McArthur was in midfield, and the relief of having him back was physical. The thirty-year-old Scotsman had been injured since early January, his hamstring load pushing into the red, and the three weeks away from the pitch had been the longest absence of his career.
He had spent the time in Rebecca's gym, in Tom Yates's treatment room, on the bike, in the pool, rebuilding the muscle that had betrayed him and the fitness that the December schedule had eroded.
His first touch of the match was a tackle. Of course it was. McArthur's first touch was always a tackle, because James McArthur viewed the football pitch the way a bouncer viewed a nightclub: his job was to remove anyone who didn't belong.
