Striker Boy Kicks Out by Jonny Zucker Page A

questions. As he closed his eyes, his mind switched from José’s money to tomorrow night’s Celtic game. He now understood why some players were so reluctant to retire. There was something so incredible about being part of a set-up at a club like Hatton Rangers. All of the players battled for each other – it was an amazing camaraderie and one you’d do very well to ever better. He closed his eyes and pictured the El Mar Stadium, the pitch bathed in rays of floodlight as it had been on Sunday night for the Lazio v Celtic game.
    Come on, Fox – give me a chance out there!

CHAPTER 13
Burglar Territory
    Ray Swinton handed over the money to his waiter and left the restaurant. He’d only arrived in Talorca three hours before, but after checking in at his hotel (which was a five minute walk from the one the Hatton Rangers players were staying in) he’d already interviewed the Talorca manager, written up a match preview of the Hatton Rangers v Celtic game and emailed it to his editor, and placed a couple of bets on the game. He’d also enjoyed a good meal and a glass of decent Spanish wine.
    Hatton Rangers had always been Swinton’s team – he’d followed them as a kid, and as a journalist on the
Sunday Crest,
he reported on pretty much every game and going-on at the club, as well as covering quite a few other Premier League teams. He’d avidly followed each twist and swerve of last season’s nail-biting campaign, culminating in Nat Dixon’s glorious last-gasp winner against Manchester United. Nat Dixon had given Swinton an exclusive on the Chris Webb match-fixingstory, which had added thousands of sales to the
Crest
and had garnered Swinton some praise from the paper’s editor Hugh Asquith.
    The Dixon lad fascinated Swinton. Not only because of his part in thwarting Webb’s ugly dealings or because of his amazing pace, excellent passing and thunderous shot. No, Swinton had also received an anonymous tip-off from Brazil that Dixon was younger than the sixteen years both he and his club claimed him to be. Swinton would have gone with this story if it hadn’t been for Dixon delivering him the Webb scoop. He’d promised Nat that he’d go nowhere near this ‘age’ story again, but if he ever got solid proof that it was true, he’d be more than tempted to have another look at it. After all, how often did you get an underage player plying their trade in the Premier League?
    Swinton arrived back at his hotel and took the lift to the fourth floor in excellent spirits. He was looking forward to catching a late-night Spanish football show on TV and having a nightcap from the minibar. He was out here in Spain at his newspaper’s expense. Life could taste sweet.
    So he was totally taken aback when he found two Spanish policemen outside room 112 – his room. One of them said something to him in Spanish.
    â€œEr . . . I’m sorry,” replied Swinton. “Do you speak English?”
    The first policeman looked blank, but the secondone stepped forward. “Is this your room?” he asked in heavily-accented English.
    Swinton nodded.
    â€œUnfortunately your room and the two rooms on either side of it have been broken into,” explained the policeman. “We have someone inside at the moment looking for fingerprints.”
    â€œI don’t believe it!” exclaimed Swinton, “I’ve only been in the country for a few hours.”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. We got a call from the manager twenty minutes ago. The doors had been forced. We came here immediately.”
    Before Swinton could reply, a man emerged from his room, holding a small case and shaking his head – there were no fingerprints. He spoke to both officers then headed off down the corridor.
    â€œYou may go into your room now,” said the English-speaking officer. “The hotel will fix your door. When you have had a look around we will need to ask