14.5 - Squad of War
5.
Friday, July 31
I treated myself to a lie-in. Thirty minutes of enjoying the feel of the sheets and the quilt and using Emma's pillow - she always got the one that was pleasantly cool. Then I pressed the button that operated the curtains - healing light streamed in.
I didn't need much healing. In last night's second leg, Larnaca had fought hard for the first quarter of an hour but Magnus and I shut down what little space they created and looked to hurt the Cypriots on counters. It had been nil-nil at half time and their manager had fired them up during the break. Come on, lads! One goal and we're right back in this! I switched us to 3-5-2, making myself the second striker on paper but playing DM in practice. 3-1-5-1 playing keep ball, winding down the clock with supreme efficiency.
Nil-nil would have been a good result. It would have fit in with my general goal of making us seem unthreatening, and half a coefficient point was decent. No need to get greedy, right?
The only problem was I couldn't keep Baggers on the bench forever. I brought him on, reverted to our optimal 4-2-3-1, and as he dashed around like a frisky fox I got caught up in the giddiness. We got exuberant in our build-up play, peppered the goal with shots, and scored twice late on through Henri and Baggers. Two-nil; it could have been five.
So far, Baggers had bagged in every match, giving him four goals in the tournament. Henri also had four, putting two College 1975 players at the top of the goalscoring charts. What happened to keeping a low profile? Sharky had 3, Pascal 2.
I had four assists, Pascal and Baggers had three, Henri and Sharky two each.
I found myself nodding as the sunshine seeped into me. I had done pretty well with my choices. Sharky's speed was blistering in the helter-skelter English leagues but to some of these Euro guys it was like he was playing at one point five speed. Henri was strong and a good focal point. Pascal was devious and clever, linking play, giving defenders pop quizzes on both sides of the ball. Jack and Lee H, our full backs, knew their roles well. I was filling in where the team needed me but being careful not to take the piss when it came to the Sentinel. I had even let Henri take a penalty so that I wouldn't juke my stats too much. Not that it should have mattered - so far the oppo had been League One standard and I was a League One player. I was allowed to play well.
In retrospect, I might have pushed harder to get a top centre back instead of Jack the Lad. Jack was doing great on the pitch - his form read 7-8-7-8 - and his bubbly idiocy helped pass the days. He had a previously undiscovered talent for saying the right thing when Henri and I were bickering. But when I looked at the team I saw strength and quality all around save for the centre backs and goalie.
We had been drawn in the Third Round against Aris Thessaloniki, a Greek team, named after Ares, the Greek God of War. Some obvious themes came to mind! The first leg would be in Gibraltar and a quick check of the Greek team spoke of a top-heavy 4-3-3. If they got shots on goal, they would score.
I walked out onto the balcony and looked out at the blue skies, the blue sea, the white sails. I would do my stretches, meditate to clear my head, then go down for brunch. Lipton Yellow tea, orange juice, green smoothie. What could I eat that was red? That would give me most of a rainbow, just as I had most of a team.
One day I would have a full squad brimming with the best players in the world. Two decorated veterans in every position plus loads of young guns coming up through the ranks.
Thinking about red and our next opponents led me to think about God of War, the PlayStation game. The main character always had red war paint across his face. I had played the game once and initially it was incredibly cool and at times jaw-dropping - until I came to a mini boss fight. I was supposed to punch an Irish guy in the face 700 times but my thumb slipped on the 698th and I had to start again. I noped out at that point but it was possible I had misunderstood the game mechanics. Maybe I should try it again?
I got my phone and sent a text to Mateo.
Me: College 1975 FC needs its own PlayStation and a massive telly. I need it to give my team talks. Forgot to mention it until just now. We can store it at Poncho Villa for a few weeks.
Mateo: If it's there for a few weeks it means we got through to the league stage and made millions. One will arrive today.
Me: And a massive telly.
Mateo: Large.
Me: Two large ones side by side will do if that's cheaper. Also we need three hundred pounds in game vouchers.
Mateo: Two hundred.
Me: Ugh. I'll spend my day trawling around second hand shops to see if they have any old games. I'll do that instead of researching our next opponents.
Mateo: Rachel just called you a brat.
Me: Is she smiling?
Mateo: Yes.
***
When I went down to the brunch room, I was surprised to see there was a whole party going on. It wasn't only Emma and the Maxnificent Seven but a few visitors from England. Ruth and the Brig, MD, Andrew Roberts (Mr. Baggers), and his other son, Adam. It became clear they had come to watch last night's match but hadn't told us in case that 'added to the pressure'. The pressure of holding onto a slim four-one lead against a dispirited opponent? People got crazy ideas when it came to footy. Not me. Other people.
Anyway, there was a great mix of conversations going on and I was left alone while I inserted soft foods (avocado, cheese, ham, scrambled egg) into baked goods (croissants, buns) which I then inserted into my cakehole (mouth).
MD told someone he was going to be in town until next Friday but would drive around the south of Spain. Ruth and the Brig would do something similar but with small planes. Mr. Roberts and Adam were flying back home tomorrow - theirs was a lightning visit. Someone made a joke about lightning striking twice and there was much laughter and agreement that yes, if we got to the playoff they would probably come back.
Well In popped in to say goodbye on his way to the airport. He had taken the coaching baton from Sandra and had given us a great week. The College natives gained a point of CA or two, Sharky rushed to 84 (out of 86), Baggers and Bad Boy surged to 83 and 95 respectively. Magnus, though, was improving faster than everyone - he leapt to 86. I put it down to him making up for lost time after he finished the previous season injured, but maybe it was as simple as the fact that the whole experience was fucking mint and he was integral to our wins. No longer was he the outsider brought in from the medical room - in this particular corps he'd been core from day one.
MD buttered a slice of toast. "So Well In's out. Have you got someone else coming?"
"Yep," I said. My players stopped what they were doing and eyed me carefully; this was new information. "A guy from the army."
"From the army?" said the Brig.
"Hey," I said. "If you're here and Vimsy's at Tranmere, who's shouting at my lazy players?"
"Sandra," said MD.
"Huh. Makes sense. She has a cruel streak." The Brig was waiting for me to explain myself so I closed the thread. "Remember I coached 3 R Welsh? I saw quite a few decent coaches along the way. I got some of their details just in case, right, and what with the season approaching it's getting harder and harder to get dudes to leave their clubs even just for a few days. The army guys are on a different timetable and they're not well-paid so a bit of cash, free holiday, hang out with the great Max Best - result."
"Is it worth the expense for Mateo?" said MD. He was thinking about Saltney Town next season - exactly how much would he have to invest?
"Mmm, probably," I said. "The matches are getting harder. We made that last one look easy but it wasn't, really. The next one's against Aris and if we slip up they'll slap us silly. Every percent we can get on the training pitch gets us closer to parity. A few grand to make a few hundred grand. It's a no-brainer. Where it gets tricky is that starting tomorrow we're going to Marbella to train. Oh, you should come and check it out; it could be a decent model for Saltney. They have a beautiful facility there, perfect grass, a good amount of equipment, private spa and massage area. It's an hour one-way so we need to hire a bus, a driver, it's more money on food and the resort is expensive. We're paying full whack to sneak in after their real clients have finished. Is that worth it? I think so."
Henri said, "I think Marbella is a good investment. Perhaps it is an extra half a percent on top of the one percent, but it is also a signal. The tournament arc got more serious. Keep winning and good things come. Lose and you go back to your normal lives."
"Tranmere," said Pascal, with a shudder.
Henri shook his head. "It is sad you look down on your neighbour. Tranmere will win League Two and that is something Pascal Bochum will never be able to say."
Jack the Lad tapped Ruth on the shoulder and put on a child's voice. "Mommy? Why are those men fighting? Are they in love?"
Ruth snorted. Pascal and Henri did a rugged, masculine handshake to end the feud, or rather to call a ceasefire.
I topped up my orange juice and offered some to Emma. Henri groaned and made a 'do it the other way round' gesture that I didn't understand until much later. I was too deep in the conversation. "Another signal that the arc got more intense is that we're finally playing in a country I've heard of."
"There goes your Cypriot fanbase," joked MD.
"Greece," I said. "Think of the themes! I could do Grease with John Travolta; that'd be funny. Henri already has those tight leather leggings. I looked on the map and Thessaloniki is in an amazing spot. If you march your army from Athens to Istanbul you pass by so there must have been all sorts of crazy shit going on back in the old days. Have you seen Patton, the movie? He's driving around Italy or Greece and he stops the jeep and goes 'it was here!' Some ancient battle. He could smell it in the air."
Ruth smiled. "Are you going to walk around town smelling old football matches, Max?"
"I might do," I said. "Actually, no, I won't have time. We're in and out again. Shame but I can go for real when I'm dead old, like thirty-three, and life has slowed to a crawl. Ooh text from Mateo. Um... lads I need you to go to this shop and pick up some swag. By which I mean important and serious football equipment. We can leave it in the villa for now."
"What is it?" said Henri.
"A massive OLED TV. 80 inches."
Pascal said, "OLEDs don't come in 80. It could be 77 but you probably mean 83."
"Holy shit," I said. "80, 83. If you know so much about that stuff you can help carry it and set it up for me. It's waiting in the shop along with the latest PlayStation and some vouchers. I need to play God of War for my team talk."
Ruth shook her head. "You're such a boy."
MD popped a tiny block of cheese into his mouth. "You've got war on the mind these days, Max. Is there anything we need to worry about?"
"Have I?"
"Not long ago you told me you were at war with Spurs and the Big Six."
"And the FA and FIFA," said Emma.
"And fascists," said Magnus.
"And dictators," said Pascal.
"And tech bros," said Baggers.
"And cars that are bigger than parking spaces," said Emma. "And people on The Traitors who say 'I'm voting for yourself'."
I tutted. "Have you all quite finished?"
"No," said about six people.
I smiled briefly. "Yeah, look, it's just that when things are going well I think ahead and right now I'm thinking: what am I really working towards? But it's not fun brunch conversation."
Henri sighed. "Please do not be so irredeemably English all of the time. It is permitted to go ten minutes without cracking a joke!"
"Well," I said, in a way that made Emma laugh, which made me happy.
Henri's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "You are surrounded by friends, business partners, agents, ham explainers. Clearly, you will need some of us in your wars. Why not tell us what you are thinking?"
Emma gave me a little nudge. "Go on, babes. I want to know, too."
"Does he not tell you?" said Henri, alarmed.
"Not really. I think he thinks I'd think it's boring."
"Okay, look," I said. "It's not a big deal. I want to be good at football because that's fun and I like it. There isn't enough fun in the world and there certainly isn't enough fun in football. They find fun and shoot on sight, don't they? I've got an idea for how to have a laugh in the next match but we'll have to be a bit sneaky about it."
"Ominous," said Henri.
"Why else do I want to be good at this? Apart from making little kids want to play footy? A big one is because I can make loads of money. I could keep improving for a year or two and stay at that level and easily make enough money to take care of my mum and build one of those Grand Designs homes in Cheshire or North Wales. It'll have a cinema room, a pool, a couple of floors for Emma's shoes, and there will be loads of land and a wood and an orchard and I'll get some experts to design it to attract hedgehogs. Oh, and I'll put a fake roof up for the pine marten to live in. It will be super nice. Peaceful. Erm." I looked at Emma.
She shook her head. "We're not having a go-kart track."
"Huge go-kart track," I said. "83 inches at least. But all that, that material stuff, that's inevitable." I looked at Baggers' dad. "Andrew, I think when we met I said I was relaxed about my wages because the money was on the horizon."
"You did, yeah. I remember it well."
"It's coming now. It's not Grand Designs money but it's Gemma money. That's pretty good. Soon it's houses, hedgehog experts, go-karts. What more does a man need? Well, I need some purpose. I keep thinking, why me? Why am I good? That's in between the bouts of imposter syndrome."
"Imposter syndrome?" said Adam Roberts, amazed. He was fourteen (fifteen on my spreadsheets), a PA 92 attacking midfielder who trained with us as much as his schedule allowed and played in matches on the weekends.
"Take this match against Aris Thessaloniki. What's the plan? I'll spend hours watching tapes and all that. I'll look at results they've had and try to guess their level. I'll look at how they play and think of a counter-plan. I mean, they're doing a narrow 4-3-3 so I'm thinking of putting Magnus as centre back and me as DM. Would that be enough to stop enough of their attacks?" I shrugged. "It's hard to know, right? I'm basically just guessing, especially in these European matches where I haven't seen a single one of the players beforehand. When I see them in the warmup I'll get a deeper sense of who they are and I might just tear up my whole plan."
"Or shred it," said Adam, grinning.
"Yeah. But in these recent matches I've been thinking, is this right? Is this what everyone else does? It seems so amateur."
"You're winning, Max," said Henri.
"Yeah," I said. "I suppose. I don't know. Sometimes I just think... Is this enough? What else should I be doing?" Part of my worry was that the curse would end one day and either I would have to quit management or hope I had learned enough along the way to get by with guts, instinct, and a comprehensive knowledge of every player in England's top five tiers.
"You speak to other managers," said Ruth. "Do they tell you you're doing it wrong?"
"Not when they got slapped four-one at home by the worst team in Europe," said Pascal.
I laughed. "Yeah. From what I can tell, they do the same as I do but with more data."
"So what are you worried about?" said Ruth.
"I just... Nothing, really. Things are on track but is that because the opposition are weak? I'm thinking ahead. One thing I don't like about that game God of War is that you learn how to play it - you walk around fighting lizards or crabs or whatever - and then you have a boss battle and the game forces a different approach on you. It's, ugh, how do I explain it? For a couple of hours you learn that this button does a punch and that button throws an axe. Great. Now suddenly you're being smashed in the face and you've got to shatter the crystals and when the guy is flashing you pick up a tree and give him a good old crack with it. What's this? I haven't prepared for this. How is this fun?"
Emma nudged me. "There are at least five people who have no clue what you're talking about."
"I'm saying I want to get ready for the boss battles. That means Tottenham and Arsenal and Chelsea and teams like that. Are they just Bradford with better players or are they doing super complicated things that I need to learn to deal with?"
"You played Newcastle and Man U," said Mr. Roberts.
"And Chelsea and loads of Prem teams in the Youth Cup," said Baggers.
"Reserves, the unmotivated, youth players. I haven't faced a proper top top eleven. Okay, so... Wait, why am I talking about this? It's not what I wanted to say. Ah, maybe it is. Look, I don't want a big house and a nice garden when half the world is under water and there's no food and there are trillionaire white supremacists with private robot armies and the World Cup has replaced the G7 and Davos as the place where the worst people in the world gather to carve up resources. I can't stop evil people being evil but I can stop them doing their victory laps at the World Cup Final in Spain, can't I, if I'm scoring a hat trick in every match and after every goal I pull up my shirt and show a temporary tattoo that's a QR code."
"I almost hesitate to ask," said MD.
"If I want to send a clear message on the pitch, it's hard. I can't wear a rainbow armband in case I offend the Prime Minister of Hungary and you're not allowed to write slogans on your shirt. FIFA would probably punish me even for lifting my top to show a t-shirt with a super neutral message, but there's no rule against having a QR code tattoo that links to a website of my choosing. I can probably get my people to change the redirect every ten minutes during a match. I don't know exactly what I'd do but I do know I would give a Maxy Two-Middle-Fingers to any politician or tech bro stupid enough to be up there when I go to lift the World Cup trophy, do you know what I mean? First I need to get there. I've got two shots: Player or manager. That's why I've been training like a crazy person, and that's why I want to manage against an elite team that's properly trying to smash me up. I need to know how good I am and whether I can do it."
Henri's eyebrows knitted together. "You don't often talk about your ambitions as a player."
"I didn't really have any," I confessed. "Just to get closer to how I was before the murder, help the team, do a few nutmegs. But I look around and where were the players complaining that their showpiece final was turned into a photo op for dicks who literally despise football? It was tumbleweed. As England's finest, Alan Turner, said: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good players to do nothing. What can I change? Maybe nothing. Maybe something. So I'll do something. I'm going to do a small test on Thursday to see what happens. But long-term I need to be a world class player. I can time my charge to elite status so that I'm picked for England in 2029 and I'm a guaranteed starter for 2030."
Someone in the room made a huge clanging noise - dropped a cup maybe.
Henri said, "Whatever you're planning on Thursday, count me in." The rest of my squad nodded and grunted and made positive noises.
Pascal said, "So you'll be a player-manager for Chester and you'll do as you're told by the England head coach?"
I scoffed. "I might interpret my instructions. Optimise them. He won't mind... if he wants to win."
Ruth said, "RIP Max's imposter syndrome."
Pascal said, "If I were the England manager, I'm not sure I would pick you. You can't help but take over."
I shook my head. "I'd behave for you, mate. If you've got a good plan and you need me to do my part, I'll do it. No problem. It's cavemen managers I have a problem with."
Henri said, "The English FA lurches from extreme to extreme. There will not be another German manager of England. The next manager will be the most English of the English. He's very likely to be caveman-adjacent."
I blew air from my cheeks. "Yeah."
Henri was enjoying this 'serious' chat. "Your problem is the timing; it is all too close together. We are in 2026. England will appoint a new manager in the coming weeks. He will be the manager until Euro 28 for sure. He would have to be appalling in order to get the sack, but with the quality of player at his disposal, he will take England to the quarter-finals, almost assuredly. If he survives that tournament, he will be in place until 2030, thus even if you are back to your incredible best you cannot be guaranteed a berth in the squad. You need to be the manager, don't you? If the next man is sacked in 2028, will you be in place to take the job? You will not have taken Chester to the Premier League by then." MD made a strange noise; Henri didn't notice. "Perhaps if you win the League Cup and have more of these European adventures."
MD said, "It's strange to hear talk of our manager leaving in as little as two years."
I waved my hand. "I could do a national team job part-time. It's not hard, is it? Find the best players who are qualified to play for the country. I do that as part of the Chester job. Go to some training camps. That's not much, is it? Manage a few friendlies? It's about eight days a year. I'm not leaving Chester, Mike. I've got big plans. Large plans. 83 inch plans."
"Oh, boy. I'm not sure what worries me more. You leaving or staying."
He was joking but there was an undercurrent. He definitely wanted me to manage his club but he wasn't sure he wanted to be in the crosshairs of all kinds of culture wars. "MD, look, let's be honest, I want to bring Chester to the Premier League. If I can't do that, I might have to move on but I'm not going to just flounce like Henri does if you dare to say philosophy is dead and we are all its murderers."
"Putain, not this again."
"I'll set you up nice so you bounce between the Championship and League One for the next ten years. While I'm manager, when we're playing Newcastle I'm going to mention the murders and if we're playing City I'm going to mention the cheating but I'm not gonna turn us into one of those political clubs like in Germany because then people will get their backs up. Most of my complaints will be about football. VAR, coefficients, parachute payments, replays, the fixture calendar, shit we care about but that the average person quite rightly tunes out. But I'm not going to lick the boots of my fascist oppressor. Not ever. And I will never be respectful and decorous to the Super League clubs - they tried to erase everyone else! If they had their way there would be six football clubs left in this country. Chester would be dead. Fuck them forever."
Mr. Roberts glanced at me before looking away. "Is that why you turned down the bid from Spurs?"
"Spurs. Tsch. Chester will win a major trophy before they do. Their owner knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. He thinks having Beyoncé concerts is better than medals. Awful, soulless club. It's a real shame because I grew up liking them and the football they played. I'll tell you one thing they do better than any other football club in the world, though."
"What's that?" said Mr. Roberts.
"They've got a go-kart track under the stadium. Haven't they, babes?"
Emma smiled sweetly at me. "You can have a go-kart track under the Deva, babes."
I barely heard it. Something had just occurred to me. Something Old Nick had said once. He had set things up so that when I applied for a football manager's job, I would automatically get it, just like when you started a new game on Champion Manager. But I had never formally applied for a job... Did that mean... Hang on. "Um," I said. "You know what? I think... I think if I applied for the England manager's job... I'd get it."
There was pandemonium on the table behind us. I turned and a short man had fallen backwards off his chair, spreading cutlery and smashing crockery. He got up, red-faced, and dusted himself down. He took one look at me and bolted.
One of the imps.
"I'm ready to go," I said.
***
Most of the Maxnificent Seven went to collect the PlayStation. The Brig asked Baggers and Adam to show him around the waterfront. That left me with Mr. Roberts, MD, Ruth, and Emma. I should have been suspicious but I was reeling from the realisation that imps were following me around, listening into my conversations.
There isn't exactly loads to do in Gibraltar so after a pleasant, imp-free stroll, we settled into a crowded little cafe.
"Max," said Ruth. "We didn't come to watch the match. We've come to get William's new contract sorted."
"Oh, what the fuck," I complained. "I'm doing an adventure! Have you seen the scores? We won four matches in a row. Four more and I'll have so much money I'll turn into a Brexit-loving low-tax offshore climate criminal ghoul. I told the lads I'd do the contracts when I got home, as soon as the transfer window closed. It's a month! You can leave me alone for a month!"
"No," said Ruth. "We can't. You're stopping Wibbers from going to one of the biggest clubs in Europe."
"Er, two things. First up, biggest go-kart track maybe, lol. Second, he's called Baggers."
"Ah. About that. How can we market him if you change his nickname? I spent a lot of money buying wibbers dot com."
"No, you didn't. Anyway, that's his thing. He gets a new nickname every year. You didn't complain when we went from WibWob to WibRob to Wibbers. Now, suddenly you've got a problem? I've got his whole future laid out."
"I can't wait to hear this," said Mr. Roberts.
"Wibbers to Baggers, obvs. Baggers to The Bagsman. Goldenbags. Optimus Bags. Bagsy Malone. That takes him to about 23 then we pivot."
Ruth had a twisted smile going on. "I want to agree a new contract today. You can't turn down an eight million pound bid for a player earning seven hundred pounds a week. Pay up or let him go."
"Pay up or let him go," I repeated, slowly. I narrowed my eyes, veering towards annoyed. But the agency had recently got a big cash injection from Angel's perfume deal and for moving Parnell Gourlay from Canada to Germany. This wasn't about the money, for Ruth at least. "You didn't arrange the Spurs bid - why would anyone cut you in?"
"You're the football expert," said Ruth. "If you think Spurs is a bad fit in terms of football, I would bow to your knowledge. If I arrange a bidding war between several clubs and push the fee into eight figures, of course my agency should get a fee. Where is William best served, Max? At League One Chester or an elite club?"
I tilted my head and was about to snap back when I realised she was doing this for the benefit of Mr. Roberts. The antagonistic undertone had a purpose - it proved the agency was looking after his son and was willing to fight. The thought calmed me all the way down. "It's close," I admitted. "Elite clubs have elite facilities and they play in major competitions. But I'm giving him useful minutes, he isn't one of twenty similar wonderkids, and I'm monitoring his progress carefully. He should stay at Chester this season." I looked at Andrew. "Unless there's an urgent financial reason to..."
"No," he said. "No emergencies. It's only a question of fairness. Certain other clubs let it be known what they might offer in terms of wages." His eyebrows rose, speaking volumes.
Emma was wearing her agency hat, it seemed. She said, "If you're going to give him a new contract in a month, babes, but he gets a serious injury now... It's not very fair when he could be injured at Spurs earning Gemma money not weekly, but daily. And don't give us this 'I need to concentrate on the European Conference' crap when you've literally bought a games console and bragged about how you're going to spend the day playing it."
I scratched my forehead as I looked at MD. Why was he so keen to get this done? If we waited a month, he'd save a few grand on wages. "You want to get a new deal signed so you can put out an announcement and get Spurs off your case."
He smiled. "Yes, please. "
"Yeah," I said. "Okay, fuck it. My whole squad has turned on me. Absolute mutiny. Fine, let's do it now."
"Let us try to reach an agreement now," said Ruth.
I closed my eyes and thought about my spreadsheet. I had a budget of 60,000 pounds a week, which included six grand in income from our 3G pitches. I had given Sandra and the Brig pay rises of two hundred a week each. Over in Brazil, I had also bumped Tomzilla and Nasa's combined wages from 600 pounds a week to 800. My pay rise and the signings of Fitzroy Hall, Colin Beckton, Peter Bauer, and Gabriel took our total expenditure to 46,940.
That left me with just over 13,000 pounds for pay rises. Swanny and Duggers were relatively new signings so if I had to leave anyone out, they were good shouts. I brought up the calculator app and did the brutal maths for the hundredth time: 13 grand spread around 20 players was 650 each.
I could maybe get away with below-average rises for guys like Rainman, Sunday, and Bark, who hadn't established themselves in the team and were still happy to learn their trade at an upwardly-mobile club, but there were plenty of guys for whom 650 would be a joke.
Magnus, Pascal, and Cole needed much bigger bumps. Youngster was our only player with a triple-digit CA! Clearly, though, Baggers was the jewel in the crown. A goalscoring megatalent ready to explode, a guy attracting serious bids from almost-serious clubs.
He was earning 700 pounds a week; that would have to at least double.
"Does Baggers know why you're here?" I said.
"No," said Ruth. "We surprised him after the match. He said we should have told you because then you'd have given him more minutes. That's all he cares about. Football. He loves being part of this and he's not scheming behind your back if that's your question."
I gave her a level look before bringing my phone to my eyeline. The numbers on my calculator hadn't got any better. Some of the rises were going to be absolute dogshit but what was I supposed to do? Maybe I literally couldn't keep everyone happy. Next summer I would be happy to sell four or five of the lads, but selling someone this window just to hand out pay bumps was madness. Prune juice done wrong.
The number 2,000 popped into my head. That was what Dazza Smith was currently earning and he was a long way ahead of Baggers in terms of CA. 2K was way below what Baggers could get on the open market but we had 700 as an anchor, didn't we? I tried to imagine being eighteen and my wages almost tripling. 2K was amazing, incredible, but not enough to make you go crazy. Right?
I typed it into the calculator and showed it to MD. He raised his eyebrows. More.
More!
"Two thousand two hundred pounds a week," I said.
Ruth didn't blink. "Let's start at five thousand basic and talk about his bonuses."
My blood froze. "Why don't we get Baggers in here and we'll talk about how his agent is negotiating him out of the Maxnificent Seven and into the bomb squad?"
"Why don't you calm down and fight for your position?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. All I could do was laugh. "Two thousand five hundred but any more and it hurts the squad. This squad, if we can keep some semblance of harmony, is going to the Championship and there will be enough money sloshing around for some beefy increases. At that point, if Chester isn't the right place for Baggers to continue his education, I won't stand in his way but I think you'll find he'll be highly motivated by the challenge of taking Saltney Town as far through the Champions League process as we can go."
Stolen novel; please report.
Mr. Roberts got animated. "That's the same as what you're doing now but for the Champions League instead of the Conference?"
"That's right," I said. "Tier one clubs instead of tier three and you'll be able to drive to the matches instead of flying out."
"Max," said Ruth, seriously. "If you were William, would you take this offer?"
"If I were Baggers," I said, "I would be player-manager of Banbury United and we'd be in League One."
Emma smiled. "And you'd be trying to sign a little shit called Max Best."
"Yeah." I clicked my neck around. "I'd be getting fucking full-body stress trying to convince him that if he stayed with me, he'd be living his best life."
Ruth and Andrew exchanged a glance. Ruth nodded. "Okay, we'll take two point five even though it's a fraction of what he could be earning. Still two plus one." I couldn't believe my ears. No extension?
For the tenth time in the brief conversation my head felt like it was sinking to the bottom of the ocean and the pressure threatened to implode it. A big pay rise with no extension to the length? I started to imagine red damage filling the edges of my vision like in a video game. "Can I speak to you privately for a second?"
"No, Max," smiled Ruth. "I'm teasing you. Three plus one."
"What the fuck?" I said, much louder than I intended.
Her tongue played around the edge of her mouth. "Now you know how it feels to talk to you."
I counted to ten. It didn't help so I did it again, twice. When the fury - and the imaginary damage graphics - subsided, I thought about the deal. Two thousand five hundred was both far too much and far too little. On the whole, it was a sensational deal for the club. Ruth had made a big show of bettering me but left enough juice in the tank to let us get to the Championship. Three plus one years meant we could plan around having Baggers at the club for four years - plenty of time for him to develop, with absolutely no pressure to accept derisory bids for him. Eight million? Try fifty, you cheap bastards.
Ruth wasn't finished dicking me around. "Max? Just so you know, we would have taken two thousand four hundred."
I shook my head but couldn't help smiling. What had I done to deserve this? "Good to know."
She pulled out a piece of paper that unfurled into a comically long strip. "If you have time in the next few days, I'd love to talk about these, ah, seventeen other players." I groaned. She brought the paper closer to her face. "Wait - Pascal's a player-manager? That sounds like a lot of extra work you've given him. I'm keen to thrash out those details."
"Mr. Roberts," I said. "Call your son and tell him to get back here." Without thinking, his hand reached for his phone; Ruth had bodied me in the meeting but I still had Influence 20. I finished my thought. "Tell him he can pay for brunch. Chester FC is about to go broke."
***
The newly-minted Baggers spent the afternoon doing tourist things with his dad and brother so I wasn't there when he got the news about his rise, but I saw it happen on his player profile. His Morale had dipped a fraction, as it always did when he didn't play the full 90 minutes, but it maxed out big time. There would be another jump when he actually signed the new contract, and there would be a message in his Future section along the lines of 'is very happy with his new deal'.
While I speculated about how much Baggers would send to his mum every month - a decent amount, I thought - I fired up God of War on the crazy huge screen at Poncho Villa. The main character, Kratos, didn't speak much. Not a good comp for me, then. He was more like Glenn Ryder.
Henri teased me about letting Ruth get the upper hand in our negotiation. Pascal mocked my ineptitude at the game. Jack the Lad started to get ready for a hot date he had in about five hours.
Sharky sat in the area, smiling at our chats, quietly reading a book.
I died for the tenth time, tossed the controller to Pascal, and asked him to make notes that could form the basis of a team talk. "Tell me what Pandora's Box looks like."
"What? That's not in this game."
"It was on Wikipedia."
"It must have been one of the earlier editions. It's not in this one."
"Oh. Never mind, then."
I went for a walk with Sharky, shooting the breeze, turning aimlessly around random corners. No mission, no quest, just hanging out on a hot summer's day, walking up an appetite for yet another epic dinner.
***
Saturday, August 1
We drove to the fancy compound at Marbella. Ruth, the Brig, and MD came with us.
MD got a proper tour from one of the facility managers. We could easily replicate much of it in Saltney - everything apart from the weather.
The Brig had booked a workout with one of the fitness guys who worked in the simple but well-stocked gym. The Brig loved being fit and strong but he had also developed a slight streak of Max Bestian cheekiness. He told me he planned to ask seemingly dim-witted questions about the machines, the processes, the improvements the users could expect. He was getting himself a best practices masterclass for the price of one supervised workout.
Ruth and Emma watched from above the pitch in a sheltered cafe drinking cold drinks and talking shit.
Meanwhile, the army coach ran his favourite drills. He had Coaching Outfield Players 15, which was absolutely fine for what we were doing. Now that we had a decent coach plus top facilities, I was planning to pour a decent wedge of XP into Baggers.
XP balance: 4,795
Should I go bonkers and put the maximum of 200 per day into him? I had no doubt it would be much more efficient to do 100 a day over 10 days than 200 over 5. College didn't train on Thursdays or Fridays, so I could use those days to boost someone back in England. Peter Bauer was the most obvious candidate. I just had to make sure he wasn't the one leading training on those days (player-coaches didn't improve much in their own sessions, which sort of made sense). If possible, I would ask Peter to do extra private sessions on those days - the training benefit didn't have to be limited to one session, did it? Meredith Ann would be another candidate for the training boost, once she arrived in the country.
Was it my poverty mindset stopping me from dumping 200 a day into Baggers? Partly, but it was more the expected outcome. Boosting Cole Adams by a small amount every day had led to pretty spectacular results when measured over a long period but what would I get in a week?
100 XP per day, that was the ticket. 100 a day, consistently across five days, with the other two days going to Peter. When we got kicked out of the tournament, I would put Baggers on a diet of 50 XP four days a week, Peter and Meredith Ann three days. Bish bash bosh! That's how you build a proper squad. Spread the bread, expand the brand, propagate the greatness. So let it be written, so let it be done!
I switched my brain off so I could get really stuck into training. Aris Thessaloniki were no joke.
I'd learned one thing from God of War's Wikipedia page, though. In the first edition of the game, all the way back on the PS 2, Kratos had killed Ares and become the God of War.
I was Kratos. We were Kratos. We would destroy Aris and take their place in the playoff round.
Aris had formidable weapons.
I had my misfits. They wanted to help me in my battles. They were behind me. I was behind them. We pushed each other forward, lifted ourselves up. Something clicked in my head and I went into full battle mode.
"Yes!" I screamed, as Sharky dithered on the ball. He scuffed it towards me. I faked a pass and surged forward. The ball sat up nice. I twatted it towards goal...
And felt the air around me distort as the squad reacted to my strike.
"Again!" I screamed, calmly.
***
Ruth sat next to me on the bus ride home. "Fucking hell, Max."
"What?"
"You got a bit intense there near the end."
"When?"
"When you were roaring and shouting and running around like a whirling dervish."
"Pretty sure none of that ever happened. We were just correcting some technical problems."
"Sure."
I smiled. "What?"
Amazingly, Ruth blushed. Now she gets timid! "Do you need time to calm down?"
I laughed. "The hell are you talking about? I'm perfectly calm." I sat up and looked around, frowning. "It's so weird out here. Everyone reverts to childhood. You've seen Henri, right? He giggles out here. Giggles. He and Pascal are like a pair of seven-year-olds. It's mad. I'm the only normal one."
"Yes," said Ruth, as though stepping through a well-marked minefield.
"Er... did you want to talk about things?"
She nodded and took out a folder. It had a long list of R.E.M. clients who played for Chester. I pointed. "Dani, Angel, Meghan, Sarah Greene, Kisi, Meredith Ann. We did them recently!"
Ruth rested her hand on my arm until I locked eyes with her. "I know, Max. I'm a double agent. I need Mr. Roberts and the others to think I'm pushing you hard."
"Mission accomplished."
She tutted. "You know I could have got ten times what you gave William. Let's cook up some numbers I can take back to the boys."
I pointed. "Alfie and Adam haven't done anything since they came to the club but they have shown they have good attitudes and want to keep learning. They're on 700 which is about right but if they take 900 on a three-year contract, I'll keep them in the first-team squad and give them minutes where possible."
Ruth tapped a pen against her lips; that simple action was way more erotic than it should have been. "I think they'll go for that. Pencil it in." She looked at her list again but got distracted. The Brig was deep in conversation with Henri and Lee Hudson. Ruth's whole demeanour softened. "It meant a lot to John that you went to the Exit Trials even though you didn't want to."
"Yeah, well," I said. "I was mad at the prick who leaked my ideas to Bradford. Those kids are in a worse place because of him, right? It's the exact opposite of what he's supposed to do. I went to the trials ready to go to war when I saw him but he quit soon after the last one. Did you know anything about that?" Ruth shook her head. I believed her. "Anyway, even if he was still around, it's not the kids' fault, is it? The plan was to go and pretend there was no-one I liked while my allies signed them. If the lads do well I can pick them up later, right? As it was, I rehomed half a dozen decent lower league lads. I sent one of the Manchester kids to West Didsbury and he could go for proper money one day, so that helped make it worthwhile. I don't know that I'll go next year but I won't ever stop trying to rescue kids with talent. I hope John knows that."
Ruth looked away. Eventually, she said, "Toquinho?"
The Brazilian winger was not even a starter for Saltney. "Nothing this year."
"I thought you might say that. Can we go from 770 a week to 800 just so he gets the feeling of progress?"
"That's coming out of my own pocket but fine. No, yeah, that's a good idea."
"How's Tockers doing?"
"He's coming along. Playing in the Welsh first tier will be good for him and we should be able to bring him to Chester on a normal work permit next season. Who's next? Banksy. Ugh. Can we say 700? I'll bump it to 800 if I can."
"I'm writing 800. Bark?"
"He's better than Alfie and Adam but he's not really a match winner. He's getting nice and efficient, though. He'll end up like Sharky but better. From 700 to... a thousand?"
"Done. How much pain is this causing you?"
I thought I had an idea of my bottom line but just to be sure I got my laptop out and opened my password-protected spreadsheet. I tapped in all the new numbers. With four new deals plus the big one for Baggers, I still had ten grand sloshing around. "Yeah, it's not bad but there are some big issues. Tom, Omari, Cole, Josh."
"Ryan Jack!" she said, touching my screen like a literal monster.
I tried to wipe her fingerprint away but only managed to spread the smudge. "That's his playing wage. He gets a top-up for doing his loan manager gig. He's fine. I'll talk to him to make sure but I think he's fine. Can you not look at this, please? This is private. Jesus."
"Yeah, start paying rent then you can whinge. So that leaves... Dazza and Duggers. And the chance to get three new clients if we can agree increases: Zach, Pascal, Cole."
I crunched my eyes closed. I wanted to keep everyone at least thirty percent underpaid so that they'd be keen to move when I wanted to sell them. I only wanted to give Lee Contreras a small bump, for example, so that I'd be able to move him on without friction. "Dazza," I said. "Dazza Dazza Dazza."
"Oi oi oi?" said Ruth.
"He's on two grand. I'd stretch to two point five," I said, reluctantly. "That offer is not based on what he has actually done on the pitch, which hasn't been anything to write home about. If anything - "
"Max, stop with the amateur dramatics. He's a very good League One striker already and he's only going to get better. He's a bargain at three grand."
"Two point eight."
"Three and every time you haggle it goes up."
"Fuck me, whose side are you on?"
"Is that... haggling?"
"Three. Fine. What the shit. That's a rip-off. Boo." I typed it in, and as with the others I added a year to his deal. You didn't get an increase if you didn't extend. Ruth nodded her agreement.
We went through the rest. Duggers got a ten percent bump to three thousand three hundred, an amount that would let him know his efforts were appreciated but wouldn't stop him giving googly eyes to a five-figure offer from another club. Zach got bumped by almost 600 to 2,600. It wasn't quite fair given that Fitzroy Hall would be behind him in the pecking order and Fitz was earning more, but I felt it was enough to make him feel appreciated and he could get lifts home with Brooke if he couldn't afford petrol. Cole Adams would almost triple his money to 1,400 a week.
The hardest decision with the R.E.M. clients centred on Pascal. He had moved to CA 95 and was an extremely valuable member of the squad but he was also very smart and very loyal. He knew we didn't have tons of money and that if he kept learning he would get paid at his next club and that learning to be a manager would keep him employed for sixty years. "Two thousand two hundred," I said. "Up from eight hundred. Big increase and if he's not quite happy with that we can give him a cut of the prize money he wins with the women's team."
Ruth smiled. "I think that's the kind of deal he would go for. From the look on your face, your numbers are going down and you don't like it."
"Yeah, I've got like six thousand to spread around three goalies, Josh Owens, Christian Fierce, Sunday, Omari, Lee, Tom, Andrew Harrison... and Youngster. That... That is a fucking nightmare. Thanks, Ruth."
"Hey, you know I went easy on you. Maybe don't give yourself a fuck-off great big rise at the start of the summer." She dropped the hard-boiled agent act and turned back into a Chester fan. "Will you be able to keep your squad?"
"Don't know. Most of it. Why don't you start calling your clients and we'll get those numbers nailed down. Remember next season in the Championship is big money and yes I need to finish Bumpers and do more of the stadium but I'm not stupid - the squad will get a big ol' chunk of our TV money. At that point, anyone who wants to move on and get paid will do so with my blessing. One more year of grinding, Ruth. One more year."
***
Thursday, August 6
UEFA Conference League Qualifiers Round Three, First Leg: College 1975 versus Aris Thessaloniki FC
With a surprising amount of new contracts sorted and some good gains in training through the week, I felt like I was in a good place for this match.
The stakes were pretty hefty but it was all carrot, no stick. Even if we lost home and away, Mateo would make a small profit on the season, the Gibraltish FA would get four coefficient points, and Henri, Sharky, Lee, and Jack would add six European matches to their CVs. All-round contentment.
That all tied in to the biggest decision I had to make in any tournament - when to use Bench Boost. I didn't really want to use it in the first leg because what if we won five-nil without it? Plus the reward from getting through the Third Round to the Playoff wasn't astonishing. The reward from progressing from the Playoff to the league phase was astonishing. If we pulled it off I could expect to clear a million Euros in personal wealth, easy. Unless we got smashed in the first leg I really, really, really wanted to save Bench Boost.
We had practised a few different formations with our army coach, and he was happy enough with the sitch to stay on for another week. Some people really liked sun, sea, and luxury resorts. Who knew?
I walked around Gibraltar's national stadium biting my thumbnail, getting mad at myself for doing that, and doing it again two minutes later.
Abstract squad building and distribution of resources was stressful in its own way, but playing a match against unfamiliar opponents live on TV was something else entirely. I understood why sportspeople sometimes froze completely - walking in one door as a civilian and coming out as a warrior on the verge of death or humiliation (social death) was a complete mind fuck. So far I had been lucky in that when the whistle blew I clicked into a state of readiness. One day it might not and on that day, the world would not be kind to me.
I took my nail out of my mouth. Jesus Christ!
***
Aris Thessaloniki started their first warmups and my brain kicked into overdrive. Their player profiles plus the tactics screen told me a lot.
They were, as expected, going to play 4-3-3. Of their goalie and defenders, four were over thirty years old. Very solid, very experienced. Perhaps they would tire? The fifth guy, the left-sided centre back, was 21 and was worse than Lee Hudson. That opened up all kinds of possibilities; a chain's only as strong as its weakest link.
The three midfielders were great. Annoyingly technical, no real weaknesses, and the guy who played centrally was their best player. He was only 26, too. He was in his prime and wouldn't tire.
Two of the three forwards were solid. The third, Galanos, was fascinating. He was 31 and had a very high PA but he had the second-lowest CA from the starting eleven. Either he had been ravaged by injuries or he didn't have the innate professionalism to make the most out of his career. Yes, there it was - his Determination score was 5. If we could get ahead in the tie he, and a couple of others, might lose the stomach for the fight.
Overall, their average CA was 112.
Mmm. Quite a step up from the Cypriots. Not ideal; I was honestly hoping for more of the same.
There was some good news. First, like most teams in the competition their domestic league hadn't started. They hadn't played the first qualifying round which was an advantage in every way except in terms of conditioning. We were fitter than them for sure. Second, there was a pretty steep drop in quality from their first eleven to their backups. Their first eleven would compete near the top of League One; their reserves would battle against relegation.
If we could wear the starters out and hit them when the subs came on, we would have something of a chance.
On our side, we'd had some pops from the locals, but of course the important ones were from my ringers. Henri, Lee H, and Jack were maxed out, but Magnus added another point. He was now 87. Pascal went up to 96 - it shocked me to realise he could be the second Chester squad member to get to triple digits this season. Baggers, aided by the training boosts, hit CA 85. Sharky eased to within a point of his PA (86), which had once seemed impossibly far in the distance.
I wanted to keep things relatively tight so went with my old favourite, 4-1-4-1, with Moneybaggers sitting out the first half. Moving Magnus into the centre back slot beefed things up in one zone but left us with a very weak midfield pairing of Zafari (CA 49) and Gosling (45).
"Lads," I said, in the pre-match team talk. "My favourite video game is God of War because UEFA are sponsored by Sony so if I do any stunts they can't get mad at me. Heh. This match is trickier than Loki. The absolute priority is to not concede a goal. Our biggest advantage is fitness so if we go to the second leg level and we take them to extra time, we're going to fuck them up in that thirty minutes. Pascal and Sharky, a lot will depend on you. Be patient but when we get behind the defence, sprint. Make their defenders sprint back to goal, yeah? Wear them down. When we put Baggers on later he'll run. I think I don't want long shots today, mate. Run at them. Seriously, if we can get them to make three or four subs we can drag them down to our level."
"Charming," said Lee H.
I laughed. "A war of attrition is still a war. The only way they can beat us is by pressing the X button 700 times but we'll get their thumbs sweaty and they'll drop the controller."
Henri shook his head. "This is awful. Unsubscribe."
"You," I said, pointing. "Nikos Nikolopoulos is their weak link."
Henri scanned Aris' team sheet. "Which one?"
"Er, the left centre back. Number 17."
"Oh, right. How weak?"
"He's worse than Lee Hudson!" I said, as though such a thing was scarcely believable.
"Boss," complained Lee, with a pained expression. His Morale stayed high so I knew he was in on the joke.
Henri said, "I shall dominate him the way I dominate Lee in training."
"Oi!" said Lee. "Don't get lippy. I pocket you every session."
"Good," I said. "Just so you know, I'll be taking the principle of wearing them out as far as I can. You might see some pointless dribbles. They're not pointless. If I can draw some aggro from the forwards that'll be a laugh. When we're set, I'll be asking full backs to push forward. There will be space on the sides of the pitch and if we move the ball out there, the midfielders will have to react otherwise we will get mad overlaps."
Pascal nodded. "So it's overlaps not overloads."
"Until Baggers comes on, yes. Overlaps to wear them down, enter Baggers, overloads and some light Relationism to frazzle them, see if we can get a goal. Seriously, though, nil-nil is fine. I'm happy with a draw."
Henri stood and wagged his finger at me. "Ah! It is the reverse psychology. You nearly got me that time, you cheeky Englishman! I propose that since we are going to war, we should all sing the ultimate in martial songs - La Marseillaise."
"Veto," I said. "I've got something better than music. Earlier this week, I went to a specialist shop..." I took a tin out of my backpack. It was red. "And I bought this."
***
For the fifth time in our lives, we lined up and listened to the UEFA Conference anthem. We shook hands and we walked to our spots while the captains exchanged little flags and all that shit.
We had the kickoff so I used my screens to move everyone as close together as possible. Henri passed to Sharky, who played it to me. I shaped to play it back to Sardena in goal, sending two enthusiastic forwards into our box. Lol. I passed instead to Jack, and by jogging into space and playing it one-touch to Pascal, and to Jack, and to Magnus, and to Lee H, we kept the ball for thirty seconds. I shaped to pump the ball over the top and the left back had to sprint to cover Sharky.
I turned backwards, retreated ten yards, and we did the whole thing again.
Over a minute and Aris hadn't touched the ball. Had anyone ever played an entire half with one hundred percent possession? I faked a long pass to Pascal. More sprints.
Aris' midfield and forwards weren't impressed by this exhibition and they came at me harder. I was tempted to see how long we could keep the ball but that would have been self-indulgent. I turned into 'trouble' and fell back and back towards our left-hand corner flag. I twisted away from one challenge, then another. Me being in such difficulty so close to our goal triggered a frenzy from the Greeks. They pressed harder and harder, forcing me back, until at last I took a swing at the ball and played it against a striker's shin. It bounced out for a goal kick.
90 seconds until their first touch. I smirked as I made sure the Game Speed slider was set to maximum. I also set myself as the playmaker to help make sure the ball came to me even if I was marked. Aris couldn't mark me from goal kicks, though. I had an idea and went into the middle of the penalty box, a few yards behind the penalty spot, looking out at the breadth of my domain.
Sardena rolled the ball to me and the oppo forwards started their press. The one whose career had gone badly moved to the right to block off the pass to Lee H. A second forward moved between Glenn and Jack to make those passes dangerous. The third, wearing 9, ran straight at me.
I pointed long and went through the motions of hoofing to Henri. The 9 ran and slid in front of me - the ball would hit him and very probably deflect into the goal. If I had actually gone for the moronic pass, that is. As it was, I simply pushed the ball a couple of feet forward. The 9 slid past. I gave him a little shrug as he went. What are you doing, bro?
That enraged him and as I dallied on the ball, he came at me again. This time I did pass - to the other side of the 9. I skipped around him and dribbled left-footed for a few yards. I slid the ball to Gosling, then glided ahead to offer him the return option. We moved the ball around some more. Simple, short, safe passes. I signalled to Sharky to come closer to me so I could pass to him next. He did and when I went to play the pass, the left back surged forward so that he could intercept it. Not the worst idea, but Sharky and I had practised this move a hundred times. I clipped the ball to the space the defender had just vacated - Sharky doubled-back and chased it.
Within seconds he was in the box. He pulled the ball back to Henri, who skied his shot over the bar.
Three minutes of near perfection.
I glanced around at the stadium. There were around 800 in attendance including loads of kids. Not many were fans of College specifically, but they were curious about this story. I wanted to beat Aris. That would be a military victory. I wanted to get rich from this caper. That would be my economic victory. What about my cultural victory? I wanted College to be every local kid's second-favourite team, if not favourite. I wanted to make football on The Rock cool and fun. My squad were right behind me.
Aris played the goal kick short and built up patiently. We let them. We slowly retreated towards our own goal, not putting on all that much pressure. When a loose touch came, Zafari and Gosling were close by. They pounced and competed, turning the middle of the pitch into chaos. My legs pushed me closer and soon I was in a full sprint, collecting the ball, surging into enemy territory. I had Henri near on my left, Pascal rushing to support from out wide, and if I waited a couple of seconds, Sharky would approach down the right.
In the tiniest sliver of time it took me to decide what to do, I found myself falling forward. Their star midfielder, number 8, Nikos Iliades, had slid from behind and hooked the ball. He got up and clipped a delicious pass ahead to the wastrel winger. I was miles out of position with no chance to affect the game. Ditto Pascal and Sharky. At least I had told the full backs to stay home.
The winger cut inside and lashed a wild shot.
My eyebrows shot up. That was a warning.
I eyed Nikos Iliades. He looked back without blinking.
PLAYER TWO HAS ENTERED THE GAME.
***
The next ten minutes were pretty spicy. Good, clean, spicy, where two hot alphas with great hair wrestle and tussle and try to establish dominance through skill, bravery, and superior physique, not the kind of spicy in Emma's books.
I mostly got the better of our duels, but twice Iliades played quick passes into the DM slot - where I should have been - that led to trouble.
I had no choice but to retreat and stick to my role. Stick to the plan, the plan is mint.
The whole time I sat there, disciplined, mopping up loose balls and winner headers, I kept one eye on Iliades. Finally an opponent worthy of my attention and here I was, dribbling around brainless forwards to make their Condition scores drop slightly faster than ours.
Shots on goal were in short supply, but the game was played in pretty good spirit. Aris exaggerated a few fouls to try to get our lads booked and that sort of thing, but nothing worth getting worked up about.
Closing in on the half-hour mark, it happened. Lee Hudson took a knock and the physio came on. I went over to drink from one of the water bottles the physios lugged around.
"Situation report," I said.
"Took a blow," said the physio. "He'll be right. Bit of magic spray and you'll be up on your feet, won't you, Lee?"
"Mmm," I said, getting the red tin from the physio's bag. I looked around to see where the ref was, then opened the lid. To the physio, I said, "Better if you do it."
"Whatever you say, boss." The physio dipped his thumb into the tin - his skin turned blood red. He pushed his thumb onto Lee's forehead and dragged it down to his brow. "Like this?"
"Do another dot," I said. "Here."
The physio spread the war paint until Lee had a short red streak on his forehead, and one dot on his cheek. "How do I look?"
"You look a bit PS2." I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "But you're going to look legendary."
One of the Greek lads spotted Lee's face. He came over and asked, "What is this?"
"Disinfectant," I said. "Anti-inflammatories."
"It is what?" he said.
"Medicine," I said.
The physio cleared off and we continued with the game. There was a comical moment when the referee noticed the war paint. He put his whistle to his mouth but put it away again. What was he supposed to do? Tell Lee to wash his face?
The half continued with the intensity getting higher. Aris had only played two competitive matches in recent weeks so every minute brought back some of their muscle memory. The way I was dragging their forwards around the final third was pretty effective, though, and it was easy to get their aggro on me, spread them out, then play through them with a short pass or clip the ball to the other side of the pitch completely. We had long periods of possession, which meant Aris had to concentrate, had to shuffle, slide, and keep their discipline.
Nikos Iliades was smart, though, and he would respond by doing the same to us when he got on the ball. The difference was that Henri wasn't chasing the ball around like a headless chicken.
A few times when we were playing keep ball, I sent a long pass for Pascal or Sharky. We got four half chances that way.
When Aris tried to progress the ball, I anticipated their intentions and made sure they didn't get into any situations we couldn't handle.
And whenever our physio came on, he left mysterious red dots or streaks on our faces.
***
There wasn't much to do or say at half time. My opposite number didn't change his tactics. His starting eleven gained a few points of Condition back but we were five points better on average. The plan was working.
"Lads," I said. "Keep going. This is going to come down to the wire. Last ten or twenty minutes is gonna rock."
Baggers said, "Can I put my face paint on now?"
"No," I said. "I don't want any excuse for them to stop you coming on. I've looked in the rules and can't see anything about face graffiti or tattoos but the ref might decide it's not in the spirit of the game or some crap. Which it literally is because of who we're playing. But no, you come on clean and then someone gets injured near the end and we finish our designs."
Henri said, "The 8 is good."
I nodded. "Iliades, yeah. Really good. He's got the best bits of Sam Topps and Ryan Jack. Top quality, great decision-making. He has absolutely wrecked me a couple of times. It has been a while since a single opponent has occupied as much space in my head as this guy."
Henri said, "He'll be thinking the same about you."
Pascal said, "If I was their manager, I'd move him to CAM so you would have to mark him. We would get a lot more joy from our other players and you wouldn't be so free to flit around draining our stamina."
As he spoke, I felt a chill run down my spine. "That's... terrifying." I kept the tactics screens open for ten seconds before relaxing a little. "I don't think they will think to do that. Heh. Why do I suddenly feel sorry for the teams in the Women's National League Northern Premier?"
Jack the Lad said, "Got any tips for us, Pascal, mate?"
"Yes." Pascal pointed at me. "Do what he says."
***
What I said was: keep doing what we were doing.
For the first ten minutes of the second half, Aris pressed us hard all over the pitch and we had four players who couldn't handle it. Zafari and Gosling in the centre of midfield were easy pickings and I was wary of counter-pressing too hard because if I left my zone, disaster would ensue.
As much as Aris dominated the opening phase, I felt comfortable. It wasn't exactly a backs-to-the-wall performance. We weren't having to throw ourselves at shots or deal with dozens of dangerous crosses into the box. Aris were dominating but we were keeping them at arm's length.
As predicted, their energy levels dipped. They couldn't maintain their intensity, but it was when I saw they were preparing a raft of subs that I turned to the crowd to demand a burst of energy.
This wasn't Chester, though. This was College. We didn't have much in the way of ultras or hard-core fans. Whatever we put in had to come from us.
"Baggers," I called out. We had skirmished for long enough. We had harried their positions and pounded their fortifications. Now just after they had changed the guard was the time to send in the shock troops. Wait till you see the whites in their eyes, then dink the ball over the keeper. With Baggers on, our CA would rise from 73 to 77 and our energy levels would go through the roof. Let's do this!
***
71'
It looks like College have adopted a more fluid approach.
Hayward takes the throw in to Hudson.
He plays it short to Best. Best to Bochum.
He flicks it to Hayward.
Tackle comes in. Hayward regains possession and finds Hudson.
Hudson goes back to Sardena.
Best drops to collect. He has Gladfelter open to his left but sends the ball into the crowded centre.
Bochum touches it to Roberts. The young forward holds off a challenger and plays it back to Best.
Lyons comes to join the group. He plays a one-two with Hayward and gives the ball to Best.
There's a formation change and College players scatter to the winds. Aris don't know who to mark!
Best clips the ball over the defence with side spin. Hayward hares after it. Great chance for the home team!
Hayward hits it early - too early - and the ball is cleared.
Iliades gathers and fires the ball left. Best hares across to challenge for the ball.
It goes back to Iliades, who spreads it wide right.
Aris surge forward...
But Gladfelter tackles the ball into touch.
***
Fucking Iliades!
The guy was a megabrain. If I overcommitted and we turned the ball over, he would shred us on the counter.
I wanted another defensive body, so I subbed off Zafari and brought on Tavares, the CA 50 centre back. We moved to 4-2-3-1 with Magnus and I as DMs, as per the original plan. I made a hotkey that would send Magnus one zone back when needed. A flat back five would make it hard to play through us, I hoped, but most of all it would be useful for when I hit Seal It Up. That perk gave plus one Positioning to everyone in the back line. Using that would give me just a tiny bit more confidence that I could storm up the pitch without leaving obvious, horrible gaps behind me.
For the next ten minutes, though, I would stay back and leave it to my forwards to conjure something.
***
73'
Lyons wins the header. He chases his own flick on.
The keeper slides and hacks the ball clear.
Best thinks about challenging but decides to hold his ground.
Iliades has time. He bends a ball over the defence.
It's right into the path of Galanos!
But he completely misses the ball.
What an opportunity for the away team!
***
77'
Best ventures forward. He drops a shoulder and tricks Iliades.
Best waits before firing a pass to Lyons. He lets it run through to Roberts and is clattered for his trouble.
Roberts is through! He dinks the ball over the keeper...
And it's in!
An ice-cold finish.
But the referee has blown! He’s bringing the game back for a free kick!
College can't believe it. They wanted the referee to play advantage.
Lyons will receive medical attention and then College will have a free kick in a dangerous position.
***
"Henri," I said, confused. We were on top in the game - mostly - and this period was our best chance of getting a goal. So why was Henri, whose Attributes were not red, pretending to be hurt? The gamesmanship slider was in neutral. "What are you doing? Get up!"
"Max," he wailed. "We're the Squad of War. It was your idea!"
"Fuck," I said, remembering. "You're right. Sorry. Where's that war paint?"
"Glenn's got it."
"Glenn?" I said, amazed. I turned to my captain. "I thought you weren't into this. It's childish and all that."
"Yeah it's childish," he said, as he thumbed his forehead, leaving a diagonal streak. "But I'm Kratos, so..."
"No way!" I said. "I'm Kratos."
Glenn scoffed. "You're that little brat kid from the sequel."
"Urgh," I said. "Whatever. Give me a circle thing over here on the side of my forehead." Glenn obeyed.
Nikos Iliades came over. He had a hardness to his expression that hadn't been there during open play. "You are mocking us."
"What? No."
"You are mocking us."
"No, mate. You're Aris. You're the old God of War. We're the new God of War. You and I fight. Glory to the winner and all that."
He frowned. "You know our history?"
"Just the basics. It's not about you, Nikos. It's for the kids."
"The kids?"
I pointed to the stands. "The kids. They're gonna love this. It's fun."
"Fun?"
I took the war paint and offered to use it on him. "You can have a stripe if you want. No, we're the stripes. You should be the dots."
"You're crazy," he said.
I grinned. "Are you sure?" He grinned back, but the referee suddenly blew his whistle about 700 times. "Relax, mate. I'm ready when you are."
Our physio took his bag and cleared off. I used Masterpiece Theatre to tweak where my players stood. The foul had happened straight in front of the goal, which wasn't ideal. Too straight for a deceptive curled shot, too straight to give someone an easy header. Baggers came to offer his advice, which was "let me take it."
I shooed him away, lined up the free kick, and cracked it towards the right-hand side of the goal. I aimed about a yard over the crossbar hoping that the ball would dip at the last second. It did, but I couldn't get the right amount of pace on the ball. The goalie did a spectacular jump and tipped the ball over.
The pressure was mounting and we had all the momentum so Aris upped the gamesmanship. The goalie pretended to be hurt. The clock ticked higher. Time was running out.
***
80'
Best takes the free kick.
He whips in an outswinger but a defender gets his head on it. The ball flies out for a throw in on the other side.
81'
Roberts clips a clever pass over the top.
Bochum races onto it.
He goes down in the box! Was that a penalty?
What will the referee decide?
Nothing given!
82'
Lyons competes with Nikolopoulos.
Lyons turns his man! The young defender didn't expect that move.
Lyons gets a shot away...
Saved!
In the end it was a nice height for the goalie.
83'
Bochum shoots! It's hit with power...
But it goes just wide!
It was about the width of an OLED TV wide of the right-hand post.
***
Five minutes of normal time left. We'd had the better of the game and had spent the last ten minutes absolutely battering the Greek team, but the chances we were creating weren't that good. I hadn't unlocked the xG perk but I guessed our Expected Goals would be pretty low. Some shots from distance, some scuffed attempts when under pressure. Taking a one-goal lead to Greece would have been amazing but the way the match was going, how were we going to score? I shook my head as I took a breather on the half way line. We had played some good stuff but in the end our average CA was 77 - the gulf in quality between the teams was hard to bridge.
Seal It Up ran out so I moved Magnus back to DM and pushed Sharky to the right.
After that burst of half-chances, the game was dying out. What could I do? A lot, but at great risk. There was still the second leg to come and that all-important extra time. That thirty minutes where Aris would have a few exhausted players alongside a few mediocre subs. That was the time to attack, wasn't it?
I looked over at the sub's bench. The only real option was a seventeen-year-old. Jesse Picardo had moved to CA 36 and he was improving rapidly with all the extra coaching and attention he was getting. Good for him but he wasn't going to bag us a winning goal in a febrile atmosphere in football-mad Greece's second-biggest city.
Cheers rang out. My players ran around, arms aloft.
The fuck?
Glenn grabbed me and lifted me up.
Magnus flew past, whooping.
Jack did the same, stumbled, and turned it into a forward roll.
When Glenn stopped squeezing the air out of me, I said, "What? What?"
His friendly grin didn't match his savage paint. "We scored!"
"No we didn't," I said, stupidly. But I checked the commentary.
Mouras takes the pass and moves it onto his favoured left foot.
He's surprised to find Hayward so close to him.
Mouras plays the ball back to the goalkeeper.
But the ball goes right under the goalie's foot! It has gone in!
It's a goal!
It will go down as a Mouras own-goal, but what was the goalie doing?
An incredible stroke of luck for College 1975!
"Erm," I said, barely able to believe what I was reading. A simple back pass, the sort you get a hundred times a match, had squirmed through the goalie's studs and nestled into the net. We were one-nil up. We were going to win! Gibraltar would get a coefficient point that would potentially move them above Luxembourg in the UEFA rankings and provide an extra European slot for a local team. I would get a year of cheap rent in a prime location. We would be favourites to go through into the next round.
All because a goalie had taken his eye off the ball for a split second.
"That doesn't fit the theme," I said. "That isn't heroic."
"You gonna ask the ref to chalk off the goal?"
"Yeah nah."
***
We hung on until the final whistle and before the lads went nuts celebrating, I got them to form three rows for a team photo. Most of us were wearing war paint. Zigs zagged across eyes and hurried down cheeks, while on our necks we sported circles within circles. Hashtag Squad of War.
It was pretty crazy but the kids in the stadium loved it. We brought a few down onto the pitch and took selfies with them. I knew the authorities would get all pissy and po-faced about this stunt, and I knew the Fun Police would be out in force, but I also knew that we had created a few lifelong College fans and that people on The Rock would talk about this for a long time. I couldn't have comprehended how much of a Pandora's Box I had opened, but that was a problem for future Max.
Present Max was the only manager in Europe with five wins from five. Present Max had run for 90 minutes and still had energy to burn. Present Max would soon be marching to his next battle. Not alone, though. Henri put his arm around me from the left. Glenn from the right.
No, not alone. If I kept collecting allies on my way to do battle in Greece, I would soon have as many as... three hundred.