it to change. I liked it as it was.
“Of course it is. We’ve got to look to the future.”
I was beginning to feel really muddled. How had we gone from me winning the Player of the Match trophy to the team collapsing?
Dad carried on, oblivious. “Ha! Wait until they see my Binda out there at Wembley representing England in a few years’ time. Eh?”
What? Wembley? This was nuts! Dad was really worrying me now. I’d never seen him this excited. “Dad. You’re being mental.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Wembley. As if!”
“OK, you’re right. One step at a time.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll need to go through a centre of excellence first. I wonder where the nearest one is. Leicester probably. Maybe Derby, or Birmingham. I wonder if they need a sponsor…”
Unbelievable! I leaned forward and switched on the radio. Lady Gaga blasted out. “Mam-ma- mam-ma-ma … ma … poker face…”
“What’s that rubbish?” Dad asked.
Better rubbish than you talking, I thought, and turned the volume higher.
6
Lady Gaga’s singing must have done the trick because Dad didn’t mention the centre of excellence thing again all weekend. I guess it could also have been because I hardly saw him. He had to work on Sunday and I had to go with Mum to the gurdwara, so it was after five before we all sat down together. Then by the time Mum had filled him in on all the news about her sisters (Auntie Amritha and Auntie Sangeeta), and I’d told him all about what I’d learned in Punjabi class, there wasn’t much time left to talk about centres of anything. He did try at one point, asking where my Player of the Match trophy was, but Mum rescued me by interrupting with a question of her own. “Never mind trophies,” she said, “what about this party?”
“What about it?” Dad asked.
“Well, what’s happening? What do I need to do for it? You must tell me now, so I can plan ahead. Otherwise you know what will happen – the week will fly by and people will turn up and nothing will be ready.”
Dad shrugged. “You don’t have to do anything, Karmjeet. This is Parrs’ business, not Sweet Peas’.”
Mum coughed. “Excuse me, buddy, but seeing as the party is taking place in our garden centre, I think it is my business.”
“People have been asking things,” I said, backing Mum up.
Dad frowned. “Such as?”
“Well, Holly needs a knife and matches…”
“What?” Mum gasped.
“For the cake,” I reassured her, laughing at the look of surprise on her face.
“Phew!” Mum said, her hand on her chest as if she was having palpitations. “You had me going there. I know some people take Halloween very seriously…”
I grinned, happy now that the conversation was fully on the party and not on football. “Amy is the one doing that,” I told Mum. “She needs the grotto to be uber dark.”
Dad looked puzzled. “Uber dark?”
“As in pitch-black.”
“No problem.” He shrugged.
Mum rolled her eyes. “No problem, he says. No – no problem at all, apart from the fact that Fun Forests are delivering all the Christmas stock tomorrow and we have nowhere to put it. There’s also the small matter of a dozen girls eating food in the grotto and leaving crumbs everywhere for mice to find…”
“Mice? What mice?” Dad wanted to know. “We don’t have mice. Unless you count the suga
r ones in the gift shop.”
“Food will have to be eaten in the cafe,” Mum said decisively.
“OK,” Dad agreed, rapidly realizing that this was one Parrs event he wasn’t going to have total control over. “Food in the cafe.”
“We can lay on coffee and cake for parents, too.”
“Parents?” Dad and I both asked.
Mum stared at us in amazement, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing from the two nitwits in front of her. “Well, you can’t expect them to sit in the car park for two hours!”
“We don’t want parents around. They’ll get in the way,” I grumbled.
Mum looked thoughtful. “They could always browse the gift shop. I don’t mind keeping it open.”
“That’s a good idea,” Dad agreed immediately. “We could offer them a special Parrs discount. Fifteen per cent off everything.”
“Trust you, Ali!” Mum protested.
“What?”
“To use it as a business opportunity.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Why can’t we keep the party as a chance to mingle?”
“For sure.” Dad smiled, his eyes lighting up. “A chance to mingle with an option to purchase.”
“No,” Mum said, “what I meant was that I’d like to mingle.”
“You?”
“Yes. Me. How many times have I seen Binda play? None – because I am always working.”
“We could always swap,” Dad offered.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Mum told him. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about these girls and their parents, I’d like to meet them.”
“Well, of course you must,” Dad soothed. “It will be a good opportunity. You’re much better on the charm offensive than I am.” He then started talking about wheeling a trolley of winter pansies and dwarf heathers into the shop entrance on the night.
Mum and I exchanged glances. Typical Dad. Once he got an idea in his head, nothing stopped him. He toddled off to find a notepad to start a “to do” list. I went to bed happy, feeling confident that the only centre of excellence occupying Dad was the one called Sweet Peas!
7
It wasn’t until training on Tuesday that my football fears started up again. Sometimes Hannah discusses the previous match to make a point, and I had convinced myself that she would call me out to demonstrate my “amazing” move. Every time either she or Katie stopped us all to teach a point I looked down at my trainers, my heart pounding, in case this was The Moment.
It came right at the end. “Good work, girls, good work,” Hannah told us, her voice echoing around the sports hall. “If you play like that during the game on Saturday – keeping passes simple – you’ll be a pleasure to watch.”
Then she turned to me.
Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.
“Tabs.”
“Yes?” I gulped.
“Don’t look so worried, I’m not going to bite. I just wanted to check if there was anything we need to know about the Halloween party afterwards? Your dad sent me a text about us now eating in the cafe, or something?”
I sighed with relief. “Yes. And Mum says to tell you that parents are welcome to stay. She’ll provide refreshments for them and they can look round the gift shop if they want.”
Everyone began to chat at once.
“Are you serious? A party and shopping at the same time? How perfect a night out is that?” Amy gushed.
Megan groaned.
“What’s up, Meggo?” Katie asked.
“Well, no one’s going to be focused on the Belles match now, are they? Now you’ve mentioned the ‘s’ word.”
My heart leapt. Although Megan had directed her comment at Amy, I felt personally responsible for this new problem. Now if we lost it would be my family’s fault for distracting everyone with thoughts of scented candles and potpourri. It was the pink strip all over again. Luckily, Hannah dealt with it in a beat. “Right. Listen up, people. For the sake of Megan’s sanity, all talk of witches, vampires and gift shops is banned until after the Belles game. OK?”
“OK,” everyone agreed.
Hannah turned to Amy, to double-check she understood. “Amy?”
“I know,” Amy said, briefly looking up from filing her nails. “Chill, babe!”
Everyone laughed then, and Hannah rolled her eyes. “Well, ‘babes’, I’ll see you all Saturday. Quarter to ten sharp at the club.”
I was still smiling about Amy calling Hannah a babe when Dad picked me up.
“You look happy,” he said.
“I am.”
“So you should – a girl with your talent.”
“What talent?”
“What talent? That’s my girl, so modest. Your emerging footballing talent, of course.”
Not again! “Don’t even go there, Dad,” I told him. “That’s not why I’m smiling.”
“You wait until Saturday. You’ll be really smiling then.”
That sounded fishy. I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
He said “nothing” far too cheerily for my liking. “You didn’t do anything dumb, did you?”
“Dumb? Such as?”
“You know, like phone-some-centre-of-excellence dumb.”
“What? No, no, of course I didn’t. When would I have had the time?”
“Please promise me you haven’t,” I said.
“Goodness me, Binda. Don’t get so worked up about things. You’re as bad as your mother for flapping over trivialities.”
“I just don’t want anything to do with centres of excellence, OK?”
“OK! OK! I get it. Let’s change the subject.”
“Good idea.”
“Did I tell you that I found a perfect place for the artificial trees?”
“No.”
“They are going to become a spooky forest leading to the grotto.”
“That’s brilliant,” I told him, genuinely impressed.
“I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” He grinned.
I felt really bad then for jumping to conclusions. Both my mum and dad worked really hard; they didn’t have to use up all their spare time doing these extra things for me and the team. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to whinge,” I said.
“And I didn’t mean to tease,” he said. “Let’s just concentrate on the party for the rest of the week, huh?”
That was fine by me.
8
We did just that. Every afternoon, straight from school, I’d go and help Dad transform the grotto from what was basically a dumping ground into a Halloween spectacular. By Wednesday, all the artificial Christmas trees had been arranged in two rows on either side of the entrance and draped in cobwebby mesh, while, inside, everything had been cleared out, apart from piles of cushions for us to sit on. Around the walls giant toy spiders, luminous skulls and rubber bats dangled from sections of freestanding garden trellis. It was all looking good.
On Thursday a grey metal contraption, about the size of a rabbit hutch, appeared. “What’s that?” I asked.
Dad grinned and pressed a switch. Cold white mist immediately poured out of a nozzle at the front and spread rapidly along the floor, clamping at my ankles.
“A fog machine! That’s wicked, Dad!” I yelled.
Mum had been doing her bit, too. She had spent hours blacking out the windows in the cafe and hanging tiny paper pumpkin lanterns everywhere. A barbecue with a rounded bottom had been wheeled in and disguised as a cauldron. “It’s depressing in here,” one of the customers had apparently complained.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Mum when she told me. “Depressing’s good.”
My contribution was to clean the chocolate stains off the bee costume I’d borrowed from my cousin Hadia. Dad’s not keen on the whole witches and wizards thing, but dressing as a bee is fine. And like Dad said, bees are an endangered species and you don’t get scarier than that!
I had dared to become excite
d. Perhaps this party would turn out to be the one thing Dad arranged for the team that everyone remembered for all the right reasons. Fingers and antennae crossed!
9
On Saturday morning, I woke up feeling faintly sick but not mega bad. Then again it was only eight o’clock and the Queenies were not early risers. I kept my eyes on my costume the whole time I was getting dressed, so I could think about bees instead of Belles. Megan would not have been impressed, but if it helped, it helped, right?
“One plait or two?” Mum asked, waiting for me in the hallway, comb in hand, as I trundled down the stairs.
“I’ll go with the one again, please, but go easy on the torture.”
“As madam wishes.” Mum smiled.
We chatted about the party. I think Mum was as excited about it as I was. “What about vegetarians? Any of those on the team? I’m thinking cheese and chutney wraps for them.”
“I’m not sure. I think Katie might be,” I said.
“Katie. Which position does she play?”
“Mum, she’s the assistant coach.”
“Oh, of course… I get muddled with all the names.”
Dad bustled past, tapping his finger on his watch. “Hurry, hurry. It’s late.”
“Is it?” I asked.
“No, it isn’t,” Mum said. “Ignore him. He’s been like a wired cat all morning.” She turned to him. “What time do you think you’ll be back? You still need to cordon off the grotto area properly and put the winter pansies outside the gift shop. I’ll get one of the staff to—”
Dad cut her off mid-sentence. “Karmjeet, dearest. All that can wait until later. I’ve got other things to think about,” he said briskly, grabbing me by the elbow the second Mum had fastened my hair bobble.
I glanced at the clock. Quarter to nine. “Calm down, Dad – we’ve got stacks of time.”
“I have to be there early. I need to chat to Hannah.”
Can't I Just Kick It? Page 2
