Players gingerly filed into the clubhouse and took their seats around the squaretable. The occasion was marked by a sense of success; tinged with an underlying sense of dread. All knew what was coming; why they had assembled; what could happen. The Lemon vote.

Danny paced slowly around the table. “Well done, team,” he bellowed. “You accrued an impressive five goals and three points today. That puts you six points clear at the top of the table.” Applause, hollering, thumping followed, jubilation among the collective. “However,” Danny added, with a lower tone, once the celebrations began to dissipate. “Despite this, you all know the truth. There is a Lemon among you. Hiding in plain sight. A teammate. Laughing. Joking. Sharing in these celebrations.” There was a sharp intake of breath, a chill, that reverberated around the table as the room fell into silence. “You all know why you’re here,” Danny continued. “Who wishes to begin the discussion?”

Pash leant forward. “I’ll start,” he volunteered. “Where’s Dan Loy? Sweden. Nice of him to tell us. Pretty lemony, that,” he exclaimed, his eyes scanning the table for agreement. Murmurs, vague concurrence among the players. “Like, I love him to bits, and I really hope he’s not a lemon. But those the facts; can tell the Threes he’s freezing his balls off in Gothenburg, but can’t press decline on Spond invite?” Pash leant back, case made, awaiting an initial verdict from his peers.

Across the table, Jordan shook his head slowly. “Sounds like a diversion to me, mate,” he countered. “What was all that with the burger sauce on the pasta? Absolutely disgusting behaviour from yourself. Why aren’t we talking about that?” This time, a more concerted sound of agreement rose from the group. “I have to agree with Jordan that that behaviour is befitting of a savage and a Lemon,” Ben added.

Pash looked dismissive. “It was chipotle sauce, not burger sauce. It was necessary. That is 100% not Lemon-worthy. We should be looking elsewhere” he shot back. “The pasta is like gruel, to be fair,” Jamie added from beside him, halfheartedly. “Boiled for about 20 minutes too long,” he muttered, as he spooned in another mouthful.

Matt Need leaned forward, eyes narrowed. Seizing a lull in proceedings, he thrust an accusatory finger at Phil. “What about that ‘oh-don’t-worry-it’s-a-sixteen’ jogging business from this one? Lemons given for far less. Where’s your commitment,” he admonished, heads turning around the table. Phil merely shrugged, and offered, “Didn’t know it came off a yellow stick last. Besides, I was blowing out of my arse.” As if to close the case, he added, “I’m a true not-Lemon.” A few more barbs were thrown at various other players around the table, mostly speculative, seemingly lacking conviction, over the following minutes.

Then something happened. Jamie turned to Ben. “How many goals you get today, again?” he asked. More heads turned. How many did he score?

Ben shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “Two,” he responded, meekly. A palpable change in the atmosphere seemed to wash over the squaretable. “You only scored two? Hattrick avoidance. Weak,” Kieran exclaimed, sensing blood in the water “Sounds Lemonish to me.” Ben shot back, “I got Player of the Match today for scoring twice.” With the exasperation mounting in his voice, he shook his head, adding “you score twice, you get Lemon for hattrick avoidance. You get a hattrick, you get Lemon for being greedy. This feels like an agenda being pushed by a true Lemon, don’t you think? Why aren’t we looking at a more obvious choice,” gesturing towards Pash, who smirked, looking vaguely disinterested. He did have form. He equally didn’t want to write a match report. He remained mute, sensing it an adequate defence from the condemned, wildly chucking accusations in their last gasps.

Danny called the group to attention. “The time for talk,” he said, punctuated with an unnecessarily long pause, “is over. Which of you is a Lemon?” The vote began the slow rotation around the table. A flurry of votes landed for Pash for the chipotle incident; however, the mood had decisively turned against Ben. He received five votes to Pash’s three. The die was cast. Ben was the Lemon. The team’s success had become his liability.

“Ben, you have received the most votes,” Danny began, sombrely. “You are the lemon. Wash these, please,” he added, pointing at the kit bag. “Careful with Tom’s. I’ve never seen a man sweat so much in my life.” Ben looked crestfallen; the bittersweet feeling, the euphoria of being a Player of the Match in one moment, for it to turn so quickly against him. He shook his head, dismayed; tears in his eyes. Perhaps from the stench.

“However,” Danny announced. “Tonight’s squaretable is different,” piquing the attention of the collective. “Ben will indeed take the ignominy of the Lemon today, but another will write the match report.” He turned to Pash. “Happy 100th M4s game. You have the honour today,” he offered, sarcastically. Ben gave an almost imperceptible smirk. It was Pash’s turn to look crestfallen; with a wry smile and a shake of the head, he quipped “What a sick joke.” He left the room, quietly seething, contemplating which cultural zeitgeist he’d need to employ to make his match report semi-entertaining.