Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

11.

Monday, December 1

I woke up to a noise in the house, remembered I no longer lived alone, and closed my eyes. I had cursemail.

New perk available until Christmas Day: Secret Sandra

Cost: 2,000 XP

Effects: Gift up to 200 XP per day to boost one player’s training rate. That player will receive their usual improvement plus bonus improvement calculated according to the amount of XP gifted.

Fucking imps. Get wrecked.

I went back to sleep.

***

Emma ran her hand along my arm, gently coaxing me out of dreamland and into reality. "Made you a tea, babes."

"Bonus," I mumbled. The last images from the dreams - red trains, low fog that looked like clouds - dissipated. My surroundings came into focus. "You're dressed like a sexy lawyer. Is it that time again?"

She twisted her lips. "I'm working, Max."

"Working from home."

"I like to get dressed. If I'm not smart I'm not a lawyer."

I sat up and took the first sip of tea. It sent me into a different sort of dreamland. "You know what's good?" I said.

"What?"

"Everything."

"Even bacteria?"

"You need bacteria to make cheese. And wine maybe, not sure."

"What about bombs?"

"You use bombs to blow up the asteroids that are coming at us. Give up, babes, I can do this all day."

"What's good about Alan Turner? Gammons?"

"Yeah, okay, you win."

She smiled and made as if to leave but I had misread her intention. She was only shuffling even deeper onto the bed. "You know me cousins?"

Ems had some distant relatives who, by dint of being the closest thing to an extended family she had, were known as The Cousins. They lived in one of those countries where it's always dark, cold, and it's hard to understand the accent. Yes, this is a Scotland joke. "The Jocks and the Geordies. You could make a half-decent comic strip out of that concept."

"It's Wee Tosh McTavish's birthday soon," she said, but I've changed the name for privacy purposes and also because there's already a Bonnie. "They want to go down to London and do all the things and watch a play. We're invited."

"Ah, what a shame, I'm busy that day."

"Don't start that. It'll be nice. Come on, I don't have a big family."

"Erm..." I thought about going down to do the London Eye again and the Natural History Museum again. So boring doing the same things all the time. "How about we take them to Nando's instead?"

"They want to go to the West End to see The Cursed Child."

For the second time in two days, I froze at those very words.

Emma didn't notice the turmoil she had created, the sense of dread. "It's very good, apparently. It's about Harry Potter's son. He's struggling to cope with his legacy."

"Wow. Sounds magical."

Emma scoffed. "He falls for a hot blonde, apparently. You'd like it."

"Don't want to be uncivil or anything but I'm going to be going a hundred percent for the next six weeks at least. If they come to Chester they can get the VIP treatment and I'll score them a goal and talk to them and everything but even thinking about going to London to watch a play for children is exhausting. I don't have it in me to do that when I'm covering Sandra."

She didn't seem surprised or disappointed. "I understand. Maybe I'll go with them to London on a Friday and the next morning, come through here on the way back to Scotland. Or meet in Manchester?" She shook her head, amazed at what she was about to say. "Nando's in Manchester?"

I reached out and took her hand. "Or Chinatown. Or the curry mile. Oh, shit! What if they're your guests at Manchester United?"

"That's January 11th, right? It's not her birthday then."

I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them with a smile. "You want to see that play. You want to relive your childhood spent reading Harry Potter all night and in every break at school."

"Maybe I do."

"That's why you want to get married in a castle. I've never put two and two together. You want a Hogwarts wedding. I should tell you, I'm not going to marry a Hufflepuff."

"You'll marry me and you'll like it. What house are you?"

"Chester," I said, vaguely, because I was deep in thought. "It's perfect. Take them to that show on the 10th. Old Trafford on the 11th. How's that for a surprise? Best birthday ever, best cousin ever. Absolute bosh."

Emma thought about it. "Are you going to score from 70 yards again?"

I sipped my tea. "Don't know. Have to discuss that with my new assistant."

She rubbed my knee. "Are you excited?"

I tutted. "Come on. There's only one star at Chester. If you think I'm going to be excited to meet some dude you've got another thing coming." I drained my tea. "It's just gonna be another day at the office."

***

The new coach was in the Sin Bin. I'd made the entire first team squad sit on the grass nearby, plus Dean, Livia, and whoever else was around.

Sandra opened the door and showed me a thumbs up.

I pressed play on my phone and played Gonna Fly Now by Bill Conti over our Bluetooth speakers. If you don't know the name, it's the theme tune from the Rocky movies. Absolutely fucking epic if you want to train hard for three minutes or if you want to get your players hyped about a new member of staff.

As the song was approaching the final minute I activated the smoke machines - probably should have mentioned those earlier - and with impeccable timing, just as the music was reaching its emotional peak, the new coach emerged from the white smoke and stood towering over the players.

I blew a single note on a party horn. Toooot!

Pascal shot to his feet. "Gott im Himmel!" he cried.

The music ended and the coach looked from me to the players, shrugged, and threw a few shadow punches.

I laughed and called out, "Behold! Behold our new coach! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you..." We hadn't rehearsed this, mostly because I knew that if I discussed this introduction with anyone, everyone would have vetoed it. I pointed at the coach, really jabbed my finger at him. "I give to you..."

"Hi, everyone," he said, in a less clipped and precise accent than Pascal's. He had spent some time in California as a kid so his English was smooth, though he was out of practice. He was twenty-five years old, a lean 6 foot 3, maybe six four. He had short, light-brown hair, and had played as a centre back before retiring cruelly early because of injury. "My name is Peter Bauer."

The reaction was sensational. Vimsy's hands shot to his head. Several players grabbed their nearest colleague by the nearest limb. A handful waved away the smoke.

I turned off the closest machine and cupped my ear. "Could you say that again, please?"

"My name is Peter Bauer."

"Ha! Now you're repeater Bauer. Bosh. My tenth joke of the day so I get a free one. All right, incredibly exciting. We've got one of Bayern Munich's best young coaches for a few weeks so let's make the most of it. Peter, don't worry about learning their names this morning, we have a crazy week ahead."

"I already know their names, Max."

"What?" I said, but he didn't seem to be joking. "Christian, stand up." I pointed to my captain. "What's his name?"

Peter smiled. "My grandfather loves your sense of humour. Christian Fierce, club captain, dominant centre back, formerly the club's record signing. 24 appearances this season and I believe 2 goals."

"Okay, you've done some homework. That's awesome. Which player interests you the most?"

His eyebrows bounced. "I choose not to say in case I am accused of sucking up."

I stared at him blankly until it clicked. "Oh, me? Come on, be serious." My phone buzzed. Since the Man United announcement it had been going absolutely insane, revealing that my iPhone's battery was getting sick of my shit. "Right, the schedule this week is insane even by the standards of English football."

"Four matches in seven days," he said. "I do not see how it is possible."

"It's possible," I said. "Sandra's going to give you a quick tour of the compound."

Peter frowned and gestured at the squad. "Perhaps that could wait?"

"No, because I need to talk about you behind your back."

He dipped his head and smiled. "Of course. I will do... the tour." His gaze went from the Sin Bin to the giant hole in the ground to the other cabins. Bayern Munich this was not.

"Hey," I said, serious. "They say you only cry twice in Chester. Once when you arrive; once when you leave."

Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he tried to work out my meaning, but Sandra patted him on the back of his shoulder and led him away.

"All right," I said, looking around the group. "Couple of things I want to say in private. We had a nice, relaxing November but now it's pure mayhem. Peter's going to be helping and it's good he's done his research but basically I'll be running this show on my own for the next six games up to Christmas and I've got the Youth Cup against West Ham, too. If you could fucking stow your temper tantrums because you're not playing and all that crap, that would be very helpful. If you get a minute off, consider yourself lucky and enjoy it.

"Another thing. You all know Sandra's going on maternity leave and the baby could arrive at any minute. I don't want that baby born on the back of a three-nil defeat, all right? You know I'm not superstitious but I have a weird feeling that the baby's going to come during one of our matches and if we lose, gammons will grumble 'here comes The Cursed Child of Prophecy' or some crap. No. No no no, okay? We win every game in December. Blackpool's hard, Cambridge is hard, the others... I mean if we had a week to prepare we would smash all of them but with the relentless schedule we won't be able to spend days and days thinking and planning, right? It's win, sleep, light training, win, sleep, light training. We'll need to be flexible, think on our feet, cut each other some slack. I'll need to lean on my key players more than I'd normally like to.

"We're going to dial down the intensity of the main training, okay? Light training and for players who aren't being ground to dust, it's extra skills sessions with Peter. That's my plan. To repeat - we are going to win every fucking game so when that baby is born, the first thing it sees is Sandra Lane's smile. That means less game time for our own babies. The under eighteens are in good shape. We might give Jamie Brotherhood ten minutes, that sort of thing, but basically it's us lot. Win win win.

"And here's one way we'll win - no distractions. I don't want to fucking hear about Manchester United, okay? That match is January 11th. January. Today is December 1st. Yes, it's exciting but it's all anyone's going to be talking about out there, okay? I don't want it in here, too. If you can't get your head in the here and now you can fuck off in the transfer window. We've got work to do. Do you get me?

"January the fourth against Bradford is twenty times bigger than Man U! And we need to beat Accrington Stanley tomorrow night and we need to do it with ruthless efficiency. Quick blitz, two early goals, straight into energy-saving mode. Why? Because we've got a big cup game 48 hours later! That's the only cup game I want to hear about, do you get me? I know it's my fault for bringing a big name to the club the day after we got the biggest draw possible, but I really, really need you to be professional. Accrington, Blackpool, Forest Green Rovers. That's six points and we go into the quarter finals of the Vans Trophy.

"This week takes us closer to promotion and a trip to Wembley, lads. Yes? Yes? Are you with me?"

Henri put his hand up. "And the Cheshire Cup next Tuesday night? Are we going to bin it off?"

I gritted my teeth. "What do you think, mate? It's Winsford United. They're tier ten. You want to shit the bed in front of Peter Bauer? You want Sandra's baby coming into this world thinking Winsford United are the biggest team in Cheshire? The fuck kind of question is that? Didn't you hear me say we're going to win every game?"

"I did, Max, yes. I thought I might clarify."

"Oh, wonderful. What wonderful clarity we are all enjoying thanks to that question." I pinched my nose while I imagined I had a massive throbbing vein on my forehead that everyone could see. I inhaled slowly and treated the squad to a dose of laser eyes. "I'm about to inherit a million pounds, lads, with which I could replace the entire fucking squad in January. Anyone picked for the Cheshire Cup needs to treat it with the respect it deserves. That's my cup, that's Sandra's cup, I want it, we want it, if you don't want it, I don't want you. Get fucking warmed up."

***

I seethed for a while, which was partly performative. Drawing Man United was immense, incredible, for some of the squad a once-in-a-lifetime event, but it had the potential to derail our entire season. I'd grown up on stories of players shirking tackles in the league matches before a cup final, tales of players losing focus.

The million pound threat was some protection against that.

I left the lads with Vimsy and walked off to find out where Sandra and Peter had disappeared to. I needed Peter to start a session in order to see his attributes. High and I might lean on him, low and I'd give him busy work.

I found my assistant managers with the Brig. The scene looked ominous. "Sir," said the Brig. "I hate to bring the mood down but there was an incident over the weekend I've just been told about. Bonnie, Angel, and some of the women were out on Saturday night celebrating a friend's birthday. It's not entirely clear what happened," he said, flicking his eyes towards Peter. The Brig knew more than he would say in front of a stranger. "What's beyond doubt is that a young man became enraged and Bonnie and Angel fled into a bathroom and locked the door. Bonnie called a member of 3 R Welsh and he raced there with some mates. They, ah, subdued the aggressor and the women were able to escape unharmed."

"Jesus fuck," I said. About eighty thoughts danced around, each demanding attention. I cut through them. "What do I need to do?"

"As of now, nothing. If they are shaken, it is possible they will miss training tonight. I will inform Jackie Reaper."

A suspicion hit me. "Don't," I said.

"Sir?"

"Who knows about this?"

"All the women, I should think."

I pulled at my lip. I had a premonition that one of the women involved in the incident would be extremely excited and more than happy to be the centre of attention. I would tell Sophie not to bring the cameras to training. "I want to see how it plays out this evening."

"Very good, sir."

"One thing, though." I nodded to the left and the Brig and I moved away from Sandra and Peter. They didn't need to get involved in any grey mode shenanigans. When we were a fair distance away, I mumbled, "Bonnie called Dylan?"

"Yes, sir." He glanced to his left, checking no-one had come near. "She called me when I was at the gym but my phone was in my locker. When I called back, her phone was off. What I know, I heard from the police this morning. The detective whose career we helped has her ear to the ground, keeping us ahead of bad news. Shortly after Dylan and his mates cleared out, the police arrived and got the gist from the men and the bar staff. The men say that Angel was flirting with them, teasing one in particular. Leading him on, we used to call it. Then, abruptly, the hosepipe of attention was shut off. He took it badly. I suspect Angel will tell a different story. The detective expects it went rather like the men said, though that doesn't excuse an outburst of anger so severe the women had to flee."

"A lot of men think a woman even talking to them means she wants his body. Fuckwits everywhere, John. We'll get something close to the truth from Bonnie, if she talks to us. I've been expecting something like this. If Angel created this mess, why now? She's not getting more publicity than she already is. I'd better text Ruth and Emma that I don't want this appearing on her socials in any form." I got my phone out and typed. While I did so, I asked, "How did Dylan do?"

The Brig did something like an eye roll. "He... achieved his targets, sir. Mission accomplished."

I scratched my nose. "No elegance."

"No, sir."

I finished typing. "Can you... teach Dylan to be briggier? It would be amazing to have a mini-Brig looking after Bonnie and anyone who might happen to be around Bonnie."

The Brig scoffed at my barely-disguised dissembling, but gave my idea some thought. "I'm not sure there's quite enough polish in the world for the task." He straightened. "It's a good idea, sir. It's a very good idea and now's a good chance to pitch it to him. We can do some basic field training but I would always recommend a professional starter course. Bodyguard 101. It would cost in the region of three thousand pounds."

"The agency will pay." I inhaled through my nose and exhaled. Three grand would buy a few hours of protection from a guy like the Brig. In theory, best case, it could buy Bonnie and Angel years. "Yeah, please have a chat with him."

"Very good, sir."

I walked off, shaking my head at the strangeness of my life, the way mornings could flip dark and turn back again. I collected Sandra and Peter and smiled. "Bet the Bayern manager doesn't have to put up with half the crap I do."

Peter didn't smile. "He has different problems."

"Yeah," I said. "Dealing with half a billion pounds of man-baby talent must be a fucking nightmare."

"I don't know," said Sandra. "I think I deal with you pretty well." I frowned at her for a while trying to understand what she meant. She cracked a smile, bumped sideways into Peter, and said, "That's how you suck up to the boss."

***

Sandra got the lads doing some fun, skills-based drills that got them moving without tiring them out.

Peter Bauer, grandson of one of the game's true legends, helped out. He had retired from playing so he didn't have a player profile but his coaching profile was interesting.