Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

The Story So Far

Max Best has dragged Chester FC's men's team from non-league football into the third tier of the English pyramid. Also rising to the third tier are the talented young women's team, who will now be managed by Pascal Bochum. Their former manager, Jackie Reaper, has moved to Tranmere Rovers, where he will be boosted by Max-approved signings such as Henri Lyons.

Max's girlfriend Emma works with her best friend Gemma at a new firm dedicated to sports law. Emma also works with an entrepreneur called Ruth at a sports agency. One of their clients is the phenomenal bagsman William B. Roberts, nicknamed Wibbers. Wibbers broke goalscoring records galore as he fired Chester to a sensational win in the FA Youth Cup.

Max Best's summer will take him to Canada to give expert analysis on three World Cup group stage matches. Meanwhile Brooke Star is overseeing the complete overhaul of the Deva stadium's pitch, the rebuild of the Harry McNally terrace, and the construction of two impressive new facilities at Bumpers Bank, Chester's training ground.

Joining Chester full-time will be Peter Bauer, grandson of a German icon, and a highly talented player-coach in his own right.

***

1.

Having a Blast

Chapter One (first draft)

by Larissa Daps

All I ever wanted was a hockey romance. Where better to have one than in Canada?

On my business trip there I would meet a big dumb jock and be repulsed by his partying and his womanising. He'd practically stalk me in an attempt to get into my pants and I would rebuff him so hard and so publicly he would never dare speak to me again. Over the course of about 60,000 words I'd learn about his tragic backstory, learn the true reason he spent so much time in the gym (he never again wanted to be too weak to lift a fallen beam. Jack! It's not your fault your little sister is in a wheelchair!), and I would come to appreciate him as more than a hunk of meat.

And in a final heart-warming chapter I would treat him like a hunk of meat and we would puck all night.

Hashtag M slash F contemporary romance.

Hashtag slow burn.

Hashtag grumpy slash sunshine.

"Flight CAN 77 is now ready to board. Would passengers in rows 90-300 please come forward?"

It's actually happening!

My heart thumps as I shoot to my feet. My hockey romance has started! I've forgotten that I've got my Galaxy Buds, my Kindle, a scarf, my passport, and a packet of Polo mints on my lap. Everything goes flying.

"Gosh darn it," I say, as I feel the eyes of hundreds of people turn on me. I know they're laughing and my cheeks sting.

I reach for my passport first. Out of nowhere, I'm holding a hand. A man's hand. It's big and you know what they say. Big hands, big fingerprints.

I look and a pair of blue eyes are blazing at me. There's a smile not far below. I don't mind that he's smudging my passport. Maybe later he'll be smudging my lipstick.

"Soz," he says. "I just saw my chance and - " Instead of handing my passport over, he opens it! "Emily Diva. I knew it. Sorry to be a big old stalker." I internally gasp. It's like he's reading my mind! He hands it over and continues picking up my stuff. "It's just that I think we're on the same project."

"We are?" I say. It seems extremely unlikely. Unwanted twist!

"You're coming with DigiWorld Worldwide?"

Wanted twist! Hashtag workplace romance! "That's right."

"I saw your name on the briefing docs and couldn't understand why we needed a lawyer on our team. Oh, God, that sounded rude; I'm making a mess of this." He offers a hand that I shake. "I'm Mads Goode."

He's tall and athletic and well dressed. His Adidas Sambas are a little behind the curve but his wide leg trackies, oversized tee, and simple denim jacket are peak 2026 airport chic. He knows his way around a clothes shop all right. Would he know his way around a woman's body? His easy confidence screams yes. "Are you a player?"

He smiles. It's a great smile. He's got dimples and an angular chin. His trim's not bad; I wonder just how Goode he is in bed... "Sometimes." He seems to find this funny and I can't help but smile along with him. "Let's just say I'm not as good as I was."

"You're not as good as you were, but you'll always be Goode."

He spots my mints on the floor, turns, and bends to get them. I track his moves. Form is temporary, a great ass is permanent.

I wonder if I could write a football slash hockey crossover. "I don't suppose you skate?"

"Not for a long time. Is that bad?"

"Just tell me you know how to use your stick."

He laughs and wants to join in the flirting but he's holding the mints between finger and thumb like they are toxic. "I think we should bin these off. The five second rule doesn't count at an airport."

"Agreed."

He flicks his wrist. The packet describes a perfect loop and nestles into a nearby rubbish bin. "Nuttin' but net!" he says. He shows me his teeth. "I did all kinds of sports when I was young. Good at most of them but I was told to make a choice and football's my first love. I suppose I should get into the habit of calling it soccer for a while. Sticks in the craw but when in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? World Cup '26! So amazing. Have you ever been to Canada? I want to see all the sights! And the matches, wow! I'll actually be in the stadium for Canada's World Cup opener. Isn't that amazing? I'm going as an analyst. You know, looking for interesting things to talk about at half time and all that kind of thing."

"Oh! An expert. I've always wondered what the whole thing was about."

"What whole thing?"

"The whole football thing. It just never made any sense. Maybe you can explain it to me?"

His eyes widen just a fraction. "I'd love that. Maybe we could..."

He trails off and I follow his eyeline.

My heart sinks.

Just as my hockey romance is set to start, it's about to get blocked by the biggest cock going.

***

Flashback!

Newcastle, England, a few days ago.

My father has called me into his office, along with my best friend Jemima.

Jemima has long, black, wavy hair and a smokin' hot body. She's got the smarts to go along with it, too. She's got a mind like a steel trap and my dad worries she'll leave and set up a rival practice. He's not afraid of much, but that thought terrifies him. That's why she gets the hardest cases (which she always wins). I don't tell my dad Jem is completely loyal. He believed in her when no-one else could see beyond the Julia Roberts smile. Dad challenges her and pushes her and she loves it.

"Emily," says my dad, and I get the sense he doesn't quite know how to start. That's weird. He glances at Jem; she nods. That's even weirder. He jerks his chin up. "Emily, I've got good news and great news."

"Oh?" I say, warily.

"Yes. You love to travel, do you not?"

Dad's been before the beak in the morning and he's puffed up like a peacock. "Objection, your honour. Talking to your daughter like you're in court."

Dad smiles. People think he's pompous but that's just the job. He knows how to laugh at himself and if he forgets, he's got mum and I to remind him. "Old habits die hard."

"Of course I love travel. Who wouldn't? Are you sending me away? What case would that be? NutriBurst? Skelp? Associated Aggregates?"

"No, nothing like that. It's, ah..."

Jemima steps in. "It's Mark Blast."

"What? Who's that?"

Dad's on safe ground now. "He's a football player and he's an idiot. A buffoon. Completely wild; utterly selfish. He was absolutely beastly towards the Newcastle United manager, who is a wonderful human being. Well, through a complicated series of events I ended up promising to handle one case of his."

"Of the Newcastle United manager's?"

Dad doesn't like that. "Oh, Emily, do please use your brains. What happened to the girl who got a certificate for having the best A-Level score in the country?"

I point. "She's over there."

"That was the year after you. Now do please be serious. Mark Blast got in trouble with DigiWorld Worldwide and called me in. I negotiated a settlement in which he will go to Canada for the World Cup and talk horseshit from the studio."

"Does it specify horseshit in the contract?"

"No it does not, Emily, but that's all he knows. I negotiated a deal beautiful in its simplicity. All he has to do is go there and stay out of trouble. I do not trust him to go there and stay out of trouble so I arranged for someone to go and keep an eye on him. That person has glandular fever and cannot travel. You have just finished a case so I'm sending you along. You'll follow him around and keep him safe."

"What? No way! I'm not a babysitter."

"After what happened when you babysat the Coopers' children, I wholeheartedly agree!"

"That house was on fire before I got there."

"So it's settled," says dad.

"It is not settled! What are you talking about? What did he do?"

"He assaulted a cameraman."

"You can't send me to babysit a criminal!"

Dad tuts. "He's an arsehole but he's not a criminal. He won't hurt you."

"Oh, he'll only hurt random cameramen?"

"It doesn't matter what he did, Emily. He's going to Canada and it's in his best interest to behave himself. If he steps out of line or fails to fulfil his contract, they will sue him for twenty million dollars."

I purse my lips and let out a low whistle. "US or Canadian?"

"It matters not. He can barely afford a change of clothes, let alone such tremendous amounts. Your job is simple. When he's getting worked up about something - and believe me it will be obvious - you are to remind him that he has a job to do and if he doesn't do it his life will be ruined."

"This is absurd. I mean... Send someone else!"

Jemima seems to be in on this dastardly plot. "Emily, you're the only one your father trusts, plus it's a free holiday. To Canada. Toronto for the opener. Millions of people around the world will want to be there but there's no possible way they could even get a ticket. You'll be there, though! You'll be there at BMO Field. It'll be an incredible atmosphere! Absolutely unrepeatable. Then you'll fly to Vancouver and watch two more matches. You'll have loads of free time to see the sights." She smiles. "Mark Blast is a jerk, it's true, and he's cocky and brash and annoying."

"This is why you're not in marketing, Jem."

She gives me the middle finger, which she wouldn't normally do in front of dad. "He's all those things but he wins football matches and that means everyone - almost everyone - forgives his faults. Have you ever heard of a major international company using a watertight case to get a defendant to work for them?"

"No."

"No. It's unprecedented. Blast opens doors and we want someone smart and capable to be going through those doors with him."

I'm starting to understand better. "For your new sports law company. Right. But why don't you go? You, ah, have more experience with footballers than me."

Jem scratches her cheek, but it's the cheek that dad can't see and of course she's giving me the finger again. Jem has hooked up with two footballers that I know of and the rumour around the office is that she's dating another one. Hashtag secret relationship! She says, "You have to make sure he's at the stadium on time but while he's in the stadium all kinds of interesting people will be drawn to him. They'll have to go through you."

"What sort of interesting people?" I say.

"Winners like winners," says my dad. "Mark Blast has made friends with all kinds of sporting champions, CEOs, even politicians. They should know better, and their lack of judgement suggests they are likely to require legal services on an ongoing basis. You will meet them, you will charm them." He looks out of his office window, carefully chosen because it has a view of the enormous arena that dominates the landscape in my home city. "And you get to be on the scene for some of the biggest sporting events this summer." He gets quiet and wistful. "Who knows? You might end up liking football. Maybe you'll finally let me take you to see the mighty Toon."

I want so much to please my dad but volunteering to watch football is just a step too far. "I told you, dad. I'm a hockey girl."

He scratches his head because he's thinking of field hockey and can't remember me scampering around at school with a curved wooden stick.

Jemima knows exactly what I mean and she's trying hard not to fall on the floor laughing. Her self-control is immense but I could break it with a cheeky wink.

I don't wink. I don't know what to say.

"I guess I'm going to Canada?"

***

Mads watches as Mark Blast saunters past, ignoring the queue. Queue-jumpers are the absolute dregs of humanity.

"What's he like?" whispers Mads.

"Who?"

"Blast."

"I don't know," I say. "I've never met him."

Mads frowns. "I thought you were his lawyer. Oh, wait, that's right. You replaced the other one; that makes sense. We couldn't work out why someone would bring a lawyer with them on a trip like this. But then we realised he's probably gonna sign players and do sponsorships and things like that so it makes sense that you'd be going."

I wasn't expecting to meet anyone until I got to Toronto, so I don't really know what to say. I stand there, tongue tied. I can't exactly tell Mads that I'm there because his future colleague assaulted a cameraman, can I?

Mads slaps himself on the forehead. "You can't explain because he's a client. Shit, I wasn't thinking. Sorry, I get nervous around planes. And Mark Blast, apparently. Three promotions in three years, though. Won the FA Youth Cup, drew against Newcastle, gave Man United a scare. Have you seen him play? My God."

"I haven't. I only found out about this trip a couple of days ago and I've been researching Toronto and planning what to visit. Got to make the most out of every day."

"Oh, you're a planner. Figures."

"How do you mean?"

"The hottest girls always like to plan." His smile flickers; he's not as confident as he seems. He's faking it till he makes it, which I don't mind one little bit. He perks up. "Hey! Where are you sitting?"

"Oh." I check my ticket. I have the e-ticket on the app, a photo stored in my album, and a printout too. I like to be prepared for any eventuality. "240 F."

"We're not too far away," he smiles. "We could maybe ask someone to move, maybe. If you wanted to, you know - "

Do I want to sit next to this tall bundle of athletic cuteness for ten hours? Don't mind if I do! I'm about to tell him that when we are rudely interrupted.

"Emily Diva." It's Blast, of course, in his awful Mancunian accent. It makes him sound like the third Oasis brother, the one too annoying to be included in the band. He's dressed like shit, too. He's in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and has no luggage. He also seems to be in disguise. He's wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses but it didn't stop Mads recognising him from miles away. "What are you doing back here?"

I already don't like him and want to snap 'it's none of your business!' but Mads is right there. "I'm queuing for the flight, Mark."

"Weird."

Mads is super excited to meet Blast. "I'm Mads! We'll be working together!"

"In what capacity?" says Blast, but he's not actually interested.

"I'm part of the DigiWorld Worldwide analysis team. We'll be looking for interesting things for you to talk about. We generate the clips and the graphics."

Blast's lips twitch. "You'll find interesting things for me to talk about?"

My blood's boiling. He thinks the idea that Mads might have something to contribute is amusing! Mads seems hurt. "Well, yes. I suppose it's not very interesting to you. But the viewers like what we do."

"Top," says Blast, and again it's incredibly insincere. It's also dismissive. "Okay, let's go."

Nothing happens because no-one understands what he means. Suddenly it clicks. He wants me to go with him! "What? Where?"

Blast lifts his shades so he can mock me better. "To the plane."

"I'll stay in the queue, thanks. I was raised better than to push in."

Blast does something extraordinary. He comes right next to me so that our shoulders are touching. He lowers himself to my height and squints. "You can see it from here. It's right there. Straight ahead, look. Oh, are you one of those women who are too vain to wear glasses while you're in public? Pop your specs on, love." He gets super Mancunian with the last part.

Mads has clicked to what Blast is looking at - the entrance for the premium passengers. "She's not in business class, Mark. She's near the back. Near me," he adds, and I can practically hear the harps and angels in his speech bubble.

Blast eases his sunglasses back into place. "Nah, she's in first with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah. I upgraded you."

"What? Why?"

"I bought two first class tickets thinking I'd meet some megababe I could lie next to for ten hours." Blast sniggers. "But the only hot girl on the flight is Australian and, you know. So come on."

"First class?" I say.

Blast gets impatient. "Champagne. A twenty-page menu. Fucking slippers, mate. Will you hurry up? Or do you want to sit in the cargo hold for the next eleven hours? Jesus wept."

I look at Mads. He's gutted, obviously, which is adorbs but there was no guarantee anyone would have swapped seats with us. He gives me a thin smile and jerks his head towards first class. Permission to abandon him. "I'll come and talk to you," I say, brightly.

Mark Blast takes a step towards the plane but comes right back. He gives Mads an intense stare. "I saw you throw that packet away. Don't waste food, mate."

With that, he saunters off, annoying the shit out of me with every flip and every flop.

***

I settle into my personal booth at the front of the plane. At first I worry that Blast will flirt with me but he doesn't speak except to refuse the champagne he's offered. I want to say that I'll take his but it might be a bad look!

I glance over at him sometimes and he's always just staring straight ahead. I've heard of this. There was a trend on Insta a couple of years back where sportspeople sat and did nothing for a whole flight. They used a sex term to describe it and it became the Word of the Year.

I lean over. "Are you rawdogging?"

Of course, I ask too loud just as a hostess is walking past. Blast inflates his cheeks, shakes his head, and closes the divider between us. He tells the stewardess that he suddenly feels impure and does she have a smoothie or something with antioxidants?

She says she'll see what she can do and walks off. Not long later I hear a huge burst of laughter from behind a curtain and I just know she is telling her mates what happened.

Cringe.

But I can't follow Mark Blast around for two weeks without being able to hold a conversation with him so I pull the divider back. "You turned the booze down and asked for a smoothie. I thought you footballers were all about parties and getting blasted."

"Mark Blast does the blasting," he mumbles.

"Right but you're on holiday, aren't you? Why not have a drink?"

His head wobbles; he's annoyed. "Because I'm injured."

I look him up and down. I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Bandages, perhaps. "I don't understand."

"Being stuck in a metal tube high in the sky for eleven hours is bad for the human body. This trip is going to fuck my recovery if I'm not careful. Alcohol? On a plane? No chance."

"It's not a bad injury, is it? You've got three months to heal."

"Are you on commission from fucking Guinness or something?"

He's so rude! "I'm just trying to understand. I did some research about you and football but I couldn't make much sense out of it. I thought your next match would be at the end of August."

"Normally you'd be right," he says. "But my next one is in six weeks. I'm going to be a ringer for a team in Gibraltar."

"Oh. That's... Gibraltar didn't come up in my research. The big leagues are England, Spain, Germany, Italy, and France. In that order, citation needed."

"Gibraltar's bottom of the list. I'm going to the worst team in the worst league."

"Why?"

"Because it's funny. Okay, bye."

"Hold on," I say. I don't even really know why I want to keep talking to him but I'm not used to men shutting me down like that. I suppose a little bit of competitiveness has kicked in. "You're just sitting there. What are you doing?"

He starts to sigh and catches himself. He's thinking he doesn't need shit from my dad so he'll engage me in a superficial way. "I'm kingdom building."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm thinking about the next steps for my football empire. Making sure everything's on track. Making sure I'm moving the organisations in the right direction."

"That sounds interesting."

"It's not."

"It's a ten-hour flight. Are you just going to stare at nothing for ten hours?"

"No. When I'm done I'm going to watch WALL-E as a treat."

"Look, we have to work together for a while. I need to know something about your world."

"You don't."

He rests his head back and that seems to be that. Telling me he knows what I need better than I do? Infuriating! "Maybe I can ask Mads what I need to know."

Blast's eyes widen and he turns his head ever so slowly until he's got a good view of my reddening cheeks. His grin starts small but all too soon is massive. I know I've fucked up and he knows I've fucked up. He's going to enjoy tormenting me. "Wow. Playing the jealousy card already? You're terrible at this."

"At what?" I say, trying to be defiant, but he has got me. Playing the jealousy card is exactly what I was doing. His smile gets through my defences and I let out a single laugh. "Oh my God, what is wrong with me?" Blast is giving me a different kind of look now. His eyes are on my neck. I have a horrible neck; where's my scarf? Flustered, I blurt out, "I just think it's going to be totes awkward if people realise we've never met. For me, anyway. Probably you don't give a shit."

"Emily, listen carefully. I'll tell you what's on my mind if you really want but what's on my mind is incredibly tedious to anyone who isn't completely invested in my projects. I urge you to believe me when I say it's a Pandora's box bursting with yawns, heavy eyelids, and resentment."

"Resentment?"

"You'll resent me for telling you even though I warned you."

"At this point I feel like I have to hear it." As Blast shakes his head, I add, "You know I'm a lawyer. It can't be more boring than my daily work. I just finished a case that made me yearn for employment in the watching-paint-dry industry."

Blast exhales, counts to ten, and I can see the very moment he thinks 'fuck it'. "Start with College. That's the club in Gibraltar. There's no real infrastructure to do there because there's only one stadium in the whole country. The local FA are going to rebuild it soon and I'd quite like to buy a flat inside it but I don't have that kind of money. It'd be cool though. Hop on a flight, stay in my little nest. Philipe Lambert says I could rent it out when I don't need it."

"Who's Philipe Lambert?"

"He's a hot Frenchman. You'd like him, although he might be more refined than your normal taste."

"What's my normal taste?"

"Huge men with no neck, loads of tats. Ideally a massive Canada flag on their upper arm."

I'm getting pissed off again. "Why do you say that?"

His eyes twinkle. "Your Kindle shows the book you're reading."

"Oh," I say, as I grab my device. The screen shows a rugged ice hockey player lifting his shirt to reveal an eight-pack. "He's got a neck," I say, which makes Blast laugh way harder than it should. I have no idea why but I tell him one of my deepest, darkest secrets. "It's for research. I'd love to write books like this."

I can't believe I've told him! I haven't told anyone. Jemima suspects, I think. From time to time I've pitched story ideas but she just takes the piss. I'm frantically trying to work out how to roll back the absolute disaster I've just created when I realise that Blast is too self-absorbed to listen to another human being even when she's accidentally baring her soul.

"I've got a good squad coming with me to College," he says. "I just need to decide who to bring from Chester. I mean, it would be good for Baggers but he's at the under 19 Euros. If he comes to Gib I'll have to give him a break when we get home. He'll hate it." Blast stretches and smiles. "I wonder if he's behaving himself? He might propel himself to superstardom this summer, the little shit." He yawns and follows it up with a big smile. His life is going great, that's clear. "Anyway, College is more or less sorted. There's one deal left to do; maybe the most important one. We need a bit of luck with the draw but I think we will be able to beat anyone we come up against in a one-off. Only problem is those matches are two legs."

"Instead of four legs? Four legs good, two legs bad."

His lack of reaction proves he hasn't read the classics. "West Didsbury should be fine. Not much building to do there but it could be worth talking to the council about approval for some stands that are slightly more serious. I've found the manager a couple more players and some of the young lads I scouted are on the fringes of the first team. It won't be a dominant squad but it'll be competitive and this season will be more of a test. It's strange, really. I find that I don't want to make it easy for him."

"You don't make things easy for anyone," I mutter.

"Saltney Town is a little club I own in Wales. It's in the Premier and the squad should be good enough to finish second at least and have a run at the cups. The manager has signed on for another season, which is awesome, because this will really show the world what he's all about. He's got a deeper squad because some of the Youth Cup lads are happy to join Saltney while they finish their studies. That's win-win and as always, Chester will send him three players. He won't get any from Tranmere this season, not until RJ has had a look at everyone."

"Ah, wait, I know this. RJ is your mentor. He found you, put his reputation on the line to help get you started, and now that you're in charge you've kicked him out."

Blast listens dispassionately. "That's him, yeah. He might loan us a player or two in January once he's got to know his lads. The main thing with Saltney is how to spend the money."

"Money?"

"I've got an investor. We could build a very small stadium but I think what's best is the dorms. Dorms, showers, chill out zones, little gym. We have young players all over Wales and right now they can only come for a few hours, train, and go home. With the dorm they'll be able to come on Friday and stay the whole weekend. Two days of proper training, tons of bonding. Yeah, it will accelerate their development and show people this northern powerhouse thing is really serious. Only thing is, it's a cost. If the FAW withdraw their support, we're lumbered with this useless facility."

"What are the chances of that?"

"Low, but I have to prepare for the worst, don't I? Things can go sour in seconds."

"You'd know all about that," I mutter. My hockey romance is drowning in updates from football clubs I've never heard of.

"I'm also thinking about my agency. It's not mine, really, but I'm like a consultant for it. It's growing but it doesn't make much money yet. I don't mind playing the long game but Esther, the owner, has been grinding pretty hard and isn't earning enough to make it worth her while. That might change as our players sign new contracts this summer, but she's also worried that we're overexposed to Chester. Almost all our clients are at one club. There are a handful at Tranmere and one at Saltney, but I'm paying his wages so it isn't, you know, diversified. Esther wants me to pick up some clients when I'm in Canada. Find some players who want to move to Europe and make it happen."

I perk up. So Mads was right! Dad was right! I'll get to meet lots of people and hopefully some are more interesting than Mark Blast. "Esther sounds smart."

"She is. Not sure if it'll be easy. Most good players already have agents."

He wants things to be easy. He wants the world handed to him on a plate. This guy's a winner? I don't buy it.

We get quiet because the plane's about to take off. I close my eyes and squeeze my hands into balls. Soon we're gliding and I relax, but then the plane turns sharply in a way that makes no sense. I stop breathing for, conservatively, eight minutes. When I open my eyes we're more or less level and the computer display shows us heading north west.

To Canada!

"Isn't this exciting?" I say.

Mark Blast doesn't seem to realise we're heading to the other side of the world where we will have new experiences and meet fascinating new people. "I was actually talking to you and you literally threw yourself as far away as it's possible to go. So rude."

"It was take off," I say.

"Right," he says, and slides the divider across so he doesn't have to look at me.

I slide it back and hand over a folder. "I've planned our trip. Toronto is Niagara Falls, of course, plus we'll visit the St. Lawrence market, the aquarium, Little Canada, and some of the more culturally significant places. We'll be able to squeeze in everything so long as we don't linger in one spot too long."

Blast slips the itinerary out of the folder and produces a pen. I hear him swish it across the page again and again. He hands the folder back and closes the divider. When I look at the paper I see that he has crossed everything out except for Little Canada, a museum full of miniature models. Perfect for children and manchildren alike.

Looking at the way he has dismissed all my planning gets me angry, but it's the last scribble that sends me over the edge. I don't touch the divider for the rest of the trip; Blast can stare at nothing for as long as he likes.

Next to 'The Hockey Hall of Fame' he has written three cruel letters, all caps. He has crushed my dreams with an L, an O, and an L.

***

Jemima: How was the flight?

Me: Horrible. Mark Blast is the absolute worst. Cold and selfish and worst of all - BORING.

Jemima: Oh, no!

Me: I met a cute guy, though. Mads. He's sweet and a bit cheeky. I'm chatting with him at baggage claim. He says he reckons he can probably still skate and if we can find the time and a rink he'll teach me!

Jemima: I knew it! Tell him to put a rink on it. Are you making notes?

Me: Notes?

Jemima: For your hockey romance!

Me: I was only joking about that. I don't know how to write.

Jemima: Hashtag supportive bestie. Hashtag make it spicy!

***

Mads gets my number just before Blast turns up. Typically, as soon as Blast arrives his case pops out of the carousel. People like that have all the luck. I have to wait ages for mine. Blast's mood darkens with every passing minute. How is it my fault?

Mads has his case already; Blast says there is no point him hanging around because "Emily and I have to discuss strategy." I can't tell Mads the truth so he puts a brave face on and goes to find a taxi.

My suitcase finally turns up and the two of us exit. A driver is waiting for us with a sign that reads 'Clint Dachs'. That's Blast's pseudonym, apparently. I'm mad at him for being a cold-hearted bastard and also for getting rid of Mads so I shun him pretty hard in the car. I don't think he notices.

***

At the hotel, things really turn to shit. It's past midnight but the place is rammed. Blast and I trundle to reception to get our keys but something has gone wrong with the booking and only Blast has a room.

I'm getting frantic, calling my dad and Jem but it's like 5 in the morning in the UK and they don't pick up. I try to tell the clerk that I'm replacing a colleague and I'm taking her room but the clerk is adamant that the old booking wasn't reallocated but was canceled. He's really sorry but the room was rebooked as soon as it became available.

Blast tries to help, if only because like everyone he wants to get to bed. "It's fine that you made a mistake," he says, "just give her a different room so we can get on with our lives."

"Sorry, Mr. Blast, but it's the World Cup! A hundred thousand tourists have descended on Toronto like happy locusts. There are no rooms anywhere. Some Airbnbs are charging ten, twenty times their normal rates. It's pandemonium."

I start to panic but Blast only gets a little worried. With his palms up he says, "Whoa whoa whoa. Let's all stay calm. Please tell me I'll still be able to visit Little Canada."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from NovelFire. Please report it.

The hotel worker smiles. "Yes, sir! You have to get a tiny model of yourself. It's so much fun!"

"Tiny model of myself?" smiles Blast. "That sounds exactly my speed! Do they do bulk discounts?"

"Mark!" I snap. "What are we going to do about my room?"

The coldness comes back to his face. "Why are you asking me?" He brightens as he turns to the guy. "Do the benches here have those little knobs on so that homeless people can't sleep?"

"Mr. Blast," says the clerk, "Toronto is famous for its hostile architecture; you'll see it everywhere you go. Every surface has spikes embedded, including vents because who doesn't want to sleep on a vent? Park benches have aggressive armrests in the centre - or no centre at all in some cases! There's no building considered too beautiful to ruin with a nice mat of concrete caltrops."

I finally realise what's happening. "I'm not sleeping outside, you jerk! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Blast gets a haughty look about him. "You know, a nice blonde tourist who can't even get a couple of hours' kip on a park bench might just be the scandal that gets this city to reconsider its cruelty towards homeless people. You could really make a difference here, Emily."

"I don't want to make a difference. I want a long shower followed by eight hours and a lie-in."

"Well, good luck with that. Bye."

He's about to walk off. "No fucking way!" I hiss. I grab Blast by the arm and drag him away from the counter. "Be a gentleman and give me your room."

He laughs really too hard at this reasonable suggestion. "Call that food waste criminal you met. He'll put you up for the night."

"That guy is a work colleague! And I don't sleep with men I just met!"

Blast sticks his bottom lip out. "No shade if you do." He looks around. "Here's the plan. Leave your case at reception while you find a new place to stay. There's no way the entire city is booked. He's exaggerating. Men always do that around blondes. I've seen it a trillion times."

I lean forward aggressively. "Are you making jokes? Are you doing bits? I'm literally homeless three and a half thousand miles from my bed."

"Better start hitting the phones then."

Mark Blast takes his cases and wheels them away.

I get my phone and write half of a desperate message to Jem, but I need to be able to take care of my own shit.

I grab my case and follow Mark into the lift. He doesn't move aside but he doesn't stop me squeezing past. We go up in silence and when we arrive outside his room I get ready to barge my way in, but once he beeps the door he holds it open for me like a gentleman. A true gentleman wouldn't be smirking as he did it, but still, credit where credit is due.

"I'm not leaving my cases down there," I say. "I'm going to make calls from here and use the wifi and holy shit look at this place."

Blast is in an executive suite that feels like one of those apartments the super-rich have in Manhattan. I leave my case by the door and wander in. The first room to the right is a huge bedroom. It has a king-size bed and an astonishingly nice, spotlessly clean en suite. I go back to the corridor and at the end, past some fancy art, is a living room bigger than most houses. The space is round and hangs over the street below. When was this built? It's too awesome to be modern. The windows overlook a street with beautiful buildings and lush green trees. Simply perfect.

The decor is tasteful, although slightly ruined by the huge TV hanging from the wall. I suppose it's practical but it doesn't quite fit the aesthetic. There's a sofa long enough for a dozen people. Why? No clue.

Blast goes to look out of the window and pulls one of the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains closed. He opens it again, staring up at the rail. "Great action on that. Listen? Swoosh. Quality."

"Mark," I say, softly. He's frowning at a little armchair that's partly on a rug, partly off it. I can tell it's annoying him. He lifts his head. "Mark, can I sleep on the sofa, please? Please? Look, it's enormous. I just can't handle having to find a place right now I just can't I'm sorry I've been up for like a whole day getting ready and I didn't sleep on the plane because I thought I had a nice room and if I was tired I could avoid jet lag and I just need to lie down."

"You want to sleep on my sofa?" he says. "Will your dad love that or hate it? Hate, I reckon. I should probably say no."

"Pleeeease," I whine. "I can't even with this."

He shrugs and moves some of the many cushions out of the way. The sofa is divided into three sections and any one of them would be long enough for me but he's working on the central part. Once it's clear of obstacles he lifts a metal side table and lays it carefully down in the exact centre of the sofa. "There we go. When in Rome and all that."

I'm dizzy with stress and frustration. In a quiet voice, I say, "Are you making a social comment about... fucking... Canadian homelessness? Now? To an audience of one desperate woman from Newcastle, England?"

"Yes."

"Could you... not?"

He seems very happy with himself as he puts the metal table back where he found it. Then he frowns and moves it all the way to a corner of the room. He walks off and I stand there stupidly because I don't know if he has agreed to let me crash or what. He comes back with a bath mat. "You've got loads of pillows. How about this for a bed sheet?"

It's about two feet wide. I take it and hold it in front of my chest. I lower it to my waist. It would cover one zone or the other. He's watching me intensely and I think I detect a tiny, playful smile dancing on the corners of his lips. He takes the bath mat and our fingers touch. He's going to suggest we share the bed!

"Emily, there's one thing you need to know about me."

I lick my lips. "Yes?"

"I'm not the best manager but I look after my players. Neither of us is happy about it but you're on my team and that means you're under my protection. Come on," he says. "Let's work this out." We raid the cupboards and drawers for spare bedding and he lets me take one of his quilt covers plus one of his pillows. The cushions on the sofa are too thick for me. Just as I think he's being really kind he says, "If you need to use the toilet, there's one in the lobby."

"Right, of course," I say. "Let me grab one of those fancy shower gels, though." I go into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and take a long shower. I wear Blast's bath robe on the way out to my 'room', leaving it slightly loose so he can get something to dream on. When I walk past his bed, though, he's on his laptop wearing headphones and he pretends not to look up.

***

Blast isn't in the room when I wake up, which makes me panic slightly. I can just hear my dad: ‘You had one job!’

I take my phone and the room key and head down to breakfast. When I get there, I remember there's a gym and a pool. He's not in the gym. He is in the pool. He's doing lengths at high speed and he doesn't pause, probably because he knows I'm watching. I back out and head to the dining room but something makes me return. I open the door the slightest fraction and peep in.

He's still blasting through the water like he's a fish.

I make a big entrance so that he doesn't think I've been creepily watching him through a crack in the door. "Mark," I call out.

He swims to the end, pushes his hair back, and holds onto the side of the pool. His arms aren't half bad, you know. "Emma?"

"Emily," I say.

"Right."

"I just want to say that I've got the door key and I'm going to breakfast. I can leave it, or..."

"I'll get the second one from reception."

"Okay, that's a relief, actually. How long are you going to be in here?"

He looks around for a clock but doesn't see one. I get my phone out and tap the screen to bring up the time. "It's two thirteen," he says. He's got the thirteen right, which is all kinds of strange.

"Time zones," I say. "It's nine a.m. here."

He splashes the water happily. He's delighted to announce, "I'm so fucking shit at time zones! I just can't get my head around it. I'll do another seventeen minutes, I suppose. Meet you in the dining room."

"Okay," I say, but he has already launched himself backwards in a blur of abs and muscles.

I look around for help. Is he going to swim full speed for another seventeen minutes? Is that even possible? I decide to look it up with a pain au chocolat and a coffee.

***

He turns up in cargo shorts and a crappy t-shirt and demolishes a good part of the breakfast menu.

"You're a strong swimmer," I say.

"I'm pretty shit," he says. "Terrible form."

"Why don't you take lessons?"

"I like being bad at something. Brings me comfort."

So arrogant! "I went to the gym first. Thought a footballer might be in the gym, kind of thing."

"Yeah, I was in the pool," he says. As usual, he's not really listening.

"I think my question is why."

"Hmm?" A message has just landed on his screen. "Why pool not gym? Er, I'm switching to a stamina build. Stamina 20, Technique whatever. When I get back on the grass I'll focus on set pieces so I can be a DM destroyer who punishes stupidity."

As he says 'Stamina 20', a guy on the next table looks up sharply. He's friendly-looking, soft face, bad haircut, decent glasses. I want to ask Blast what the hell he's talking about but he takes a call. It's from a woman called Twinkle and his face lights up when her voice is in his ear. The guy on the next table takes a sneaky photo of Blast. When the call's over, Blast goes right back to looking cold and distant.

"Last night you were talking about kingdom building but you didn't mention Chester at all. Isn't that your main job?"

"My main job is promoting belly button health. We are in the midst of a fluff epidemic."

Talking to him is like getting blood from a stone! "I just think it's odd you would tell me about lots of other things but not your main job. Is it going badly?"

"Badly? We got three promotions in three years. Men's and women's teams. We are flying. It's moderately perceptive of you, though. I am sort of at a crossroads. Not even a crossroads, really, because there's only one direction we can go."

"You're at a speed bump."

He likes that. "Sure."

"In what way? Tell me. We've got hours before the meeting."

"So... we started in tier six. Won that, bosh, tier five, won that, bosh, tier four. Last season we didn't win but we got promoted so we'll play in the third tier. Moving up so rapidly comes with challenges. Twinkle is killing it on the business side but we're still far behind the other clubs at our level and it's only going to get worse. I have a little bit of cash to spend but I can't think what I'm supposed to do with it that will move the needle in any meaningful way."

"What are..." I start. I'm looking for a way into the conversation but get no help.

The guy from the next table appears, hovering awkwardly. "Sorry to interrupt," he says. "Are you Mark Blast?"

"I want to say yes but I'm scared."

The man smiles. "It's nothing bad. I'm Jacob Childs. I work for Tonton Zola Studios."

Blast's whole demeanour changes - he sits up and starts clearing things away from one part of the table. "You make Soccer Supremo! Come and sit with us!"

To say I'm taken aback would be an understatement. Get yourself a man who looks at you the way Mark Blast looks at this rando. Or vice versa, to be honest. "I'm Emily," I say, and I'm sure the air is very interested.

Jacob leaves most of his stuff on his own table to make his exit from ours easier. Class move. "I won't take up too much of your time. We're always looking at our game for ways to make it better, always talking to the data modellers at real-life clubs to check that what we're doing makes sense. It helps that they're all fans of our game."

"I bet," says Blast.

"What game?" I say.

"Soccer Supremo is a strategic and tactical simulation of professional soccer," says Jacob. Incredibly, Blast nods along, as though those words in that order make any kind of sense. The ease with which these men turn away from me is startling. It can't be my neck; I'm wearing a scarf. "Mark, your name keeps coming up."

"It's a common name," I mumble.

"A lot of lower league analysts are obsessed with you and they all say the same thing - we should get into bed with you."

"Good luck with that," I mumble.

Blast tuts in my direction; he can't concentrate. "Um... what, Jacob? What do you want?"

"Sponsorship, Mark."

"Oh."

"We don't usually put real managers on the box but we have considered it in the past. The age of Pep and Klopp is gone. Who are the next bright young things? There's Sagarna but he's not the, ah, most charismatic."

"You mean he's not good-looking," says Blast. "The guy's fucking amazing, Jacob. If someone should go on your box it's him. He's not exactly ugly, is he? He looks like Alfred Molina."

Jacob looks uncomfortable. "I personally would have him but his English isn't that good. From what we hear he's warm and a great communicator but he doesn't come across like that. You, on the other hand..."

"Bad news, mate. I'm awful. I get into scrapes; I'll damage your brand. Better to steer clear."

"Yes, well," says Jacob. He leans forward a little bit and practically whispers. "Since the fiasco of the new game engine - you'll remember the case of the 50 foot woman - how can I say this? We are sad to see the enthusiastic support of our fans is waning." This last sentence prompts Blast to offer a high-five, which is accepted. The hell? Jacob continues, emboldened. "You run into trouble, sure, but it's normally because you love football. Your passion for the sport is really clear and what you're doing is basically a Soccer Supremo speed run to the Prem."

Blast leans back. "Not quite. I can't see how to avoid a consolidation season in the Championship."

Jacob scratches his cheek. "Can you reveal your budget?"

"We're fan owned," says Blast. "It's all public. We're pushing the boat out to get sixty K this season. Next season we'll be up against parachute clubs who have ten times that."

"Insurmountable," agrees Jacob, who is one of a surprisingly large group of people who know what a parachute club is. "But did you consider the TV money? You'll get an extra, what, eight million pounds? That's a hundred and fifty thousand a week."

Blast looks frustrated. "Prune juice, mate. Straight in, straight out. I can't build anything if I operate like that but I can't compete if I don't blow it all on wages. It's pretty shit. If you want sales of your game to go up, make it less realistic."

"Or we could put you on the cover," says Jacob, trying to be peppy and not really succeeding. Like Jemima, he's not a natural salesman. Reminding Blast of why he joined us at the table was a good move, though.

Blast gets quiet for a minute. "I should do some sponsorships if only to justify my image rights tax scam. If we do something... Some small deal at least... Can you tell me how the game works? Under the hood, I mean. Actually, scratch that. That's not what I need. I need... Hang on, let me think about this. This could work out amazing. Right, Jacob, here's the thing. Are you in town for a while?"

"Another week."

"Amazing. Can you get one of your nerds to tell me what your game says I should do with one point five million pounds?"

Jacob lets out a surprised laugh. "What?"

"My squad is full," says Blast, warming to his theme. "I could sign more talent but it would actually be counterproductive because our training sessions would be overflowing and there aren't enough minutes to go around. Okay so it's infrastructure. But what? I could build a big restaurant, canteen, hospitality space. Or I could put down a second full-sized 3G pitch plus a couple of smaller ones. Both approaches would generate income. The first means better food and a nicer spot for the players to lounge around in, right? The second means loads more players coming to Bumpers that I can scout plus we could host mini-tournaments year-round. Another option would be to build a medical centre and stick some X-ray machines and scanners and whatnot inside. That would save money on sending players to the clinic. So here's the thing. Put all that into Soccer Supremo and tell me which one thing increases my facilities score the most. Yeah? Do that and I'll happily talk about being the face of your game."

"I don't see any issue with that," says Jacob. "Wait, are you going to use our game to make real-life decisions?"

"Um, no comment. Oh my God, I just thought of something! A great tagline for why I'm in the game because let's face it, most people have never heard of me. I'm your favourite manager's favourite manager."

"You've got to be kidding," I mumble.

Blast is bouncing with creative energy. "And the cover! It's my face at the top and I'm reaching out to sort of touch a screen and it says Soccer Supremo and at the bottom it's a kid kicking a ball. And there's all glowing lines and numbers going everywhere. Oh, and there's a tactics board behind my head. We'll put the magnets in a 4-4-2 formation because that'll be low-key ironic."

Jacob grins. "Love the enthusiasm, Mark. Look, let me get on with your request and we'll meet again in a couple of days. Good?"

"Very good," says Blast, and Jacob collects his personal items and leaves the dining room with a real zip in his step.

I finish my coffee and look at Blast. "So... You like to be on top?"

***

We take a cab to the stadium and Blast paces through the innards of one of the stands. He's so confident that it takes me a minute to realise he doesn't know where he's going. He seems to be working it out based on which doors his badge gives access to.

He leaves me in a canteen while he goes into a big meeting with the presenters, producers, and other famous guests. I'm beyond delighted when Mads comes out to get a coffee and sits right next to me. Our knees touch. Hockey romance is back on!

Things are just heating up when Blast returns. "Oh, hi," he says, pretending he doesn't know Mads' name. Or maybe he never bothered to find out what it was. Either way, he's being rude. "Emily, let's go."

"Go?" I say, astonished. "What about the meeting?"

"The meeting is garbage. We're going to do some touristing instead. That's what you wanted, right? So come on."

"Hang on. You'll get in trouble if you don't do things properly."

"Nope. They had an agenda, I had an agenda, my agenda asserted its dominance. Quite sexy, you would have loved it. I told them how I'm going to do things and they said it was top and mint and they agreed I didn't need to stick around."

I swallow. Mads is in a nice shirt and a soft linen jacket. Very touchable. Very huggable. It'd look great strewn on the floor of his hotel room. "I think I'll stay and hang out with Mads."

"Mads?" says Blast. "M-A-D-S?"

"Yes," says Mads.

Blast whips out his phone and starts typing. "What's that? Scandinavian?"

"Swedish and Danish, I think," says Mads.

"Hmm," says Blast. He puts his phone away. "And a little Norwegian, it says." He looks around, mostly at the ceiling.

Mads' phone beeps. He picks it up and frowns. "I have to go, Emily, I'm sorry. Work emergency."

"How can you have an emergency? The World Cup hasn't started yet!"

He shakes his head. "Special project. Don't know what. Sorry, got to rush."

"Bye," says Blast. "Okay, Emily, get your coat. It's Toronto time!"

***

As we pace away from the stadium I get suspicious. "Did you get rid of Mads somehow?"

Blast doesn't say anything. He's looking around but he stops and turns. "Do you like the stadium?"

"I don't know. It's not my kind of thing, really."

"I like it. It's weird. The roof is cool. The new Deva will look a bit like this, though our seats will be blue."

"I can't see any seats."

He bends to check how things look from my height. "Do you want me to lift you up?"

"No."

"This way," he says, and we head off.

"Oh, now I see them. Wait, shouldn't there be a thing here?"

"The stand on this side is puny. So strange. The Deva will be like this soon. But the opposite; one big stand looming over three tiny little baby ones." He's suddenly glowing - a completely different person. "I'm doing this. Building something just like this, but even better. You probably think I'm a little boy playing with my lego but I'm proud of it. It's going to be beautiful. When's the last time you saw an old building replaced by something that made you smile? I always feel the world is being made shit deliberately... but not on my patch. My space is going to be uplifting. It'll be an oasis, a safe zone in an ever-spreading dungeon."

"Why do - " I start, but he's pressing his phone to his ear and by his puppydog expression I know exactly who's calling.

"Twinkle," he says. "You got my message. How's it going?"

I only hear his part of the conversation.

"No, I binned it off. Waste of time. Say what you like about my management style but I don't waste time in meetings. Haha! Is that wasting time or is that an advanced form of team building? Ha. Well, I can work on that if you want." There's a slightly longer pause. "Will that set us back much? Okay, top. You're a star!" Another pause. "Okay so it's a bit of a strange one but I might have the chance to be sponsored by Soccer Supremo. Me personally, yeah. I was wondering if you'd do the numbers with them."

"Hey!" I say.

Blast says, "Hang on one second," and covers the bottom of his phone. He looks at me. "What?"

"I can do that! That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"You want to negotiate my deal with Soccer Supremo? You didn't even know it existed ten minutes ago."

"By the time I sit down at the first meeting I'll know everything there is to know about the game, the company, and Jacob fucking Childs."

He tusks. "That's rather an aggressive and arrogant stance, Emily. I hope you'll be more professional if any meetings take place." I'm about to unload another volley when he moves his hand. "Twinkle, I've got that lawyer here and she's saying she could do it for me. I don't want to step on your toes or make you think... Oh, really? Yeah. I'll give her a try, I suppose." He looks me down and up, doubtfully. "Okay, good chat. No, you hang up!"

He walks again and I follow. "Is she sick of your shit and that's why she won't do it?"

"Twinkle is project managing three vast, interconnected building sites. Every day for her is a beautiful new adventure."

"She's beautiful too, I guess."

"Oh, she's a stunner. Blonde, classy, and that accent! Chef's kiss. Not to mention her neck."

I stop. He's teasing me and I'm ready to hate him forever. "What?"

He says, "Not to mention her legs."

"Oh. You like a tall woman, then?"

"I like tall defenders and strikers. A goalie will get by on agility and ball handling."

"Mmm. Reckon I'm a goalie."

"And midfielders need control and stamina. They need to be able to dominate and to keep the pace up."

"Yeah. Tell me more."

We turn left and when we're clear of the stand, we come to a road with a bus stop sort of thing. The words 'drop off' are painted there. "Mr. Blast?" calls a guy. He's standing next to a moped, holding two helmets.

Ten bewildering seconds later, Blast is riding the moped and I'm behind him, holding onto his waist. I see the CN Tower in the distance, and we pass our first patch of grass with real Canadian trees sprouting forth.

I'm in Canada and I'm being whizzed around by a hot sportsman!

It's happening!

We cross a bridge to Ontario Place, cross another bridge, go along the waterfront, and find ourselves in a park. World Cup fever is very much in full swing and there are hordes of Canadians, Swiss, Serbs, and Ivorians. We pass people picnicking, playing music, playing football. Rival fans are sharing food with each other and there's laughter and joy.

I hold onto Mark just a little tighter.

We go for another five minutes and I'm drinking it all in. We turn into a residential street and get off the moped.

"Listen," he says, and for a second I'm gutted to realise that he has found me a place to stay. I shake off the feeling. Of course having a proper bed and being far away from Mark Blast would be miles better. "I was thinking about what you said." He looks around, lost in his thoughts.

"What did I say?"

"You want to write hockey romance. I mean, it's not romance, is it? It's erotica. It should be called hockerotica. Thing is, you don't know anything about sport. I can't help you with the erotica side of things - "

"Can't you?" I say, trying to dazzle him. Again, it's like he can't hear me. Maddening!

"But I can help with the sports. I don't know ice hockey but I know a thing or two about sports and you have to start with the stars. And this - " he rotates himself - "this is the street where Wayne Gretzky lived."

There's a slightly awkward pause.

"You know who Wayne Gretzky is, right?"

I nod. "He played for Manchester United."

"Hmm." If I hadn't seen Blast laugh in my face twenty times already, I'd have said he was trying not to. "That's a different guy. This is the ice hockey Wayne Gretzky. He was quite good, apparently. You should mention him once per chapter if you want readers to add a star to your rating for 'authenticity.'"

I take out my phone and tap a few times. I get the spelling wrong but I find the right page soon enough. "Wayne Gretzky was from Ontario."

Blast points. "That's Ontario Place we just passed."

"He didn't live here and you know it!" I pinch my nose. "We have literally days to spend in Toronto. Most of the time you're busy. If you have a free afternoon it's going to be taken up negotiating sponsorships and all kinds of nice shit you don't deserve. We've got a couple of hours spare and you choose to spend it..." Literal tears come to my eyes, I'm so frustrated. "You choose to spend it pranking me?"

He looks down at the pavement, abashed. "Are we still friends?"

I grunt. "Take me somewhere."

"Where?"

"I don't give a fuck! The hotel. The stadium. Yes, the stadium. I'll hang out with Mads for the rest of the trip."

Blast looks forlornly at the moped. He swings on it and waits for me to grab onto him before gently easing away.

He drives fifty feet down the road and turns into what looks like a school.

He signals that I should stand. I refuse. He wriggles his way off and hangs up his helmet. He fusses his hair and walks towards the entrance. "I'll be inside."

"What the fuck are you doing? Get back here!"

He doesn't get back here. I have a choice of walking to the stadium, which would take about three-quarters of an hour, or getting a taxi. I'll order one from inside, and then I'll do what I should have done as soon as I woke up - find a place to stay.

Alone.

***

It's a school, all right, and there's a sports hall. I find Blast in the middle of a gaggle of uniformed coaches. Two men, two women, four whistles. Twenty or more teenagers milling around, kicking footballs at random. It seems like a match is about to start against a rival school. I walk towards Blast.

"Everyone, this is Emily. Top lawyer from the UK."

One of the men gives me the elevator eyes. He could be admiring my outfit or he could be leering. "Reckon I like British lawyers more than the home grown ones." Definitely leering.

Blast leans into the guy's eyeline. "Gentle reminder that Emily's at work, Scott. She's keeping me out of trouble and this is me keeping you out of trouble."

"Sorry," babbles the Scott guy as he crumbles under the weight of Blast's disapproval. "I just meant... I was just saying she was pretty."

"Pretty lucky to be here on this special day, you mean?"

"Er, sure. Yes."

Blast has blasted the guy and now he looks to me for guidance. What do I want? I don't want to start whatever this is on a sour note. "Thank you for the compliment, Scott, but I'm sure Canadian lawyers work just as hard as I do."

Relief pours off him. "Yes, of course. Sorry," he adds, again.

Scott's blushing and flustered so the main guy steps in. "I'm Chris, Emily. Any friend of Mark's is a friend of ours."

I immediately love Chris and want to watch ice hockey with him while pounding massive beers. "Thank you. I have to say that I'm in the dark. This is, ah, Mark's idea of a surprise. What are we doing?"

Chris presses his hands together. "Ah, right. Well, this is CP soccer. Cerebral palsy," he adds.

"Oh." What's Blast's agenda here, I wonder?

It's like Chris is reading my mind. "We're trying to piggyback on the World Cup to raise our profile. Mark's an absolute godsend."

"He is?" I notice the cameras. This is being filmed; I worry he'll attack a cameraman.

"Enough jibber jabber," says Blast. "Let's get going."

The whites are playing the reds. We're the reds. I count six players on each side and the game is boring as hell. The whites are so much better and the whole match is played in the red half. The score races to three-nothing.

"May I offer a couple of pointers, perhaps?" says Blast.

"Sure, please!" says Chris. Blast puts his hands on Chris's shoulders and eases him a couple of steps back. Chris laughs and sits down. "Terry told me you might do something like this."

Blast doesn't hear - he's prowling around like a caged animal. "Time out!" he yells.

The game stops while the referee comes over. "We don't do time outs."

"It's an emergency! One of the players has to take a pill in the next thirty seconds or he'll die!"

Chris calls out. "Give us a minute, Cathy. Thanks." He holds up a box of biscuits. They're in the shape of a maple leaf and are filled with maple syrup. The referee takes one. Chris offers one to me but I'm not sure I want to ruin my appetite. As I'm hesitating, I turn and see Mark Blast is giving a fiery and passionate speech. The young men on the red team are absolutely entranced. Without thinking, I take a biscuit and nibble. It tastes like a sick tree.

The match resumes and the reds are just as pegged back as before. But then the ball is played to a lanky youth close to where Blast is standing.

"Hold! Hold!"

The boy turns his back to his nearest opponent, who barges into him. The red player stumbles but recovers.

"Fucking yes!" yells Blast. The boy is about to pass the ball but Blast doesn't want that. "Wait! Hold! Where's his fucking support?"

The rest of the reds push up the pitch until it's safe for the ball to be passed. The reds have changed shape and now there's a string of them across the pitch. It almost looks like my sofa. The ball is moved from side to side and the white team drop back.

"Wider!" yells Blast. "Spread!"

The boys obey, and even I understand what's going on. The white team are chasing the ball but now they have to run more. The ball gets passed forward and there's a scramble and the whites get it.

"Compress!"

The reds, as if by magic, retreat into two lines - one of three, one of two. The whites can't get through. One takes a shot and the ball goes out of play.

The reds kick it back in and spread out. When they lose the ball, they compress again. When they want to move forward, they pass to the boy on the right, who keeps his body between the ball and his opponent until his mates get close to him.

"Can you switch?" cries Blast.

The teenager looks over his shoulder and plays a pass to the other side. There's a red there on his own - he takes the ball, moves towards the goal, and takes a shot that goes wide.

Blast jumps around, embracing Chris and the other coaches.

Celebrating a missed shot? His credentials as a winner take another hit, and it doesn't escape my notice that the final score is Whites 5 Reds 2. Crushing defeat for the boy wonder.

I forgive him for his Wayne Gretzky prank, though, as I watch him pose for selfies with all the players, the referee, and the coaches. The red team, in particular, are buzzing. Why? Blast is right. I don't know enough about sports to understand.

Outside, before we pull on our helmets, I ask, "What's your angle with that?"

"Angle?"

"This was arranged ages ago, they told me. I don't see what you get out of it."

His eyebrows knit together as he tries to understand my meaning. "Get out of it? It's fun. Fun is my Word of the Year. That was a rush in there. Didn't you feel it?" He stares at the door we just left. "Guess you could say I'm a thrill seeker."

He's clearly lying, but I can't think how this little escapade benefits him in any way. If this is Mark Blast being selfish... my dad and I are using very different definitions of that word.

We head out and I hold onto his waist... a medium amount.

***

A very strange thing happens. Blast rides around a little, then stops and looks at a map on his phone. We go a little further, before suddenly we speed up and he races towards a football pitch. He gets off and sprints towards a gaggle of players - I'm in something of a panic. Are we in danger? He strolls back, though, calm as you like.

"Striker with no finishing. Ah, well."

This latest prank fills my rage-o-meter all the way back up. We head back to the stadium where Blast does some rehearsals and I finally start calling every hotel in the city.

The city is rammed.

It's Blast's sofa or a park bench.

He's not that bad, really.

***

The next morning, after a mammoth swim (him) and a lazy breakfast (me), we head to the stadium bright and early. I text Mads and he says he can jiggle his schedule around to spend twenty minutes with me.

What could we do in twenty minutes?

Twice?

But he's not frisky at all. He says Blast has asked for a certain video sequence to be put together and Mads was told to do it. It involves going through loads of matches looking for certain moves and then negotiating with the rights holders for permission to show them.

"It's a nightmare," says Mads. "I think Mark is toying with me because when my boss asked for an update and I said I was worried I might not finish in time, Mark sent an email with a list of the matches and the time stamps of when the moves happened. It's like, you could have told me that at the start and saved me four hours! I could have cried."

"Oh, no," I say.

"Be careful, Emily. I'm not sure his intentions are pure."

I bloody hope they aren't. "What do you mean?"

"This project, it's a wild goose chase. He's saying something will happen in today's match but the chances are so slim. I think he got jealous that I was talking to you and he's given me busy work so he can have you all to himself."

"Oh, no," I say, as I daydream about what Blast having me all to himself might look like. I got a good eyeful of his 'stamina build' while he was doing some stretches in his bedroom.

It has been a long time since I said 'oh no'. Mads gets up. "Just be careful."

He's trying to help. "Thanks!" I say, and I mean it.

***

The match approaches and once the first ball is kicked my trip speeds up.

First I'm in a VIP box with, among others, a cute young German called Libero, who left a team called Bayern to join Blast in Chester. Libero tells me his grandfather is doing the analysis along with Blast and a former player from Canada. He warns me that the former player will do most of the talking. "Blast's job is to look pretty. Don't tell him I said that. Haha."

Sure enough, Blast stands at the end of the three analysts and is not asked to speak. Maybe when I land him a juicy deal to be the face of Soccer Supremo the broadcasters will be more interested in his opinions! "He scrubs up nice," I muse.

"The suit, you mean?" says my new friend. "That's a Boateng Boateng. Savile Row."

"It's perfection. Who knew a dimwit like Mark Blast would have such good taste?"

Libero and I have a good time but we might be the only people in the stadium more interested in the half-time broadcast than the actual match. Again, Blast is barely asked a question by the host but the older German seems to value his opinion. He asks Blast what he thinks about the midfield battle. The reply is quite simple - player X is playing well, player Y is not - but Libero slaps his palm. "That's it! Why didn't I notice? Dummkopf! Oh, wait!" Libero grabs my arm to shush me even though I wasn't speaking.

His grandfather playfully asks Blast what he would do if he were coaching Switzerland. Is there anyone, perhaps, on the bench he might want to bring on?

Blast wags his finger. "I think you're trying to get a transfer tip and you know I don't work for free."

"What would your advice cost?"

"Ten thousand loonies for the CCPSA." Loonies are Canadian dollars. "It's a cerebral palsy charity here in Canada and they do amazing work."

"I agree to the price."

"I know who you're thinking of. He's not good enough for Bayern. All right, pay up."

The presenter moves on but Libero is dancing around the VIP suite. "I knew it! I knew it! We just saved thirty million Euro. I could kiss Mark Blast!"

"We? You mean Bayern? I thought you were at Chester."

"I swing both ways."

"Me too, back in university."

The second half comes and goes. While the analysts are chatting about the result and looking forward to the next match, a disconsolate Mads wanders past. "He didn't even use my reel," he says.

"We're all going out to a party," I say. "Wanna come?"

"I apologise, Emily," says Libero, "but numbers are strictly limited. I wanted to invite a guest but couldn't."

"Shit. Sorry, Mads."

"It's okay," he says. He trudges away. I've just dangled a fun night in front of him and snatched it away. Maybe I'm the baddie?

"If I hadn't seen such riches," says Libero, "I could live with being poor."

"Has your hotel room got a sofa?"

He grins. "No."

***

Jemima: What's happening? You stopped texting! Talk to me!

Me: I'm at a party with loads of movers and shakers. Directors of football. Blast is blasting their squadbuilding and their managers. He remembers really specific substitutions that happened in games and he breaks down the scenario and explains what it suggests about the dysfunction at their clubs.

Jemima: What a prick!

Me: Well, I suppose, but it's dead funny. I don't know what he's saying but half of them are cry-laughing. He could walk into ten jobs tomorrow!

Jemima: Are you still sleeping on his sofa?

Me: Hang on. He's talking to an agent. He needs me!

***

Me: Oh my God! We've just done a huge deal! I think.

Jemima: You think?

Me: There's a player that Mark likes. He didn't play today so I don't know when he watched him but we met his agent and Mark was like bro let me arrange a move to Europe for your boy! How much do you want for us to buy out your contract? The guy's not into it because he's got an in with a team in France. Mark laughs like 'okay you can have a hundred percent of diddly squat or fifty percent of whoop there it is!'

Jemima: lol

Me: The agent softens. 'Um now that you mention it...' Mark's like yeah you talk to my lawyer and we'll get that sorted and you'll be bathing in loon juice for months.

Jemima: Mark is the loon. I notice he's Mark now.

Me: So I get the agent's digits and Blast drags me across the other side of the party and talks to Libero and his grandfather. Bro I got you a new player to replace that Swiss army nope. Five million Euro, bosh, job done. You'll be dealing with a hot English blonde, is that all right? Libero smiles at me and goes 'I know Emily'. Blast goes 'Not her! What the hell!'

Jemina: Charming.

Me: It's just his mad energy. I'm getting used to it. So he's got both sides of a deal done in ten minutes. Dad is right - he's wild.

Jemima: When are you going to jump him?

Me: Soon. I don't even care he attacked a cameraman. He's doing a stamina build. What does it even MEAN.

Jemima: [various erotic emojis]

Me: Mark thinks he's spotted the host of The Traitors Canada. He's got a huge crush on her. This story might be going MFF!

***

Me: It wasn't her. I slept on the sofa again.

Jemima: It's funny really. All this cost and trouble to put him on screen for approximately five sentences.

Me: I've got us two complicated projects already. I might start work on them today.

Jemima: Babes! Don't be a sap. Send the deets to me and I'll do the boring shit. You focus on inserting yourself into situations.

Me: Yeah but who's going to insert himself into MY - ah, never mind.

***

Over the next couple days we zip around Toronto meeting agents, high-level football people, and turning up at random football pitches.

We have lunch with Libero, his grandfather, and Jacob from Soccer Supremo. That feels quite natural and organic but I notice Blast and Libero exchange a glance and I realise it is all quite calculated - Jacob was even more delighted to meet the Germans than he was to meet Blast. Not a bad brain in that pretty little head of his...

We make progress on several fronts. The best thing for Chester, it seems, is to have more football pitches. I mean, duh, right? But apparently it was close. Mark Blast is in line to get one hundred thousand pounds to be the face of Soccer Supremo. Bayern Munich will sign a young Canadian player for five million Euro. The ten percent agent fee will be split between Blast and the local agent, and the player will be represented by this Esther woman going forward.

I wonder who is getting the better end of that deal. The local agent is getting a quarter of a million loonies for doing absolutely nothing, but something tells me Mark Blast usually ends up on top.

On top of who, though?

***

Over dinner on our penultimate night in Toronto, I catch Mark cackling to himself.

"What's bitten you?" I wonder. I've had too much to drink and my inhibitions are at an all-time low.

"Just had a thought," he says. "Since I'm besties with Soccer Supremo, I was thinking I might stir the pot."

"Oh, shit."

He does his widest smile; it lights up the room. "Relax, Emily. Just some harmless mischief. I'm going to get Jacob to publish a blog post. The vibe will be 'We talked to hot prospect Mark Blast and these are the five League One players he would buy.'"

"I don't get it."

He tries not to cackle. "It will read like a love letter to these five players but they're poison pills. Good enough that it makes sense I'd be interested in them but they each have a flaw. Two have a pretty hard ceiling, one has a bad attitude, two are just plain old. Any team that buys them is throwing their money in the bin."

"Ah! I get it. They are your players and you want to invite bids."

He tuts and shakes his head, but he's still in a good mood. "No, that wouldn't fly. Look, it's one of those things where I do something and it pays off... or not. I'll let you know at the end of the transfer window. You probably won't remember."

"Mark," I say, getting serious. "Did you... Were you being mean to Mads because you didn't want him spending time with me?"

"No."

"But..."

He doesn't want to explain but we've had such a nice time and even he doesn't want to ruin it. "Canada have a move. They don't do it every match but they try to do it. Mads found examples, right, that I'd spotted, and he clipped them up in a cool way. If Canada do it in one of these matches it's going to look fucking awesome when I stand there and say, hey world, guess what?"

He's so impressed by himself I can't help but giggle. "What's the move?"

"You saw it."

"No I didn't."

"I'll give you a clue. It needs a left-footed right midfielder and a fast left back who can make lung bursting runs."

"No! The CP match?"

"The CP match. Look, Mads is here to work and doing whatever mad shit comes into my head is his job. It's going to suck if the move doesn't happen in the next two matches but if it does... mwah!" He does a chef's kiss.

"Do you promise you weren't being mean to him?"

Blast scoffs. "I promise I wasn't ruining his chances with you."

"I'm a lawyer. I know when people don't answer the question."

"Did he have a chance with you?"

"Yes."

"I don't think he did."

"You know better than me?"

He gives me a very slappable grin but then he relents. "I appreciate your help since we got here. You're really talented. When life gives you lemons you learn how to juggle. I've already achieved more than I expected in Toronto so I've decided that tomorrow's your day."

"Oh, no," I say, as I drain my glass.

He laughs. "I'm serious. You've got two choices. We can go to Niagara Falls and if you want we can pretend to be a couple. I might let you hold my hand or whatever. Second choice is we go to an ice rink and learn to skate."

"But you're injured!"

"I'm not gonna do any quad axels, am I? Don't worry about me. Which one do you want? The romance or the hockey?"

He's not smiling. He's not blinking. I feel my neck heating up and I can't believe it - he has turned his attention to me at last! And in a minute we're going to go up to his room! "I want both."

He looks down, still serious, and shakes his head. He looks up - is there a hint of spice in his glance? - and the shakes turn into a nod. He points. "That's the right answer."

***

Outside his bedroom, I lean against the wall with my hands behind my back and my lips parted. This move is utterly seductive and has never failed me. The effect is slightly ruined as I start to slide sideways.

Blasts lifts me effortlessly and carries me to the oval office. He puts me down and gives me a tiny push that sends me flopping onto the sofa. He pulls my legs up so that I'm stretched out and covers me with a sheet. He turns the light off, comes back, and sits behind my head. From there, he plays with my hair. I remember why we're on this trip in the first place.

"Mark, why did you assault a cameraman?"

"I didn't assault a cameraman. I attacked a camera."

"Why?"

"One of my players was suffering and the guy put this camera right up in his face. Recording every teardrop, you know? I couldn't stand to see my boy's despair being used to sell advertising space. So I shoved a hotdog into the lens."

The word hotdog makes me giggle. "No."

"Yes." He stops playing with my hair. "I know it was wrong but I'd do it again. Does that make me a bad person?"

"No," I say, and I'm rewarded with more hair fussing.

"Why do you cover your neck?" he says, so softly I almost think it's a dream.

"It's a hockey romance thing," I whisper back. "The FMC has to have something she hates about her body in order for her to be relatable."

Blast peels my scarf off - I think about resisting - and plays with the sides of my neck. I get instant, full-body goosebumps. "Ah," he says. "I get it."

"You don't get it," I try to say. I'm not sure the words come out because his touch is all kinds of SPICY. "It's for the book. I'm in character."

"I've got a weird kink," he says.

"Fucking finally!"

"My kink is wanting to find a woman who really likes me. For me, not for the crazy football shit I do."

"Oh."

"I know I'm disappointing," he says, as his magic fingers send me to heaven and back every five seconds. "I've been hurt before. I don't trust easily. I know in your books they bang in chapter one, chapter two at the latest."

"Yeah," I whine, hockerotically.

"But I'm a chapter six or seven kind of guy."

"That is disappointing," I murmur. "I'm the writer, though. I say how long the chapters are."

Blast laughs, bends, and gives me a tiny, chaste kiss on the forehead. "Try to sleep, he said handsomely."

"I don't write like that!"

"How would I know? I've never even seen a draft, the superstar football star said, accurately. Try to sleep anyway. Tomorrow's the hockey romance."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

He's confident. He's in charge. He has me on toast. "Mark?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you move the little table the first night?"

"So you wouldn't bump into it on your way to perv at me."

"Oh my God," I murmur, but he has gone.

***

I set an alarm so I can watch him in the pool. He's a machine.

"Are you Stamina 20 yet?"

He gives me a quick smile but then it's back to the laps.

Breakfast is quiet, with lots of furtive glances and blushing. Amazingly, it's not all me.

Then he puts his hand on my back as he guides me into a taxi. We emerge at an ice rink and I meet my teacher.

It's an enormous, hulking hockey dude. Like most Canadian men he's called Chris. I undress him with my eyes, which takes a long time because he's wearing several wardrobes. "You okay doon there, Emily?"

"Yes, mister Chris. I was just trying to find your neck."

"Women are always looking for me neck, eh? You can't see it under all these muscles."

"No."

"Let's skate, do ya think?"

"What about Mark?"

"He's got his own tutor."

"Oh."

I get on the ice and Chris is actually a good teacher. I get the basics and half the time I fall he's there to catch me.

"You're good on the ice, Chris."

"Oh, I better be! I'm assistant coach for the Toronto Maple Leafs."

"Fuck."

I concentrate twice as hard, which works for a few minutes until I realise another couple has joined us on the ice. It's Mark Blast and an ethereal goddess with a ponytail. What the actual fuck?

I'm pleased to note that Blast falls way more often than I do. Chris skates over and I hear what he says. (Chris doesn't do subtle.) "Fall into her, man."

"She's tiny."

"Aphra was born on the ice. You've got more chance of outrunning a grizzly than unbalancing her."

Blast pouts. "I could outrun a grizzly."

Chris skates back with a big grin. "Your boyfriend is hilarious. Let's speed things oop, eh?"

I try to ignore the way Blast is very deliberately throwing himself into the arms of Aphra (Aphra? Seriously?) and I make some balance gains. I don't think I'll ever win Olympic gold but I start to believe I could do a lap of the rink. Life goal... tick!

Something makes me snap my head to the other side of the ice. Blast is looking down at his feet. "Where should my centre of gravity be?"

His brazen hussy of a teacher grabs his arse and squeezes it. "Try here," she says. Blast blasts her with heat. Where the fuck has that been for the last five days?

But then he's skating! He's fucking doing it. Chris and I watch as it all clicks. He goes, he turns, he picks a line and skates backwards.

"Eh? He's done this before," insists Chris.

"Mark, let's work on your technique," calls Aphra.

"Fuck that," says Blast, eyes blazing. "I want to go fast."

"Fast?"

"Really fast. Show me how."

Aphra twists her lips and does a little skip. Her ridiculously mini mini-skirt flaps around. "Watch my ass. Can you do that, Mark?"

Why is it so spicy, for fuck's sake? This isn't chapter six for anyone!

Mark locks eyes on his prize and chases. The pair of them go hell for leather around the edge of the rink.

Aphra is enjoying being chased. Mark is enjoying the view. Chris is enjoying being paid to watch someone else's show. "Go Mark!" he calls. "Come on you Seals, heh."

After the fifth corner, Aphra turns and glides backwards while Blast catches up to her. She puts a hand on his chest and they slow down. They're both panting, having fucking eye sex right there on the ice. She gives him a little pat on the cheek and says, "Good boy."

Blast skates over, sweaty and hot. "You know what's good? Canada. Emily, you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"We're going to ice dance." He points to the ceiling and yells, "Hit it!"

Chris bows and retreats. Blast takes my hand and we skate slowly while 'Put Your Head On My Shoulder' by Paul Anka plays.

"I thought you were injured," I say.

"I am."

"You lost your mind just now."

"She challenged me. You think I'm gonna back down from a challenge?"

"What would you do if one of your players came back from the summer break with an ice skating injury?"

Mark laughs. "I'd be pissed. They would need a really fucking good reason they were on that ice."

"Do you have a good reason?"

He locks eyes with me. "I do."

On the other side of the boards, I spot Chris kissing Aphra. When we get to the last straight, I put my head on Mark's shoulder.

When I get off the ice I can't stop smiling.

***

We shower and go to lunch and that's when the next surprise comes. We're not alone but for once it isn't a football insider we're meeting. It's Apple Bobb, author of Falling Hard, one of the spiciest hockey romances of the last year. Bobb is an instant superstar in the niche and I have no idea how Blast arranged this at such short notice.

Apple's wearing an oversize rib wool funnel neck sweater and shapeless jeans and it works insanely well. She and I are instant besties, raving about shared favourites and discussing the genre in general. I ask for advice about getting started.

"You need a supportive partner," she says.

Blast is outside, taking a call. "I think I have that," I say. "I think I just don't know where to get started. I know more soccer players than hockey guys."

"Write what you know," says Apple. "Take what's happening and write around it."

"You mean, use real people but change their names?"

"Sure. I do it all the time. Take my last book. What really happened was I fell down the stairs because I was absolutely blasted. Change that to a hockey accident, keep the cute doctor..."

"And the cute nurse," I say.

Apple's lips twist. "Yeah. That part was maybe exaggerated... but the spiciest bits often are."

"That's a shame," I say, laughing. "But I think I understand. The problem is I don't even notice cute guys any more. I've only got eyes for Mark."

"If you need competition, invent him. Do an airport fakeout. You meet someone we assume is the MMC but isn't."

"Ooh, I like that."

"And obviously make your FMC clumsy at first and then forget that whole character trait."

I scoff. "I've seen rom-coms, Apple. I know how they go!"

Apple looks towards the doorway and fondles the straw of her drink. "Your soccer guy is way hotter than I expected. Do you read a lot of MFF?"

An invitation! "I might leave the harem stuff for the fanfics."

Her lips twist. "If you change your mind, let me be the first to know, eh?" She looks at the doorway again. "Send me a first draft, will ya? I've never read a soccer romance."

"Soccerotica," I say.

Blast comes in and he's so hyped about something every diner at every table stops what they're doing to follow him. He claps and treats us to a funky dance before he takes his seat. "It's done!" he says.

"What is?" says Apple.

"My College boys are all coming," says Blast, apparently unaware why the phrasing makes Apple snort. "I got the confirmation that the last guy will come to Gib. That makes seven. Fuck, it's going to be awesome! I've got a name for us and everything."

"What's that?" says Apple, seductively mashing her straw into the ice at the bottom of her glass.

He leans back and spreads his arms. "The Marknificent Seven."

"Are you waiting for applause?" I say.

He points. "You. Me. Waterfall. Right now. Let's go!"

"But - " I start.

He grabs my hand and whisks me away. The last thing I hear is Apple calling out, "Have a blast!"