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reckons that if they can stop you playing, they’ll win the league. That was why they picked you up, to find out how to stop you.’
    Marcus pulled a face. He didn’t believe her.
    ‘He said something else,’ Adele continued.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ll tell you another time,’ she said, gathering her bags. ‘I’ve got to run. My girls will be waiting for me. Text me and we’ll meet up again. If you want,’ she said.
    Marcus shrugged.
    Adele stood, moved to go, and turned around again.
    ‘One last thing,’ she said.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘You need a shower!’ She stuck her tongue out at him. Then she dashed off, trailing bags.
    Marcus watched her leave. She’d insulted him about needing a shower, so why was he grinning?

THE DOG THING
    I t was Sunday afternoon. Nobody was in. Marcus flung his boots bag on the sofa, slapped together a peanut butter sandwich then went out and practiced cushioned volleys in the alley. When the volleys were bang on, he decided to try half volleys. The first one he tried, he
almost
landed it. The ball flew up along the alley and landed in the corner house neighbour’s back yard.
    ‘To rass,’ he muttered to himself, then ‘just my flippin luck.’
    This neighbour kept a Rottweiler on a long chain in the yard. Marcus knew the dog well. It had the deepest bark Marcus had ever heard, and came charging to the back gate in a vicious snarl when anyone passed. Now it had his Adidas Teamfeist Capitano. The owner refused to return anything. Everyone in the neighbourhood called it the football graveyard. But it was not going to be his football’s graveyard. Besides the half volleys, curls and layoffs he still had to practice, no way was he giving up his ATC.
    Marcus ran back along the alley and ducked into his own yard. The kitchen door was still open. He found what he was looking for on the top shelf of the fridge then hurried out again.
    Scrambling up onto the back wall of the Rottweiler’s yard was no problem. Marcus tried to hold his balance there, but the top of the wall was old and crumbly. The bricks shifted under his trainers. There was a furious rumble of dog and chain as the Rottweiler leapt for him, its teeth glinting, and its mouth full of slobber. As it leapt, Marcus threw it a piece of cooked sausage. The dog twisted mid-leap to snap at the sausage. It missed first time, but turned, adjusted in mid-air, snapped again and caught it, chopping it in two. The Rottweiler landed on the ground with his chain flailing, and it gobbled the last bit of sausage. It liked it. It hunched low, coiled. Marcus readied for the dog to attack once more, but it didn’t. Its barking stopped. Marcus watched. The dog’s tail wagged. And its ears were pricked high. Suddenly he understood. The dog was waiting for the next piece of sausage. ‘Sit!’ Marcus commanded. The dog sat. Its wide slobbering mouth panted.
    Despite its size, it was a skinny thing, Marcus noticed; the owner probably wasn’t feeding it right. He spotted his ATC by the drainpipe under the kitchen window. Five other balls lay in the yard, burst and muddy with age. The dog was still sitting. It scratched the earth with its paws, wriggled on its bum then raised itself off its haunches in anticipation of more sausage.
    ‘Sit!’ Marcus said again. The dog settled once more.
    Slowly Marcus lowered himself into the yard. The dog stood. Marcus threw the sausage into a far corner. The dog hurtled round and followed it. Marcus dashed across and grabbed his ball. He turned to climb the wall again. Too late. The dog was done with the sausage and had cut him off. Marcus put his hand in his pocket. There was no more sausage, but the dog did not know that, he thought.
    ‘Sit!’ he ordered once more, keeping his hand in his pocket.
    The dog sat.
    He had read somewhere that dogs could smell fear. Marcus threw back his head, stuck out his chest and walked past the Rottweiller like he owned the yard. The dog lowered its head as he passed, and