Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

8.

Monday, March 20

The canteen at Bumpers was half as busy as usual.

It was day one of the international break, which meant some players were away training with their countries. For example, Helge Hagen was in Norway hoping to impress his under-20 manager enough to get recommended for a call-up into Norway's senior team, just in time for the European Championships. He had half a chance, too - national teams sometimes brought a talented young player to a tournament to give them the experience of being in that particular kind of pressure cooker environment.

Vini was another under-21 player who was away, but we had quite a few call-ups for various senior squads: Cole (Ireland), Lewis (Northern Ireland), Roddy (Wales), Youngster (Ghana), Cheb (Algeria), and Bark (Jamaica). Haley Goodhew remained the only Chester player who had been called up by any England team at any level. Highly dubious decision-making, there.

Our Ffamous Five Welsh girls were in the Vale of Glamorgan with the Welsh under-19s, while Meredith Ann had flown to Colombia to play for the senior team, which was great for her development but I did worry about how many air miles she would accrue over the next decade.

A coffee machine hissed, a chair was dragged across the floor, and someone dropped a knife. I scanned the canteen and saw that Ian Swan, former first-choice goalie, now very much the backup, was on his own, so I took the chance to pick his brains. I sat next to him on the bench, but sat sideways, facing him to show I wouldn't be there for long. "Hey, mate."

"Hi, boss. You good?"

"Me? Can't complain." In fact, I could complain. I could complain like a fucking champion and had spent most of the weekend doing just that, to poor Emma, about how stupid it was that everyone was getting hyped about promotion. Disappointment was inevitable! And people would blame me for their disappointment! Instead of ending the season on cloud nine because we had set new records in terms of league positions and cup runs, things would end under a cloud.

"When's the wedding?"

"I dunno. The future. The distant future."

"How many days?"

"68 days."

He smiled as though he had scored a point. "It'll be fine."

"Of course it will be fine. I just have to stand there while people chat a lot of shit. I do that on a daily basis. Okay, listen, before the other goalies come and interrupt... Have you thought about it?"

I had been pimping Swanny to various other clubs and we'd received two decent offers. Not spectacular, but decent. The first was from Swansea City. I liked the idea of Swanny playing for Swansea, and their average CA was 125. Swanny's was 127, so he would fit right in. The second offer was from Sheffield Wednesday, who were riding high at the top of League One and were looking to strengthen so they could survive in the Championship next season. There was a risk that they would have a terrible season and go straight back down, but Swanny was more likely to play every league game for Wednesday than he was for Swansea.

He wiped his lips with a napkin. "What would you do?"

"I'd probably do Wednesday. They're upwardly mobile, trying to get the good times back, and I'd expect to be the first choice across my whole contract."

"You wouldn't worry about relegation?"

"Not with me in goal," I said, brushing an imaginary crumb off my arm.

"I decided on Swansea."

"Mint. Some lovely places down there. The Welsh accent's top."

"Even when they're shouting abuse at you?"

"At me?"

"Like on Saturday, for example."

"The Welsh have a lyrical quality, though. Musical." I sang, "Fuck off back to Man-chest-er! Lovely."

Ian pulled a face I couldn't read. "Erm, I wanted to know what you would say if I chose the opposite of what you'd do, but actually I came to the same conclusion. Sheffield Wednesday's my first choice. I know it's a little bit less money for Chester."

I shrugged. "That's fine. I don't always get to give players a choice of where they go next." Swansea had offered 1.4 million, whereas Wednesday's bid was 1.3. Either deal represented a substantial profit, since we had only paid 200,000 for him. He, of course, would at least double his wages. Win-win.

Swanny's gaze rested on the serving area, where Owen Elmham, Sticky, and Rainman were loading their plates. "What are you going to do? To replace me, like?"

"Owen will be the starter and I'll recall Sticky. He'll be the backup."

"He's really enjoying himself at Saltney. Playing in Europe and all that."

"I know but we need him. Probably. I'm going to loan Banksy out again, and for our third, I'll see what's out there. Could be another Owen type who has some experience of the big time but you know me - in the end it's gonna be someone young, high ceiling, someone who needs a bit of coaching and a bit of first-team action. He'll be the third-choice goalie and he'll get minutes where poss. That's the vague plan right now but it could change."

Swanny grinned. "When we go up, you mean. New league, new plan."

My brain sent out a rogue instruction to perform an eye roll - I think I intercepted it in time. "Sure."

I pushed myself from the bench. "Max," said Ian. He looked around the canteen. "It's been great."

I laid a hand on his shoulder. "We've got 7 league games, the Cheshire Cup final, and up to three playoff games. You've still got a job to do here. This isn't over."

"No, I know."

I gave him a little shake. "Get sentimental later, yeah? This season could come down to goal difference. Could come down to one fingertip save from you after Owen gets himself sent off. And I'm gonna use you away to Derby to keep your eye in."

His face lit up. "Oh! I thought I was done for the season. Barring injury or suspension."

The truth was that Swanny had been on a decent run of form until the moment I put Owen back in the team, and I hadn't wanted to use Ian again while I was hawking him around. One terrible performance could stop clubs from bidding on him. Assuming we got the paperwork with his new club signed quickly, there would no longer be any risk. "You know I don't like having a cold reserve goalie - it gives me stress. We've got three league games, then Derby, then three more league games. Halfway through is the perfect time for you to get 90 minutes. Then if you're needed in the playoffs, I know you're gonna be on the ball." I shook my head. "It's actually genius planning but do I get any credit for that? No. All I get is fuck off back to England you Manc twat in a variety of regional accents."

"Must be hard being you."

"It's murder."

I took a few steps away and texted Brooke.

Do you want a coffee?

No-one was on serving duty. The rule was that the person who played or trained the shittest the day before should be on hand to make coffees for everyone, but the women had beat Notts Forest in the league comfortably enough.

The women only had four league games left, including one against the league leaders Birmingham City. Birmingham were stumbling towards the finish line - their first goals in matches were coming later and later. The pressure was getting to them because they knew that even one draw would put the title in Chester's hands. Still, they were getting the job done - just about - and it looked very much like we would face a playoff against the team that finished bottom of the WSL. That wasn't an intimidating prospect. With Victoria Rose hitting CA 100 in the past week, we had eight players on triple digits. Eight! And Kisi was on CA 97, though I had dropped her against Forest, thinking that seeing other people taking her place in the team might be the kick up the arse she needed to get out of her post-Liverpool depression.

Amy Shone came up to me. "Boss, is it true Angel's gone to Italy?"

"Yeah," I said. Amy was a 17-year-old D RC who I had converted from a winger. This season she had improved from CA 44 to 66 without even getting much game time in the league - it was a pity she had a cap of 105.

She was from the Dani Smith-Smithe school of speaking her mind. "I think that's a mistake. Angel's one of our best players and she scores goals and she was kind to me when I started."

"Noted."

She eyed me. "You're not going to change your mind."

"No."

She considered that. "You're stubborn."

"I'm right."

My phone buzzed.

No thanks!

"I've got a meeting, Amy."

"Who with?"

I smiled. "Do you need to know the answer in order to train well this morning?"

She took the question at face value. "It might help."

"I'm willing to risk it. Off you pop." She turned to go, but I said, "Actually, could you make me a coffee, please?"

She moved into the barista area. "This is a very strange rule that you created. Free coffee for everyone but you have to ask someone else to press the button for you."

"It's not strange," I said. "We're talking, aren't we? That's a nice thing to happen at a football club. And you get to do something nice for me which I will remember when it's time to extend your deal." I let my face go hard and spoke in a deep, dark voice. "Or not."

My tone didn't affect her in the slightest. She said, "Which button do you want me to press?" She listened and obeyed. Coffee emerged, which she handed to me. "Oh, wait." She took the coffee back, which was so unexpected I couldn't stop her. She took a disposable cup and a marker pen. "Name?"

"Max," I said.

"Max," she said, writing. She poured the coffee into this paper cup, popped on a lid, and handed it to me.

The cup said Maks, which made me laugh. "Hilarious, Amy."

"Angel taught me that it's funny when coffee shops write names wrong. Angel. A-N-G-E-L. In case that piece of information helps you to undo the mistake you're making."

"What did she write on your cup? I don't see how she could spell Amy wrong in a funny way."

"She wrote Hey Me."

"And that's the problem in a nutshell. Bye."

"Enjoy your mystery meeting! The one I'll be wondering about during training instead of concentrating."

"That's such a feeble attempt to get me to spill the beans," I said. I sipped the coffee. "But you do press that button amazingly well. I'm meeting Brooke."

"Ah. To apologise for Angelling her boyfriend."

"I'm not Angelling her boyfriend, I'm Zaching him."

***

XP balance: 8,866

I sipped my coffee as I strolled through the canteen. I was over halfway to being able to afford the next tactics perk, Inverted Fullbacks, and I was planning to get to as many matches during the next two weeks as humanly poss. Wales, England, England and Scotland under-21s. I probably wouldn't find time to go to an Ireland match, but I would try to invite myself to one of their training sessions in the build-up to the Euros.

The goal was to stuff myself full of XP, of course, but also to replenish the squad. Henri had once warned me never to prune more than 30% of a tree in one year, which seemed like good advice for a football team, too, but I was skirting close to those kinds of levels. We had about 30 first-team players, all told, and it seemed likely that 10 would leave in the summer, but some of their replacements were bursting with Chester DNA. Sticky, Adam Summerhays, and Alfie Clitheroe would return from loans. Tony Herbert and Lucas Cook, who we would sign from Tranmere, had been to Bumpers a few times and were being invited to some team nights out. They wouldn't be complete strangers at the start of the next season.

You might be thinking about the number 10 you just heard. 10 players were leaving?

Count 'em.

Christian Fierce and Fitzroy Hall. Wallace Wells. Cheb and Emiliano. 'Rainman' Owen Travis was PA 99 and fast approaching his cap; I hadn't arranged a transfer for him, but it was going to happen this summer.

Then I had four deals slow-cooking.

• Ian Swan to Sheffield Wednesday for 1.3 million.
• Andrew Harrison to Stoke for 1.3 million.
• Zach Green to Middlesbrough for 3.3 million.
• Joel Reid to Hull City for 3.5 million.

By my calculations that would bring in 9.4 million. So how much would I have in my transfer kitty this summer?

We would get fees for some of our youth team players, the ones who were 18 and wouldn't fit into my plans long-term. Ideally, I would be able to convince a few to join West Didsbury in the National League (tier 5). Chester would get their money back and West would get a core of Youth Cup winners. The lads would get plenty of first-team minutes and instant promotion to League Two. Win-win-win.

There would be fees, too, for Chas and Rainman. I harboured hopes of getting them to West, but that would be beneath their level, truth be told. Wherever they ended up, there was no need to squeeze the pips on those deals.

All told, I would be surprised if the sales of youngsters didn't bring in another three or four hundred thousand.

Add it all to my war chest of 12.25 million and I would have something like 22 million pounds to spend in the summer.

Decent.

Ah, but wait! When we lost the playoff final, we would get all the ticket money. 2 million quid extra!

24 million pounds to spend.

I could imagine using a couple of mill to buy more 17-year-old prospects and sending a couple of mill towards the women's team. Instant glory on those two fronts. If the men's first team loaned a centre back and brought in a goalie discarded by a Premier League club, I would still have 18 to 20 million quid in the bank. Three midfielders at six mill a pop?

"What are you smirking at?" Brooke was at her desk, shuffling through papers.

"That's just the new supplements kicking in. B12 so I can be my best." I leaned over to see what she was looking at. It was a piece of software that tracked mentions of keywords across the internet and assigned them a sentiment weighting. The tool allowed Brooke to monitor how often Chester were being talked about, and whether the coverage was positive or negative. "How's it looking?" I said, as I chose one of the chairs on the visitor's side of her desk.

"Stellar," she said. "Wrexham draw a lot of coverage and we piggy-backed on it in style. Potential sponsorship partners we have approached in the past have been returning our calls, all of a sudden. We dominated soccer keywords until the Premier League's 3 p.m. kick-offs, which is unprecedented. The clips of the post-match celebrations went like gangbusters." Brooke tapped on her keyboard and turned her screen to face me. "Sandra Lane's numbers are sky-high. She's more liked than you."

"Cool," I said. It made sense. There were people who liked me, but also a lot of people who didn't. I was a politician who looked after his base and annoyed other groups. Sandra wasn't on the pitch winding up the opposition and she rarely used the media to dig out rival clubs. To the outside world, she was friendly, competent, and unthreatening. "I have to admit I was frustrated by the celebrations being posted. It's really not helpful, Brooke."

She seemed surprised. "Oh? Why?"

I waved a hand vaguely. "Expectation management. I don't want people talking about us going up."

"That's what happens when you beat a playoff rival so comprehensively."

I tutted. "We got battered by Coventry! We'll get battered by Crystal Palace! Actually, that's good timing, isn't it? That will douse a lot of fires." I pulled at my bottom lip. If I put out our best eleven against Palace, we could sneak a draw, which would help us catch Luton in 4th place. I probably wouldn't, though. It made more sense to bin Palace off and go hard against Norwich, because the following two games were straightforward. 9 points from 12 would be amazing, but there was a slight risk that Palace could fuck up our goal difference. "I'll see how we're looking when everyone's back from the break," I said, as though Brooke were privy to my entire thought process. "I will have to do a little extra work on everyone's expectations, I suppose. So the overall reaction to Saturday was good, even though I was dicking around?"

"It's the usual mix of people who think you're a clown and those who think those stunts are funny so long as you're good enough to back them up. Our sponsors are delighted, especially BoshCard, because their logo was visible in most of the pics of you in your Viking helmet. I wish you had told me you were going to do that - we could have posted a link to the pattern."

"Affiliate marketing?" I said. "Ew."

"It's money you can spend on players, Max."

I leaned back, hands behind my head. Brooke and I had a low-level competition going on to see which of us could make the most money for the club. "I just heard. We should be able to get Ian Swan done this week."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Sheffield Wednesday. Joel and Andrew are getting close. I'm gonna have a big war chest, so there's no need to get involved in tawdry little schemes. Um... Are you going to visit Middlesbrough soon? Oh, shit, Dazza's away, isn't he?"

Brooke smiled. "He is, but fortunately Boro have other employees."

"They do?"

"They do. We're gonna go up and take the tour. Meet some of the fellas behind the scenes."

I nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic, even though that's how I felt.

Selling players like Christian, Fitzroy Hall, Andrew, and Rainman made total sense because when the summer window closed, the lowest PA in my squad would be Bark's 130. Selling Joel and Zach was not absolutely ideal right now - they were key players. Still, I would be relieved when the last page of the last contract was signed because the uncertainty gave me low-level stress and because I would use their fees to sign guys with higher ceilings. The thought was intoxicating, so I pounded it down and tried to look sombre and professional.

Brooke said, "What are your plans for the international break?"

"I can't do anything dangerous," I said. "Briggy's gone to Italy with Angel. They're visiting Inter Milan's women's team, plus some sponsors. Looking at potential places to live. The Brig's busy with his new football club. And Dylan isn't speaking to me."

Brooke laughed. "Oh no."

"Wrexham fans are such babies," I said. "It's not my fault his team let him down."

"Not even slightly," agreed Brooke.

"I'm gonna be scouting national teams, mostly, but there's a big group of Brazilians coming over. All the mums! The Big Mama House will be full at last. And Chelli, REM's South American agent, is bringing five guys from small clubs in the region. Five guys that DOVE flagged as having enormous potential. If the software is working, it's gonna be a gamechanger. And he's invited Breno. You don't remember him?"

"I don't think so."

"He's 14 and he's a brat. He's a left-footed flair player. He does that move where he surfs over a football."

Brooke's face lit up. "Him? He's fun! He's coming here?"

"Yeah. He's gonna train with our kids and the ones from Saltney who aren't doing Wales things. Breno versus Steven Watson will be interesting, for sure.

"What else? When I'm down in Glamorgan I'll hang out with Henri for a couple of days. I'm worried he's got some stupid idea for a stag party so my plan is to have a beer with him and then say, bosh, that was it, that was the stag do."

Brooke tilted her head. "I thought you would be all over a bachelor party."

"No. Hate them. Totally moronic. Getting blasted, doing stupid stunts, being loud and obnoxious. The thing with Henri is that he should hate such nights out but I'm pretty sure he'll go full English on it, really lean into the depravity. The French love mime and slapstick, don't they? Crude humour works well over there. So he'll enjoy it on the level it's intended to be enjoyed, but he'll also be sneering at us from a great height. Oh, another beer? How simple you are." I held my palms up in the universal 'stop' sign. "Nope. Not letting him arrange anything of the sort. Emma's stressed off her head and she doesn't need to worry that on the morning of the wedding I'll be in Prestatyn, naked, handcuffed to a lamp post. And by the way, I don't need that stress, either. I'm sure Henri's plotting to surprise me and I'm dedicating an annoying amount of mental run-time to working out how I can double-cross him." I hadn't planned to talk about myself the whole time. "When are you getting married? It feels like the engagement was ages ago."

She looked down at her ring. "It's hard to make plans. With our careers, it has to be the summer, but this one we'll be moving home and I might be dealing with our ascent to the Premier League. If we don't promote this summer, it'll be the next one, right?"

They had to postpone their wedding for three years because I was selling Zach? Ouch. I felt a bit shit. "Go now. Or before the end of the season. We can manage without Zach for a month. Ah, shit, you need to plan it, don't you?"

Brooke shrugged. "Not really. We can't have a big event because the more people we tell, the greater the chance my father will find out and he'll turn up uninvited. When we do it, it'll be short notice. Oh, and I cooked up a scam worthy of Max Best."

"Tell me!"

"I'm gonna invite Dallas, my sister, to stay with me near Zach's family home for a week. Dallas will have to tell my father, who will suspect that the wedding might happen during that week."

"He'll have his choppers and superyachts standing by."

Brooke took a beat before saying, "Sure. A couple of days before the end of our stay, I'll start packing my bags. But the day of our supposed departure will be the day of the wedding!"

"Throw them off the scent. Love it. Early in the trip, you could throw in a fake near-break-up, too. Have a blazing row in the Texan version of Nando's, filmed by someone who sends it to your brother."

"Yeah, I'm not gonna do that."

"Kay." I clapped my hands. "All right, so let's get to the topic of the meeting."

"This meeting has a topic?"

"Of course it does. You think I just want to ramble about how I'm making more money for the club than you, or how I'm annoyed at my best friend for something he hasn't done yet, or how it doesn't bother me that Sandra's more popular - "

"Wait, what?"

"The topic of this meeting," I said, grandly, "is to have a preliminary discussion about our budget in the exceedingly unlikely case we do get promoted to the Prem."

Time froze. "Really?"

"Yes, please."

Brooke eyed me. I had always refused to even discuss the possibility of going up. "I'll get the folder?"

"Yes, please."

She went to a shelf and took down a white ring-bind folder, then came back to her chair. She eyed me again. "I'll summarise my ideas?"

"Yes, please."

She laid down the folder, wrenched the metal clasps open, and flicked through the first few sheets. "For me, the starting point is, what do we do about the PetPride?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Hear me out. We have committed to demo the West Stand after the final match of the season, which if we make it to the playoffs would either be the 6th or 13th of May."

"Plan for the 13th. We're going to finish 4th, which means the first leg will be away, second leg home."

"Okay, so Monday 15th, the bulldozers get to work. It's a much bigger project than the end stands, so even if the superstructure goes up quickly, it'll take most of the season to get it online and up to safety standards. But that's Championship thinking."

The phrase 'Championship thinking' had an incredible effect. Brooke was challenging me, wasn't she? If you're in the big time, you've got to think big. The opposite of big is small and no man wants to admit to being small. My brain sped up, trying to predict what she was about to say. "You want to build it bigger? Supersize it?"

"No. You have an innate sense of how big the stadium should be. 20,000 is still the end goal. I don't want to go bigger, but faster. Hire extra crews for every stage of the process. Get it done fast." She held up fingers one by one until she had extended three. "In business, you can do things fast, good, or cheap, and in every project you can choose two. So far, we have done things good and cheap, which means slow. If we go to the Premier League we'll have an extra hundred million pounds in broadcast revenues. With that, we can change our way of working to good and fast. Instead of spending 15 million, we spend 20 and complete months earlier."

I rubbed my head. "If we get promoted this summer, I mean, Christ, it would be a sporting disaster. But I'd need every penny to have a chance of putting together a coherent squad. 5 million to do the stadium faster? I mean... What's the point?" She was smiling; I smiled back. "You've worked this out. Educate me."

"Think about how much we will earn per match with a completely finished PetPride stand versus a building site. There are 19 home matches in the Premier League - what if the stand is open for 8 or 9 of those instead of only 3 or 4?" She used her fingers as bullet points. "One, ticket sales. Six thousand times twenty pounds - I'm not even gonna bellyache about how ridiculously low that number is - is 120,000 pounds per match. Two, catering and merch. We expect the PetPride to generate more revenue per cust... per fan than the other new stands. If we can extract a modest 15 pounds per head, that's an extra 90 grand.

"Three, the hospitality suites. Revenues will depend on the opponent, but those amounts could be significant. Four, sponsor bonuses. Self-explanatory. Five, pitch-side advertising. With large, clean, crisp advertising boards displaying ads to hundreds of millions around the world, we will clean up. It's not only the domestic market. Thanks to technology, those watching broadcasts overseas will see different ads to the ones we show inside the stadium. That's free money for us.

"Six, miscellaneous marketing opportunities. Seven, event hire in the new rooms. Eight, a little extra revenue from the dental clinic, tattoo parlour, and whatever else you tell us we need to have."

"Huh," I said.

"I think we will at least break even," said Brooke. "But even if we fall short, there are intangibles." She reset her fingers and counted up again. "One, a feeling of pride and accomplishment. We have a brand new stand and the Deva stops feeling small-time. Two, any boxes that are unused for a particular match can be loaned to a player. They can invite their friends and have a party. Both those things will help with player recruitment and retention. Three, the visuals of the stand rising from the ground, with tangible progress made between every home match, will help with our marketing. It's a story, isn't it? Everyone in Chester knows our story but it has barely cut through to the wider footballing world. That story is why we'll make up any shortfall in the following seasons. Let's say we spend five million to hurry it up but only get four million back. I can almost guarantee we'll make that million in the next sponsorship deal we sign."

Think big. Think Prem. My mind was racing. Go big or go home! "I have found our conversation persuasive and intellectually stimulating."

"Is that from a movie?"

"Yeah. The Brutalist. It's about an architect who looks at your options - what was it, good, fast, cheap? - and he chooses none of the above. His project is shit, slow, ruinously expensive. I wasn't joking about being persuaded. I'm sold. I love it. If we go up, make those calls right away. Is it even worth thinking about speeding up for a second Championship season?"

She tapped the folder. "I already did; the sums don't add up. Championship pace for a Championship team. There's one thing I should say. In order to have the PetPride be the stand that TV viewers see, we need to lose some areas of the main stand in order to fit the cameras and their operators. We would need to turf out some fans and I know that's a sensitive topic."

"It is but I think in this case they'd understand. If it happens, I'll phone everyone affected. Actually, we can do better than that. Let's get them together in one of our next home matches and we'll tell them that in case we go up, this might happen. As long as we're up front and honest, it'll be all right. Oh, but hang on. You want to put the cameras in the stand? Why not on the roof?"

"Pardon me?"

"The height of our roof is like halfway up a big ground, isn't it? Stick the cameras on the roof and we don't have to move anyone."

Brooke hadn't considered that. "Interesting. I'll talk to someone from DigiWorld to see how viable that is."

"Maybe we should talk to the fans who might be affected even if they don't have to move - it'll be good for our engagement score and it'll build excitement."

"I thought we don't want that."

It was so hard to navigate this season! "I want to have my cake and eat it."

Brooke made a note, then turned a page in her folder. "Back to my projection. I made a few assumptions about the current squad. In my simplistic analysis, we doubled everyone's wages, hired more coaches and physios, for an initial cost of ten million pounds. We would need to hire back office and marketing staff to make the most out of our appearance in the big time. Five million pounds. It would take another five million to prepare the Deva for Premier League requirements, such as the cabling and the outside broadcast units, improved power supplies, and so on. We need to establish an academy, so that's an instant five to ten million."

My eyebrows rose. "I think we could do it cheaper."

Brooke sighed. "I think you had better tell me your plan because it sounds like it's going to be batshit crazy."

I didn't take her doubts personally. "If you have an academy, you have to let every other academy come and look at your players, and you have very little in the way of defence against the predators who turn up. So my plan is we create an academy, tick all the boxes we have to tick, but the twenty players we register per age group are bright young people, not footballers. We'll basically create a mini grammar school. Hogwarts in Chester and apart from being academically gifted, the only requirement is that you're shit at football. The parasites from other clubs will come and watch the most dogshit players in the entire country. Also, the other academies will be forced to play us, which will be a gigantic waste of time. Meanwhile, our best prospects will be in our C team or whatever we call it, far away from the FA's disgusting Elite Player Performance Plan."

"Max, this is batshit crazy."

"It's not. This is the plan. This is what we're doing. We'll use the Premier League's money to give an amazing education to a small number of Cestrians. I've got a Business Studies and English teacher lined up. Spanish teacher, too. It'll take ten minutes to flesh out the staff, and yeah, we'll build the classrooms as part of the Phase Three extension. If the FA and Premier League change their crappy rules, we'll take it more seriously, but until then, our academy will be an academy, not a meat-grinder for footballers. Okay?"

"No, it's not okay."

"It is okay. There is no rule that our academy players have to be good. Also, in the first season, our school will be run out of the portable cabins you wouldn't let me donate to small Welsh football clubs, so in a way this whole idea is your fault."

"Max."

"Pencil in ten mill for the academy, its pitches, and the dome. We've already doubled everyone's salaries. What's left?"

Brooke wasn't happy about my academy plans, but she had the numbers down pat. "Something in the region of 70 million. Plus your war chest."

"70 plus 22 makes 92 million," I said, because we wouldn't get the 2 million from the playoff final - that went to the losing team. "92 mill. It sounds like a lot but it would get eaten up fast. If I sign a cast-off squad player from a relegated club, even that's 10 million for his transfer fee and at least 3 million in wages for one year. MD wouldn't make me budget for the whole of his contract, would he?"

"No, because of the parachute payments. If everyone gets a step-down relegation clause in their contracts, we will be able to manage."

I looked up at the ceiling. Getting players to agree to a colossal pay cut in the event of relegation was going to be a tough sell, given that relegation was an absolute certainty. "Good cheap fast. We would need players who were good, fast. Ready to compete in the Prem on day one. Those players are expensive. We can get megatalents and misfits for cheap as long as we're willing to spend years training them up. That doesn't help us in the Prem." I got up and walked around Brooke's office. She had a few mementos, a few photos, but overall it was quite bare.

"Would it really be so bleak to go up? You can do a lot with 92 million pounds, Max."

"Well," I said, trying not to sound overly defeatist. "At the start of September, we will have precisely zero players who are Premier League ready. Zero. In my projection, the best will be Owen Elmham." Even he would be around CA 144, all being well. Youngster would be about 140, with Wibbers 3 points behind. They would grow into the season, of course, but Wibbers wasn't going to score 20 goals and keep us safe. "So what do we do, buy eleven players? That's bonkers."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Other clubs do it, don't they?"

"Yeah, but most of the time it's a disaster and anyway, it doesn't fit my style. This group are talented enough to survive and thrive, they just need a little more seasoning. It's called seasoning because it takes another season. Heh. I like your idea of just doubling everyone's wages but do you know who wouldn't get double?"

"You're gonna say Zach or someone you've got beef with."

"Me. I'm not getting double; I'm gonna 5x my wages. First, I deserve it. Second, we'll need to pay in the region of 40 to 50 grand a week just to get rejects from other Premier League clubs so I need about that much. Third, if we hit the Prem with such an undercooked squad I'm going to sign a three-year contract which pays out in full when I'm sacked. That'll be..."

"7.8 million," she said.

"Call it 7.7 for poetic reasons. You'll need to budget for that because I will be sacked and I'll need the money because I'll never work again. And when I'm gone you'll need to build a scouting team and pay for external data and all sorts." I gripped my hair and tugged. "It's crazy-making! Why isn't it obvious to everyone in the world what a nightmare scenario this is?"

I tried to calm myself down with some slow breathing and the thought that Briggy had some good news for me vis-à-vis the shares in Temps Perdu. She wanted to tell me to my face, which made it sound awesome. Half a million in shares? A million? Let's go!

"I mean," I said, slowly, carefully, "we could do what Luton did. They got to the Prem but didn't spend much of their money. Instead, they used it to build their new stadium, the Power Court. That's coming online next season and it's going to turbocharge what Luton can achieve. If we did things the Luton way, we could invest in every area of the club. The main stand, new facilities, more rental pitches. Build build build so that when we get back to the Prem a second time, we stay there." I felt a tiny surge of fury that I was once again trying to square a circle. "No, going up and down again is not an option. It would fuck up Wibbers and Youngster."

"How do you mean?"

"Think in Soccer Supremo terms. Players are rated out of 200. Wibbers is something like 130 now, moving towards 140. You need to be 150 to survive in the Prem, so you get the idea that it would be borderline impossible even if we had outrageous luck in every match. By the end of the relegation season, Wibbers is 155. At that level, he can't go back down to the Championship with us - that would be harmful to his development. So we sell him for 40 million. Bam - we've just lost 60 million quid, Brooke. Copy paste for Youngster."

"I see."

"And think of it the other way. We lose the playoff final. Next season, Wibbers crushes the Championship on his way to the same rating of 155. With another burst of Champions League football, I think that's feasible. Okay so we're in the Prem with a team that can compete, and Wibbers can continue to develop in a Chester shirt. In three years, we sell him for eight figures."

"Nine figures, if you mean a hundred million."

"You sure?" I checked on my fingers. "Nine confirmed! That's Wibbers, and the same for Youngster." I turned my palm face down and lifted it up in stages. "We need a controlled ascent because one relegation will ruin us. Youngsters and Wibberses don't grow on trees." I rested my hand on my lap but then raised it again, making the stop sign. "Hang on, I've just had an idea. Prem thinking for a Prem club. Build the stadium faster, right? Can I get the lads to improve faster by throwing money at the problem?"

"How would that work?"

I paced around the room. "When Bumpers was a total wreck, we hired the Welsh national team HQ for a bit, didn't we? Bumpers is good enough for a slow build across a season but it isn't elite. I'd send some guys to... Where would I send them? Bayern Munich? I'd pay Bayern a million quid to let ten of my guys train there in pre-season. Shit, if they are off touring Asia, why would they mind? It's free money. I'd hire top coaches, top fitness dudes. One squad's in Munich, one squad's in the Vale in Wales, one's in... Oh! In Gibraltar! At Mateo's new place."

"Why split them up?"

"To give them more individual attention. We can hire elite German coaches for Bayern, the best from Wales, and so on. Small groups of players, tons of detail. Tailored by master tailors.

"And potentially we'd combine their special training programme with playing in the Champions League qualifiers. Hmm. How much could I supercharge that whole process? I'm not sure but I know one thing, I'd rather throw that money at our players instead of delivering wheelbarrows full of cash to whatever mercenaries would come to us for a paycheque, right? What's the best training programme in the world? Would it be for an astronaut? I'd pack Youngster off to..."

"To space?"

I laughed. "If that's what it takes. I was trying to think where NASA train their dudes. Cape something, isn't it?"

Since I was still striding around, Brooke stood and moved to the other side of her desk. "I'm glad I've given you something to think about, but tell me for real. Why did you choose today to discuss something you've been putting off?"

I shrugged. "It's just what happens when you beat a playoff rival so comprehensively." I finished that statement with a cheeky grin, but it had no effect.

"And the real reason?"

I shrugged again and pretended to be really interested in something on the wall. "I was thinking that maybe it was rude that you had done all this work and I wouldn't even look at it."

"It was rude but that never stopped you before. Fess up. What got into you?"

The wall was getting more fascinating by the second. I peered at it. "My focus has been on the football. Beating Wrexham was big for the fans and beating Forest was vital for the women's team. Now there's a break. Now I have time to breathe and to take a high-level view of the current sitch."

Brooke followed my progress as I went even farther back into the room. "Is this some kind of apology for wanting to sell Zach?"

I made a scoffing noise. "What? That's crazy."

"I know. Is it?"

I shook my head. "No. I can't apologise for doing the right thing. It's right for Chester and it's right for Zach's career."

"But?"

I shuffled a couple of inches closer to her. "I'm sorry, okay? I feel like shit when I think about you and the dogs having to move and seeing less of Zach. And the wedding, Christ, I hadn't even thought how it would affect that. I just..." I rolled my hand over as if trying to pump more words out. That didn't work well, so I changed the topic. "I'm glad I spoke to you because you've given me a few great ideas. Prem thinking for a Prem club. If we do somehow go up despite all the obstacles in our way, we'll need bold thinking. And fast good cheap is an interesting way to frame things. I'm comfortable operating in good plus cheap, but there will be a time when I need to change that."

"There are outliers, Max. Zach was fast, good, and cheap."

"No-one would ever describe Zach as fast," I said.

Brooke's eyelids fluttered, which was something like an eye roll. "He was in the first eleven as soon as you signed him."

"No, it took him a minute. At first he was behind Steve Alton, remember, but he got closer and then he overtook Steve and never looked back. Zach was the classic Chester signing, in fact. Good, cheap, but needs time to ease into the team. That has been working out great for us but I'm not sure how viable it's going to be in the future." I clapped my hands. "The future's in the future. I need to get my ankle looked at, and I'm going to hop in the hydrotherapy room and all that."

Brooke eyed my foot. "How bad is it?"

I opened my mouth fully intending to tell her the truth, but it suddenly struck me that if I hammed it up, a sore ankle that suddenly flared up could be a great reason to miss out on the playoff final. "It's a bit mangled, tbh. Let's see what the medics say."

"Max..."

I shot her a guilty look. Could she see straight through me? Sometimes it felt that way. "Yes?"

"I'm rooting for us to get promoted." She looked down. "I don't want Chester to play Middlesbrough next season." That was understandable; how could she cheer against her fiancé? She went on. "It'll be hard to compete, I know."

"Try impossible."

She smiled. "You do impossible things all the time. You brought a non-league player to the cusp of the US Men's National Team. You caused a worldwide spike in sales of a knitted video-game inspired helmet, not to mention the detachable beard from the same designer. And most of all, you made a billionaire Texan who was born on a superyacht and only travels by helicopter give two hoots about a hard-to-spell town in the North East of England."

I have to admit, I was grinning from ear to ear. "Only one of those things was me, but I'll take it." I hobbled towards the door of Brooke's office. "Hey, Brooke?" I asked, as I paused in the doorway.

"Yeah?"

"We're making a billion-dollar company." I thought she would love that, but all I got in response was a frown. "What?" I said.

"Only a billion? The Dallas Cowboys are worth fifteen."

"You want to beat the Cowboys?"

She swayed back to her desk, and not for the first time I thought about how lucky Zach was. She eased into her chair and gave the morning her brightest smile. "Who doesn't?"

I slunk out into the corridor, still pretending to be feeble, then skipped down the stairs three at a time.

***

Tuesday, March 21

Zach trained with the group, then went to Middlesbrough with Brooke to have a proper look around the facilities.

I also took part in training (with my ankle comically strapped up, though no-one else found it funny), then drove south to spend a couple of days with the Welsh national team.

My Dragonborn stunts hadn't bothered anyone who wasn't a Wrexham fan, which was a relief. Alongside a few people from my UEFA Pro course, I spent some time monitoring training at the various age groups and concluded that it was all pretty great. The Welsh FA had invested a lot in their coaching setup and my boy Llewellyn Kendrick (Well In) in particular was killing it. His sessions were tough and varied, while the manager, Patrick David, was on hand to shout, to cajole, to put an arm around a shoulder. Put the football first, but also put the human first. It was exemplary.

The main issue I saw was that based on training, Patrick David clearly intended for Neco Price, the goalscoring winger, to be a key player for the team. That was a mistake. Price was fast and had great Finishing and Off the Ball Attributes but apart from that he was terrible at football. He contributed nothing defensively and nothing in terms of progressing a ball up the pitch. For most of a match, Price was a passenger and a small team like Wales couldn't afford passengers. Price needed to start matches on the bench and come on in the last 15 or 20 minutes when the opposition was tired and their structure was starting to crumble. That's when Neco turned into a pearl beyond price.

Over lunch on the second day, I discussed the upcoming Euro 28 tournament with Patrick David, Well In, and a couple of bigwigs from the WFA. The groups and the draw meant it was possible Wales would play England in the quarter-finals. I was desperate for that match to happen, but the Welsh lot were pessimistic about their chances of topping Group B. I found their attitude frustrating and told them so.

Gwen said, "Max, wind your neck in! We're in the same group as Portugal, Romania, and Slovakia. No way are we finishing top."

"Listen to me, you clowns," I suggested, diplomatically. "We're gonna win all three of those matches. Portugal are the best in the world at playing six-yard-passes and rolling around clutching their ankles. So the fuck what? We will slap them up. Romania have zero stars. Slovakia recently played a friendly against a League Two side in the North West of England. What a joke! This group is there for the taking. You guys need to get your head around the fact that you're gonna win that group. 9 points from 9. Anything less and there should be mass resignations before the round of 16. I know one elite manager who will happily take over mid-tournament."

Well In was somehow able to crack my elaborate code. "Won't you be on your honeymoon?"

I jabbed the table. "No. I've got a clause in my contract with Emma that states that I'm free to end the honeymoon to take over the Wales job if it is deemed that the guys at the top are too fuckwitted to realise that smashing the first four games is a piece of piss. If you don't get 9 points from 9 in the group stage I'm gonna fly out, demand to be put in charge, win the round of 16, knock England out in the quarters, then hand the reins back to Patrick for the semis."

I jabbed the table a few more times.

"England is a nation that's a fraction of a fracture. Our entire national identity is about beating the Nazis, but now we can't even agree that a Nazi shouldn't be the Prime Minister. It's a fucked-up, divided mess with an amoral, amorphous non-entity in charge of its football team. Wales can humiliate England at Wembley Stadium. I would say it is your duty to do it. Half of England's players are so full of themselves, so in love with their own social media accounts, they don't even know where Wales is.

"They won't prepare, won't get in the right headspace for a battle, won't listen when the dipshit manager - who they don't like - tells them to be wary when Neco Price comes off the bench. They won't be ready, mentally or physically. They'll spend the days before the match thinking about what they'll post on their socials, what celebrations they'll do, which brands they'll tag. We'll hit them like a fucking hurricane. It'll be fucking glorious! Don't lie back - think of England!"

Five minutes later, Patrick David, eyes shining, vowed to turn Neco Price into an impact sub.

That evening, Wales beat Kazakhstan in an ill-tempered friendly that earned me an in-no-way worrying 666 XP. Neco Price came off the bench to score the only goal. Henri was in the executive box alongside me, and he jumped into my arms. I told him that hug constituted our stag party; he didn't speak to me for half an hour.

***

Thursday, March 23

Wibbers wasn't at training because he was down in Oxfordshire buying a house for his parents.

Haley Goodhew texted me that the England manager had hinted that Haley would make her debut in one of the next two friendlies.

Meredith sent a rambling, giddy voicemail that seemed to say she had won a penalty-taking competition across the entire Colombia squad.

Brooke and Zach told me that they were all-in on Middlesbrough.

Emma's best friend Gemma asked me if Andrew Harrison, her boyfriend, could get a better offer than Stoke City. I said it was unlikely, but if he played his heart out for two years, his next contract would be better.

Pascal hit CA 132 - agonisingly close to his cap.

***

Friday, March 24

We didn't have a full house at training, but I had a full house at the Big Mama House. The day before, literally millions of Brazilians had arrived on a 500-seater Airbus A380 from Sao Paulo.

The parents of Gabriel, Tomzilla, Nasa, and Tockers had gone straight to their new home - the Big Mama House in prestigious CH1 - while six others had gone to a hotel. They had all been brought by Chelli, who was the head of the South American branch of our agency.

Chelli had joined Ruth, the Brig, Emma, and a bunch of others for dinner, looking utterly drained from the stress and hassle of herding a dozen cool cats onto the plane.

One short sleep later, he was looking fresh-faced and excited. So were Spectrum and Pradeep. Their DOVE tool had highlighted five hitherto-unremarkable Sao Paulo-based players as being worthy of my attention, and those players had crossed the world and were warming up on the main pitch at Bumpers Bank, ready to train with Chester's first team. Joining us on a one-off basis were Tomzilla and Toquinho, who were currently playing for Tranmere and Saltney Town respectively. The four Brazilians I had signed in the past were taking everything very seriously because their adoring parents were on the touchline, beaming, proud as punch.

The Brazilian quartet who I'd discovered in Sao Paulo fell into the category of good plus cheap, but failed on 'fast'. Gabby was the only first team regular so far, though the other three had the talent to play in the Premier League if I was patient with them. As they got closer to being ready for the Prem, it made more and more sense to get the next batch of talents into the pipeline. (A pipeline that was bigger these days, since I had access to three teams in Wales.)

I went to Pradeep and clapped him on the back. "Let's see what you've unearthed, you absolute madman."

He smiled nervously and went back to fidgeting with the tablet PC that was giving him real-time data.

In front of me were five players DOVE had flagged as having extreme potential, but three instantly failed the Max Best eye test. They had PAs ranging from 55 to 88. Better than most people in the world, but not good enough to come to Europe, except on holiday. That's all this trip was for them now, a holiday.

A luxury holiday that my agency was paying for.

REM was cash rich and the expense was minimal, but it might have been slightly annoying if the other two guys hadn't been so spectacular.

The first, Djalminha, was an 18-year-old left winger (AM L) with PA 166. He wasn't tall, and was stockier than the average winger. He had a great left foot and some of his passes were sumptuous.

Chelli told me he lost his temper sometimes and kept getting booted out of teams. "Is it because his managers want him to play on the right?"

Chelli threw his hands up. "How do you know that? It's impossible!"

I smiled. "Just a guess. He's an old-school left winger but modern coaches would want him on the right. Not me. I love a left-footed left winger. He's a perfect Max Best misfit."

Chelli said, "Djalminha is regarded as supremely talented but I must confess, his temper gets the better of him. Sometimes on the pitch, sometimes off it. Mostly off. He does not enjoy defending. When he plays on the right, he suffers. It's like the weight of the world is on him. Only on the left does he feel at home."

"What else triggers his temper?"

"Many things. I feel that he is young and he will learn. He must fight for everything. It is hard to stop the fight."

The strange thing was that Djalminha's Team Work score was decent; it was his Work Rate that was the problem. "I don't want to end up with another Emiliano type," I said.

Luisa was on hand for translations. "Djalminiano."

"Oof," I said, moving my weight from foot to foot. "Call him over."

Chelli whistled through his fingers, which took me by surprise. I spoke to Djalminha while Luisa translated. "I like how you play," I said. "I understand you are a left winger and you shouldn't play on the right. But if the team needs you to play on the right sometimes, you should be ready and willing. A manager with a brain won't ask you to do it very often but a player with a brain will do it when he's asked."

While I waited for his reply and the translation, I checked him out more closely. Djalminha had an air of roughness about him. Coarseness. There was no subtlety to his features. He wasn't exactly ugly, but it was incredible that he could produce such moments of beauty. He said, "I agree. Most of my coaches are very stupid. When I score one goal from the right, they keep me there. I tell them I am not so good on the right but they say I score and so that's it. It is very hard for me."

"Okay. I'm interested in bringing you over to Wales to give you a pathway into European football but I don't only choose you, I choose the manager, and if you lose your temper with one of my managers I will put you right at the bottom of the bin. Is that clear? If you have a problem, you talk, and if talking does no good you come to me. If you're right, I'll sort it out, but I'm not in the business of creating more stress, I'm in the business of building amazing football teams." I had planned to stop there, but as Luisa spoke, I added, "The owner of your new club is a special forces commando. Maybe that will help you keep your mouth shut and count to ten. What do you think?"

All he heard was, "My new club?" His smile was saintly.

"Christ," I said. "Go back into the drills." I turned to Chelli, who was buzzing. "He's gonna be about a hundred thousand pounds, you said?"

"Yes. Is it too much? I think it's too much."

Considering Djalminha had the potential to be far better than Wallace Wells, who I had sold to Chelsea for 4 million, it was a risk worth taking. "No need to haggle. He's quite far behind his peers, isn't he? We need to get a move on. Get it done fast. Right, let me focus on the other one."

The second prospect was a large cupboard-shaped person. Jardel was 17 years old, a central midfielder, with Aggression 20 and PA 179. He was a brute, but an inordinately talented one. With his bulk, speed, and stamina, I could all too easily imagine him crashing around a football pitch leaving a trail of wounded players behind him. He was the only player I'd ever seen kick someone in the shins doing a simple rondo in the warm-up. Crazy, but there were many teams in which he would fit like a glove, including, in some matches, a Champions League-chasing Chester FC. But what if Aggression 20 was, in fact, Aggression 28 or something? Based on what I had seen so far, I wouldn't have been surprised in the slightest.

I watched him for a while longer, but then called him out of the session. I asked Gabriel to come over, too.

"Dude," I said, via Luisa. "Do you know why I've called you out?"

Up close I could see he had lots of small scars and what seemed like the swelling on a boxer's face but turned out to be mere shadows. "You think I'm the best player here and you want to bring me to your Premier League."

"Ah, no. I'm taking you out of the session because those are some elite athletes you are kicking. Let me say it right now, to your face, that if you injure one of my players, I will knock you the fuck out. Is that crystal clear?" I got myself worked up as I spoke, accidentally triggering my innate aggression.

"Yes," mumbled Jardel.

"Right. Good." I calmed down enough to think clearly. "That's good. You have good skills. You can be an excellent player. But you go for the ball," I shaped my hands like a ball, "not the balls." I pointed to my junk. "Luisa, have you got your phone?"

"Yes."

"Can you get a photo of Gabby being kicked in the gut by that prick?"

Luisa found the image quickly and held her phone up to Jardel. I said, "Bad man. Bad player. Bad character. Gabby was in hospital for one month." Jardel nodded. I turned to Gabby. "I want you to talk to him. Take him to the medical room. Tell him about the tests, the rehab, the stress, the boredom. Make sure he understands that actions have consequences. I don't want a thug player on my team. In Soccer Supremo terms, this guy has Aggression 20. If that comes down to 19, I will be happy and I will do everything for his career."

Gabby said, "The ball, not the balls. I understand. I can do this for you."

I turned back to Jardel. "Chester have the fewest red cards in the Championship, but we are high in yellow cards. We play hard, but not dirty. We fight, but with our brains. We are a big problem for the opposition, but we don't send them to hospital. That's very important to me because I was in the hospital for a long time."

There was a laugh on the pitch, which made Gabby turn. In a pleading tone, he said, "Gaffer, we go back to training. I teach. He stop doing fouls." He put his arm around Jardel.

"Okay. If he hurts someone, I'll knock you out."

Gabby grinned wide. "Yes! That's my meaning." He spoke to Jardel and the pair turned and jogged back into the session.

"Aggression 19," said Luisa. "19, 20, what's the difference?"

"It's the difference between that young man earning 20 million quid in his career, or never making it out of the tiny club he plays for."

"For 20 million," said Chelli, "he will learn."

"He'd better," I said. "Hold off on negotiating anything for now. I'm serious that I want to see an improvement." I checked the time. "I have to go if I'm going to see tonight's match. Thanks, Luisa. See you tomorrow, Chelli."

I walked up to Spectrum and Pradeep, who had been looking from the pitch to their tablets to my conversations in a reliably repeating pattern. "How was it?" said Spectrum.

"40% hit rate," I said. Pradeep's face fell, for some reason. I bent, put my arms around him, and spun him round. "It's incredible, mate! Incredible. The best scouts in the world don't get anywhere close to nailing one in ten. You're making everyone look shit!" I put him down and stood beside him. "This," I said, wagging my finger towards the pitch then tapping his tablet, "is a game-changer. If we find only one or two guys like those every year, that's the pipeline sorted. I mean, that alone would keep Chester solvent for the next 20 years. But wait till we get this going in more cities! Holy shit," I said, as the enormity of what Pradeep had achieved really sunk in. "Mate... I think you might have broken football. You've wrecked it, you monster!"

"I've broken football," he cackled.

"I almost don't want you to improve DOVE. If it gets much better, winning the Prem nine years out of ten won't even be a challenge. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

***

That evening, Breno trained with a bunch of kids his age, including Steven Watson. The pair hit it off as soon as Breno saw how good Steven was; they were within 3 PA of each other.

We played the match on the main training pitch so that I could offer Breno some guidance.

He clearly planned to spend almost the whole time showing off, doing pointless skills and tricks.

After five minutes, I'd had enough, so I whistled the stop the match, and put the last move on the big screen.

"Bro," I said, pointing while Luisa translated. "What should you do there?"

He grinned. "Pass."

"Good, fast, cheap. Which two do you want to be?"

"Good and fast."

I nodded. There wasn't really another answer, was there? "Skills are slow. Passes are fast. You’re an exciting player and I don’t want to change that. But there’s nothing more exciting than winning. Right?"

All the young lads grinned at that line. "Right," said Breno.

"What you do is fine against players your age... in Brazil." He understood what I was saying perfectly well. It won't cut it in Chester. "But no senior manager can use a player who plays like you. You will be the greatest out-of-work player in world football." Breno smiled. I asked Luisa if he understood what I was saying.

"Yes, continue."

"To become a great player, first you need to become a player. Earn your first contract. You'll do that by learning to play 90 minutes of simple football. Simple isn't bad. Simple is good. Fast and good. When you can do the basics and your manager can trust you, then you bring back the skill and the flair." I held up a finger. "At the right moment." Luisa laughed. I turned to her. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"The cup final? The rainbow flick? Was that the right moment to do a skill?"

"Yes," I said.

"Of course it wasn't. The game was in the balance. You should have taken a high-percentage option."

"That was a high-percentage option! You can't get higher than 100%!"

Breno was watching with wide eyes. Luisa said something like, "I'll explain it later."

"New rules," I said. "Fast passes only. If anyone slows the game down, his team loses the ball. Any questions? Let's go!"

The match restarted and the quality was amazing. The ball zipped around. Breno tried to do some stupid bullshit. I stopped the match and kicked the ball to the other team. "No," I said, and whistled to restart. He did it again. I whistled and his teammates groaned and complained.

"What?" he said.

Steven strode towards him and modelled what Breno should have done. "Pass da ball," he said, in his Scouse accent.

Breno wanted to complain but I whistled and with Steven out of position, the other team surged up the pitch. Steven sprinted, made a block, and sent a pass to Breno.

The Brazilian wizard flicked it behind himself, taking a defender out of the game, passed sideways, and sprinted ahead into position to get the ball back. "Yeah!" I called out, and I wasn't the only one.

Breno tried not to show how pleased he was, but I could see his Morale. I could also see his Decisions score.

It had increased by one.

"Look out, everyone! We got ourselves a player! What's that coming over the hill, is it a Breno?"

***

Monday, March 27

Briggy was back in the UK, and she caught up with me while I was just finishing a long session on the zero-gravity treadmill. The machine was perfect for my needs, since it allowed me to train hard without putting stress on my ankle. It also reminded everyone that I had a big ouchie.

"Ciao bello," said Briggy.

"Buongiorno principessa," I said, doing a steady run. "How was it? One big traffic jam?"

"No, it was nice. Amazing food! The pasta! It makes every pasta I've ever eaten taste like cardboard."

"Nonsense. English pasta is the best in the world."

"No comment." She glanced at the contraption that was surrounding me but she had other things on her mind. "Angel likes Inter Milan, but they've heard that this summer she will have two years remaining on her Chester contract."

"Okay," I said, frowning. "So what? I'm going to let her transfer for free. Her contract is not relevant to anything."

Briggy shrugged. "They want to do a season-long loan."

I slowed to a walk while I tried to think about the deal from Inter's side. "Um..." What would they get? Angel for free, but only for a season. Then she would come back to Chester for the last year of her contract. That would potentially benefit Angel, but not Inter. What if she had a breakout season and was suddenly worth a million pounds? It would be Chester who would get that fee. "This idea came from the club?"

"Yes. As far as I can tell, they don't want to give two-year contracts to their female players and this way Angel would have a guaranteed income for two years. If Inter want to keep Angel, they'll either loan her again or offer a token fee for the transfer, but she'll only have a year left so you will have no bargaining power. And in the second year, they'll sweeten the deal by covering her entire wages."

I stopped. "Ah. So in the first season..."

"They'll pay half."

"Just to be clear, they don't give a shit about Angel, this is all a scam to make me subsidise their new signing."

"Yes." Briggy hesitated. "I think so."

I started to unclip myself from the treadmill. Angel was on 1,000 pounds a week, so Inter's scam would cost Chester about 25,000 pounds. Why bother? "Is the guy one of those people who needs to win every deal? Wants to get the upper hand?"

"Yes. He was very smooth and polite but quite macho. Angel liked him a lot more than I did. Max, to be honest, I have a bad feeling about it."

I looked up, sharply. "Why?"

"I don't know."

I gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm gonna need something more concrete."

Briggy sighed. "I know. Maybe if I had more experience I would be able to put my feeling into words." She looked away, then back at me. "You're right. It's probably nothing."

"It's ominous as fuck. Do you think Angel will, like, be in danger or something like that?"

"No! No, nothing so extreme." She looked worried for a moment, but that particular cloud left her face leaving only a reflection of a warm Milanese sun. "I got you something to sign when you're less sweaty."

I grabbed a towel and dabbed my head and neck, and followed her to a side table. She reached into her bag and pulled out a by-now familiar document. She opened it, revealing that she had secured the rights for me to buy another tiny slice of Temps Perdu. Nought point nought five percent again. I have to admit I was disappointed for half a second, but then I smiled. Progress! Buying a medical company in secret could be good and could be cheap but could never be fast. "This takes me to nought point one nine percent ownership. Fear me!" I cackled. "Thank you so much, Briggs. Do you want a sweaty hug?"

"From you? I'll pass. But I will take another smile."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a second folder. She flipped it open and I saw a big number. My fourth tranche of shares would be for 1.2% of the company. "Holy fuck! What's...?"

"960,000 pounds."

"I'd better do it from my UK stash."

"You have enough in Gibraltar, no?"

"I wouldn't mind keeping a little in that account in case I want to buy my flat in the stadium or if something else comes up."

Briggy nodded. "It's not a problem. I'll change this. It'll be ready by the time you've showered. Hey."

"What?"

"Well done, Mr. 1.39%."

***

Tuesday, March 28

The five Brazilian lads had their final training session with us before flying back home.

Chelli looked wrecked after another late night partying with the lads on tour. For him, every night in England was a stag party. Heh. I gave him a friendly little bump. "What's - " I started, but whatever I was about to say vanished from my brain forever and a whole new conversational tree sprouted.

Jardel's Aggression score had dropped to 19.

Game on!

"Chelli, go dip your head in some water. You’ve got a busy morning ahead."

***

Thursday, March 30

With the international break winding to a close, and with a full slate of matches in the near future, I wanted to grind for XP right until the last minute. I caught England under-21s against Portugal under-21s, which was fascinating. So much talent on both sides.

I felt that I had used the two weeks between league matches quite well. I had watched as much footy as was possible, as shown by how fast my XP stash was rising.

XP balance: 12,131

I'd hit Playdar all over the UK and DOVE had brought two Brazilians into my agency and into my Welsh football-industrial complex. Djalminha and Jardel would sign for the mighty Connah's Quay Nomads this coming summer, for a combined total of 250,000 pounds.

I wasn't the only one winning on multiple fronts. Briggy had smashed her trip to Italy and had got me two new tranches of shares.

As for my summer war chest, Zach, Joel, and Swanny were done deals. There was only one major piece of selling left to do, and that involved me driving to Chorlton.

I was quite fatigued - it had been a long couple of weeks with a lot of driving, but Andrew and Gemma were in a great mood even though I was darkening their doorstep so late that it was virtually Friday. After Gemma poured me a single, cold, amazing glass of white wine, I sat on the sofa with Solly lying on my lap, quietly discussing Andrew's potential move to Stoke City.

Somehow, I had been expecting Gemma to oppose me, because as much as she wanted Andrew to get a huge pay rise, surely she would get defensive about the idea that I was so keen to move him on. But in fact, she was pushing him to agree to Stoke's terms quickly. As she pointed out, he could get another injury and that could scupper the deal. And if he left this season, he would leave Chester on a high, wouldn't he? She almost winked at me when she said that.

When Andrew went to the bathroom, I blurted out a question I probably shouldn't have. Maybe it was the tiredness, maybe the wine, but I whispered, "Gems, I thought you'd be difficult about this. What's going on?"

She gave me a funny look, but smiled easily. "This is what you promised. This is what he's worked so hard for. Stoke's not far; he doesn't need to move. We'll see slightly less of you, so it's positives all round. Why would I be difficult?"

"Because, like, you think he's amazing and I should want to keep him forever. Something like that."

The big Julia Roberts smile returned. "Max, we're not taking it personally, if that's what you're worried about. Everyone knows you're clearing the decks to make room for when you go to the Prem."

I opened my mouth to give the usual speech about how that wasn't going to happen, but I shut my flappy gob. Were my players agreeing to these moves so readily because they expected me to sign an entire new squad when we got promoted?

I wouldn't, but it made sense they thought that. An unexpected benefit to promotion mania!

I raised my glass towards Gemma, said, "Cheers," and took a big old mouthful. "Tastes like a clear deck."

"Hints of vanilla, the label said." That made us both cackle.

***

Friday, March 31

I stayed at my mum's bungalow overnight, woke up early, walked back to Gemma's place to get my car, drove to Wythenshawe in South Manchester, and picked up Kisi Yalley.

We headed south.

"What are we doing?" she asked, as she looked out of the window to get a sense of our destination. I had been vague about this trip, only telling her that it was a big one so she should dress comfy, and that she was the only person who could help.

"We're going to a place to do a thing. Now shush while I overtake this lorry."

"Red lorry, yellow lorry."

"Feel free to go back to sleep."

"Why did you want me to come?"

"For your sparkling conversation."

"I know it's because you want to cheer me up."

We were quiet for a while. Kisi yawned and reached out to press a button. I slapped her hand away. She tutted and said, "I want to put some music on!"

"Music on a Friday? Are you crazy?"

"What?"

"Those buttons are for the driver. That's me. When you're old enough to drive, we can start a three-year training process that will culminate in an exam. The exam will take place in a car identical to this one but - and this is important - not this one. If you press the buttons in the right order, you will then be allowed into this car and we can do trial runs where you press these buttons, starting in an empty car park, moving up to quiet residential streets, and finally, onto a motorway."

"I'm old enough to drive and I passed my test. Why do you talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"You always want to make things into a progression. Even your stupid weird jokes. Empty car park, quiet street, busy motorway. It's always progression with you."

"I don't know. It's just a useful mindset, isn't it? You work hard to make the numbers go up and they go up and it's a tiny release of satisfaction. And breaking big tasks into small ones means you're more likely to succeed. There's a phrase. What gets measured gets managed. If I show Andrew Harrison his running stats, it breaks his brain. He tries to run a little bit more the next match, right? So we measure that but we don't show it to him because he'll try to manage that stat and I don't want him to."

"Because he's not a runner, he's a footballer."

"Exactly. I want him to run in the right direction. Let's measure that! Some things, it's really obvious that they should be measured and managed. How much money the club makes, for example. But even that is tricky because if you only try to maximise your income you will end up like most big clubs - a vampire squid, sucking the blood of your fans."

"So you have to manage the numbers that you manage?"

"Yeah. My solution is a bit vague but it's the idea that we shouldn't focus on ticket sales or merch sales but the entire pie, and the entire pie will grow fastest if we concentrate on player development. We can sell a player for more than all the shirt sales, ticket sales, pie sales put together. Keep that in mind and you keep your focus on training standards, giving minutes to young players, all that sort of thing that maybe costs money in the short term."

"How does it?"

"If we lose matches, for example. Some guy turns up at the Deva for the first time, sees a shit game that we lose, never comes back. That's not good, is it? But maybe that was the match I gave a debut to a future England captain."

"Future Wales captain more like."

"Yeah," I said, glumly. "No! Haley made her debut! She got her first full England cap while a Chester player. It's possible."

"Were you there?"

"No, I missed it, but it's like I told her, there will be loads more games. She's very much England's number two already, and she's closing in on first place."

"We haven't seen you at Bumpers much. What have you been doing?"

"Loads. Ooh," I said. "Nine o'clock. Training will be starting about now. I've got my fingers crossed it'll be a big day."

"What? Why?"

"Secret things that I measure secretly." I was convinced that Pascal would hit his ceiling during today's session, which would be amazing - and a relief. If he got injured before I could hit him with God Save the King, it would be incredibly frustrating. "Mostly I was going around the international teams looking at their squads. The under 21s, mostly. Yeah, it's interesting," I said, adjusting my position on the seat. "England under 21s have three talented goalies in the squad. I saw them the other day. The main guy is super talented, a proper rising star. If Chester go to the Prem - which we won't, so don't ask me about it - he could be someone we try to buy. He's Championship level already and he has a high ceiling. That would be 10 million quid up front, plus add-ons, probably."

"Where do you get the numbers from? I always wondered how you decide on fees."

"Directors of football have a sort of mental database of thousands of players and every one gets a transfer value assigned. When you start negotiating with your counterpart, he says his number and you compare it to yours. With that goalie, everyone knows he's a top talent so you're paying the top end of the range. The second-choice goalie is quite middling. He's good, sure, but he doesn't pass the eye test like the starter, and my analysis of him agrees. But the third one is interesting again because although he's League One standard, he has a Prem ceiling, and I could get him fairly cheap. Say a million quid. But then I have to wait four years until he's great. There's always this trade-off. He's good, he's cheap, but it's gonna be a slow process. The first goalie is fast, meaning he's ready to play almost immediately, and he's good, but he ain't cheap." I tapped the steering wheel a few times. "My instinct is to sign the third one and wait for him to develop, but if I make that compromise too many times, we might not get where we want to go. Even to win the Championship I'm going to have to step out of my comfort zone I think."

"Oh."

I glanced away from the road for half a second. Kisi was staring straight ahead. I said, "What?"

"You wanted me to come so you could tell me you're signing my replacement. You've got it all lined up."

I laughed. "No, that's not why you're here and I don't have a replacement lined up. I do have a strong idea for a new player who plays in your position, but I see her more of a mentor than a replacement."

"Mentor?"

"You know with the men I've got Nasa and Roddy coming up in the right back slot? Nasa's my defensive guy. If we're up against a dangerous winger, I'm probably gonna pick Nasa and try to lock down that area. If we're the better team, if the oppo are doing a low block against us, hey, cool, that's why I've got Roddy."

"Everyone jokes that you annoyed his dad saying he was a right back and you always talk about Roddy the right back but you never play him there."

"It wouldn't be fair, would it? Against Championship sides? He's still learning. It's fair to use you in the WSL2 because we dominate every match and we need attacking threat on the right. The woman I'm looking at is a WSL-ready wing back. She can play full back, too, which could be handy, but basically I see her taking the right mid slot of our 3-4-3 for the first few months of next season. You'll get minutes but mostly you'll be working with the new girl, learning from her, learning how to defend." I slapped the steering wheel happily. "See, Brooke wasn't quite right with her theory. There is an entire industry where you can get things fast, good, and cheap. Women's football! I bought the second-best goalie in England for buttons, and I can upgrade every part of the team for almost free!"

"Almost free?"

"You've had an easy ride, Kisi, and I don't mean how smooth this car is, although it is very smooth. We've crushed almost every match since you joined the club but now we've got some strife ahead. A few bumps in the road. Strictly metaphorically, in this case. God, I love this car."

"Bumps like Liverpool?"

"Yeah. You got a jolt, didn't you? Took it to heart. I've learned it's okay to let players be miserable after an experience like that - in the end, that misery is good for them. Gets them to hit the gym a bit longer and to pay more attention in the tactical briefings. But you're not a normal player. You're Kisi Yalley and I can't stand you being miserable. That's why I asked you to come today. I'm going to cheer you up and if that means you never make it to your peak as a player, that's fine."

"It's not fine."

"It is fine. You're going to get happy and stay happy. I have spoken."

"I want to be good."

"The time for chat is over. Happiness part one - you may now press one button on the display. Only one. Choose wisely."

"I have to touch it once to turn it on."

"Do you? Try a voice command."

I felt Kisi giving me a suspicious look. "Car, play music."

"Talking to a car, Kisi? That's worrying." I turned the display on. Kisi tapped the music icon.

Bangers banged.

***

At five to ten, Pascal popped. "Yes!" I cried.

"You like this song?" said Kisi, amazed. "I didn't know you were a Swiftie."

"Er, sure, yeah. Hush a minute so I can enjoy it."

Pascal Bochum (22 years old)

F RLC

CA 133 PA 133

I triggered God Save the King, selected Pascal's Off the Ball Attribute, and booped it from 19 to 20.

Pascal Bochum (22 years old)

F RLC

CA 135 PA 135

"Yeah! Let's fucking rock! Car, play Monster by The Automatic. Oh, there's no voice commands. No problem, I know all the words. What's that coming over the hill, is it a Pascal? Yeeee-haw!"

"What in the world is going on right now?"

***

Ten arguments related to my taste in music later, we parked in central London. Kisi looked around the streets. "I know this place."

"Yeah, that's London for you," I said, dismissively. "Seen one street, you've seen them all. Come on."

We went for a short walk around Mayfair. I bragged about being so rich these days that I could afford to buy a few bricks of one of the grand properties there, then we slipped inside a shop.

"Boateng!" cried Kisi, for we were in a tailor's on Savile Row. She gasped and punched me. "Max! You made me come here in a shit hoodie! Boateng, I'm sorry! He told me to dress 'casz'."

My tailor bestowed three air kisses on Kisi's cheeks. "It is all right, Miss Yalley. We know what he is like. Max, I hope you are well?"

"Top," I said. "I've got a slight ankle injury so I've been hitting the gym instead of running. I've added two kilos of pure muscle mass."

Boateng slapped me on the arm. "No more getting buff! You'll ruin my measurements."

Kisi was beyond delighted to find herself in this particular shop. "Another new suit, Max? For the playoff final?"

Boateng smiled as he eyed me. "I have been following, from afar. The Premier League is on the horizon, is it now? The cream rises to the top. The crème de la crème."

Kisi said, "Max is the Prèm de la Prèm!"

I said, "Excellent. Let's do that one again in front of Henri."

"It's non-stop football from tomorrow, isn't it? So the next time I see Henri will probably be - " She gasped and ran in front of me. "Is this your wedding suit, Max? Am I going to see it?"

"You're going to see it. I need to know how stupid I look with and without the hat."

"Oh, my," said Boateng, pinching his nose. "Again with the hat. It's magnificent, Max. Restored silk. Beautiful, timeless, classic. Kisi, help me. Here's what I have designed for him." He rushed off and came back with the most horrible item of clothing I had ever seen. It was a cream tuxedo with a frilly shirt. The trousers were an ugly brown, while the cummerbund and bow tie were a lurid orange. "The frills are inspired by my favourite iced dessert, the Vienneta. Have you tasted Vienneta, Kisi? So tactile. Does it not make you want to touch it?" He sighed, pleased with himself. "What do you think? Is it all not simply wonderful?"

"Boateng," I said. "We all know the suit is mint. I'm not complaining about the suit! It's the hat that bothers me. Get the hat!"

"Hold this, darling," said the tailor, resting the abominable suit over Kisi's arm. She stared at it, stupefied, until Boateng returned with a black silk top hat.

Kisi eyed the hat and the suit. "I'm not sure they match..."

Boateng looked offended and he snatched away the suit. I cried out, "Don't! Boateng! She doesn't mean it!" He strode away and I let out another small wail. "Kisi... My wedding's coming soon. I don't have time to find another master tailor!"

Kisi said, "But!"

Boateng returned with a different suit. This one was black and more traditional. "I suppose you think the hat would go better with this one?"

Kisi swallowed. "Yes?" She frowned. "Oh my God..." The tension the ugly suit had provoked was released by means of laughter. "I'm so relieved!" She stepped closer so that she could punch me hard in the arm. "This was a prank! You pranked me!"

I smiled. "You're welcome." I took the real suit from Boateng, held it up in front of me, and checked it in a mirror. "This looks fancy, doesn't it? Makes me look like a real boy."

Kisi nodded. "You're going to look Premier League."

I winced. "That sounds like bad luck. I'll only be a Championship manager on the day of the wedding. I don't want to defy the gods or anything like that." I made a small but noticeable move to dismiss the black suit. "Let me see the other one."

"No!" yelled Kisi, which led to me laughing longer and harder than I had in a while.

"Kisi, you thought I brought you so I could cheer you up, but it was the other way around. When it comes to lifting my mood, you are the Prèm de la Prèm."