Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

10.

NETHERLANDS

"Football is a game of mistakes. Whoever makes the fewest mistakes wins." - Johan Cruyff

***

WALES

Saturday, March 21

Match 38 of 46: Chester versus Newport County

"Do you want to see some magic, Ben?"

"Yes, please."

I was in the medical room at the Deva, where Physio Dean was checking out a fan who had felt shooting pains in his arm. The crowd safety medical team was responding to an incident in the away end so Dean had stepped up. Dean's tone suggested he didn't think this was serious, but the patient's young son was freaking out. Dean had sent Livia to come and get me in the hope I could calm the little guy down.

"Liv, can you hold this door open?" She jammed her foot at the bottom of one of the double doors that led to the tunnel that led to the pitch. "Ben, It's a little-known fact that I, superstar football star Max Best, can teleport. Check it out."

The kid's eyes couldn't have got any wider.

I walked backwards towards the pitch and at a certain point yelled, "England!" I took another step back. "Wales!" One forward. "England!" I half stepped back, jiggling my foot, before stepping decisively forwards. "Waaaaaaaangland!" I jogged back to the medical room and waved at thousands of imaginary admirers. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"Incredible, boss," said Livia. "Hey, if we're playing a Welsh team in Wales, does this make this an away match?"

"No, this is my home. My house," I added with a growl. I got close to Ben and continued in a deep, faux-menacing voice. "My house, my rules. The first rule is that I'm the only person allowed to use the letter Q in Scrabble."

I maybe needn't have bothered with the silliness; just turning up was enough to change the kid's mood completely. "Ben's your biggest fan," said the dad, who looked pale but not very close to death. Ben nodded his enthusiastic assent.

"Nah," I said, springing towards my head physio. "Dean's my biggest fan. Aren't you, Dean? Aren't you, mate?" I hugged him from behind until he smiled. "Remember that guy who bonked me on the head? Dean was first on the scene. He saw my brains lying all over the street and he picked them up and shoved them back in my skull all scientific-like. I've got his fingerprints all over my folds. There's a thing in Dean's tribe where when you save someone's life, you're responsible for them forever. Isn't that mad? I'm not complaining, though. I do draw the line at him wanting to tuck me in at night."

The dad didn't want to hear me talk gibberish when he could probe us for gossip he could share with his mates. "You've been busy this week," he said, to Dean. He was talking about a few injuries we'd picked up.

"Dean's always busy," I said, because I didn't want rumours spreading. "He loves it. The busier the better. Busy people are happy people. Isn't that right, Dean? He's going to smile any second now, just watch. Any second now. Hmm. Maybe I should tickle - there he goes!"

Magnus Evergreen came in. "Heard there was an emergency. Can I help, Dean?"

Our head physio thought about it but shook his head. "Thanks." My most versatile player leaned his crutches against a treatment table and hopped up. Just like him to offer to help when he was the one who needed it. Dean said to the fan, "Pete, I think you're okay but I'm going to pack you off to the hospital to get you properly checked out."

"But we'll miss the game!" said little Ben.

"The game's going to be shit," I said.

"Language," warned Livia.

"Die Spiel will Scheisse machen," I said, in flawless German. "Anyway, Ben, your dad needs you. You're a team, aren't you?" The kid nodded hard. "Ben. Ben Ben Ben. It's a pretty good name but I can think of a better one: Max. You should get that changed, I reckon."

The dad said, "Is it true we've got a transfer ban?"

I felt a pang of guilt. If the guy wasn't having a heart attack, he'd had a panic attack. How much stress was this football club - and the way I was running it - adding to the lives of our fans? "Technically, yeah, but it'll get suspended and if the absolute worst happens it's not a problem. I'll stock up on free transfers and Exit Triallists. I've been scouting Cheshire extra hard since the news broke. Found a few little gems. We don't need to pay a fee for a player this summer and we won't need to buy anyone the January after. If somehow we're not allowed to pay for a player the next summer, that's absolutely fine, too. We need to have a consolidation year in the Championship anyway. It's not going to happen but if it did you'd barely notice."

"What about if we can't sign Foquita because of it?"

I smiled. Fans loved to worry but it was plainly not healthy. I put my hand on his shoulder and blasted him with Influence 20. "Worst case is we paid fifty thousand pounds to get twenty goals. That's all right, isn't it? But what actually happens is we annihilate the EFL in court because they can't ban us from completing a transfer we've already agreed. That would be a complete nonsense, wouldn't it? We would absolutely rinse them. They're not in the business of starting court cases they will definitely lose. Don't worry."

"I was thinking you should sign that Matczak from Legia Warsaw."

"Right," I said, putting some distance between us. One of the reasons I tried to minimise contact with the outside world was that as well as having the remarkable ability to fix my shitty, broken tactics, every football fan had a bee in their bonnet about one very particular player. Pete had probably seen the Matczak guy have a good couple of minutes in a Conference League match and thought he knew better than everyone else in England how talented he was. Fixating on a particular player was part of the weird and worrying world of transfer manias. The prospect of a transfer ban was hitting Pete especially hard because he thought the answer to all his problems was 'out there' somewhere.

I bet he voted for Brexit and didn't see the irony in that.

Livia spotted my shift in mood and tried to help. "We can't sign more foreign players right now."

"Bristol City have a great lad, too. Bentley. Great between the lines and in the half spaces. English qualified, too. I've got a friend of a friend down there who says he's the next big thing."

"I'll definitely check him out," I lied.

Pete nodded eagerly but when he glanced at his son, some pallor returned. He mimed covering his ears and Ben copied him. The dad whispered, "I bought too many mini-bonds, Max. Wanted to help get the stadium. Get our club back." He winced. "My mate says it was all a scam and you'll do a runner." He looked down. "Just want my club back."

So the idea that I was a con artist was doing the rounds again. Talk about a dagger. Stick it in just before a must-win match, why don't you? Pete was weakening me before sending me out to fight. What a load of bull.

I tried to rise above it all, tried to think like a rando who was struggling with money, the perils of fatherhood, the outside forces railed against us, the uncertainty coming from all angles. There was one thing he clung onto through thick and thin. "My favourite movie is The Godfather because I'm a godfather."

"Who said subtext was dead?" said Livia.

I continued. "I thought the point of being a godfather was that if something happens to the parents you get a free baby. Bonus! But apparently I got scammed. I've got to give him presents and I have to babysit him once a year. The hell is that all about? I didn't agree to that. Talk about the dangers of not reading the small print."

Pete released a tiny smile. "Is that Sandra Lane's boy?"

"Yeah," I said, darkly. "They're both Man City fans but I'm going to intervene to save little Jamie." I tapped Pete on the arm. "You're going to see Jamie at every major milestone in this club's future. The new stand, the grand opening of the gym, winning League One, our first visit to Wembley, our first major cup final. He'll be there in a cute little Chester kit. I'm going to blast glory at him so hard he associates every major moment of his life with the Chester FC badge. If he makes it through seven years of that and still wants to be a City fan..." I scoffed and shook my head. "It'll take more than a transfer ban to stop me binning him off."

Livia said, "Max." She drew my gaze to the big digital clock on the wall.

I made eye contact with Magnus. He got up and hobbled over to take my place. I said, "Pete, Ben, I've got to go smash us into third place in the league, if that's all right?"

Pete seemed a whole lot more relaxed. "Best will tear you apart again."

"That chant is supposed to be about the opposition, not our own fans. Come September we'll have a beautiful new stand, an amazing gym, and we'll be playing in League One. We'll be looking to expand. You'll need a new song. Best... Best will rebuild a stand... again. All right? It's happening."

"I feel better. Can't I stay for the match?"

I looked at Dean; he shook his head. I said, "No. Take care of yourself. Have you got tickets to Forest Green?" That was our next home match.

"I don't, no."

"It's Easter Friday and we'll have our international players back. It'll be a banger. Here, let me fire off a quick text." I typed one for Magnus.

Try to find out if he bought more bonds than he can afford. We can buy a few back if it helps. If you want to cheer him ALL the way up, promise you'll be back next season.

I fist bumped father and son while Magnus read the text. He gave me a doleful look and typed back.

I will take care of them. Next season will take care of itself.

***

I went to the pitch and did a longer warm-up than usual. We were getting to squeaky bum time in the season and the margins were wafer thin. Room for mistakes? Virtually nil. Degree of difficulty? High.

I'd made a few tiny mistakes in recent weeks but they were piling up, accumulating, adding to the pressure. When Brooke had asked me if the next stage of Bumpers could begin at the end of March, I had calculated my answer while completely forgetting that the women's team from Colombia would be arriving around then. It wouldn't have affected my decision but it should have been one of the first things I thought of.

I had overplayed Christian and Zach, had tempted fate by putting a goalie in for his debut against one of the best attacking teams in the league, and I'd messed up the start of the match against Ipswich Town, gifting them a two-goal lead. Secretary Joe's fat finger deletion of a scheduled payment could have happened to anyone and Charlie Dugdale's weasel agent was always likely to weasel. I was pretty sure those wouldn't add up to so much as a hill of beans but it added to the sense of tentacles closing in around the cracks in our shell, and one of my own mistakes was so moronic I couldn't even bring myself to tell Emma.

The international window - where nations were allowed to 'borrow' players from club sides - was from March 23 to March 31. In that time period we had two fixtures, one against Colchester on the 28th and one against Crewe on the 31st. I had poured absolutely all of my mental energy into thinking about the Colchester match but had completely dismissed the Crewe one. I'd told myself that the 31st was the end of the international window so I would have my players back. But I wouldn't. They wouldn't start returning until the next day and when they got home they would be tired and jet lagged.

It didn't help that Crewe were my bunnies. Along with Tranmere, they were a side I always expected to beat, at any level, in any competition. When I saw Crewe on the fixture list I assigned myself a W and three points and thought no more of it. Not this time - this time the struggle would be titanic, would be life or death, would define our entire season.

I had realised my mistake early enough that it wouldn't cost us, but it worried me. I was normally so good at planning ahead, at saying where to push and where to rest. If I was making such basic oversights, what else was I messing up without knowing it?

That was something to fret about overnight as I tried to keep still so that Emma wouldn't worry about my lack of sleep. For the next couple of hours, all that mattered was beating Newport County, one of the four Welsh teams playing in the English football league. Their average CA was 72.

"All right, lads," I said, as I made my way to the tactics board. On the fifth step inside the dressing room, my left heel spat angry sparks. Chipper had done an absolute number on it and while I was able to run, there was a cost. I didn't want to become one of those athletes who got addicted to painkillers; I would rest all through the summer to let it sort itself out. Until then I had to power through. We all did. "Newport try to play football so we're gonna let them move through the midfield and blast them on counters, yeah?"

"Heart attack football," yelled Vimsy. "Make sure your balls are pumped up."

I chuckled, which turned into a laugh when I saw Pascal translating for Foquita by means of a gesture. I explained what I wanted in fluent Spanish. "Cojones grande, mate. Tres puntos, por favor." I touched the magnets on the board. "Three-five-two. Swanny in goal. The defence is Cole, Christian, Lee H. Jamie Brotherhood's on hand to give us a quarter of an hour with a back four if we want that."

Using a CA 38 sixteen-year-old was the kind of thing that had been costing us points all season, but the squad was really bare bones. If there was a perk that protected one player from getting a season-ending injury, I might have used it on Magnus. Sadly, no such perk existed and he was on crutches with nothing to do except wonder if he even wanted to be a footballer. He and Dan had that negative PA; they were my Gandhis. They had broken the curse. If I understood it correctly, they were so bad they were legendarily good. I had to keep Magnus but I couldn't push too hard. Or was that a mistake in itself?

"Midfield is Duggers, Ryan, Youngster, Dan, Bark." I might have used Andrew Harrison instead of Bark, but he was serving a one-match ban for picking up a second yellow card in the frantic finale against Notts. I didn't really mind that one - Andrew being fresh for the coming matches was actually one bright spot - we would need his ability to run and run. "Lee C on the bench with Josh. I might give you twenty minutes to stretch your legs.

"Up front it's Henri and Foquita. Role reversal today. Foquita doing all the donkey work." I eyed him. "Work. Trabajar, yes?"

"Yes, gaffa." He hadn't learned much English but he'd picked up some of the key phrases.

I'd been brushing up on my Spanish, too. "Trabajar o yo obtener Luisa." Work hard or I'll get Luisa. "Entiendes?"

He dipped his head and came back up with a smile. "Entiendo. I work. I work, gaffa."

The eleven had a CA of 85.5 and even with our dwindling numbers I would have Josh, Lee C, Wibbers, Pascal, and myself on the bench.

I closed my eyes and checked Newport's tactics screen. Yeah, this wasn't the match to worry about.

"There's a good chance we go third today, lads. Let's put some fucking daylight between us and Fleetwood. Win today we've got one foot in League One, all right? Come on."

"Come on, lads!" yelled Christian Fierce.

***

Five thousand four hundred fans make a lot of noise at the best of times but after this, there were only three home fixtures remaining. Three more matches with the Deva in its current form. Three more matches before I demolished the Harry McNally. The fans were getting nostalgic and Brooke was encouraging it with our marketing. All the old songs were coming out, including ones for Smasho and Nice One.

Beautiful, but it added to my sense of turmoil. We were on the cusp, dancing on a sliver of time between an old era and a new age.

On the pitch, my multi-national team were playing without a care in the world, controlling the ball and the match exactly as I'd designed. Ireland to England to Ghana to Liverpool to Peru to France - goal.

Henri sprinted to the main stand, celebrating madly, but caught himself, dialled the madness down about 80%.

What was that all about?

For all the curse told me about a player - their attributes, form, average rating, morale, injury status, what they thought of their future at the club - I kept finding myself bamboozled. Henri reining in a celebration? What next? Our psychologist saying, 'You know what Max? I think you're completely cured'?

We had a hell of a good squad. The gold standard for improvement was Wibbers. Starting from a low base, well-managed, with boundless talent, he had already improved by 30 CA points this season. Dan had surprised me by adding almost as many: 28. A lot of players had gone up by high teens or low twenties. The standout, though, was Cole Adams. With the help of the Secret Sandra perk, he'd gone from 42 in pre-season to 78 today.

Fascinating. If I spread the perk around I could raise everyone's level, but it seemed a lot more fun to juice one player and watch him become either a star or a solid squad player. As I thought about the challenge I was facing, the latter was more appealing. Stars won matches, squads won leagues. Was that a saying?

I tweaked Youngster's instructions to stop him running forward, as much to protect the fitness of the defenders as to stop Newport from scoring. I noted that Foquita's Condition had dropped five points so I changed his instructions, too. No more pressing - I didn't want to break the kid. "Sandra," I said. "Tell Foquita to relax for a while."

"On it," she said, before sending out the message I had already delivered telepathically. "Do you want Henri to up his work rate?"

"No."

Henri was going to be huge for us in the next two games; I didn't want him running himself into the ground. He was agonisingly close to hitting his peak. CA 89, PA 90. When he popped, I would use God Save the King to increase his Finishing and increase his maximum PA. It was a trick I knew worked because I'd done it the previous year with Aff.

Bradford City were getting the benefit of that move - the curse told me they were winning again. One-nil up with a goal from Chipper. Had Aff created it?

Newport pumped a hopeful long ball towards Cole, the theoretical weak link of our defence. He won the header easy as you like. "Sack your analysts," I said.

Sandra laughed. "I know, right?"

Watching Cole win a duel against a much older striker reminded me of Dazza against Sutton. In the first half he had won one header out of five, the ball had bounced off him, he had an air of being disengaged and not wanting to be there. It had come as a surprise because his Morale was Superb. The curse rated his first half performance as four out of ten and I considered that to be generous in the extreme. He wasn't in today's squad and I couldn't imagine using him again. The way my thoughts were trending, the only way he'd be at Chester next season was if we couldn't buy players. If our transfer ban was upheld, I would have no choice but to keep him around. The prick.

"Let's feed Duggers," I said.

Sandra moved along the touchline calling 'Green 15, Green 15'. That was the code that we should play with a focus on our left.

Soon after, Duggers skipped past a tackle, ran along the nice strip of grass that was between him and the away fans, and whipped in a cross that Foquita headed down past the goalie.

Two-nil.

"Energy-saving," I said. Sandra pointed and barked instructions while I changed everyone's instructions and positioning to minimise how much they had to run. One player's Condition was decreasing faster than everyone else's. Without Zach or Magnus, how could I give Christian Fierce a break?

***

70 minutes gone.

Substitution for Chester. Replacing the captain, Christian Fierce... is the manager, Max Best.

It looks like Newport County have adopted a more attacking approach.

The goalkeeper kicks long and the Newport defence push up to the halfway line.

Cole Adams wins the header. Youngster tidies up and plays a simple pass to Best.

Best stumbles; Newport could be in here!

Best flicks the ball past the onrushing striker and hammers the ball downfield.

Foquita is clear!

He has acres of space. He looks for support. Lyons is trying to get there.

Foquita takes the shot early...

But it drifts wide!

The Peruvian apologises to his fellow striker and looks to his manager.

Best gives him a thumbs up.

It looks like Newport County have adopted a more defensive approach.

***

Two-nil final score, no new injuries, no new suspensions. A tiny, tiny rest for Christian was the best I could give him. Would I have been better resting myself? Why was I questioning every single thing I did?

The Deva faithful cheered and chanted, but I couldn't shift my anxious feeling. Bradford clung onto their one-nil win. They would drop points, I was sure, and then we would blast right past them and never look back. Mansfield won, also two-nil, in a match that sounded like ours - a routine win against a much weaker team. Was second behind Mansfield the best we could hope for? Second was shit, but at least I wouldn't have to watch clips of Chip and his loud-mouthed gobshite friends driving around Yorkshire, scaring the hedgehogs and waking old ladies as the Chip Van drove past their bungalows blasting shit tunes at five hundred decibels.

On hearing the final whistle, I stared at the grass by my feet for so long that Newport's captain jokingly asked if I had lost a contact lens. I tried to be a normal human being for a while but after shaking hands with everyone in a small radius, my brain flooded with thoughts and worries. What sort of team would I even be able to name against Colchester? And then again versus Crewe. Would our season come down to whether Jamie Brotherhood could hold his own against an experienced League Two winger? Would I need to turn to Benny?

Henri came to me, his Morale maxed out at superb. "Max, I have a request."

"Anything. Absolutely anything for you. Anything at all."

"I would like you to meet my mother."

"Sorry, I'm busy."

He put his arm around me and pointed me towards the main stand. "She's in the executive box and she would like to enjoy the Max Best experience. It will not be a long meeting, I promise. In and out, like when we played Kettering Town. Do you remember Kettering Town, Max? In our relegation scrap. You dropped me to the bench but I rescued your career anyway. I'm good like that."

I smiled as I thought back to those early days. "I wore a Kettering scarf and one of their coaches lost his shit."

"That was the debut for the fake Jackie Reaper."

I shook my head. "It was all so simple then. I was so carefree, so fearless."

He rubbed his mouth to hide his amusement. "You were so young. Now life has aged you. Look how you wither on the vine... in third place in League Two, master of all you survey. Come, meet maman. It will be more painless than the dentist."

"Amazing to compare your mother to a dentist," I said. I threw my arm around him and we walked towards the tunnel. "Of course I'll meet her. Yeah. She lent me, what, six hundred grand?" Henri's mother had appeared on the list of donors for the mini-bond, and she had stumped up the cash to get our latest 3G pitch project launched slightly ahead of schedule. "Don't tell her she could meet me for the price of a Nando's."

"Your secret is safe with me."

***

FRANCE

As a child, Aurélie Fragonard was the heir to a famous perfume empire, where famous means 'as well-known in certain circles as Max Best is in Chester' and empire means 'more than two businesses, only one of which was profitable.'

The empire had survived rocky times and changing fortunes but was at a low ebb in 1989 when the nineteen-year-old Aurélie had demanded a management position. In the fall of the Berlin Wall she smelled opportunity. She overcame resistance from her stick-in-the-mud colleagues to push the Fragonard brand into the territories opened up by the collapse of communism.

It was a nail-biting ride but soon a majority of the company's profits were coming from the east and Aurélie had the cachet - and the cash - to re-establish her brands in the home market. Six years of growth and glory came to an abrupt end owing to a torrid summer dalliance with a dashing former international rugby player - Lionel Lyons. Dalliance turned to alliance. The wedding was featured on pages 14-30 of the French version of Hello magazine, 'Allo.

Lionel thought himself an astute businessman but, alas, nah. Under his endarkened rule, the Fragonard brand fell into a tailspin. Aurélie sold her stake to an American hedge fund, kicked Lionel to the curb, and spent years in the wilderness - literally. She developed an unhealthy mania for cashmere goats and merino sheep, and after growing one of Europe's largest herds of each, she sold up, reacquired her family's brand, and was in the process of rebuilding it once more.

Now 55, she bristled with energy and by the time I got to the executive box, when most of the crowd had left, I saw quite the scene in front of the big windows that looked out onto the pitch. Of those standing, MD had signed up for her fan club, Brooke thought she was amazing, Emma thought she was hilarious, and Kian was terrified of her. Sitting awkwardly on a sofa, Henri looked like a toddler in short pants waiting to be scolded, and Luisa looked absolutely dejected. When I pushed the door open and let it flap behind me, like a gunfighter entering a saloon, Luisa perked up, hope in her eyes.

"Maman," said Henri. I noted that his Morale had slipped two points and was now merely good. That was alarming given he was the only striker I would have in the coming games. "This is Max. Max, this is my mother."

"Enchanté," I said. I wasn't sure if I should kiss her twice on the face in the French fashion or wait for her to extend her hand for a regal kiss or a businesslike handshake, so I did nothing and nothing is exactly what she did. I pulled two stools away from the bar area.

"Max Best," said Aurélie. Her accent was clear but a lot harder than her son's. "I have heard too much about you."

"It's all true," I said. "Except the one where I'm actually a space lizard and the one where Bill Gates lives in a capsule in my bloodstream. Hey bebs," I said, squeezing Ems. "Hey, bebs," I said, squeezing MD. I lined up Brooke for the next squeeze but she gave me a look that meant 'I dare you' and truth be told I chickened out. I fist bumped Luisa and Kian then went to my stool; Emma joined me and I leaned into her - I could have stayed with my head nuzzled against hers for hours. The stool had a footrest so I could lift my heel off the floor - nice.

MD's admiration for a top international businesswoman had its limits; his real passion was Chester FC. "Amazing win, Max! Did you hear? We're third! Third! We're in the automatic promotion slot and Fleetwood have played a game more than us."

"Mike," I said. "This is Chester. We don't celebrate third place."

"I bloody do," he said, not caring if it sounded like loser talk to Aurélie. "Was it as easy as it looked?"

"Um," I said. Had it looked easy? "They're normally a passing team but today they were trying to isolate Cole Adams and target him with long balls. It's one of the stupidest things I've ever seen but there's a fine line between stupidity and genius." I got quieter. "I was thinking it must be a super tactic. What have their analysts seen that we aren't prepared for? Watching them do it, fail, and do it again was eating away at my stomach lining. Who's told them to try this? Was it the megabrain from Bradford? Are they sharing tactics on how to beat us?"

MD had a slightly horrified look. "I thought Cole played well."

"He did," I said. "The tactic wasn't genius, just stupid. I think I'm stupider as a consequence. That's quite a trick in its own right."

Henri said, "Max, did Cole play when we met Newport earlier in the season?"

"No," I said. "It was 4-1-4-1 with Eddie Moore at left back. After we scored, we switched to five at the back to shut things down."

"Yes," said Henri. "You put on an exhibition in how to block passing lanes, I remember. And they remember, too. This time they tried to bypass midfield and put pressure on a young player, the one they see as our weakest link. There is no mystery in their actions, only despair." His Morale rose to very good as his eyes flitted towards his mother. Was he hoping for approval?

Aurélie didn't register interest. "What does it mean to be third?"

"It means we're two steps from glory," I said, noting that Henri's Morale fell back. "With the help of your son, we won two titles and we have a chance to win three in a row. That would be incredible. An all-timer, except we'll win again next season. Four in a row is within reach. We'll become legends. Eternal." Henri's Morale rose.

"Four teams will get promoted," said Brooke, "which means they go to a higher level."

"Yeah," I said. "English football is a pyramid." I made the shape with my hands. "We're getting closer to the top, where it looks more like a ladder than a pyramid, but in the old days there was Division 4 North and Division 4 South and the top two teams in each moved to Division 3. That's why four teams go up from this league even though only three go up everywhere else."

"Oh!" said Emma. "You never told me that."

"You've been too busy using my filtered water and not refilling the jug and you're always reading those Canadian books."

"Four teams are promoted and you are third?" said Aurélie. "It is sufficient, no?"

"No," I said.

"Yes," said MD and Brooke.

"No," I repeated, about ten percent louder. They didn't gainsay me.

"But why?" said Aurélie. "First, third, fourth. Why the agony I witnessed? The match was unspectacular, was it not? There were not many goals." Henri winced. Had he taken that personally? Was it meant to be a slight? His Morale dropped yet again, so I was guessing yes to both questions.

Frowning, I said, "Chester have been at a low level for so long the fans can't dare to dream that we might have yet another good season. If we go up, the level of the opposition goes up, too. We will play against big teams like Blackpool, Charlton, maybe Bolton. It's exciting."

"And lucrative," said Brooke.

"Sure," I said. "We're in the fourth tier, the fourth level. We get about a million pounds in TV money. We're going to the third level - " MD made a croaking noise - "where we will get one point five million. Ish," I added, because someone was about to Brookesplain the exact numbers. "After that it goes up to ten million."

Aurélie's eyebrows rose, but not perhaps as much as they should. Bit of botox? "Rather a steep jump."

"Yes," I agreed. "But then comes the Premier League. That's one hundred million. One hundred million pounds just from TV."

The eyebrows came down, her surprise replaced by hunger. "One, one point five, ten, one hundred. Per year? That's... intriguing. Brooke, you should 'ave started with that."

The b-girls laughed. Brooke said, "To be fair, we were talking about women's football. The men's sport is incredibly intense. You can imagine that the potential returns and the guaranteed acclaim attract a lot of competitors."

"Ryan Reynolds," said Aurélie. She pronounced it like 'Renaults'.

"For one. My father for another. They are small potatoes in comparison to many but we at Chester have a secret weapon, something money can't buy. The golden goose, laying three points twice per week. We have to support him; you can see the toll it takes." To my everlasting surprise, Brooke came to my stool and gave me the squeeze she had rejected just moments before. "We're nearly there, Max. Nearly there."

The gesture warmed me up, soothed me, quelled some of my troubles, but I realised everyone was waiting for me to talk. "The next two games will define this entire season," I said. "We have a lot of players away on international duty."

Aurélie was a lot more interested in the sport now that the words 'one hundred million pounds' had been uttered. "What does that mean?"

"They will play for their countries instead of us. We're a victim of our success. Mansfield have to play a couple of games in the international window, too, but they don't have any international quality players. They will be at full strength." I looked at my squad list. Exactly why had I been pushing for Cole and Wibbers to get call-ups? I fucking needed them!

I sank into a reverie of trying to pick a functioning team against Colchester. The defence was the problem. No Zach, no Magnus. No Cole. No good.

When I drifted back into the room, I heard Aurélie say, "The women are winning, the men are winning, the boys are winning. Do you know what I think? I think there are far too many empty hands! Let us pour wine and toast the continued success of Chester Football Club."

Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Yes, let's," said Emma.

"I'll drink to that," said MD.

"Not for me, maman," said Henri.

"Don't be rude, Henri."

"It's not rude; I'm a professional footballer. Max is counting on me."

"Nonsense," she said. "One glass. You will have one glass of wine with us. Kian, where is Kian?" The kid had been trying to hide behind Brooke but was forced forward. "Kian, would you be a darling? Wine for everyone. I saw there was a Bordeaux from the left bank."

The scene pressed a few of my buttons. Don't force alcohol onto people, don't keep offering food and drink to people who have refused, and certainly don't intentionally collapse the Morale of my players in a crucial part of the season. I'd made a lot of mistakes but I wasn't going to let a player's overbearing mother fuck up my title charge.

"Kian," I said. "Get eight glasses, pour some good plonk into them out nice and careful, then throw two of them right down the sink, okay? All the way down the sink, let the water run, give the surfaces a good wipe." I sensed that Emma wasn't pleased by this outburst, but one person was delighted - Luisa looked like Christmas had come early. "Then, Kian, make sure you pass the message to all the staff at the Deva and Bumpers - anyone giving alcohol to any of my players but especially Henri in the next two weeks is sacked. Then get on the socials. Any shop that serves him, any restaurant that so much as gives him a fucking white wine soup is going to find five hundred hardcore hooligans trashing the place the next day." I took a couple of steps, knelt, put my hand on Henri's knee, and looked deep into his soul. "The entire city is counting on you, my friend. It's not a joke, it's not a gambit, it's not 5D chess. It's the simple truth. I need your goals just as much now as I did against Kettering. We have to get promoted and we have to beat Chip Star. You know why. This is it. This is the peak. Remember we talked about your peak? What a time to do it! The next two games we're relying on you, counting on you. I don't have a tactic, I don't have a system, I have you. This is what you were born to do. This is your destiny." The fire was back in his eyes and his Morale was soaring so I turned to Luisa. "I need him fighting fit against Colchester and Crewe. Anyone who gets in the way of that, smash them."

Her glance flicked towards her future mother-in-law. "Yes, Max. He'll be ready. I swear it."

I stood - hellfire shot through my heel - and as I was eyeing the exit, Kian intervened. He was a lot more used to my rants than Henri's mum. "We've got alcohol-free champagne, boss. We can do a cheers with that and when the others move onto the Bordeaux, I'll make you and Henri a superfood smoothie."

I looked around the circle. The compromise was perfect. Kian to the rescue. "You're the smoothie, mate. You should be working in an Embassy, not here."

Aurélie had been giving me a strange look, but now she returned to her previous mode: graceful, easy smile, total confidence. "That reminds me of a funny story. I was at the Institut Francais in Prague, and who should turn up but the Ambassador..."

***

AUSTRALIA

The Australian player went to whatever airport and took whatever flight. It's impossible to know for sure.

GHANA

There was an emotional early-morning send-off at 6:45 at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport as Mr. and Mrs. Yalley, Kisi, Meghan, and I hugged and in some cases kissed Youngster and in slightly fewer cases, Vincent Addo. Youngster was going to train with the under 23s, while Vincent was still with the under 20s.

In the boring parts of the send-off, by which I mean the endless prayer session they had together right there in the busy walkway, I hatched a cunning plan. These international players would be training at a high level, right? Youngster's CA growth had accelerated while he was training with players better than him. What if I used Secret Sandra on players who were away on international duty? If the curse accepted the hack, it would be a super-duper boost to training speeds, wouldn't it?

PERU

Foquita flew to Lima. His two goals against Manchester United had given him the visibility needed to make it to the senior team's training camp. He wouldn't be named in a match day squad unless he was absolutely mind-blowing in training, but it was still a massive moment in his career. And, of course, when he landed, Camila would be waiting for him.

I didn't think about what she would be wearing.

Why would I?

Probably just jeans and a cardigan.

WALES

Roddy Jones and the Ffamous Five went to the training camps for their age groups. Like most international players, they would train, get to know their coaches and teammates, and hope to be included in the match day squads. Roddy told me he was likely to play as a striker because that's where everyone in Wales thought he should play. I reminded him that he was a right back and I asked him to consider who knew best, the entire population of a country, or me?

ENGLAND

Meghan and Sarah Greene were used to wearing the Three Lions. Kisi and Angel, not so much. I later heard reports that they were nervous and clung to each other. That sounded great for team spirit, though it pissed me off that Dani wasn't there.

In the equivalent men's group, Wibbers might have been nervous at first, too, until the first training session. I knew exactly what he would have thought as he looked around at his so-called peers - 'I'm better than you.'

It was no surprise to me when he was named as a starter in the first match. It was one thing seeing him in clips, but seeing him up close and in person was another level. I knew the coaches would soon be basing their entire systems around him.

BUMPERS

For a few days, our training ground felt strangely empty. I watched Sandra's sessions from one of my camping chairs - no longer trying to hide that I had a problem with my heel.

Chester's first team squad, as presented by the curse, had 30 names. Tomzilla and Nasa were in Brazil, training with Corinthians. Adam and Alfie, the lads Man United had given us, were reserves and were out on loan anyway.

Of the 26 'real' first teamers, four (Rainman, Sunday, Omari, and Tom Westwood) were out on loan.

Of the 22 others, two were injured - Zach and Magnus. Half a dozen others were like me, playing through pain or carrying knocks, but this close to the end of the season we would all have to suck it up. Every other club had the same problems, or worse.

Of the 20 fit players, five were with their national teams - Cole Adams, Youngster, Wibbers, Dazza, Foquita.

Of the 15 players I had available, three were goalkeepers. I had twelve outfield players. From thirty to twelve. Number goes down!

In theory we would still have too much quality for Colchester but the Crewe match was going to be an absolute nail-biter. My best weapon from the bench would be Tyson, CA 50. There could be a big role for Lucas Friend, the CA 45 left back. I would probably bring Henk to be our spare centre back. He had long since hit his peak of CA 37.

Sandra changed the drill - we were doing no-contact training all week to minimise the risk of injury. Despite that, while I watched, Lee Hudson popped. Green! That was him maxed out at CA 91. I got up, called him over, and gave him a little hug. He wasn't quite fully bought into the Chesterness of everything, but he was enjoying his football again after a tough time at Barrow. I wasn't sure if he had ever peaked before but I doubted it. He'd worked hard and had earned a moment of quiet fanfare.

Henri's final pop was imminent. I didn't really want to spend my mornings watching training but I wanted to see the exact second. It felt important.

Until it happened, I had very little to do except for deciding how to spend my experience points.

I had two big decisions to make. The first was whether to use my training perk on one of my internationals or on one of the players I would be relying on this weekend. Boosting Josh or Dan made short-term sense, but we were doing low intensity work at Bumpers. The multiplier would be much better used on Wibbers. He was at an elite facility with great players and coaches. The gains he got wouldn't help me against Colchester but would in the Youth Cup final.

The second decision was a matter of timing. By the end of the season I would have enough XP to buy both another Attribute plus the Panopticon Multi Club Model extension with one team. Which did I want first?

Attributes were always welcome and useful. A little extra player knowledge could help me in the coming matches. On the other hand, if I added College 1975 to my mental curse lists, I'd be able to tell Mateo which players to release with the aim of getting the squad in shape for my arrival.

While I deliberated, Ryan killed a pass and rolled the ball to Duggers. He fizzed a pass to Andrew Harrison, who deflected it to Bark. He struck a crisp low shot into one of the tiny training goals Sandra was using.

We were down to the bare bones but we still fucking slapped.

I bought the Panopticon extension and added College 1975 to my screens. I could see the player profiles just as though I was in the shadow of The Rock!

I quickly looked around and saw that a lot of players disliked each other, that some players were eager to leave in the summer, that far too many players were carrying injuries. So much to sort out, but College were still second in the league and likely to stay there. As long as they did, I would be their player-manager for a couple of months this coming summer. Maybe a bit of sun would sort me out.

And look at that! I had more XP than I thought.

XP balance: 3,545

I would be able to afford to buy another Attribute after the Colchester match. Bonus.

***

Selected International Results

Venezuela 1 Peru 1

Ghana u23 2 Chad u23 0

Australia u23 3 Vanuatu 2

England u19 3 Bulgaria u19 1

***

Friday, March 27

Henri popped. I watched him for five minutes enjoying the numbers after his name. Henri Lyons, CA 90, PA 90.

I took a big old nostalgic trip down memory lane, thinking about the first time I'd seen him (when he was on the bench for Darlington), how he'd helped me with the Chester Knights the morning after, how he had let me stay in his house for free, how he'd taught me about hams, wines, and culture even when I'd asked him to stop.

As partial repayment for his endless kindnesses, I could finally give him something he couldn't get from anyone else - I could supernaturally increase his talent. I used God Save the King, my once-per-season chance to boost one Attribute. Henri's Finishing went from 17 to 18 and both his CA and PA increased to 92.

Done.

One less dangling thread. One less thing to factor into my equations.

Now to tell him and to motivate him to keep those levels for as long as possible. I hoped him being a part of the League Two Legends would keep a spring in his step for three years, at least. Actually, why not five? Six? There was no reason a 36-year-old Henri wouldn't be able to smash League Two defences. If he lost some physicality he would get better with his movement. It was conceivable he would only get more dangerous as his ability points shifted towards the mental side of the game.

I went to him and asked if we could get lunch together. I didn't have a great plan for how I'd tell him, but I was pretty sure I'd find a way to embark on a tearful retelling of our shared journey. We would cry and laugh and hug until we got kicked out of Nando's.

Henri was keen on lunch. "Maman will be delighted to see you again."

I hope I didn't look as annoyed as I felt. "She's still here? I thought she was only over for the weekend and she would be fucking off."

"She came to meet Angel but Angel is away. Maman decided to stay longer. She is keeping herself busy. She tours the country meeting sheep breeders and visiting perfume shops. She dines with executives at Harvey Nichols and the fashion magazines."

"I'm not sure she'll want to see me, mate. I went off on one, didn't I?"

"She will be ecstatic; she likes you. She found your reaction unexpected and confusing and we had a long talk about boundaries that was very good for me, Max. The Deva is your domain and she very well understands what it is like to be the king of the castle. There could be further investment in the club if you can find some of that famous Max Best charm. Down the back of your car seat, perhaps."

"I'm just not in the mood for this family drama shit. I don't have the nerves for it, Henri."

"I know, Max. Maman understands the importance of tomorrow's match. She will behave beautifully, I promise you."

***

FRANCE AGAIN NO COME ON

We drove to Hale, part of the famous 'Golden Triangle' where many footballers live. It's technically part of Cheshire but it's just south of Manchester; we wouldn't find any Chester fans there. House prices are absolutely mental but it has the kind of cafes, restaurants, and boutiques that suit young multi-millionaires and their bored wives. It wasn't hard to guess what Mama had been doing in the area.

Henri pulled into Hale Country Club and I followed and parked in the next space.

I trudged behind him, not really taking in the opulence of the surroundings. It was just another place for rich pricks to hang out. The fact that I was becoming a rich prick didn't make it better.

I paused outside a big glass window that showed a ludicrously overspecced gym. It was phenomenal. Huge TVs rested on high ceilings, light strips hung down, and there were row upon row of machines, racks, and benches. I took a photo and sent it to Magnus, saying 'this is what we'll have next season.'

The restaurant had a lot of tables but they were spaced out and it felt like there was a lot of soundproofing in the area. Conversations wouldn't travel; patrons were free to gossip.

"Maaaxxxx!" cried Aurélie, rising from the dining table to greet me. She showed me either cheek. "It is a splendid place, this Manchester of yours. Some wonderful boutiques. Young entrepreneurs, young women, such energy. I learned a new phrase. Go-getters. You are something of a go-getter, are you not?"

"So's Henri," I said. "He gets loads of go."

She smiled. "You are loyal."

"I'm not loyal, I'm jealous. He sings, he plays guitar, he slays the piano. He boxes, he scores goals in ten languages, women love him, he understands Plato and Voltaire, he thinks Sophie's World is charmingly basic. He's a TV producer, he invests, he writes, he cooks. He's fucking mint."

While Henri tried not to beam, a waiter came to offer us drinks. I looked at Aurélie, ready to get belligerent. That amused her; she asked for sparkling water. I asked for the same with a side of strong builder's tea. Henri asked for still water.

Aurélie said, "My son is very happy. I have you to thank for that."

I frowned. "Henri's been happy ever since he first saw a mirror."

Aurélie snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. Henri said, "Max."

I looked at him and wondered how I'd ended up here. "I wanted to talk to you about..." I brought my hand up a few steps to a very definite peak.

"I know," he said. "We can do it openly. Maman will be interested. But first, we must talk about you."

I groaned. "What the fuck? Why? Today's about you. No. Veto."

Henri straightened and got serious. "Emma is worried about you. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You are biting your nails again. My mother knows what it is like to grow a small business rapidly, to trip over one's feet, to overcome adversity only to find more adversity over the next ridge. She knows the pressure of being the person everyone looks to for answers and for hope and for success. You are kicking me out at the end of the season and after today you need never meet my mother again. There are things you would not say to Sebastian Weaver, to MD, to Brooke, even to Alex, that you can say to us."

"Who is Alex?" said Aurélie.

"Our sports psychologist. He is very good. He has helped us a lot." He put his hand on my back and gave me a rub. "Max's problems are above his pay grade."

The waiter came back with our drinks and asked if we were ready to order. Aurélie asked if she was allowed the white wine soup, which made me laugh. Henri thought he was trying to help. This wasn't the scene I wanted but I relaxed into it.

We ordered and the waiter left.

Henri said, "Does Foquita's interview bother you?"

Foquita's goals against Manchester United had sparked a lot of media interest, and a major outlet had done an interview with him and Camila - a pairing that suddenly looked like Peru's next big celebrity couple. In the translations going around Chester, Wrexham, and certain WhatsApp groups, Foquita had called me a 'madman'. "No," I said. "He was asked what it was like living in England. He complained about the weather but said everyone was very kind. Next question, what's it like playing for an English manager? Foquita said the question should be what's it like playing for a madman? He said I was loco, Camila said I was guapo. They settled on Guapo Loco. It's easy to imagine the scene as very charming. It doesn't bother me at all."

Aurélie said, "Why does he think you are a madman?"

Henri answered for me, "Thirty-two minutes."

"Pardon me, mon chou?"

"That is the maximum length of time Pep Guardiola is able to sustain a conversation that is not about football. By the end of his time in England, he could not eat at all on matchdays, claiming his body was unable to digest food. The game ate him. It is similar with the other managers but I think the great ones have it worst."

I had my fingernail in my mouth but with a grunt I forced it away and picked up a fork so I would have something to do with my hands. "Nathan Jones. Good manager, got his teams playing great football. Bit his nails till they bled. There was that time Pep was clawing at his own face. Every Man United manager gets grey hair within six weeks of taking the job. I've been all right until recently. It's just... It's just crept up on me. Things were fine and suddenly it's all getting too much."

Henri nodded and rubbed my arm. "Tell us, Max."

"Like... the thing about being a manager is the control. I'm not stressed by matches normally because I'm the big swinging dick. Excuse my French," I added, which baffled Aurélie. "I decide who wins or loses. It's me. Even with one hand tied behind my back, I'm still Jackie Channing it twice a week."

"One hand tied behind your back?" said Aurélie.

"Max has one quarter the budget of his rivals," explained Henri. "In football, talent costs money. In this game if you pay peanuts you get monkeys. Max pays peanuts and gets gorillas. Mostly young gorillas, which comes with its own problems, but gorillas all the same. The squad has grown up together and now we are the alphas. In February and March we have scored 32 goals and conceded 5. That is beyond phenomenal."

Aurélie said, "Go on, Max. Control. You lost control."

I tried to put things into words. "So... Yeah, okay. I got loads of gorillas, with Henri as the silverback to teach them how to fling poop better."

"You might be mixing up your primates," said my friend.

"I knew the start of the season would be tough but that we would come good at the end. Great. That's what we're doing. But there are way more external events than I could have predicted. First, our main rivals get a megabrain. That has never been explained. I mean, what happened there?"

Henri tutted. "You should have asked Aff or Carl instead of letting it gnaw at you."

I pointed. "Asking them to betray confidences is not cricket. Anyway, they wouldn't have told me and it would have made things weird between us. You know what? Loads of things happened this season but we rose above them. It's the last few weeks that got hard. First there was this transfer ban. I'm sure it will get reduced and suspended but until it does it's like an ulcer. Then there's this agent prick trying to sue somebody, anybody. Again, he doesn't have a leg to stand on but it's there in my shoe like a little pebble. Then there's all our international players. We want internationals. We want our players to get called up."

"Do we?" said Henri, with a wry smile.

"Yes," I said. "They come back way better." Wibbers had already added 3 points to his CA. "Plus there's a financial incentive. The bids I reject go up and up."

Aurélie pulled a face that Henri understood better than me. "Premier League teams do not play during international windows. At the top level, virtually every player is an international. Their training grounds are deserted. In our league, you can delay a match if you have three players away."

"You have five."

"Quite. But this late in the season, when we already have postponements, there is simply no room. We must play these matches even if, as seems likely, we must use our children."

Aurélie said, "Children make good workers if you underfeed them."

I nearly did a spit take. No wonder Emma thought she was funny.

Our starters arrived and I ate my salad at the rate of one leaf per minute. "It's just that loss of control. I have an amazing squad I can't use. I am the best in the world at transfers but maybe I won't be allowed to do any for a year. I don't pick the international squads and while the Welsh FA tells their people to listen to me, the English FA fucking hates me. They picked two of my players but not the third and that is one of the most aggravating things that has ever happened. Why wasn't she picked? Because she's deaf. I'm ready to burst, Aurélie. It's so unfair I can't stand it. She's as good as Wibbers, and when the England coaches saw him up close they threw him in the team. He scored on his debut and played the full 90 minutes." I jabbed a tomato. "There's this saying that keeps haunting me. No good deed goes unpunished. I've been training these young players and talking them up. Trying to get them in the national teams because that's a wonderful moment for them and their families. And what's my reward? Suddenly my training sessions are empty and the easiest match of the season is a banana skin. Oh! And my former record signing, my big Australian striker, has decided he's too good for the club! He has checked out. I'll still make a profit on him but now I have to replace three strikers in the summer."

Henri gritted his teeth. "Yes, well, there is a lot to unpack there, Max. But let's start with Dazza. That's the Australian striker, maman." Henri put his cutlery down and steepled his fingers. "Why did you sign him?"

"To learn some mental Aussie slang," I said.

"Really."

I tutted and tried to think back. "He said he wants to learn."

"Why does he want to learn?"

"To play for his country."

"Good. So he is selected - he finds out early, perhaps - and with Chester cruising against a very poor team, he elects to take it easy. He doesn't want to get injured before he makes the step up to a higher level."

"Ooh, hang on," I said. "He doesn't get to choose who he tries against."

Henri grinned. "That is something he learned, is it not?"

Aurélie said, "I am confused."

Henri explained. "This is the club versus country dilemma. The highest honour is to represent one's country. Many, many players will take it easy in the week before an international match. No-one wants to be injured in the time before a national team game. However, on the other hand, the national team does not pay the player's wages. In the case of Dazza, Chester Football Club pay his wages. For Max, the idea that Dazza might take it easy in the blue-and-white stripes is anathema."

I rubbed my forehead. "What are you saying? I should forgive the twat?"

"I would never tell you what to do but yes, you should forgive the twat. You bought him because he wants to work hard to play for his country and he worked hard and he's playing for his country! After your blast he knows what is expected and if he ever again slacks off before an international break you can act accordingly. Personally, I think he will never do it but that you will rest him in some such matches anyway. An unspoken compromise."

"Live happily ever after," I spat.

Henri rubbed my arm again. "Do not make it harder than it needs to be."

"I represent the fans," I said. "It's their money. They deserve to be treated with respect."

"We did win seven-nil," said Henri. "The fans were happy. But I agree with you and I think Dazza agrees with you. He is young, we corrected him, let that be an end to it."

"What about Angel?" said Aurélie. "What can you tell me about her?"

"As a player, or...?"

"As a person."

"She is driven and motivated and she learns fast. You tell her what to do and she'll do it."

"My workshop has developed a new scent, one aimed at young women. The TikTok generation. We have been looking for the face of this scent. I watched Chesterness to see what my son had been doing with his life. To my surprise, I very much enjoyed it but - " I bristled; she knew Henri had produced the show. She spotted my change in mood - it wasn't subtle. "I only meant that I do not like sports. Sport led to my greatest ever mistake. I like Angel, however. She could be just what I need."

Henri said, "We have two possible names for the perfume. I would be interested to hear your preference."

"Hit me."

"The first is..." He splayed his fingers and spread his hands. "Jejune."

"Right."

"The second is... Arriviste."

"Okay," I said. My French was ropey but I was pretty sure neither word conveyed a positive meaning. They were teasing me, the provincial boy too dumb to even recognise he was being mocked. "Jejune," I said. "I would buy a perfume called Jejune. Not only that, I would pour my entire family fortune into a marketing campaign around that name and a wilful young English striker who might just turn out to be the next Elizabeth Taylor."

"My thoughts exactly," said Aurélie. "Good. I think that's settled. Now, tell me why you don't want my son."

Her sense of humour was wild; I could barely track what level the conversation was operating on. I decided to speak plainly. "We are going to League One," I said. "Today, Henri became a League One player." I clapped him on the back. "It's a tremendous moment, one we've both been waiting for. I wanted to mark the day in some spectacular fashion but..." I picked up my fork but immediately dropped it. "But I don't want League One players; we're not staying there. No, at the end of this season he will join a club called Tranmere Rovers along with Lee Hudson and some rugged winners of a similar level. They will win the league, leave Tranmere, and join another club of my choosing. We'll do it three times at least. It will be amazing. Nothing like it has ever been done before and very probably will never be done again."

Aurélie wasn't happy. She gave me a level look. "Henri is happy where he is. He must stay. I am willing to invest in the club in order to ensure his happiness."

"Not going to happen," I said. "You heard the numbers. Soon I'll get ten million in TV money, followed shortly after by a hundred million. I no longer need outside money. I've made a lot of mistakes this season. This isn't one of them."

"Doesn't Henri have a choice in the matter?"

"Sure. He can go to some other club. But then the guilt will be on his hands, not mine."

"Guilt?"

"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do."

Henri gasped. "You read Voltaire!"

"I tried," I said, with a wry smile. "I can't concentrate on books. I've got manager brain. I fixate on a phrase and can't get past it."

"But why do you say guilty?" asked Aurélie.

"Henri has eight more league matches and two in the Cheshire Cup. That's the end of one chapter of his life. In the next, he will move to Birkenhead, a place where poverty grinds good people to dust. Henri will be a beacon of hope; he will spread joy, he will be a teacher to their young players. They have good young players, Aurélie, and your son is a fantastic role model. Chester will win League One, Tranmere will win League Two. Henri will score goals galore and to celebrate them he will skip around Prenton Park like a newborn giraffe while ten thousand maniacs scream his name. When he's done being the hero he'll drive to Chester and help Sophie turn our raw footage into award-winning content. He'll cook for Luisa and she'll tell him about the shitty customers she had that day. That is the good he will do. Good for the BBC, good for his community, good for the people he loves."

In the silence, I realised that was the moment I wanted to give Henri.

***

Our plates were collected, our mains arrived. Mine was a bunch of fried vegetables around a bit of chicken. I wasn't hungry; I poked at it.

Aurélie sipped her water. "Is my investment safe with you, Max?"

"The stand or the new pitch?"

"Tell me about both."

"The stand is the easiest money of all time. We have five first-team players on international duty but if I were in charge, Banksy and Dan would have gone with England along with Wibbers. The squad is worth tens of millions and that number's soaring." I sipped on my water. "One of my advantages is that I'm tactically flexible so I can select players based on pure talent. Some are tall, some are short, some are fast, some are technical. I can set up the team so that most players can shine in most matches. We're competitive in most games and when we're good, we're really good. Our matches are exciting, on the whole, and attendances are rising quickly. I'm doing incredible things with no money but so is Brooke. She does all that email segmenting stuff. These messages go to married people, those go to singletons. These go to young lads, those to the olds. We're building the waiting list for season tickets."

"Brooke doesn't like season tickets."

How had that come up? "If you sell a season ticket, you sell it at a discount and those fans are less likely to go to the club shop and spend money. Brooke is looking at data from Liverpool and Man United that shows that a so-called tourist will spend x times more than a season ticket holder. My priority isn't to make money, per se, but to create an atmosphere that helps us win games and to build a long-term fan base. Liverpool and United might be able to coast on Irish and Scandinavian fans but they're pricing out their natural fan base. Will it bite them on the arse one day? I hope so. We're doing the opposite. Long-term thinking, top to bottom. The stand you've helped pay for will have cheap tickets. Young lads who don't have loads of cash will come and sing their hearts out and scare the other team. We'll fill it in League One. Next season we're doing the away end."

Henri reacted like I had punched him in the face. "What?"

"Yeah. This conversation is off the record, Aurélie. I'll deny it if you blab."

"Blab?" she said, but I powered on. I was getting some of my old enthusiasm back.

"I told you we would be playing Derby and Blackpool and God knows who next season, and the one after that will be even more epic. Leeds, maybe. Sunderland, Everton, Swansea. Who knows? I'll tell you one thing - we'll be able to sell four thousand tickets in the away end every week, no problem. So we need that stand."

"How will you pay for it?" said Henri. "It will be too soon for another mini-bond."

"Oh, who cares?" I said. "By then I'll be selling six Foquitas before breakfast."

"Fajitas?" said Aurélie.

"Guess what?" I said, turning to Henri, my eyes shining. "You know the way there are no venues for live music anymore? I'm going to put one in the away end. Super thingied - in the walls - so that no neighbours will hear anything. Perfect for local bands, right? Come and do a gig, make a little bit of cash, hone your craft. I've even got a name for the venue."

Henri smiled at my enthusiasm. "Tell me."

"Anka What?!"

"I love it," he smiled.

"Angkor Wat?" said Aurélie.

"Yes!" I said, practically jiggling. I threw a pepper into my mouth. "We had a player called Joe Anka. Big music guy, great taste, not judgemental. He'll go round finding new acts, promoting the venue. We'll do some fucking Oasis tribute acts or whatever so that the place makes a profit. We need that for PSR but really it's my way of turning Chester into a cool place for new music to thrive. I grew up on Manchester guitar bands but when was the last new one? They've got nowhere to do gigs. Hey, guess what? I've got a stadium. I can be the solution."

"What about big concerts?" said Henri.

"No, you dick. Not on the pitch."

"In the summer."

"No. Flat no. You sound like Brooke and MD. Don't annoy me."

Aurélie said, "What is PSR?"

"Profit and Sustainability Rules," I said. "We probably won't ever have a problem with those rules but basically you have to make football money to spend football money. Anything in the stadium counts towards your income. The pitch you helped us finance will count towards our income. I'm thinking of schemes that will generate more that will count towards PSR, just in case. I mean, they could change the rules, right? I need to get ahead of everything. I'm thinking five years down the line. Scratch that, I'm thinking twenty years down the line. Fifty. I want to protect the long-term future of the club."

I think Aurélie was slightly confused but she liked seeing me enthusiastic. "What else do you have in mind?"

"I'd love a hotel," I said. Henri nearly choked on a potato wedge. I eyed him. "A hotel near the stadium makes sense. We would rent rooms to the referees, to guys from the opposition, to travelling fans. Chester's a tourist destination, too. Does it need another hotel? I dunno. But if there is one I think people would use it and that income would count towards the club's numbers. Next to that, I'm thinking digs. Henri, don't panic."

"Digs?" said his mum.

"Yeah, it's like a cheap flat for the young players to stay in. Henri has a - can I say this?"

"Yes."

"Henri has a big house and there are loads of baby gorillas living in there. Henri's the perfect host because he teaches them about ham and how to chop oranges and all that. But we've got Best's Babes and Best's Bales and we could fill three or four digs! We're way off what we need. I'd normally be happy to let private people run those spaces - Henri does a great job and we've got a part of the stadium named after a family who took care of young players for years. But I've been thinking about the origins of the sport."

"In what way?" said Henri.

I shoved another mouthful of scran inside my gob and tried to explain it using only my hands. That didn't work. "In the olden days, British workers worked six days a week."

"When was your last day off, Max?"

I pointed at him. "Don't interrupt my rants with your interventions. Okay, six days a week down a mine. The government said, hey, we are some of the worst people who ever lived but even we think this is bonkers. Give them Saturday afternoon off, you dicks. For a while, these factory owners, mine owners, shipyard owners watched their employees leave at one p.m. on Saturday, their pockets full of cash. Gosh, they thought. Wasn't it painful handing over all that coin? I wish we could get some back. One genius made a football team and charged for entry. His workers left the pit or the factory and walked straight to the stadium. They gave the coins they'd just earned right back to their boss before cheering on a team wearing their badge. The tycoon bought better players so they'd win more matches so that his workers would go to the stadium in ever greater numbers. Diabolical, right? Now, fast forward to your socialist poster child Max Best. I'm imagining a Friday afternoon just like this one. I hand out hundreds of pounds to my young players, to my ever-swelling backroom staff, to my coaches, to my groundsmen, but instead of scattering to the four winds, they walk down Bumpers Lane and go into the lovely compound I've built. They go into their nice digs, their small but charming flats, and ding ding ding! Loads of that money I just chucked out the window comes floating back in."

Aurélie was giving me a strange look. "I don't know enough about the industry to spot the flaw, but I suspect there is one."

"Of course," I said. "The plan works if we're League One or higher. Then we need loads of staff and the youth teams are stuffed to the gills. Do you know we don't have a full-time media person? Everyone just sort of chips in. We won't be able to get away with that next season. We need, like, ten new back office staff. Five new groundsmen. More coaches, more physios. I love creating jobs but I hate not having a ready-made place for them to live. Why not build one flat per employee? Yeah, it would work great in the good times but in bad times, if Chester went back to non-league, the places would be empty." I shrugged. "That's when the compound becomes affordable housing for randos and the hotel becomes, well, a badly-located hotel."

"It's fun to daydream," said Henri.

"Mate," I said. "This is going to happen. We're going to do it. I just need to make sure the club can never drop below League One."

"How will you do that?"

"Sheer weight of money. What am I going to do with a hundred million pounds? We can't spend that on players. We'll be signing Scandinavian full backs for six million pounds or whatever, not buying ready-made Premier League guys for forty mill. We won't be able to afford the wages! No, first year in the Prem I'll build the hotel and some flats and we'll hire twenty dentists and do a hundred mad things that are good for the community but actually make money for Chester FC. If we stay in the Prem for five years, that's half a bill. There has to be a way to turn that into... I don't know. A thingy. A kitty that you smash open when the club drops too far."

"A sovereign fund," said Henri. "You want to turn Chester FC into a sovereign wealth fund."

His mother got that sneery look on her face. "It's a football club, not a state."

"Max is the state. He'll put a hundred million into a fund and the club will get 4% a year. Four million pounds is enough to survive in League One, isn't it, Max?"

"It's more than we'll get next season." I drummed my fingers on the table. "That's really interesting. That's how I protect the club, isn't it? That's how I build resilience. A million a year keeps a club in the National League. Two and a half million gives you a shot at staying in League Two. Four million for League One, and so on. Feed the fund to raise the floor, permanently."

Could I build the stadium, put together a winning team, and stick one hundred million pounds in an account no-one could ever touch? Sure, if I stayed doing the job long enough. And if the seven-year time limit on the curse was strictly a K-pop thing...

"Football managers are obsessed with mistakes," I mused. "Defenders who slip, bad passes. They lose sleep thinking about all the mistakes their players might make. I hate that mentality. For me, it's the opposite. You can play a series of passes so perfect that no-one, and I mean no-one, can stop you. Johan Cruyff once said, Before I make a mistake, I don't make that mistake. That's how I try to do things. Do things right years before the moment even comes. Make decisions so perfect you can get away with a hundred mistakes. Wooing Henri. Buying solar panels so Henri can have hour-long showers."

Aurélie thumped the table. "Yes! At last, someone agrees with me. It is comical how long he takes! How long I have waited for this moment. Thank you, Max Best!"

I grinned as Henri pretended to preen, but then I got thoughtful. "It will fucking suck if Bradford win this league, that's for sure. We have to fight that with all we've got. Six points in the next four days will scare the shit out of them." I rubbed my forehead hard and slowly pulled my fingers down my cheeks. "Dazza wants to play for his country. I can live with that. Nutjobs think I'm doing a runner. They'll be first in line for tickets at the stand they don't believe in. Transfer bans can't stop me. Next season I'll win six leagues in three countries - Chester, Tranmere, Saltney, College, West, and Chester Women. The only thing worse than being me is not being me." I felt my eyes blazing. "Gonna fuck Colchester all the way up."

My phone shook. A reply from Magnus.

I like being pursued by you but please save your energy for the big game. I already want to stay at Chester.

I shot to my feet and did a lap of the restaurant before sitting down. I tucked into the rest of my plate, devouring it. I was suddenly incredibly hungry.

When my plate was clean, I realised I had spaced out for at least a few minutes. I glanced at my dining companions but they didn't seem put out. "I'm back," I said.

Henri smiled. "Yes, you are."

His mum said, "Brooke was trying to pitch me on the idea of sponsoring the women's team."

"We have a sponsor," I said. "Glendale. They're mint."

"Brooke doesn't think they can scale. The path to the top in the women's game is easier than in the men's, it seems."

"Yes." I thought about the women's team being sponsored by a luxury perfume brand. It passed the smell test. "That would be an amazing deal for you. We're going to be one of the most famous teams in the world very soon."

"The documentary," said Aurélie. "Brooke mentioned you were uncertain about filming another series."

"It's back on," I said. "They're going to learn my new way of playing football. Shit, that makes perfume even better. One guy called what we do 'the mist'. I can imagine the first advert now. The players are playing, normal stuff, they come together, form the mist, the camera pulls away so fast their heads become droplets, the droplets are bits of perfume, the mist, the mist is someone's breath, Henri in a mermaid outfit spins around and says..."

Henri flicked his hair back and pouted. "Arriviste."

His mum fell into fits of giggles, her eyes crinkling.

I said, "Heh. I wasn't thinking of the documentary, though. We'll be challenging for the Champions League soon. Yeah, maybe Glendale won't cut it by then. Okay, sure, it'd be good to get ahead of it. I don't like changing sponsors, though. Glendale have been good to us. Tell you what, we've got something fun happening this evening. This team from Colombia arrived yesterday. There are about twelve of them and they're staying with women from the Chester team. They're filming some of their interactions on their phones and Henri's going to have to wade through it all looking for good stuff. You know he's an editing genius, right? He's so fucking talented I can't stand it!" I tried to wrestle him but he fended me off. I brushed my hair back. "I think there will be a lot of pairings who don't speak each other's language but this evening's the first training session and after that I think there will be a lot more mutual respect and they'll have a blast. Come and meet everyone! Oh, and my friend Mateo will be there. He's the boss of Tranmere, where your son will be going, and he's letting us use his training ground for the rest of the time the Colombians are here. He's just the best guy. You'll like him."

"Yes, that sounds very agreeable. I would like that."

***

COLOMBIA

Chesterness 2: The Relentlessness

Episode 7: El Guapo Loco

We see sepia-tinted images of the under 20 World Cup in Chile while a narrator speaks.

NARRATOR

In the summer of 2025, Max Best went to Chile to watch the under 20 World Cup. There, he discovered Dazza and Foquita, but he also networked with staff from Envigado FC, a team in Colombia.

[Photo of Best in the stand next to an attractive woman with long black hair.]

He met the manager of their women's team, Catalina, and arranged for Envigado to send a team to Chester.

[Stock footage of a plane. Cut to: lots of tired and grumpy Colombian women pushing suitcases around an airport.]

They arrived yesterday.

[Talking head - Catalina showing all her teeth. She speaks Spanish.]

CATALINA

I met Max Best in Chile and I was very happy. He understands football. I hope he understands that we have a very special player here. Her name is Meredith Ann. I think she is unbelievable but she needs to move to a higher level of football to develop further. Her grandmother is from Wales; she has a Welsh passport. It seems to be so perfect. I believe in her talent. I believe Max will see it.

[She puts her hands together.]

I pray he does!

[Talking head - A small, shy girl.]

MEREDITH ANN

I want to play in the same team as Femi and Charlotte and Sarah Greene and of course Dani. I hope Max Best likes me. I think I am good enough. I am good enough. It won't be easy being away from my family but I want to play football. I want to be the best player in the world.

[Three Colombian girls are in the Sin Bin. One is wearing a big coat and a wooly hat.]

COLOMBIAN PLAYER ONE

It is too cold here. My host family have ketchup for dinner.

COLOMBIAN PLAYER TWO

Mine are great! I love it here. The energy is just my speed. Everybody laughs all the time.

COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE

I can't wait until this evening. We will train with the girls from Chesterness. Dani Smith-Smithe will be there! They said Max Best would come.

COLOMBIAN PLAYER ONE

Oh my God will you shut up about Max Best?

COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE

How about no?

COLOMBIAN PLAYER TWO

El Guapo Loco!

COLOMBIAN PLAYER THREE

Heh heh heh!

[The Chester women are on the 3G pitch at Bumpers Bank. Some of the visitors are there. There's a lot of tension.]

[Cut to: Max ambling around. Someone calls him and he goes towards a group that includes Henri, his mother, Sophie the producer, and Mateo. Elin runs up to Max. Someone is wearing a mic; we hear what's said.]

ELIN

Boss, everyone's really tense. I was thinking it'd be good if you did an ice-breaker.

MAX

Oh. You mean like telling them about the Cambrian era or something like that?

ELIN

I was thinking you could take some free kicks, like.

MAX

Lame.

ELIN

It is not lame. They'll love it. Look, we've got the mannequins there, see? Come show off in front of a load of exotic women.

MAX

When you say it like that...

[Cut to: Max lining up a free kick. He turns to the players.]

MAX

Check this out, ladies. What you do is you line it up all nice and scientific. Check the wind with your finger like this. Aaaaannnnd... bosh!

[He slams the free kick into the base of the mannequin and hops around.]

MAX

The wall is supposed to jump! Why didn't it jump! Elin! You brought the wrong mannequins!

COLOMBIANS

[Laughter.]

[Cries of 'Guapo Loco!']

ELIN

Boooooosssss, please.

MAX

Fine. Urgh. I need three volunteers.

[Cut to: three Colombian women standing on the goal line, holding footballs above their heads. Two are over by the left-hand post, one is over by the right.]

MAX

Henri, Sophie, I'm thinking this bit could be set to Flight of the Valkyries. What do you think?

[Max has three balls arrayed in front of him. He inhales and cracks one over the wall. It hits one of the balls being held aloft. Max yells: BOSH! Max hits the second even harder - it smacks into the ball by the right hand post. BOSH! The third is hit with half the pace but twice the swerve. The ball holder yelps, drops her ball, and jogs away.]

MAX

[Laughing.]

What the [bleep]? Hey! Oi! Get back here. Let's do that again. This is going on the BBC. Entiendes?

ELIN

Okay, thank you very much, boss. I think we're ready to start.

MAX

Yeah, start, yeah.

[He's looking around, increasingly confused. He bites a nail then flings his hand away.]

[Cut to: simple passing drills. Elin and Catalina are shouting instructions in English and Spanish.]

[Henri sidles up to Max.]

HENRI

Is something wrong, my friend? You look troubled.

MAX

She's not here. Where is she?

HENRI

Do you mean Meredith Ann? I asked her to wait. You know, to build the tension. I would like her to make a dramatic entrance.

MAX

You have got to be [bleep] kidding. Get her on the pitch right [bleep] now or I'll [bleep] batter you. What the [bleep], mate.

[Meredith Ann emerges from one of the cabins. It's the last time that cabin will appear on the show; the next day it will be moved to Saltney.]

[There's a close-up on Max's face as Meredith dribbles. She's taller than the last time he saw her, but she's still one of the smallest players. The camera moves closer. Max's restless eyes do not budge; they simply get wider.]

[The cameraman moves into Max's peripheral vision; the manager seems to wake up. He calls Henri and Sophie over.]

MAX

I want you to film me saying something but I want you to save it for the epilogue, okay?

HENRI

Whatever you wish.

[Max glances at Meredith before looking down the lens. He opens his mouth. The picture freezes and we fade to black.]

[We fade back to a small-sided game. Max is the coach and the referee. Meredith and Dani are on the same team. They seem to have a good understanding. Max blows his whistle.]

MAX

Thanks, ladies. Elin's back in charge.

[Max goes to Catalina and calls a cameraman over.]

MAX

I'm in.

CATALINA

Yessss!

MAX

Do you have a transfer fee in mind?

CATALINA

Jesús wants me to ask for two hundred million pesos.

MAX

Holy shit.

CATALINA

It's about forty thousand pounds.

MAX

Wow, my heart nearly exploded. Ha ha. Okay, here's my offer. Four hundred million pesos and a giant crate of French perfume. What do you say?

CATALINA

[Biggest smile ever.]

I say yes.

[Max calls Meredith Ann over. She is slightly out of breath.]

MAX

[Twirls his finger around.]

This is England.

[He points across the river.]

That is Wales.

[He points to the ground beneath her feet.]

This is your new country.

[He points to the Deva stadium.]

That is your new club.

MEREDITH ANN

Country. Club.

[She slowly looks over her left shoulder, then her right. Her grin takes up most of her face.]

Okay!