Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

6.

ButteryCrumpets changed the channel name to Let's All Laugh at Chelsea.

ButteryCrumpets

All right, it's the crossover event we've all been waiting for! LALAC meets ABOB. If Chester lose, great. If Chelsea lose, great!

In case it's not clear - I really don't like Chelsea. I didn't like the old version, despised the kleptocrat era, and I detest the current lot of mercenaries and mard-arses.

That said, this channel is all about making money. What do we think Chester's chances are? Max Best can't play, can't manage, but they have won three in a row while he has been away.

Maybe Best is holding them back, lol.

BeardedWonderwall

Chester have a chance, I reckon. Chelsea are unprofessional and lazy. Hard work beats talent when talent doesn't work hard.

Stoop

I don't think I'll be putting any money on this one. Chelsea are strong favourites so there's no value on that side. I can see Chester scoring so maybe there's a both-teams-to-score bet. What else? William Roberts to score? He's on pens but will Chester even get into Chelsea's box?

LongThrowAGoGo

What about 'there will be at least 5 yellow cards'?

Chelsea are an unholy combination of individual stupidity, collective tactical cynicism, and brattish Premier League entitlement. Kicking the ball away, showing dissent towards the referee, constant indiscipline, most of it utterly selfish and pointless.

Chester are also cynical at times, though they're not stupid about it. They'll do fouls in midfield to stop fast attacks like any good team, though I expect they will sit deep in this game so there won't be much of that. I do think Chelsea will pull them apart and stretch them and Chester will pick up yellow cards from straining to stay in the match.

DubaiGuy

Excellent, cogent analysis!

I agree with your reasoning, but so do the bookmakers. The odds for such bets are never generous when it comes to Chelsea matches.

Stoop

Have you got a play, DG?

DubaiGuy

No. I am tempted by 'Chelsea to score at least 5'. I suspect that Chelsea will be comfortably ahead going into the final stages of the match, at which point Sandra Lane will give minutes to young players. Chelsea are far, far too good and their players will see it as a chance to add lustre to their stats for the season. It's easy for me to imagine a flurry of late goals that puts a gloss on the scoreline.

Stoop

That's interesting but I'm not sure this is the match for giving minutes to the kids. Yes, it's the kind of thing Max Best does all the time, but Chester's next Youth Cup match is on Monday so he won't want his youngsters wearing themselves out or getting injured.

DubaiGuy

The next match is this coming Monday? Ah. That blows up my theory.

Stoop

Sorry.

DubaiGuy

No need to apologise. I am happy to have my idea disproven! It could have been an expensive mistake!

Hmm. Yes, there are no good bets on this one.

***

BrokenGround

Lads, I've been activated!

Stoop

Yessssss!

BrokenGround

I was at Bumpers Bank this morning, doing a low-gravity treadmill session followed by a swim in their counter-current pool. Finished tired but happy. Had a message. A photo of fancy writing on a fancy card.

You are cordially invited etcetera etcetera. Turns out Max is putting on a special viewing of the quarter final for everyone who works at the Deva Stadium on a match day. Stewards, hospitality staff, catering, car park guys, volunteers, the police guys, 3 R Welsh.

Free food and drink, including four kinds of ham.

It's gonna be in their event room at Bumpers. That'll be interesting because the WAGs of the players are doing their own event downstairs in the canteen.

Stoop

An FA Cup quarter final is a big event for a small club, isn't it?

BrokenGround

They got 6,000 tickets to Stamford Bridge and sold out in minutes. Plenty of people will go down to London, but there are tons more in Chester who will be looking for a watch party. There will be some busy pubs in town!

All right, I'm off. I don't expect to see Max until the day of the match but I'll try to stay near him during the game. Could be that I pick up some juicy tidbits.

***

Saturday, March 11

FA Cup Quarter Final: Chelsea versus Chester

BrokenGround

I'm in place at the Get Fed and Wed Shed. There's no sign of Max so far, but it's bustling! Loads of staff from the away end are here. Not everyone - some have other things to be doing. Other jobs. Emre, the kebab guy, is out grinding somewhere, as always, but some of his employees are here. Great bunch.

There's also a guy called Bill who Max poached from Oldham Athletic. He's in charge of hospitality at the Deva, so he takes care of the sponsors, the VIPs, the media. He's going round trying to help. You know, bringing plates from the serving area to the buffet, checking people have drinks, but there's someone shadowing him, stopping him from doing it.

RetiredRed

What?

BrokenGround

I haven't explained that very clearly, have I?

It's Bill's day off, same as all of us, but Max knew he would want to get stuck in, so Max hired someone to track Bill and stop him from helping out. It's quite funny. To me, anyway.

So this room is your average big hall that can be dressed for different events. Weddings, business meetings. Today they haven't gone big on the decor, but they've got a massive screen at the front and about a hundred seats laid out facing it. At the back is the bar, the buffet, tables to stand, eat, and mingle.

ButteryCrumpets

Team news is out! Chelsea haven't gone full strength, but does anyone even know what their best team is? Their manager doesn't.

RetiredRed

It's still a billion pounds in players. Absolutely crazy.

ButteryCrumpets

Chester have their strongest eleven, I think. 3-4-2-1, says the graphic.

Mad Owen in goal. Fierce, Bauer, Green. Lamarre, Reid, Youngster, Alloula. Roberts and Bochum behind Beckton.

That Gabriel lad is still injured, is he?

Stoop

He's scheduled to return against us.

ButteryCrumpets

Oh, brilliant. Typical. We get absolutely no luck!

BrokenGround

I've been moving from the downstairs party to the upstairs one. I get on really well with the WAGs and they're in a great mood because the club have organised childminders and activities and bouncy castles and all sorts, just outside on the 3G pitch. Some of the partners know the tactics inside out but I haven't found out anything we didn't already know.

Hang on, stuff's happening.

I'm back.

So I pop up to the big room to check if Max is there so I can pump him for goss. I catch him as he's leaving. He has only come to 'check the sitch'. He's doing some work in his office, he says. Probably playing Call of Duty.

I asked if that is his strongest team and he misunderstands. He says, 'Yeah, it's a new record high. 133.9 on the Pradeep Scale.'

I didn't even ask for an explanation. Why bother?

Oh and he said he's got drivers to take 3R Welsh back to Wrexham so we can have a drink but we should go slow because it could go to extra time and pens. I snap into action, lads! You'd have been proud of me. 'Confident, are you?'

He gives me that look, the one where I'm convinced he knows about this channel. 'Triumph and disaster are both imposters, Dylan. Do you know who said that?'

'Kipling.'

'Wrong. It was Samuel Umtiti.'

'You're talking shit. That means you're confident.'

'Doesn't matter if I'm confident or not, does it? I'm not there.'

With that, he mimes throwing something at the ground and walks away. I call out, 'What was that?'

'Smoke bomb.'

BeardedWonderwall

He's so strange. Lucky for him he can kick a spherical object better than most.

***

Stoop

10 minutes to go. I've got second-hand nerves and I don't even know why. I don't want Chester to get into a semi-final. I don't want them at Wembley again. But what if they outplay Chelsea? If they can do it, so can we! We've got the right manager, we're signing proper players, and we've got tons more cash than Chester. Could we?!

BrokenGround

Something unexpected just happened. You know we were talking about his apology tour and the way the only time the word sorry leaves his mouth is when he's saying 'sorry I'm the best manager' or 'sorry my brilliance offends you'? Well.

The music in the venue dies down and Max is at the front with a microphone.

'Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?'

Most people take that as a signal that it's time to sit down, so they take their plates and drinks and do just that. Takes half a minute.

'Christ, you're slower getting into position than Ryan Jack.' People laugh but get a wiggle on. 'Right,' says Max, making eye contact with half the room. 'Some of you know I've been off on an apology tour.' He looks down at the carpet. 'Erm... Yeah, so, most of you were at the Leeds match. I was messing about with the big screen, showing the bad challenges the Leeds players were doing, showing that the ref was killing us. We're not allowed to do that because it gets people worked up. Players, staff, fans. People said I should apologise but they only said that because they didn't want me to get a long ban.

'I went away and while I was doing other things I had a lot of time to think. One of the problems I've got is that I win loads of football matches and I do rainbow flicks and nutmegs and mad tekkers, so people don't really call me out on my bad behaviour. I get away with more than I should.

'I don't think I can be blamed if the Leeds fans decide to start a riot. Christ, one of their favourite chants is the song I Predict a Riot. On the nose or what? But I've got to be more mature. If even one of you got punched in the gob because of me I would have been absolutely gutted. For me, the atmosphere was incredible but it must have been scary for some of you. I won't apologise to the FA, to the EFL, to UEFA or FIFA. I won't apologise to fucking Leeds. But I will apologise to you. I'm really sorry.'

Holy shit, he's done it! And he looks like he means it! My jaw's on the carpet, along with some crisps I've dropped.

'We're gonna watch the match together but I thought some of you might like to ask me questions at half time. Tactics, formations, personnel. Whatever you ask, I'll answer a lot more honestly than I do with the world's media. Or you might want to get some fresh air or have a go in the bouncy castle. I'll remind you at this point that like the Deva, Bumpers Bank is a strictly no-smoking area. This is a home for elite sportsmen and women, as I hope we will demonstrate against Chelsea.'

'You're confident, then?' I shout.

'Bumpers Bank is a strictly no-gambling area,' he says. 'If I see anyone with a betting app open, I'll turn off the Wifi, cut off the booze, and put the face of the culprit on the big screen.'

'I thought you weren't going to do that any more,' shouts someone, to laughs.

Max grins at the guy. 'The question was, am I confident? I'm confident that we'll do our best, confident that we have prepared well. We have prepared for this match a lot better than I prepared for this event. My theory is, big hall, big screen, big buffet, big booze, what else do you want?'

'A win!' shouts someone.

'Ha,' says Max. 'The correct answer to the question what else do you want... is Boggy!' He points to the screen, but nothing happens. 'Oh, it's me doing that,' he says. He steps to a little table with a laptop, taps a key, and the voice of Boggy, Chester's commentary guy, fills the room. He's got one of his apprentices with him. They are partisan and they're in a good spot to pick up the noise of the away fans. It's not hard to pick up, to be fair, because they're louder than the home fans, even though they're vastly outnumbered.

'Feels like a proper event now,' someone next to me says.

'And here come the teams!' yells Boggy, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The lads I know so well - Pascal, Zach, Wibbers, Youngster - are walking onto the pitch next to international superstars. Next to 1.5 billion pounds of players. The physios who give me sessions - Dean and Livia - are in the dugout close to one of the best bald managers in the world.

It's surreal, but this is really happening!

***

5'

BeardedWonderwall

This is a chaotic opening, isn't it? Chester look good! The front three is fast and it's causing problems for Chelsea's high defensive line.

Stoop

Yeah, good start.

10'

BrokenGround

I'm sitting in the row behind Max so I can chat to him freely but he can't see my screen. I'm only on the Discord, just in case. If there's a good bet to make, I'll sneak out.

He was tense during the first five or six minutes but he has sunk back into his chair now. As ever, I've misunderstood his mood.

'You've relaxed,' I say. 'You've weathered the storm.'

'What storm?' he says. 'We were the storm. No, we needed to score in that fast start. Get ahead, then low block and counter. Chelsea's manager has seen the tape so he knows what we can do, but seeing it in the flesh is totally different. Look, he has already moved his defence back 15 yards. He'll gain control of the match and slowly push us back. He's really good.'

'What?' I say, amazed. 'You've already given up? It's over?'

'Nah,' he says. 'Not so extreme as that. These clowns have had 8 or 9 red cards already this season and if they get one today we will get expansive and we could give them a surprise. But our best hope was for a fast start. Ironically, the other good scenario...'

Boggy's voice rises in dismay as Chelsea carve Chester open with ridiculous ease, move the ball to the byline, float up a cross, and it's thundered into the back of the net by a 60-million-pound reserve striker. Once, I would have found Boggy's wail funny.

The hall gets sombre for a while, but we hear the defiant cries of the away fans. Chester! Chester! The buzz of conversation slowly returns.

'What was the other scenario?' I say. Max has no clue what I'm talking about and I have to explain the conversation we ONLY JUST HAD in tedious detail, but finally he remembers.

'Oh. This. Going a goal behind early. You don't want that, obviously,' he says. 'But if it happens, use it. Chelsea have assembled one of the most arrogant, complacent, entitled bunch of pricks in the history of the planet. It's like that's their main filter when scouting. Is this guy an arsehole? Yes? Move him to the next stage. The next stage is talent - they are genuinely brilliant players, for the most part. So what happens when the mighty Chelsea take an early lead against little old Chester?'

'They switch off.'

'Yeah. We'll play dead for a bit, drop into a mid block, act like we've got total head loss.'

'And then?'

'What?'

'And then what?'

He doesn't smile. 'What do you think?'

Stoop

Ooh, interesting! Sounds like Chester will get some chances. Both teams to score?

DubaiGuy

Terrible odds.

LongThrowAGoGo

Dylan, can you find out about the plan with the subs? Is he going to throw on loads of kids if they're losing?

BrokenGround

Good reminder. I'll try to weave the question in naturally.

***

20'

BrokenGround

Chester being taught a lesson here. Max is getting more and more still. It's like he's in a trance.

Eventually, he snaps out of it.

'Are you all right?' I ask.

'Yeah.'

'No, but really. If I hadn't seen you sulk almost non-stop since I met you, I'd say you were sulking.'

'I'm not sulking. It's hard to just sit here and watch, isn't it? By some metrics, this is the biggest match in the club's history and I'm not there.'

'Right.' I leave a few beats. 'So you're not sulking.'

He smiles for the first time in a while. 'What are you doing?'

'I'm just trying to understand why you're not, you know, doing anything.'

He turns and checks me out like he's worried about me. 'What would that accomplish? I'm not there, mate!' He checks me out again, then says, 'Never too high, never too low. If you react to every little setback like a fan, you'd go bonkers. You need to be able to take a step away from the action and just let it happen.'

'I saw you've got Wallace Wells on the bench,' I say, because although what he's saying is interesting, it's not going to help me make a quick hundred quid. 'You've sold him to Chelsea. I can't work out if that means you'll give him a run out or not.'

'We'll try to,' he says, not very engaged with me. 'It'd be a shame if he moved to Chelsea and never played at Stamford Bridge in his entire life.'

'Won't it be a very young team, then, with all the kids on the pitch?'

'What kids?' He turns and gives me a long look, but I power through.

'Like if you've got Roddy Jones and Dan and Hamish on the pitch, plus Wallace. Things could spiral, right?'

'Mate,' he says, rubbing his forehead. He's disappointed in me, but then he bobs his head around. 'I suppose it's possible that will happen.'

Stoop

Ohhhhhhhh! Stop the presses! Dylan with the nuggets again! Dylan the golden goose. Dylan the golden GOAT!

DubaiGuy

Please be cautious. Chelsea to score a late flurry of goals was my idea, I know, but I have no faith in it. Please wait so that we can see how the match goes. Chester are struggling, to be sure, but they mostly have a good shape. They are being exposed from time to time but overall, they do not look like a team that will concede five goals today.

***

30'

Saint Derfel

Holy smokes, did you see that!

What a goal!

RetiredRed

What? He scuffed it! It went in off his shin!

Saint Derfel

Yeah yeah but before that!

Chelsea probing, little dink over the top...

Green heads clear, Lamarre drives on the left, big switch. Alloula knocks the ball past his man, he's away, pass to Roberts, lets it through his legs, Beckton layoff, Roberts shot, good save, Beckton shot, blocked, Bochum shoots, another save, Roberts with a messy finish. It's not goal of the season because of that last touch but other than that, wow. Chelsea were rocking!

Stoop

Poor finish but it went in and that's all that counts.

Chelsea 1, Chester 1. One point five billion pounds in spending difference but they're level. Close-up on their bald fraud of a manager! Being beaten by a girl!

Crumpets, you were right to choose this name for the channel!

ButteryCrumpets

Haha, thanks. Did I mention I hate Chelsea? I'm loving this. The close-ups of the Chelsea players and their overpaid faces. Their manager looking furious. The hundred and one throw-in coaches and iPad analysts in their dugout. All of them with faces like a slapped arse.

I'm in dreamland, lads, let me tell you!

How's Best? He's dancing around, acting the maggot, strutting like a peacock?

BrokenGround

No, he didn't move. Didn't react at all until Bill, the hospitality guy, demanded a hug. It was like Max woke up and remembered where he was. Surrounded by smiles, he smiled. He IS a strange guy. I sometimes forget that.

'What were you thinking about?' I ask.

'How to beat Chelsea.'

'Right. What are you thinking? Match their 4-3-3? Hit them with a bit of Bestball?'

'What?'

He's confused, which confuses me, but Chelsea play a few slick passes and there's a penalty box scramble.

DubaiGuy

It is just a feeling, Dylan, but I suspect that when he said 'how to beat Chelsea' he wasn't thinking about this match. It could be an interesting topic to chase.

BrokenGround

Don't you want me to look for angles for today?

DubaiGuy

Not particularly, no. I do not have a good feeling about any wagers we might place, though I'm keeping my options open. For me, the insight into Best's state of mind would be far more revealing.

I might be alone in that.

Stoop

I trust DG's instincts. Go with that, Dylan.

BeardedWonderwall

He's going to do a Q+A at half time. You could ask him about it!

***

Half Time

BrokenGround

All right, I did it! I think everyone thinks I'm a bit of a div for asking that question, but hey ho.

So it's 1-1 at half time. Chester have been battered, let's be real, but they've grafted and they've had a couple of good moments. About half the people rush to the bar, the bog, or outside, but there's 50 plus people gathered around Max for his Q and A.

First few questions are about the match. What's good, what's bad, what does he see different from normal people.

'I'm happy with our lads,' says Max. 'I couldn't ask for more. Very happy with the work rate and the togetherness. In a defensive sense, the decision-making has been good. But when Chelsea have pressed us, we have struggled to work the ball. I understand why it's happening. You're having to work so hard off the ball that when it comes to you, you can barely think straight. It's like in cricket where you've been fielding all day and then when it's your turn to bat, you can't even see the ball.'

'Don't mention the cricket!' someone shouts. 'I'm getting flashbacks to The Ashes!'

'Why do you think I sold Dazza?' jokes Max. 'I'm not signing more Australians until England get good at cricket.'

'You'll be waiting a long time!' cries one guy.

Cricket talk's over, thank fuck. Max goes, 'Yeah life against the elite teams is much harder on the pitch than it looks from here, believe me. What I like is that when we do have a spell of possession, we have looked decent. Good triangles, good technique. We look more of a team than Chelsea, in my opinion.'

Someone asks, 'What do you think of Chelsea?'

'Not much.'

The same guy asks about a famous England player.

'He's a top talent,' says Best. 'But he's got the same mentality as all of them. It's all me me me. Someone I know, won't say who, calls him the Trademark Twat.'

'What? Why?'

'He trademarked his goal celebration, didn't he? For the whole of human history, you have been free to use your body just as you see fit. You've been able to express yourself through dance and movement. Not any more. The Trademark Twat decides what you do with your arms, not you. You grew up thinking you were a free person in a free country but you're not. You're a serf and you live on his land. Move your arms in the wrong way and he'll have your house.' Max raises his middle finger to the big screen. 'Trademark that, you twat.'

Someone goes, 'He's one of England's best players. How are you gonna feel when he scores the winning goal in the final of the European Championships?'

'I’ll be happy... until he does his celebration.' That gets a few laughs, even from the people who don't share Max's perspective.

I realise I'm about to miss my chance to speak so I raise my hand. 'When we were talking before - oh, was it private?' He stares blankly so I decide to ask and he can tell me if I'm out of order. 'You said you were thinking about how to beat Chelsea but I don't think you were talking about today.'

He stares blankly for a while longer, then perks up. 'Huh. That's perceptive of you, Dylan.' He looks to the side, deep in thought. 'Yeah, it's tricky. We can get to the level of Leeds easily enough. It would take two or three years. Hang on, let me think about that for a second.' He does his looking-to-the-side thing again. 'By the end of this season, we could be about the level of Burnley. They're rock bottom of the Premier League right now and they're having a miserable time. So much so that I've stopped teasing my mate David Bakero, who's a coach there. Another year and we'll be at the level of Leeds. Just about good enough to stay out of the relegation spots. Now, Chester's main problem isn't transfer fees, really, but wages. We don't have the financial underpinning needed to pay megawages to twenty, twenty-five players. Every year we're in the Prem we build those foundations in a big way, right. If I do well in the transfer market, we can catch Bournemouth and Fulham. We can compete with Leicester and West Ham. But then there's a brick wall. I mean, every step from here to there is full of brick walls but I've got a fucking bulldozer. That particular brick wall is on a huge slope, so how do we get the momentum to crash through it?'

He shakes his head and rubs his chin.

'We could do it so that we sign, say, five stars on free transfers. Pay their megawages for a year to smash through the wall-on-a-slope. But the year after, what then? We can't afford megawages on a long-term basis so we're probably just gonna slide down the hill. We can build slow and steady but every year we do that, the top nine clubs are soaking up UEFA prize money and entrenching themselves even further at the top. How do I beat Chelsea?' He shakes his head again. 'I don't like to think of it as impossible, but...'

I call out, 'You can't do it from here. You need to be at a rich club. Get your old mate Ryan Reynolds on the phone! I'll put in a good word for you!'

The last part is lost in the outcry and the booing. A few Monster Munch are thrown at me.

'Jesus, Dylan,' says Max. 'Come up here and apologise for nearly starting a riot.'

That banishes the bad feeling - he can use his powers for good when he wants! - and I take the mic. 'I won't apologise to the FA,' I start, which gets a big laugh, so I skip to the end. 'I'm sorry. I blame Max for the free booze.'

'Fair,' he says.

'I don't know why he's talking about beating Chelsea,' I start.

'Because you bloody asked me!' he exclaims, to more laughs.

'I don't know why he's thinking about getting to that stratosphere. Maybe he hasn't been taking his pills. But if there's anyone who can take Chester to the top, it's Max Best.'

'Aww,' he says, sideways-hugging me. 'What a sweet Welshman.' He holds up a finger. 'Chester to finish above Chelsea in the league in the next five years. There's a bet for you, Dylan lad. I have no fucking clue how I'll do it, but I'll do it.'

Big cheers. Max puts the mic down, puts some music on, and goes for a piss.

RetiredRed

Is anyone checking the odds on Chester to finish above Chelsea?

Stoop

Yes, lol.

DubaiGuy

Best doesn't necessarily have to defy financial gravity - Chelsea could get a points deduction one season. Chelsea push every rule right to the edge, don't they? They have been fined several times. Next time, the sanction could be more severe and it could be enough for Chester to finish above them. It's vanishingly unlikely, but possible.

BrokenGround

I don't know why I'm so excited about this bet, but I am!

ButteryCrumpets

Me, too!

RetiredRed

Okay, hang on, lads. We're Wrexham fans. We just can't get this hyped about Chester finishing in the top 6 of the Premier League or whatever it would be.

Stoop

I've had a quote of 300 to 1. Ten quid earns three thousand!

RetiredRed

Right. I hereby give permission to be excited. Send me the link, Stoop.

BrokenGround

It's a pile-on!

***

60'

ButteryCrumpets

This is good, this, from Chester. They're keeping the home team at arm's length and are still looking threatening on counters.

BrokenGround

Max was getting pumped, yelping and making excited little quacking noises, but he has just slumped back. 'Subs', he mumbled.

I didn't see any sign of them, but then three first-teamers were pulling their tops off on the sidelines. I don't really understand how he does this. On a pitch, yeah, but this time we're watching the same broadcast! Does he see it out of the corner of his eye or what?

Boggy says what Chelsea's new formation is, but Max says, 'Nah, it's not that.'

'What is it?' I ask, but he doesn't hear me even though I'm right there.

'This guy's good,' says Max, but I don't know if he's talking about Chelsea's manager or one of the subs or what.

Max's mood has turned dark and he keeps fidgeting and looking around him. He'd rather be anywhere but here, it seems. Once a minute I see him remember that this is his self-imposed punishment for being a pain in the arse and nearly getting us all killed.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

66'

RetiredRed

Well, that has been coming. 2-1 Chelsea, good move. The defenders were throwing themselves at shots but that only created more space for the midfielders to get shots away.

Stoop

I'm still keen on the 'Chelsea score 5 or more' bet and this makes it more likely.

75'

BrokenGround

Max is alternating between being very still and getting up to do laps of the room. I don't think he has spoken for a quarter of an hour.

RetiredRed

It must be hard in his position. He's banned so he can't affect anything. If he was injured he could be in the stadium. He could be the manager, change the tactics, give a rousing half-time speech.

Stoop

Are we sure he's not putting on an act to lull Chelsea into a false sense of security?

ButteryCrumpets

From a locked room in the north of England, surrounded by Chester fans and ten drunk Welsh riflemen?

BrokenGround

We've got an artillery guy, too. He's new.

RetiredRed

It's 3-1 now so if he was tricking us, it hasn't worked.

Game over.

ButteryCrumpets changed the channel name to Let's All Laugh at Chester.

BrokenGround

Christ, BC, wait until they've picked the ball out of the net!

ButteryCrumpets

Soz not soz. Life is full of joys but sometimes you've got to find them and sometimes you've got to make your own.

***

83'

Stoop

Argh, I'm going crazy over here!

BeardedWonderwall

Why?

Stoop

I'm waiting for a sign that Chester are going to throw on their kids so I can bet that Chelsea will score two more! Time's running out!

BrokenGround

Even I'm not that stupid. Chelsea are knocking the ball around. Chester are shuffling and sliding and blocking the passing lanes. They know if they send too many bodies forward they will regret it. Both sides are happy with the score, it looks to me.

Stoop

I need action!

DubaiGuy

You do not have an edge! Go and take a cold shower.

Stoop

Cold showers make me horny.

LongThrowAGoGo

This guy's hilarious. What the fuck, man.

***

87'

BrokenGround

Max is all the way at the back of the room, barely watching, pulling at his lips.

TexanWrexan

Makes sense. His side has been outclassed from start to finish. 3-1 flatters Chester. The data does not look pretty. They might be 5th in the Championship but they are miles off the Premier League. Miles.

BrokenGround

The last thing he said was 'every single Chelsea player on that pitch right now cost more than every player at Chester put together, plus our stadium'.

LongThrowAGoGo

Bleak.

88'

Stoop

I can't fucking believe this! Four kids are going on! Wells, Jones, Andrews, Duckham. What the hell is a Duckham?

And now Chelsea are going to score two goals and I'm going to spend weeks thinking about how much I would have won if I had put the bet on!

89'

BeardedWonderwall

Good save from Mad Owen!

ButteryCrumpets

I like him. I've been watching his YouTube stuff. If he wasn't dating models all the time you'd think he was just a normal bloke.

90'

BeardedWonderwall

Mowen with another save!

Got to say it's fucking annoying the way Chelsea's players have perked up seeing Chester's kids come on. The rest of the match they couldn't be arsed, now they've got dollar signs in their eyes. They'll all be on goal bonuses, won't they?

91'

BeardedWonderwall

Oh my God, look at that prick! He's got two players unmarked at the far post but he's had a shot! I can't believe what I've just seen. He doesn't even apologise.

ButteryCrumpets

That's Chelsea for you. Bad characters from top to bottom.

94'

Stoop

That last shot was close, wasn't it? But final score 3-1. It would have been 5 if that Gazpacho guy had a left foot or if that defender stopped shooting from 40 yards every three minutes.

DubaiGuy

The bookmakers do not pay out on what should have happened. You dodged a bullet. Be happy.

Stoop

I know you're right but I can't make myself feel it. Every bet we talked about came good!

LongThrowAGoGo

Chester out of the cup. Nine games left for them. We've got eight. Reckon we can catch them?

BrokenGround

I put that idea to Max and he ROARED with laughter. 'Thanks for that, Dylan. I needed that.'

So, uh... I think he's confident?

Stoop

Dick. We'll show him.

***

BrokenGround

Surprise update!

Max is doing the rounds, chatting to people and moving on. Just a quick 'thanks for all your hard work' kinda thing. He goes to Bill, the hospitality guy. Bill says, 'Great party, Max, but I'm sure I only counted two types of ham.'

Max smacks himself in the face. 'The ham! It's in my office with some fancy grub I bought in a posh deli. Er, Dylan, can you help me carry it?'

'Of course.'

This is exciting because I've never seen his office. Since it was finished, Sandra Lane has been up there, plus one cleaner that Max likes, and as far as anyone can tell, nobody else. I'll be the third person ever to step foot inside!

We go downstairs through the canteen. One of the WAGs has had one too many drinks. She's pissed that Chester have lost and there won't be a big semi-final day out at Wembley. She goes, 'This is all your fault! You should have been there!'

LongThrowAGoGo

What the fuck! That's the wife of one of the players? Which one? How did Max take it?

BrokenGround

I probably shouldn't say who it was. Max gives her the full shark eyes treatment. That's what Luisa calls it - the shark eyes. Half a dozen of the other WAGs crowd round the drunk one and bundle her away. It's crazy to have a go at Max in that situation. Even if you think you're right, all you're doing is positioning your partner over the trap door.

LongThrowAGoGo

Maybe that's what she wants.

BrokenGround

Maybe.

So he starts moving again, but more slowly, taking in the full scene. Who's where, who's talking to who, who's looking at him and how. I think I see him grinding his teeth. 'That was a bit shitty,' I say. 'You all right?'

'It's enough to check on the players and sort out their petty shit without having to deal with...' He wags his fingers towards the WAGs. 'I think people underestimate how much space there is in a football club's bin. Come on.'

We go round the medical block and into the coach's office building. He presses the button on a lift and the doors open instantly, but I'm stuck in place.

We're in a double-height space. To my left are the stairs and a lift. The lift is all transparent walls, glass or perspex. There's a second lift next to it, but it seems weirdly unfinished, even though the builders have long gone. There's something quite odd about it. It looks like a lift but there are no sides or lid, and there's a sort of metal lever thing sticking out of the floor.

It's all a bit strange. I can't put my finger on why, but it's nothing compared to the wall on my right. In the middle of the wall is what you'd expect: a wide double doorway that leads to the ground floor offices. In this building there are meeting rooms for the coaches to get together and plan, private offices, a little kitchen, the usual stuff. On the first floor, Sandra and Jay Cope have big offices. Max has the floor above with its 360 degree wrap-around balcony so that he can loom over everyone.

Okay but we're in the downstairs corridor and I'm looking at a massive mural. It's not finished - there are gaps everywhere. You're probably thinking it's got scenes of Chester's triumphs. Chester guys holding up trophies, scoring goals, happy fans, the usual.

Yeah, this is Max's design, so imagine the exact opposite of that.

It's all his disasters and lowest moments. I'm not familiar with every scene but I know some of them. There's a photo of Christian Fierce beating Max that first time they played against each other. It looks like it has been manipulated to mimic that famous photo of Muhammad Ali after he knocked out Sonny Liston. There are headlines about defeats and an excerpt from that scurrilous article the Darlington manager wrote about Max. There's a social media post saying why does he always go on about his hair, it's a bang average trim. It's basically a wall of doom. Negative energy.

'What the bloody hell is this?'

He's annoyed that I haven't followed him into the lift, but he comes out. 'We call it an installation.'

'Who do?'

'Me and my fellow artists. This is art.'

'It's not art, it's depressing.'

He gets interested. 'Why isn't art allowed to be depressing? Don't you think creativity should encompass the entire spectrum of human existence?'

'Max,' I complain. 'I've had a few drinks. Can you just explain why you've got all these tragic moments gathered in one place?'

He points to the wall. 'The name of this piece is Frustrateness to Greatness. Days like today,' he says, leaning against the glass wall, 'are fucking awful. Today will go on the wall as a reminder of how I feel right now. The frustration and impotence I feel drives me to keep going, keep making the tough decisions. Every day I come to work I'm reminded of the dark times, the frustrating times. Frustrateness to greatness. Pain is a resource that must be harvested. You know how woke I am. I'm recycling this pain and using it as fuel. Rocket fuel.'

He's doing the full shark eyes thing as he talks and I wonder why he doesn't let his players see this because it's getting my juices flowing. I point to one image. It's a mob of fans screaming bloody murder at Max. 'Is this Grimsby?'

'Yeah. Grimsby is what happens when you let even a single shithead into the group. One bad apple spoils the bunch. People say I'm over the top when it comes to Emiliano and when I see him helping old ladies cross the street or whatever, I soften and think ahh, he's all right, isn't he?' He taps the picture. 'This is what lies at the end of that path. That one? That's Aff playing injured and tearing his hamstring when the club could least afford to lose him. Another lesson learned and stored on the wall.'

There's a photo that seems like a mistake. 'This is Henri, your mate, and he's happy. It doesn't fit the theme.'

'That's his last game for Chester. He went out on a high, but he went. I binned off my best mate, Dylan.' He takes one last look at Henri and goes back into the lift. 'Come on.'

We go up two flights and I see his office.

Lads, it's a wonderland! He's got big windows that lead out to the balcony and everywhere you look, there's football. The Deva, loads of pitches. He's got two work spaces. One's normal with a desk and one of those expensive office chairs. Then he's got one of those things - not sure if I'll describe this well - it's a sort of cockpit chair that goes all the way back. There's a computer screen in front of your face and whatever you do with the angles of the chair, the screen is always the right distance from your face. And there's a keyboard, too, so you can type even when you're upside down. He's got a beanbag and a PlayStation in one corner, and there's basically a self-contained flat, too. Shower, tiny kitchen, and a bed. He could work all night, have a kip, wake up and get right back to it. Maybe that's what would happen on transfer deadline day if he didn't invest so much time getting deals done ahead of time.

My eyes rest on the kettle, which I know for a fact costs almost 150 quid.

'How often do you use all this stuff?' I say.

'Loads.'

'The bed?'

'A couple of times.'

'The upside down chair?'

'A few times. I'm not on my laptop loads but it makes watching clips of matches more fun.'

'Max, this is like every little boy's fantasy. You've made a campsite in the middle of a training ground.'

'There's nothing childish about any of this, Dylan.'

'What are you playing on the PlayStation?'

'Astrobot Playroom. Okay, here.' He goes to a fridge and starts loading me with boxes of delicacies and bags of wine. Given the type of person who lurks in this Discord, I should say bags of bottles of wine, not wine that comes in bags. 'Can you take this, mate? I need ten minutes to sulk.'

'What happened to frustration makes you stronger?'

'It does, but first I need a sulk.'

RetiredRed

Haha Max Best at his most relatable!

***

Sunday, March 12

WSL 2 Match 17 of 22: Leicester City Women versus Chester

Cup quarter final defeat for the women. Cup quarter final defeat for the men.

Chester FC's senior teams could get to the last eight of major competitions. We could sneak past one struggling top-tier side with bold tactics and a generous serving of Bench Boost, but the first good team we played would beat us.

It was a simple truth that was hard for me to take.

Hard for Kisi, too. We were in the King Power Stadium - Leicester's women played in the same venue as the men's team, which was cool - and Kisi was playing right mid in a 3-4-3 variant, as she had been for the entire season. She had been chastened by what Liverpool had done to her. She was hesitant to get forward, overly cautious. Playing not like a magnificent, exuberant winger but like a scared little mouse.

"Jay," I said.

"Yo," he said, because he was cool.

"Kisi can come off. Her head's not right."

"Okay." He scanned the bench, the pitch, checked his watch. "Can it wait until half-time?"

"Yeah." We were one-nil up and were doing to Leicester what Chelsea's men had done to us.

Jay took his time before saying, "3-4-1-2. Meredith behind Kit and Angel."

We were dominating and were finding it easy to create chances. Doubling up on strikers would make Leicester even more defensive, which would make our lives easier and reduce our risk of injury. It was also good minutes for Angel, who had become more and more frustrated the longer her 'banishment' from the team had gone on. "So let it be written, so let it be done. Or in modern language, bosh."

***

Between the 60th and 70th minutes, Angel scored a hat trick. Frustrateness to Greatness.

I wasn't really thinking about the match, apart from being glad to catch up on the XP I had missed the day before. Mostly, I was thinking about squad building.

Kisi was a wonderful player. With PA 143, she was one of the best prospects in the women's game. (There had to be more talent out there, but much of it was stored in girls who had no interest in playing the sport.) She needed a little bit of protection in the next twelve months so that she wasn't being relied upon in the front lines against teams that could make her look shit, and it was my job to provide that protection.

There were quite a few good right midfielders in my database, but none that fit the bill in terms of being suitable for the God Save the Queen perk. I wanted to buy someone who would improve the first eleven and give us more of a chance against established WSL teams AND who was maxed out so that I could boost one of her attributes.

Or did I?

I had thought about Newcastle's CA/PA 120 centre back for so long that I had twisted myself in knots justifying the deal. But the Chelsea defeat had brought clarity. I needed players with tons of upside so that defeats would merely be stepping stones along our path. Why would I buy a player who was maxed out? It was bonkers, yet I had somehow managed to convince myself it was clever.

Basing my whole squad building strategy around one perk was stupid and destructive. If I had the ideal target to use it on, fine, but I didn't. I needed to do what I had always done - fill my squad with players who could grow. So what if I didn't use the perk in the most satisfying way?

While I could theoretically boost any player in my database, there would need to be an astonishingly good reason to go external. Such a reason didn't exist, which left me with two options. Charlotte, who was one point away from her personal ceiling, or Angel, who wasn't anywhere near her ceiling but had Finishing 20. The 'good deed for the day' versus 'the quest for knowledge'.

Boosting Charlotte to PA 103 would make virtually no difference to the squad. If I had a good summer window, she would barely play next season. She wasn't my favourite person in the world at the moment but she had come to Chester because she believed in the project and she had played her heart out almost every week since. Giving her a tiny boost for the rest of her career was good Chesterness.

What would happen when I boosted Angel's Finishing from 20 to 21? How much did I want to know what happened when I increased an Attribute that was already at the max? Not enormously, but I was curious, and it was quite possible I would have this curse in my head for the next 40 years. The knowledge would pay off for the men's and women's version of the perk, right?

If the results were exponential I could take a random kid and turn him into a superstar. Let's say Jamie Lane-Beeks had a PA of 50 as a centre back. I could boost his best Attribute every year. If his Passing score started at 6, by the time he was 23 that number would be 26. Five years later, it would be 31. Could he be PA 200 then? Exponential numbers got exponential really fast, sometimes - I saw it in a graph.

If Jamie was PA 200 aged 26, I would take him off Passing training. His score would decay to a mere 20, and his body would take all that extra PA I'd stuffed into him and spread it according to his current training.

Stamina! Heading! Pace! J-Lob aged 26 would go from being a nothingy player into the poster boy for late bloomers. Million-pound-a-week contract? The Spanish clubs are offering double that, mate. Don't try to lowball us!

A clever pass from Charlotte put Angel in a good shooting position. She cocked her left leg as if to shoot, then surprised everyone by planting it to the side of the ball, which she shovelled sideways with her right foot, giving Kit Hodges an easy shot. Goal. 5-0. Brilliant play by Angel. Brilliant imagination.

Okay, fine. Angel would get this season's God Save the Queen perk and when it came to signing new players, I would revert to complete rationality. Buy low, sell high. High ceilings only. Players with the capacity to grow only.

While Angel, Kit, and Meredith celebrated in a decent impression of dancing around a Maypole, I checked the squad page. In which ways did the women's squad need strengthening so that we could go to WSL clubs and 1) survive 2) crush?

Haley was an immense goalie and she'd had an almost flawless season. She was already one of my favourite ever signings. No-nonsense, great performances, good improvement, no drama. I would need to add a high-PA backup who wouldn't expect too many minutes.

My centre backs were decent and had potential but would need to be reinforced if we were to survive. If we wanted to challenge for trophies, we would need at least two new CBs. Maybe one old, one young. Jay and I would use the summer break to decide if we wanted to stick with the 3-4-3 basis. If he wanted to use full-backs, I'd need to go shopping for some.

The midfield was talented but lightweight and inexperienced. I would buy two to survive, three to challenge.

We also needed one or two new strikers.

I was going to be busy. My war chest was going to take quite a dent. I rubbed my eyelids so hard that one of the physios came to check on me. I said I was fine and shoved my hands in my pockets.

***

XP balance: 5,595

***

Monday, March 13

I joined in training, which was a fairly low-key affair. Morale had dropped a good amount after the Chelsea match. The playoffs were far in the distance and apart from the Cheshire Cup, the rest of the season felt very much like 'after the Lord Mayor's show' - lifeless, unglamorous, dutiful. We would go through the motions. We would wallow in our inadequacy.

That's how it felt, anyway. I knew the mood would pass soon enough. The lads needed time to lick their wounds. Tomorrow night there would be plenty of rotation.

Chelsea had rotated, I thought to myself, as I joined in one of Peter's overly-complicated passing drills. Chelsea's normal level was around CA 167. What had it been against us? 160? Their second-string was one of the best teams in Europe.

"Max!" cried a few lads.

"What?"

"You're green! You're aiming for the small nets!"

"I'm green and we hit big net, little net, alternating."

"No!" cried about six people.

I laughed and said, "Right, I need to tap out. My head's on Mars."

There were some laughs and jokes as I wandered to the side; there were days I was the worst at training. One time, Wallace had suggested that according to the rules of training, I should serve the coffees the next morning. I asked him who had pushed him to say that to me, but he resisted. I said it might be a good idea if he took my place and he agreed with that. No-one had played the same prank on the young players since.

I sat on a little camping chair and took on fluids.

Chelsea's transfer dealings made mine seem small-time and pathetic. They signed players for 60 million quid and sold them a year later for 50 million. Oh, don't get me wrong, the plan was objectively mental, but the numbers were huge. I was looking to get a million quid for Andrew Harrison, two for Joel, three for Zach.

I was tiny. I was a worm.

How was I going to catch Chelsea like this?

Frustrated, I went for a jog around the pitch and on the far side, Jonny Planter called me over. "What's up, Jonny?"

He was grinning from ear to ear. "My wife discovered that Marie Kondo woman. Do you know her?"

"Yeah. She's all about tidying up and saying thanks to your house for keeping you warm and safe."

Jonny winced. "Okay, sure, that side of it is a bit woo-woo."

"I'm not sure that it is," I said. "We get sentimental about our pets, our cars, our football stadiums. Why not our houses? I watched an episode of her show during lockdown because it was the hype, wasn't it? I didn't have a lot of stuff to tidy up, in those days, but I actually found the part where she thanked the house quite moving. I mean, obviously I was being driven slowly insane by the isolation like we all were, but yeah, there was something to that."

Jonny hadn't expected this twist in the conversation, and like most British people, he brushed past the awkwardness by pretending it hadn't happened. "So the wife, she gets inspired to do a big clean-out. I don't mind. Tidy desk, tidy mind and all that. But she gets into an absolute frenzy about it, loves how it feels to go minimal in a room, wants to keep going. She latches onto the attic. Jonny! What's this old computer? You don't need this! That's got my old games on it, Max! Master of Orion. X-Com. I can't get rid of this, I said! She says come on, you never play these games. I'm looking around the disc and there's one I haven't thought about for donkey's years. Allenatore. Do you know it?"

"I've never heard of it."

"It was an Italian game, translated into English. Quite rudimentary but with a crazily addictive gameplay hook. Every 3 weeks you could make transfers. You could sell your players for double their transfer value and buy ones from other teams for half theirs."

"That sounds incredibly broken."

"Right, but you start with a terrible squad, awful facilities. Any money you make, you have to pump into the training ground, the stadium, the floodlights. I was filled with nostalgia and instead of clearing out the attic, I got sucked into playing this game. And I realised, this is what it's like to be Max Best!"

"Go ahead and explain that."

"It's like whatever you do, you're bound to win in the long-term as long as you're smart and you use every transfer window to the max. The max, ha! It's quite a clever game in that the early transfers are easy and every other small team accepts your ideas. But as you go higher, your bids get rejected more and more so your growth slows down. But you have perfect information about player values and every other team is just a little bit stupid. What's the word? Something like hermitage but it's about buying and selling at a profit?"

"Arbitrage."

"Yes! You arbitrage your knowledge and you steam up the leagues. It's fucking great! I don't know why it's so satisfying to build your stadium and your floodlights and all that. It's just text. Who gets invested in numbers going up in text form? Answer: ME! I haven't fallen into a gameplay trance like that in ten years, Max!" He sighed, happily. "And I realised, that's you. You're that guy who doubles the value of his players every window. Up, up, up we go!"

He wandered off, whistling to himself.

I stood still for ten seconds, then rejoined the drills with total concentration.

***

After training, I had lunch with Brooke, Zach, and Zach's agent, Ruth.

We tried not to talk about football too much, but Ruth was fascinated by Zach's tales of playing against Chelsea. He spoke of their power, their pace, their endless running, their technical quality. Their boundless stupidity.

We moved to the boardroom at the Deva to discuss Zach's future.

Ruth took the lead to get things going. "Here's the state of play. Middlesbrough are very interested in Zach, and his stellar performance against Chelsea on the weekend has got them itching to wrap the deal up before it turns into a protracted auction."

Zach's 'stellar performance' was actually 6 out of 10 with a yellow card, but he had gotten off to a great start and there was no shame in his rating slowly dipping, especially as by the end he was surrounded by toddlers. If I was at Middlesbrough, I would have finished the Chelsea game with a higher opinion of Zach than at the start.

Ruth continued. "Boro have indicated a price at which they would do business. Max has indicated that he would accept such a bid. The remuneration package is acceptable. Everything's in place to do this deal. What do we need to discuss?"

Zach said, "I'd like to hear from Max why he wants to sell me and why this is happening now."

He wasn't emotional or angry but I had to choose my words carefully. This was a tricky situation because if I messed it up, I risked losing Brooke and her incredible ability to drive the admin side of the club forward while growing our revenues at a fast clip. I decided to speak plainly. "I want to sell you for 3 million, buy a replacement for 3 mill and sell him in a year for 6. I'm gambling that I can find that player. I'm doing it because I'm not happy running a Championship club. I want to get to the top. I want to win the Premier League. You're 28 and in your footballing prime, which means that as an asset, you're at your peak."

He didn't look away. "So I have to go this summer?"

"No. You can stay another season. As it stands, you'd go into next season as my top centre back, but I've been talking to Premier League clubs about players I could take on loan and I'm tempted by the idea of getting two good centre backs from them. It would be a very cheap solution for us and it would give Tomzilla and Tony Herbert another year to catch up. Long term, I see those two and Peter as the main centre backs for Chester."

"We could win the playoffs and get into the Premier League. I want to play in the Prem."

"We're not going up," I said. "But if we did, I'd have a hundred million and I'd buy two CBs to tide us over the first season. Maybe buy two and loan one." I shuddered at the thought of how unprepared the squad was for top-tier football. "Christ, it would be such a mess. It would be like the Chelsea match but twice a week. Zach, it would be shit and you wouldn't play much. You'd be the 4th-choice CB and you'd resent me for not using you even though you got us to the big time." I shook my head. "We're not going up and I'm fine with that. Look, if you want to stay here another season, you can, but you should go to Middlesbrough. You'll triple your wages, for a start." We were paying Zach 5 grand a week. Boro would give him 15 as a basic. "It's a big club, you'll improve their defence, they'll be near the top of the table come the end of the season, and you'll be one of the first names on the team sheet every week."

"Yeah," he said, unconvinced.

Ruth was staying alert and professional. Brooke was trying to stay out of Zach's way, it felt like. I leaned forward. "Let's go back to basics, Zach. Let's go out onto the pitch like the first day you came here. Summer 24, remember? Let's do another race. If you win, you can stay."

A little smile played on his lips. "It's light training today. Got Coventry City tomorrow night. Need to save my legs for that one. The gaffer said."

"Did he? Well, if the gaffer said..." I got up and looked out onto the pitch. "Come on, Zach. We can do a couple of laps at walking pace."

"I know you," he said. "Near the end you'll sprint off and act like you beat me."

"Only because if I don't do it, you will. Come on."

***

Half a minute later, the two of us were walking around the perimeter of the pitch. "You helped build this, Zach. The McNally, the away end. This pitch. None of it was here when you joined."

"You had big plans. I couldn't tell if you were full of shit. You weren’t. Not full, anyway."

"First two games of the season were Maidstone and Grimsby. Smashed them and we were flying. I was confident as fuck. 46 games, 46 victories. Why not?"

"Then we ran head-first into Kidderminster. Christian Fierce, the God of Walls. What a performance that was." As we neared the first corner flag, Zach grew thoughtful. "You've sold Christian."

"And Fitz and Wallace. There will be more. It's not personal, I promise." I smiled. "It's not because you smashed into that guy at Leeds, if that's what you're thinking. Tony Herbert does it all the time. Fucking winds me up but he's 22. If I shout at him long enough, we might be able to fix him!"

"He's good. Real good. You think he's got a high ceiling?"

"High enough." Tony was PA 150. "Could be that I sell him for 10 million and keep the flywheel spinning. Keep going. Keep moving on up." I stopped in front of the McNally, to the right of the goal, the most common place our players threw themselves into the home fans after scoring. "You know we programmed DOVE to talk in terms of Soccer Supremo? One of the clever things it does is that it can estimate a player's Current Ability."

"Out of 200, yeah."

"When you got here, you'd been rotting away in Wrexham's reserves for a whole season. I reckon your CA the day you came here was 40."

"40," he said, horrified.

We walked on. "45 after pre-season. 67 the start of the League Two season. 90 in League One. 113 at the start of this season, over 130 now. You're almost a hundred points better today than you were then."

"Thanks to you."

"Look, I'll take some credit. I saw your talent and took a punt on you and got you good coaches and minutes and equipment and all that, but 98% of the work was you. You grafted, you sweated, you trained like a monster every session. You're a top professional. I don't want you to go, but I want you to go." We were walking down the West Stand, soon to be the PetPride end. "You built the other two stands by playing great. You'll build this one by fucking off to the North East. It's good for your career, too. I worry a little bit about Wallace Wells and what Chelsea will do to him, but with you I've got no doubts. Middlesbrough's absolutely perfect for you next season. Perfect. And you'll get paid. I know you're not all that into the money and, well, Brooke's, you know."

"What?"

We stopped and faced each other. "Gonna inherit half a billion dollars," I said.

"Oh," he said. "Uh... no. I don't think so. I mean, she doesn't think so. Dallas, her sister, thinks her dad's thinking of making a new will. Cutting her out."

"Christ," I said.

"Yeah."

The ramifications set in. I pushed Zach hard in the chest. "So you're the fucking breadwinner! You've got three years to make bank. Stop fucking whining about staying! Get paid, you dick!"

He smiled and walked on. I followed. He said, "You could give her a pay rise, boss."

"I do! Every year! She's the one telling me not to go too crazy with her pay. I start high, she starts low, and she wins the negotiation."

"This time she might accept your first offer. Look..." He cracked his knuckles against his jaw. "Dazza loves Boro so far. He's stoked that I might join him there. He wants to show us the town, the dog-walking spots, the beaches. Brooke's been thinking about the logistics. She's thinking we could move to Wilm-slow."

"Wilms-low," I said. "Manchester?"

Zach frowned. "It's Cheshire."

"Mate, it's Manchester. Look at the map. Manchester Airport is right there. Oh, you know what this means? Brooke's gonna be a Manchester girl! Haha, yes! Oh my God, think of the banter!"

"It's Cheshire. The footballer belt, it's called. The golden triangle. Nice houses there, good restaurants. I'll take a little flat near Boro's training ground so I won't be late, then I'll drive home."

"Drive to your new home in Manchester, yes."

"It's only two hours."

My brain exploded, but then I remembered that Americans had a warped sense of distance. "To me, Middlesbrough seems like the other side of the world but for you, two hours is nothing. It's popping to the shops because you ran out of Peanut Brittle and Whole Pickled Cucumbers." His hand flew to his jaw. "What?" I said, worried, ready to call the dentist.

"My mouth just watered like crazy. Oh, man! I don't get homesick often but wow. Peanut Brittle? That hit me like a ten-ton truck." We turned past the third corner flag and walked in companionable silence to the last one. On the home straight, Zach kept checking me - he expected me to run off at a moment's notice. Ruth and Brooke were waiting at the 'finish line'. Zach said, "Do I need to make a quick decision?"

"Not at all. I wouldn't ask you to do anything quickly, mate. DOVE has you at Pace 5."

He bit his lip. "Talking of the number 5, since I built half the stadium, I think you should retire my shirt number when I leave."

"Great idea," I said. "I'll discuss it with the Fan Advisory Board as a matter of urgency."

We got to the halfway line, still at walking pace. "You didn't run off," he said.

"Saving my legs for Coventry," I said. "Like the gaffer wants."

"The gaffer's a hard taskmaster," said Zach. "But I'll miss him."

I clapped him on the back. "If you leave this summer, your final match will be alongside your old mate Christian Fierce, at Wembley Stadium, in the biggest match in the club's history. A fitting end to the club's greatest-ever centre back pairing."

"Greatest ever... until the next one."

I smiled but had no comeback for that one. "I need a quick word with Ruth if that's all right."

"Are you gonna challenge her to a race?"

Ruth said, "Not after what I did to him at the go-karts."

"My pedals didn't work! We talked about this!"

Zach and Brooke went down the tunnel, arm-in-arm.

"Cute couple," said Ruth. "Is he going?"

"I think so. Any excuse to move to Manchester, know what I'm saying?"

"Selling Zach doesn't strike me as your best ever decision, Max."

"Well, it is, so shush. Right, what's the latest with Jael?" Jael Kamga was a PA minus 1 goalkeeper who had played for Watford against us in the Youth Cup. For now, I was content to let him join REM but I planned to keep an eye on him as a long-term prospect for a move to Chester.

"He's in. It's all done. We're starting on sponsorships and we'll negotiate his next contract at Watford."

"Top bins. Good to diversify away from having all our clients play for Chester. Next, Angel. Which Milan club is her preference?"

Ruth's air of professionalism dimmed, but returned. "Inter. She likes the black and blue kit."

"Yeah, she'll look good in that. Good choice. Okay, top, mint. How's the Brig?"

"He's like a little boy with a new toy."

"Ha. Amazing. When it gets too much, remind him that Mr. Yalley owns three times as many football clubs as him."

"I won't put ideas in his head, Max."

"You're right. That's my job."

***

I crossed back to Bumpers and went up to my office. I put the kettle on and did a tour of my balconies, checking my empire. As cool as everything was, there were gaps where gorgeous pitches should have been. There was land to either side yet to be bought. And the bridge that would one day connect Bumpers to Saltney was very much a figment of my imagination. "When Max saw the breadth of his domain, he sold Zach, Joel, and Swanny, for there were so many more worlds to conquer."

The kettle boiled but something caught my eye. There was an unexpected group on one of the smaller pitches. Angel, Kisi, Meredith Ann. It looked like they were doing free kick training with the new machine.

I flew down the stairs, rushed over, and with fifteen yards to go, slowed all the way down and pretended to be nonchalant.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," said Kisi.

"I've got a request."

Meredith took a step closer. "I'll do it!"

I gave her a smile. "Thanks, but it has to be Angel."

Angel did a weird smile. "Why?"

"Er, because of DOVE. Calibration stuff. Look, you don't have to do it but you'd be helping us out a lot and I'd appreciate it."

She wanted to clap back but couldn't find a reason. "Fuck it, sure."

"Top. We need to move onto the main pitch because of the cameras."

The four of us moved the mechanical free kick wall with ease. I made a fuss of positioning it and even did a fake call with Spectrum to check, as though he was in his office gathering the data. I had to hope he wouldn't randomly stroll past...

"Okay, Angel, could you please take ten shots? Aim them all at the top right corner. Same technique every time, if you can. If you get bored, please just power through. Repetition is the mother of learning and all that."

"You want me to hit top bins every time? No variety? What's... Is this a punishment?"

"What, for scoring a hat trick?" said Kisi, but she immediately blushed. I had punished Emiliano for scoring two goals, hadn't I? Why wouldn't I do the same with Angel? It was the last topic she should have raised unless she wanted to make things awkward. She had well and truly put her foot in it; she hugged her arm.

I addressed Angel. "I'd like you to take ten identical shots, please." Then I would trigger God Save the Queen. "We'll change something in the code and you'll take ten more shots."

"All the same?"

"Yes, please. As identical as poss. Apparently, this will unlock amazing revelations inside the computer." I really needed to call Spectrum as soon as this was over to warn him that Angel might ask him strange questions. Upgrading her to Finishing 21 would trigger a lot of information in the curse screen - I hoped - but it would be cool if there was a visible difference in how she struck the ball. "You're my best finisher. If I want clean data, I go to you."

"Why not you?" she said.

"That's too clean," I laughed. "Look, if you think it's a punishment you don't need to do it. Meredith's right here. She'll do."

"No," said Angel. "I'll do it." She took a ball and got into position. "Just hit the top right?"

"Your most replicable technique, please. Ladies, can you bring the balls over? Angel, take your time. Quality's more important than speed."

Angel took the first ball, placed it, and eyed the defensive wall. It was a chunky old thing, really interesting to look at. Kisi was holding the tablet computer that made the 'players' in the wall jump. It was possible to make the four guys jump at different heights, just like a real wall would. It was also possible to slide out one or two more players to have a wall of 5 or 6 players instead of 4. Such a cool gizmo! "Is it going to jump?"

I thought about it. "Let's say no. It's more scientific if it doesn't jump, right? Otherwise the data will be skewed by how consistently Kisi can press the button."

"I'm the queen of pressing buttons," said Kisi.

"No wonder you get on with Max, then," said Angel. "He's the king of pressing buttons." She swished the first shot towards goal - it sailed wide.

Kisi offered up some more banter but I asked her to shut up so we could do science.

It was actually interesting to watch Angel's technique. She was relatively bad at free kicks, but why? If she got the ball in this exact position in open play, she'd hit the ball hard and accurately. This scenario was easier. It didn't make sense she was worse, did it?

I thought about restarting the scene without the defensive wall, but decided it didn't matter. I wasn't really going to learn anything from the eye test, was I? Not from such a small sample size.

Angel made a good faith effort to hit the top right. From the ten shots, two went in, one hit the post, and the others missed high or wide to varying degrees.

"Top," I said. "Take a tiny break."

"I'm good to continue, Max."

"Tiny break, please."

I walked off and pretended to call Spectrum. Then I turned to face the three ladies, and smashed God Save the Queen on Angel's Finishing.

It went from 20...

All the way up to 20.

Fuck!

I double-checked that I had hit the button properly. I had. Angel's CA had been 93, and now it was 95. It had gone up in the last few seconds. Clearly, I had done that.

I turned away and rubbed my forehead, annoyed. Had I just wasted one of my most precious perks? Urgh!

Trying to stay calm, I went back to the area and gave Angel the go-ahead to hit the next set of ten. As she swished shots towards goal at more or less the same level of quality - as assessed by the naked eye - I came to the conclusion that I had learned something. Angel's CA had increased. That meant her Finishing Attribute had increased. So either it had gone from 20 to 20.5 or something like that -

I grunted at my own stupidity, which made Angel pause in her stride. "Soz," I said. "It's not you, I promise."

Angel said, "Did he say pwomise?"

"Promise," said Kisi.

Angel nodded and kept shooting.

The perk was clear - it added one point to the Attribute I chose. The Sentinel might squash me for turning myself into George Best reborn, but he would squash Old Nick and all his imps if they lied to me about what the perks did. Angel's Finishing was 21, for sure. So why did it say 20 on her profile?

I shook my head, amazed that it had taken me five years of being cursed to work out something that in retrospect seemed obvious.

Players could exceed 20 in an Attribute, but the curse would only show it as 20.

Why? Because that's how the old version of Soccer Supremo had worked.

I felt power stirring around me, felt that thing I got sometimes where time slowed slightly and the world got quiet. It didn't last long, but I found myself nodding furiously. Not everyone with Pace 20 ran at the same speed. Not everyone with Finishing 20 was equally likely to take a chance.

What if there were players out there with Finishing 9000, but the curse reported them as 20?

I might be able to guess when a player had cracked the glass ceiling, and maybe DOVE would be able to detect those outliers even better than me.

"Why are you smiling?" said Meredith.

"Get what you want?" said Kisi.

"I did." I stepped to Angel and gave her a hug. "Sei un angelo caduto del cielo!"

As I walked away, I heard Kisi say, "What does that mean?"

Angel said, "My Italian's not that good yet."

Meredith said, "I think he's trying to say, you are an angel fallen from heaven, but in a mix of Spanish and Italian."

I turned back and yelled, "That was flawless Italian! Eyyyyy."

***

FA Youth Cup Quarter Final: Chester versus Plymouth Argyle

It had been an eventful Monday after an eventful weekend. My war chest had swollen by a million pounds and I was closer to making deals for Zach, Joel, and Andrew Harrison. I felt I had pushed the club forward, felt I had improved my own skills.

My attitude towards the Plymouth match was one of quiet determination. My starting eleven was miles better than Plymouth's, my squad was better, and there was a very decent crowd. They wanted to see the stars of the future and we wouldn't disappoint them. Four of our lads had played a few minutes in a nearly-full Stamford Bridge and they were buzzing from the experience. They were greedy for more and Plymouth were in the way.

I hadn't gone crazy in thinking about the match or the tactics. We were the big dogs. We would play 3-5-1-1 as we had for the majority of the cup campaign, and we had a frankly preposterous average CA of 60.7, which was double Plymouth's score. Call me complacent, but they just didn't have the weapons to hurt us.

Jude and a gaggle of coaches were putting the lads through their paces in the warm up, and I developed a sudden craving for pickled onions. I had some in my office fridge at Bumpers. I could be there and back in two minutes flat and no-one would ever know. Heh.

On my way through the tunnel, some guy in a Plymouth coat stopped me and introduced himself. His name was Darling and he was my rival for the evening. Seemed like a nice guy. I wished him a good game and said we could talk later.

In my office, I snacked on pickled onions and stood on the balcony, squeezing a few more XP into my stash - there were matches going on all around me, though I only got XP for one at a time. It might sound insane to watch some randos playing on our 3G pitches in the hour before an important cup match, but the way I worked was that any XP I gained from grinding at Bumpers went straight into Secret Sandra, the perk that improved training times for my players. 5 XP didn't make much difference on its own, but it all added up.

I went back inside, stretched, and realised I had left my zero-gravity workstation on but the screen had turned itself off. I turned the screen on and had a strange impulse to look up Plymouth's under 18s coach. The first image had Darling smiling happily next to Alan Turner, the England manager. I clicked around and realised Darling was entrenched within the England youth coaching setup. This guy was on the fast track to greatness; he probably spent a lot of time with Alan Turner. Darling had probably heard all the lies and true-but-twisted rumours about me. He might have spread a couple himself.

I turned that computer off and headed downstairs. I took a long look at the Frustrateness to Greatness mural. Christian Fierce putting me in his pocket. Henri's last match. Alan Turner's Newcastle players celebrating their penalty shoot-out win against Chester right next to our goalkeeper.

"Classless pricks," I muttered, and strode back to the Deva, getting faster and faster.

The lads were in the dressing room, getting ready, pulling on socks according to their superstitions or smearing Vicks Vaporub onto their chest because someone had told them it helped keep their nostrils open during a game.

There wasn't much need for me to do anything, so I kept quiet. This had the side-effect of making me seem brooding and intense, which I suppose wasn't the worst thing. Just to make sure I had ticked all the boxes for this match, I double-checked Plymouth's tactics.

That caught my attention.

England's little Darling had done his homework - Plymouth were planning to line up in a 4-4-2 that was very focused on defending the wings. Both wide players were set to make forward runs: no. The left and right midfielders were tasked with man-marking Roddy and Wallace Wells, our sensational wingers. Furthermore, the two central midfielders had arrows emerging from them to the sides of the pitch, like structural supports on a wall that's falling down.

Okay, so the idea was to stop Roddy and Wallace. Then what? Our central midfielders were good but not astonishingly good. Yeah, the strategy was sound. Darling would be able to go to St. George's Park and hold his head high. 'Yaa, we held Chester to two goals, yaa. Nearly did them on counters, too. Max Best was bricking it, mate, bricking it.'

I had absolutely no doubt that our usual formation would have worked just fine, but...

"Lads," I said. "Change of plan. We're gonna mix things up today. Same line up, obvs, but I want to try something for ten minutes."

***

My guys lined up in the formation Darling was expecting, 3-5-1-1, but as soon as the ball was rolling, I changed us to 4-2-2-2.

Darling had focused all his planning down the sides, so why not vacate them? I knew that his wide midfielders weren't planning to attack, so I didn't worry about having a midfielder (Dominic) at left-back.

For the strikers, I had Chas Fungrieve (CA 82) and Adam B. Roberts (54). Behind them were the stars - Roddy and Wallace (93 and 74). I had a feeling those players would like their new roles, especially because the players supposed to be marking them were way over on the sides of the pitch.

5'

Chester 1 Plymouth 0 (R. Jones)

Fungrieve holds the ball up well and lays it off to Roberts. His shot is blocked but falls to Wallace Wells, who chips a delightful left-footed pass over the defenders where the seriously rapid Roddy Jones arrives and slots home.

(After the goal, I made sure to put us back in 3-5-1-1 to confuse Darling's iPad guys.)

7'

Chester 2 Plymouth 0 (R. Jones)

Chester pass the ball around with aplomb. They drive through the middle of the pitch. Wells once more looks for Jones. Jones plays a one-two with Fungrieve... and scores!

(Back to 3-5-1-1, but this time I stayed in that formation for a whole minute.)

9'

Chester 3 Plymouth 0 (H. Andrews)

14'

Chester 4 Plymouth 0 (T. Thompson)

(I wasn't even bothering to pretend to be doing anything other than 4-2-2-2 at this point.)

18'

Chester 5 Plymouth 0 (C. Fungrieve)

(I started to daydream about the conversations that would happen at the next England camp. Heh.)

Darling was rushing around trying to reorganise his team, but their Morale had plummeted in the most comprehensive way I could remember seeing. Their first choice would have been for the earth to swallow them up, but their second choice was to defend deep and keep the score down.

While I watched my guys pass the ball around, I dwelled on the pros and cons of 4-2-2-2 as a formation. Pros: it was amazing at ramming my frustration down the throat of one of Alan Turner's underlings.

When I thought about switching to Relationism to see if it would help us break through the low block, another potential advantage struck me. Most of the players in 4-2-2-2 were lined up in a long rectangle, weren't they? They were basically already in a Relationist blob. That's how the goals were being scored so freely - my guys were used to this kind of setup and knew exactly how to progress the ball to the top of the pitch. When it was there, one of the superstars took care of the rest.

I put us in the Relationist module. At the top of the screen it said:

MOOD: FRUSTRATED

Yeah, couldn't really argue with that.

As my players ran around sharing the ball with each other, doing one-twos, and doing ladders, their actions filled up gauges in my head. When the gauges were full, they got bigger and wobbled, waiting for me to pop them.

As a rule, I avoided popping those things because while they gave my players a little boost of confidence or whatever, it was addictive.

The longer the shapes remained unpopped, the more frantically they wobbled, and text appeared inside them.

VENT!

VENT YOUR FRUSTRATIONS!

SMITE THE UNHOLY!

UNLEASH YOUR RIGHTEOUS ANGER!

With a mumbled "bloody imps", I swiped them all away - I wanted the Relationism module but not the boosts and not the addiction, thank you very much.

We didn't need it, anyway. Plymouth's players fell into the trap of chasing the ball into the blob. With their defensive shape in tatters, we scored two quickfire goals before the away team lost their composure and started to fly into tackles, angrily.

There was a good chance one of them would get sent off, but not before he had seriously hurt one of my guys. New plan, then: survive until half-time and see if the ashen-faced Darling subbed off his more hot-headed players. I switched us to a defensive 4-5-1 shape and allowed the away team to have the ball in their half.

In our dressing room, the mood was one of utter jubilation. 7-0 at half time was astonishing, amazing, stupendous.

Jude came over to me and said, "Are you going to let them run up the score?"

In the past, I had asked my teams not to beat up on our much weaker opponents. It wasn't very sporting. Some neutral fans found big scorelines exciting, others found them repellant. I wanted Chester to be liked, and I didn't have anything against the lads from Plymouth, did I? There could be a day in the future when I wanted to sign one of them for one of my clubs.

On the other hand: fuck Alan Turner.

"Lads," I said. "Listen up." Lots of smiling faces turned to me and tried to get serious. Tried to act grown-up. "I think maybe this one's in the bag." Some chuckles, some cheers. "You've got two more serious matches as a group, then we disband. We have the chance to set some records that might never be broken. Highest ever quarter final win? I don't know what it is but I suspect we're on track..."

I took a few steps to the right so a different group of players would be able to see me clearly.

"The semi-final won't be like this. It'll be a sterner test, and you could get an injury or a red card and that's your Youth Cup over. The FA might ban you for sending the wrong emoji and you'll miss the final. Anything can happen, right? So we should enjoy tonight. If you want to score more goals, fill your boots. Score loads, do skills, but don't take the piss out of individual players, okay? Unless they try kicking you again, then they can fuck right off."

I looked up and closed my eyes.

"I've never managed a team that scored ten. You can be the first." I opened my eyes and walked forward, past the faces of the young players who had done what the first team couldn't do - knock Chelsea out of a cup. I picked up the pace. "Yeah. Ten's the minimum, lads. Let's tell the world that Chester are on the rise. Let's show the world that we're the coming force. Make them understand that we... are on the verge... of greatness."

I hadn't finished, but Archer Phillips, the captain, suddenly yelled. "Come on!"

Everyone else joined in, then the players stomped out into the corridor, ready to smash things up.

Jude looked from the young coaches to the physios and to me. A slow smile spread on his face. "Wow. This is going to be brutal. Why do I get the feeling you're gonna be doing another apology tour after this?"

I spread my arms. "What? They'll stop at ten. Ten's plenty. They'll stop at ten, I'm sure."

Jude shook his head. "Wanna bet?"