Mile End Athletic versus Sheffield Wednesday. Not even a particularly important match, but Wayne Carter played every match as though his life depended on it. He treated every single challenge like it was a battle to the death. It was just the way he did things; the way he had been brought up. He had to succeed in everything he did. He just had to. He could not accept failure. His dad could not accept failure.

Of course, he heard the chants. You only play coz your father, play coz your faaaatherr...

It had started among the home supporters, but had since spread to the away stands. Everybody in that stadium was watching him, scrutinising him, criticising him. They wanted him to fail, because his dad was the club director. But little did they know, he thrived on the attention. He lived for it. He felt a little shudder of anticipation as the ref blew his whistle.

Then he was away and running.

Wayne was twenty-two, so the fact that he lacked a conventional athlete's build didn’t matter so much. He compensated with his boundless energy, not to mention his insatiable drive to push forward. To put the opposing team on the defensive. He was a kid with a one-track mind.

Scarcely ten minutes in, the ball came to him thanks to a back pass from Nick Devlin, the centre-forward. With a couple of dazzling feints, he dribbled his way past the Sheffield defenders, masterfully controlling the ball as he brought it in line with the goal. This was no time for showboating. No time for putting on a performance. It was just about getting the job done as fast and as effectively as possible. For a split-second his eyes met those of the keeper, who spread his arms wide in anticipation.

There was a sort of animalistic power coursing through Wayne as he hoofed the ball directly into the back of the net. He was unstoppable. The keeper never stood a chance.

When the ball pelted straight into the goal, it was as if time stood still. The chanting ceased. Every single pair of eyes in the vast stadium was glued to the ball, and to the reckless (but ruthlessly effective) young player.

Then, like a rubber band snapping, the tension dispersed. A roar went up from the home crowd, and they seemed to forget they had been insulting him a moment earlier.

While some players liked skidding across the turf on their knees like excitable eight-year-olds at a wedding, Wayne had never felt comfortable with that kind of showmanship. He simply stood, his hands raised heavenward in a beatific pose, and let his teammates bring their adulation to him. They smacked him on the back and enveloped him in sweaty hugs. He just stood there with a faint but knowing smile.

"Lucky little fucker," Devlin grinned at him.

Wayne grinned back but said nothing.

In some ways, Devlin's comment was the root of Wayne's problems on the team. Devlin didn't mean anything by it, of course, but it reflected the way a lot of people felt about him. The fans simply couldn’t accept that he had got onto the first team on merit alone. They couldn't comprehend the fact that he worked harder and ran faster than just about everybody else. All they could see was his surname. His family connection. It didn't matter how many goals he scored, or how well he played. He would always be Mile End's "lucky little fucker."

But the truth was that Wayne Carter had an innate instinct for the game. It had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, and he’d been playing for Mile End since he was seventeen. It had made his adolescence bearable by giving him something to focus his attention on. In some ways, the game had given him a sense of purpose. Not that he was a master of technique – far from it, in fact. In some ways, Wayne was decidedly unskilled. He lacked the co-ordination for dive headers, bicycle kicks and chip shots. He had no interest in the theatrical side of things; he hated the idea of showboating for the crowd. The way he saw it, he didn't owe them anything other than to play the game to the best of his ability. And what he lacked in nuance, he made up for in sheer, raw power. He worked harder than just about any other player.

That's how he managed to regain possession of the ball scarcely two minutes after his first triumph of the match. And all at once he was pressing forward toward the goal once again. This time, though, the defenders were ready for him. There were a couple of decidedly messy attempts to tackle him, but he maintained control with a couple of quick flicks of the foot. He clung to the ball like a limpet mine; he wasn't giving it up for anybody.

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This time, the Sheffield keeper was ready for him – or thought he was. He was desperate not to get caught out this time, so he made a show of hurling himself forward. Unfortunately for him, Wayne managed to curl the ball around him. It arced through the air like a guided missile, pelting the back of the net once again.

And there it was: his tenth goal of the season. Ten goals, and the season was only halfway through! If Wayne had stopped to think about it, he would have realised just how startling his success as a midfielder had been.

The crowd had scarcely got over the excitement of his first goal of the match, and here they were cheering for the second. The lucky little fucker had done it again.

When the cheers had died down, Wayne risked a glance up in the direction of the director's box. He was able to make out the familiar outline of a figure in a smartly tailored suit. The shape of his father, standing there as still and emotionless as a statue, watching his every move.

Someone in the crowd must have spotted this little look of his, for soon enough the chant started up again: You only play coz your father, play coz your faaaatherr...

Wayne tried hard not to let it get to him. Usually, it motivated him. But sometimes, so much hatred and venom got to him. When he signed for the club, there had been a lot of speculation in the press as to how he had managed to land such a lucrative position at such a young age. But after his first couple of matches, the football media had more or less accepted the merits he brought to the team. But he still hadn’t won over the fans. He wondered if he ever would.

The game continued, but there were no more goals in the first half. When the ref blew his whistle and the teams traipsed off to their respective changing rooms, Wayne risked another look up at the director's box, but his father was gone. At least, he was no longer visible. Wayne sometimes felt that his father didn’t need to be watching him to know his every little move. It was as if David Carter was a kind of elemental spirit, or God Almighty Himself, hovering above everything with his omniscient eyes. Wayne would never have put it in such literal terms, but it was as though his father was the puppet-master and he himself was little more than a marionette.

The atmosphere in a changing room at half-time is decidedly febrile. Of course, it depends on the score, but with Mile End two goals up it was like walking into the middle of a party. Wayne felt a bit like the spectre at the feast. No one spoke to him. He downed a bottle of water and then slumped onto the hard wooden bench.

But for all the team’s enthusiasm, the second half was a muted affair. There were no more goals to be had, and Wayne had lost some of the drive he had possessed in the first few minutes of the game. The commentators picked up on it, and there was some sympathetic speculation that the ceaseless chanting of the crowd might be getting to him after all. But in reality, he was just conserving his energy. He was fast and he was a hard worker, but he was no fool.

When the final whistle blew and the score was still two-nil, Wayne exhaled a sigh of relief and lumbered back into the changing room, away from the scathing eyes of a crowd that still did not trust him.

Wayne headed straight for the showers. He washed off the mud and sweat, towelled himself down, then started to dress in his smart grey suit. As he buttoned his shirt, Cameron Abioye, the keeper, came up and slapped him playfully on the back. "Looking sharp there, my man Wayne! Let me guess, you're leaving us to go up and see daddy in the director's box?"

Wayne laughed. "Course I am, you silly cunt! Why do you think I'm done up like the dog's bollocks? Free champagne up there!"

"Put in a good word with the old man, will you?"

"About you? No chance. If anyone deserves it today, it's me. Score two goals next time and I might bring you with me." It was all said in good fun. But like just everything else, there was an undercurrent of truth to it. Even his own teammates weren't sure about him. He would never be part of the establishment in the way his dad was. But because of his pedigree, he would never really fit in with the team either. He was Mister In-Between. Buttoning his shirt all the way to the throat, so that it almost constricted his breath, he started to tie his tie. There was a mirror on the far wall, and he approached it to check his appearance. He looked okay. His hair was close-cropped and blond in an American-style buzzcut. He looked more like his mum than his dad; full in the face, with blue eyes. His dad was dark. To look at the two of them side by side, you would struggle to tell they were related. Wayne had even briefly toyed with the idea of changing his name, to hide the fact that he was a Carter at all. Of course, David would never have stood for that. To him, the Carter name was a badge of pride.

"Need me to tie your laces for you there, Wayne?" Devlin called out, punctuating his witticism with a roaring guffaw.

Wayne responded in kind. "Fuck off," he said, still smiling – but only just.

Somebody cracked open a bottle of Prosecco – there was always at least one bottle in the communal fridge for match days – and sprayed the bubbling white froth around the room, liberally dousing the other players. There were cheers and laughs and shouted conversation.

Wayne took the opportunity to discreetly withdraw. "See you at training Monday then, Wayne?" asked Cameron.

"Yep," Wayne answered, exiting the changing room and heading along the corridor.