Player Manager - A Sports Progression Fantasy

9.

Monday, August 31 - Transfer Deadline Day

"Sunlight is the best disinfectant, time is the best healer, Max is the all-time Best back-heeler."

To my left, Emma held onto her big floppy hat and pushed up her sunglasses. She was in a brain-melting bikini and was just as oiled up as I was. It was impossible to look at her without getting frisky. She said, "Your poetry is the main reason I agreed to marry you."

"You're the writer. Do you think it's lame to rhyme healer with heeler?"

"I'm not a writer."

"You are. Your hockey romance is great and I don't care what anyone else thinks."

"I think I'm going to pivot."

"Pivot? To what?"

She looked straight ahead. "You scored a last-minute winner in front of my parents and Gemma and the Brig and Ruth and they carried me onto the pitch and you proposed with my great-grandmother's ring. I can't compete with that."

"I hate to keep correcting you but I don't want Wibbers getting pissed off that I'm trying to take his glory. He scored the goal, and it was an equaliser."

"What a romantic correction!" She lay back.

I had a new way of making her smile; seemed like a good time to deploy it. "Babes. Am I the fiancé or the fiancée?"

It worked, as it had been working for three and a half days. She brought her hand up and admired the ring. "You're my fiancé with one E and I'm your fiancée with two Es."

"She equals Ems E squared."

"What?" she laughed.

"It's how I can remember that you get two Es." I closed my eyes, happily. The motor was purring, pushing us through the water about as fast as a substituted player who didn't want to leave the pitch. The water was blue except for patches around the coastline that were a bewitching green. I'd asked The Skip to wake me up when we passed by those; they were my absolute favourites. Favourite patches of water, anyway. Ems was my favourite. "I hope you're joking that you're not going to finish Having a Blast."

"I'm no good, Max. I'm a bald fraud. Children's books, that's the ticket."

"What?"

"I had an amazing idea for a series featuring a cat detective and his assistant, who is a pony."

"Hercule Purr-oh," I said.

"Oh my God. How do you come up with this stuff so fast?"

"What stuff? It was right there. What else would a cat detective be called? What name have you got?"

She said it quietly. "Boop Nose."

I left a beat. "Your ability to name characters is the main reason I wanted to marry you."

She smiled; I closed my eyes.

***

I woke with a start and looked around, taking it all in. There was Emma, safe. There was a life preserver, there was the front of the yacht. The sea was fairly calm, the coast far enough away we wouldn't smack into it, close enough I would most likely be able to haul Emma to safety.

I glanced up at the fly bridge but couldn't see The Skip. With fast but careful movements, I moved around the side of the boat and climbed up the stairs.

The Skip was there, fully awake, relaxed but alert.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

He seemed surprised. "Si, Max. Everything good."

I sat on one of the padded chairs by the wheel. The Muirmaid, Mateo's yacht, had a place to lounge, a linger deck, a loafing area, and even a spot where you could chillax. "I just felt, I don't know, like we jerked off in a different direction like you were in a panic."

The Skip - name very much temporary - was our captain, the guy Mateo used whenever possible. He was weathered, tanned, and appeared to be very competent. "No panic, but... Look." He pointed.

Ahead was the vast expanse of the Mediterranean. A few yachts and ships were out doing the same thing we were - moving from A to B as majestically as possible. "I don't..."

"There. The Settantotto. 24 metres. Eight berths, ice maker as standard."

I smiled. "Did you swerve to avoid it? It's miles away."

He crossed his arms in front of him, as though warding off evil. "We were doing this." He uncrossed. "Now we do this. Minor course correction, Max. See danger, take steps. That is my duty. You felt the change? Increíble."

"Movement is my milieu," I declared, because I was in that kind of mood.

"I will be more delicado."

"Please do your normal thing," I said. "The main thing I learned as a manager is not to overcorrect." Giving life lessons to older, wiser people is stupid and pointless, unless you're a football manager, in which case a lot of men actually listen. The Skip nodded, gravely. I'd given him something to chew on as he navigated.

I went down to the main deck and took a beat to think about how cool this was. Pottering the seven seas! Ambling the oceans! Slowing for the green bits! The Muirmaid even had Wifi. I was minted now. Could I afford a yacht? I went into the cabin - I called it the Honeymoon Suite - and opened my laptop.

Ten minutes later I was torn between buying a San Lorenzo 70 (a snip at 400,000 Euros, second-hand) or a more aggressive boy racer-style Riva 66 for 2.7 million. Another ten minutes later I was reading a forum post about electric outboard motors for dinghies. That was the signal that I was - heh - out of my depth. If I wanted this lifestyle, I could rent it by the week. Someone else could learn the minutiae.

With a smile I closed the laptop. Where else could an inquisitive mind spend a few hours? The cabin had a bookcase hidden in a recess. I opened it and ran my finger along the spines of a few dozen books. One title popped because The Skip had used its key word in our brief chat. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. It was huge and didn't seem like fun holiday reading but I did a search to see if it would hit the spot.

The synopsis was full of nopes. Father with dementia, money struggles, dealing with corrupt authorities, a character called Chip.

One quote from Entertainment Weekly's review stood out. "Franzen's drama teaches that, yes, you can go home again. But you might not want to."

I grinned, grabbed an apple, and went back on deck to sizzle next to my fiancée, the apple of my eye.

***

After another tiny nap, I watched as we travelled through the water, trying to determine if I could spot more of The Skip's tweaks to our path. Not really. It all seemed straight ahead.

Maybe that's how Old Nick thought I was behaving; straight ahead, ignoring the rocks and reefs and shoals and other yachts. Not so - I had zigged and zagged. Calibrated my performance on the pitch to be just enough to win. Sometimes 'just enough' veered on the spectacular, but that wasn't my fault, was it? The qualifiers of the Conference League, mate! No-one cared. No-one was watching. Bradford City would be getting four times the crowds College had in their biggest game ever.

Whether I deserved it or not (I didn't), punishment was coming.

Josh Owens had asked to talk to me. A deadline day chat with one of the players who didn't have a new contract? I thought I knew where this was going and I thought I knew who had provoked him into setting up the call.

Losing Josh this year would hurt. A CA 81, PA 119 left back with good Decisions, Determination, and a long throw. If Old Nick had gone behind the scenes to sort out a sudden, unexpected transfer, how much would Chester get? Two or three hundred grand? Another year and I wouldn't even listen to anything that didn't have seven digits. I didn't have to accept lowball bids, of course, but I didn't want to keep surly, demotivated players hanging around the place.

Emma reached out her hand. Her right hand, the one with the ring. I took it. She said, "Be nice to Josh. He's young and he looks up to you. If someone gave him bad advice, give him good advice."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'll do that." I kissed her on the hand and pressed it to my cheek. "I can't believe I won."

"It was only Aberdeen."

"That's not what I meant."

My fiancée smiled. "Be that charming with Josh."

"I will, he said adoringly."

***

I went to the honeymoon suite so that Josh would hear something other than the rush of wind, the crashing waves, the engine.

Exactly on time, I set up the video call. He picked up instantly.

"Josh!" I said.

"Boss," he said. "Where are you?"

"Erm..." I popped my head down so I could look out of a window. "Not sure. We're going around the coast of Spain. I think that might be Almería."

"When are you coming back?"

"Back? Don't know. I'm on my honeymoon."

His eyes bulged. "Did you get married?"

"No, engaged. But this is the post-engagement honeymoon. Mateo lent me his boat and a sailor dude."

"Sorry, boss, but you can't call it a honeymoon. That's confusing."

"Oh," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "So what do you call the holiday after you get engaged?"

"Nothing. That's not a thing."

"It is now," I mused. "Maybe I invented it. New name. Hmm. I never call Emma 'honey' anyway. Got it. This is my Bebsimoon."

"How long have you been out in the sun?"

"Exactly the right amount of time; it's what you do on a Bebsimoon." I straightened the quilt cover for something to do. "Every day is blending into the next and the one before it. I don't even know what day of the week it is; it's been a complete blur since the final whistle."

Josh got an enthusiastic smile. "That goal! Wibbers! We went bonkers at the watch party! When you proposed, I don't know, it was mad. Someone said it was like a happy riot."

"Yeah," I said, smiling. Not a bad description.

"You got blasted, right? Wibbers said you all went for a legendary night out and Henri and Magnus had to drag him to his hotel to get his stuff because he was flying back that morning. Saturday, he was still hungover on the drive to Lincoln! I can't believe Sandra let him on the pitch."

Baggers - Wibbers - had played in that game to simplify my transfer deadline day. His cameo in a Chester shirt meant that, as with Tom Westwood, Wibbers had played for two clubs already this season and if someone bought him, they wouldn't be able to do anything other than loan him back to us. Pretty easy to defend against such a move but it hadn't stopped Chelsea submitting a twelve million pound bid.

If annoying me with transfer paperwork was the extent of Nick's revenge, we were going to need a bigger shredder.

"Let's say I had a sore head," I said. "I don't even think I drank that much; I was on a natural high. I still am. You know when you score a goal or you get a lucky win you get that peak, that rush, and you get some more little bursts when you think about it but after an hour or two you're back to normal? We're well into the fourth day, I'm still high, and I'm not coming down." I shook my head. "It's amazing. I thought I had been happy before, you know, now and then, but nothing compares to this. I'm blissed out." Bragging about my amazing life was maybe not what he needed to hear. "How was Lincoln?"

"Oh my days," he said. "They're a really good team, boss. Did you watch us?"

"Of course. And it might surprise you to hear I spoke to Sandra about the match. I haven't just been on a beach building sandcastles."

"No, boss," he smiled.

Lincoln City were one of the better teams in the division. My estimate was that they were between CA 105 and 110. Playoff contenders, at least.

Sandra had looked at their recent matches and saw a chance to surprise them with a 3-4-3. We had picked the strongest eleven ever to wear Chester FC shirts. Duggers on the left of midfield, Matt Rush on the right, and all three of our star strikers: Colin Beckton, Dazza, and Gabriel. With CA 93, our Brazilian striker (and club-record signing) was the second-weakest starter. In a way, that was pleasing. It meant our training was working and the numbers backed that up. After another good week, Christian Fierce and Duggers had joined the CA 100 club. The team's average was... wait for it... 98.3.

Absolutely incredible.

"What I saw," I said, "was that we battered them for fifteen minutes but they got a grip and targeted our left. Duggers holds his shape and he doesn't give things away but he's not the most natural defender. At half time Sandra shored things up by putting you there and moving Duggers inside behind two strikers. That was more solid but we couldn't get the goal we needed to fire us up."

We'd lost two-nil but that had been one of the hardest fixtures of the season. With 7 points after 4 games, we had slipped to 8th in the table but it didn't bother me in the slightest. Absolutely no course corrections needed there.

"How's the mood?" I asked.

"It's oh-kay," he said, carefully. "We don't often lose two games in a row, do we?"

"No," I said. We would probably lose a third, too.

Josh was clearly thinking the same thing. "Will you be back in time for Coventry?"

Coventry were a high-level Championship team. We had drawn them in the second round of the AOK Cup and when I had weighed up the pros and cons of rushing back to England to probably lose to them anyway versus spending a few more days on a luxury yacht with my fiancée... It's not that I wanted to lose but the AOK Cup came with very little prize money and very little chance of getting far. Being knocked out early would simplify our schedule and we would be able to go pretty much full tilt at every other competition. "No, I'm not sure if I'll be back for Rotherham or Shrewsbury."

"Kay," he said. He swallowed; the small talk was over. "A lot of the lads went to Puddington."

"Oh." We were back to the small talk! For Pascal's first pre-season friendly as Chester Women's manager, I'd arranged for them to play Puddington Pirates. That had been my first ever match as the women's manager; it seemed apt.

"Yeah," said Josh. "We went with Youngster and Wibbers and we were all joking that Sarah or Meghan would score and run and ask to marry them.

"Oh God, what have I done?"

"I know! MD told us that the FA sent out a memo saying anyone making an on-pitch proposal would get hit by the banhammer and a massive fine. He also said, no war paint and no cosplaying of any kind."

"Spoilsport."

"But I was talking about Puddington. We were there on the side of the pitch, having a laugh, shouting tactical ideas for Pascal, making fun of his trousers."

"Oh, no. Don't tell me he wore really tight red things?" German football managers all thought they were God's gift to fashion but they invariably looked like someone who had just failed an audition to be the next Dr. Who.

"I got hungry so I went back to my car to get some scran I'd brought and there was this guy."

"Here we go."

"Sorry, boss, what did you say?"

"Let me guess. He was an agent and he whispered sweet words into your shell-like ear. Promised you the riches of the east."

"No... I mean... no. Yes."

"Was he devilishly handsome?"

"Handsome? Not really. I didn't... Do you know who it was?"

"Just a hunch. I don't mean to keep interrupting you, Josh."

"It's just he was saying why are you the only one without a new contract? Doesn't Max like you? You could mint it at another club. You should get out this transfer window. Get out and get paid."

"How hard did you punch him in the dick?"

Josh laughed. "No, I only talked to him for a while. He's been texting me. Giving me ideas of things to say."

"Okay. I'm getting the sense you..." I realised that, dread aside, I didn't have any kind of sense. Josh was reserved at the best of times and he was working hard not to give anything away. "Actually, it's hard to tell what you're feeling and my antenna is broken. It's mad but these days, everyone I talk to is always radiating massive happiness!"

Josh grinned again. My positivity could not be contained. "I'm glad for you. I am. You've been amazing to me and the lads."

"The Exit Trial lads? Yeah, but look, you're talented. It's no hardship to take on a load of talented lads. That's what I want, isn't it? Good players, hard workers. It's actually a plus for me that you had a knock back. If you come through it, you get more determined. Everyone in that College team has had more downs than ups. Maybe not Wibbers but that's only because I got to him first."

"No, but boss, that's not right. No-one else wanted me or Cole or Banksy. It has been amazing and I know you could have got ready-made players instead of us."

He paused. "Buuuut," I said, waiting for the dooooom.

"No, but. I just... I just want to know where I stand and what my new deal will be and, you know, take it from there."

I took it to mean that he would take the offer to his new agent. I wanted to address one of the things Josh had said. "You're not the only one without a new contract and the guys at the end aren't the least important, they're the hardest. I mean, think about it. Andrew Harrison. I actually suggested a number to him ages ago and he was okay with it but if I've got a little bit more I'd like to give it to him, you know? Youngster is similar. I want to get as much done as poss and see what's left but I'm already in dangerous territory. He's a legit star, isn't he? I can't keep him in the bottom section of the club's wages. He wouldn't complain but it's not right to exploit him.

"Then there's Christian Fierce. I need to talk to him face-to-face because what does he want? If he wants to stay next season in the Championship, I'm good with that, but next summer would be the best time for him to get a big payday. One last big, juicy contract. I think it has to be that, but he gets a vote, right? Magnus is indispensable and Lee C has worked really hard.

"As for you, you're top. Top and mint. You give us something we need on the left, as demonstrated against Lincoln. We want Duggers in the team if we can get him but if Sandra wants to do 3-4-3 she probably needs to use you so we don't get overrun. You need to get up to pace in League One but that's already amazing if you think about how you were when you arrived. Your progress has been great. You're very professional."

"The man said you would talk about the club's financial position and he said why is that any of my concern? If you can't pay me, someone else can." I must have pulled a face because he hurriedly added, "I'm only saying what he said!"

"It's all right, Josh. Better to put all our cards on the table, I reckon. It's just that the truth hurts." I shifted on the bed. "You're on 550 a week now. That's obviously mental. I wanted to offer eleven hundred and let you negotiate me up to twelve. That's tight but it's a reflection of how fast you're going."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from NovelFire. Please report it.

There was a pause while Josh thought about his next words. "Cole's on fourteen."

I smiled. Old Nick had really gone to town on this one! He had broken all kinds of privacy laws. "Cole's a little bit ahead of you and we get some money from the Irish FA when he's selected for squads. It's not much but it justifies a slight difference in pay." The yacht hit a big wave and reminded me of where I was, who I was with, and why. It also gave context. I, a guy who would earn half a million in salary and had recently bagged myself a bonus worth double that, was haggling over 200 quid a week. It wasn't even my money. "Okay, Josh, I know the situation is a bit mad and it got madder last week but I hope we can both be professional about it. You know the club's situation and you know I'm working to change it but at the same time, my budget is what it is and I'm looking ahead to next summer and I want the funds in place to rebuild the away end and do a hundred other things that mean that one day, a future manager will be able to pay Josh Owens Junior what he's worth. Just please promise me one thing. If we can't agree and we need to go our separate ways, okay, that's football, but let's not fall out over it personally. I know it can be hard to see at these times but I really want what's best for you. Please don't let's fall out over two hundred quid a week."

He looked down. "We won't."

"Okay, so have you got a move lined up?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is there a club you've spoken to?"

"No. What? No! I don't want to go but it's a short career." He took a breath. "I think I could get four thousand a week at another club."

"Course you could... next season."

"What do you think I could get now?"

"Right now? Maybe two grand."

"I want that then."

"Wow! I walked right into that one! Two grand at a club that won't develop you is not a good deal. You know," I said, standing up and walking around the little space. "I'm thinking of going back for the Rotherham match because I went scouting there a couple of years ago and it'll be really interesting to see how they're getting on. I saw about twenty of their guys that day, right, and probably twelve are still there. If I had to bet, I'd say four are better, four are the same level, four are worse. Four out of twelve is shit, right? I think it is, anyway. If you move there, you could be one of the four or one of the eight.

"You'll find most squads are too busy doing set pieces and endless shuffle-and-slides to do the sessions that really help you, and the manager is trying to keep his job at any cost so he's got his core group he trusts and they play every week so they barely develop and neither do the fringe players. I'm not at risk in the same way so I see us lose to Lincoln and I'm like yeah but look how good we are! I can focus on the training. The training, Josh! That's why we outperform our budget. I have a three-year horizon, not three days.

"Money's nice, yeah, and we need it. You've got your family and you want some nice things for once. I know! I get it. But what's the cost? You stop improving? Are you willing to bet your career that your next manager will be a development maniac? Okay, you found one of the good ones. Amazing! Well done. Oops, he's sacked! Shit! What now? Oh-oh! Your new manager is Ian Evans. He subs you off if you do anything other than hoof the ball long. Your new manager is Alan Turner. He sends you to the reserves if you don't mention how amazing he is in every interview. Mate. It's shit out there. Move when you're so good you can play properly and not worry about being dropped."

He had a long think. He wasn't sure what to say so he said, "My mum's a big fan of yours."

"Really? I've barely spoken to her."

"I think that helps."

I laughed and crashed back on the bed. "You cheeky shit. You'd better not talk to your next manager like that."

He grinned, pleased with himself, but he grew solemn again. "Is twelve hundred the best you can do?"

"Realistically, yeah."

"I want to do the right thing but I have to be selfish. Can I get three plus one?"

That made me sit up. He was asking for a longer contract. Longer! "Wait, what?"

"Three years basic gives me protection, doesn't it? With steps. Two grand next year. Three the one after."

"We can discuss the numbers but in principle I don't mind it."

"And if a big club wants me, there's a release clause."

Ah. That was it. Release clauses were how Old Nick had prised R. Brown out of my grasp. If I gave Josh a release clause, another club would be able to pay a specified price and initiate a transfer without my involvement. It could mean all kinds of deadline day shenanigans. But... today was deadline day. Exactly how quickly would this blow up in my face? "So... do you want to get this agreed and signed right away?"

"Today? You're on a boat, aren't you? No, if we agree... I mean, when you get back. You're coming back, right?"

I tried to think it through. Nick couldn't hurt me this window. If I agreed a release clause with Josh, the earliest he could leave would be January. Not ideal but I had Adam Summerhays as a reserve left back. He was miles off the pace but he wouldn't be needed much unless Cole Adams was injured. Magnus could play left back. I could play left back. (I had overcorrected my stamina and was planning to let that fall a little so I could get my technique back to max. If I needed to play entire matches at left back, my current build was pretty ideal.) Duggers would grow into a more complete player this season and make 3-4-3 viable. The more I thought about it, while Josh was an obvious target for this punishment, he was also a dumb one.

What was Nick's game? Ah! I had it.

"Your agent guy probably told you to demand a ridiculously low release clause."

Josh looked shifty. "He mentioned 800,000."

That was the first break in the warm glow that had been swaddling me since the end of the Aberdeen match. 800,000 pounds. The exact amount of R. Brown's release clause. Until that moment, the person Josh met could have been any old agent. It was amusing how they were indistinguishable from literal demons. "I would take 800 for you right now but by the end of the season that will be pitiful. You're a million-pound player."

"I'm not being paid as one."

My first reaction was to get defensive but the moment passed. I chose to find his comment wryly amusing. Ironic. In my zen-like state, I even wondered if I could hack Nick's punishment. Perhaps he wouldn't realise that Josh and I had been civilised about this. Perhaps the demon would think that a last-second triggering of Josh's release clause, in the dying embers of the January transfer window, would be a suitable punishment. Getting 800 grand for an Exit Triallist would be pretty sweet. Getting a million would be incredible. Punish me, Nick! Punish me by dropping seven figures into my lap! You stupid prick.

"Josh, here's my offer. You get twelve hundred a week. There will be a formula about the increases, like you'll get small bumps if we stay in League One, bigger if we go up. Numbers go down if we're relegated. We won't be, it's just to protect the club. You can choose the contract length but three plus one is all right, isn't it? One million pound release clause. By the end of the season you'll be worth more than that and we'll be fretting and the only way we'll be able to get rid of the clause is to give you a stonking new deal. Yeah. It's win-win, I think."

His face softened and he looked about ten years younger. "Boss, if I go for a million... and I don't have an agent... Do I get ten percent for myself?"

"Not exactly but you can negotiate a signing-on fee. Ruth will do it for you, if you want. For free, by the way. One-time offer for all the Exit Triallists. She'll make sure you get good wages, too. Or I can. The club you deal with will probably want to keep the news from me but you can tell me what they're offering and I'll tell you if it's right and I'll pretend to be shocked on deadline day. Heh - I've got practice. What would you do with a hundred grand?"

"Can I buy my mum a house with that?"

"Where she lives? Not even close. Soon, though." I went and peered out of the window and got dazzled by the sun. "It took me four years of grinding to get here but it happened all at once."

"I've been grinding a lot longer than four years, boss."

"Nah," I said. "Most of that time you were fighting for the right to play. The game only started the minute you came to Chester. Two seasons in, you're doing well. You're ahead of where I was."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Ask your agent friend how much I was making after two years. I reckon I had more fun than you, though."

"Weren't you in a coma for ages?"

"Okay good point but the rest of the time was fun. Josh, that's my offer. It's the best that Chester can do. If you don't want it... I don't know how to finish that sentence. There's no option that comes close. You'd be mad to leave."

He looked down for a while. "Okay. I'll take it."

Fuck you, Nick! "Huh," I said. "I was kind of expecting to want to punch the air or something like that. It's a great moment."

"It is," he said. "But for you it's blending in with the other great moments."

"How about you do it so I know you're happy?"

"Yes!" he said, punching the air. Almost the whole gesture was off camera, but I got the gist.

I smiled. "You can tell everyone you rinsed me better than Ruth did."

"Did I?"

"You did really well. Did you rehearse?"

"Yeah, with my mates. And I've got notes for days, look." He held up a sheet that had mad scribbles all over it. "Could I have done better?"

I shook my head. "No. And that makes you the Emma of this relationship."

He brrred his lips. "Please. Everyone knows she's settling."

"You sure about that?"

He was still smiling. The curse had his Morale at Very Good. "Last minute winners. Business empires. Spontaneous breaks on the Med. Could be she's done all right."

"Yeah, she has. Even her dad thinks so. Good luck against Coventry, yeah? I'm pretty sure I'll be back for Rotherham. Keep your head down, Josh. Keep grafting." I gave him a quick tour of the room and showed him the sea. "This life is just around the corner."

***

I got my laptop out and on my locked spreadsheet, changed Josh's wages to say 1200 a week.

I stared at the figures for a while and called Lee Contreras. I told him I was incredibly happy with his effort but I couldn't give him much of a rise so I was going to do something unique - I would bump his pay without asking him to commit to the club for longer. He was happy to accept a no-strings attached rise of 200, bringing him to 2200.

Then I called Andrew Harrison. I had previously indicated that I would nudge his 700 a week to a thousand, but I gave him 1,100. He was content more than happy, but that was acceptable.

That left me with three guys who needed attention: Christian Fierce, Magnus, and Youngster. There was 3,150 left in the budget.

Which of those three would Old Nick be able to target? Any one of them seemed unlikely. Christian deserved half of the remaining budget but would likely only get a third. Would that cause him to want to leave? Surely not.

Whatever I gave Magnus would come out of Youngster's share. Was I playing with fire by giving one of our top assets the barest sliver of what the market would dictate?

I decided to tackle the problem later, after a glass of prosecco on the fly deck of a millionaire's yacht.

I almost cackled as I corrected myself.

On the fly deck of a fellow millionaire's yacht.

***

We had to return to Gibraltar, partly to refuel, partly to get some last business done, and partly because Mateo wanted his boat back.

Henri, Lee Hudson, and Jack the Lad had returned to England to join up with their new teammates at Tranmere.

Sharky had gone back to Crawley.

Baggers had taken off in Gib and landed in Manchester with a whole new name. Pascal had landed and gone straight to prepare his first proper training session with the women.

Magnus had hung around Marbella, soaking up as much wisdom from Nicole as he could. Now he was back in Gibbers, nervously hanging around the docks. Something told me it wasn't the first time he'd done that in his life.

"Max," he said. "I've been thinking."

"Oh, boy."

He looked worried, but we'd been through so much together it didn't last long. "Eight of us were registered to get College into the league phase, and we did it. Amazing. Now everyone's fucked off. College can replace two of us but basically they're six players down; the squad will be quite small." The competition rules were complex but to simplify, clubs could name a squad of 25. I was leaving Siegmund with 19 players eligible to play 8 matches. Magnus saw a flaw in my plan. "A few injuries and suspensions and they could end up with 15 or 16 players!"

I shrugged. "I know. It was all calculated. College will lose every match in the league but so what? It's still absolutely unreal and those defeats will still be good for their development. Think about Jesse Picardo and all those matches he'll play. It's a dream scenario for him."

"Okay but what if I stayed?"

I opened my mouth to say 'no'. I closed my mouth.

Magnus continued, "I know I'm not the best but I know the DM role and I can help keep the scores down, at least. We might get a couple of draws. That's more money for the club, isn't it?"

"Yeah, every draw is worth a hundred and thirty thousand Euro. A win is four hundred thousand."

"There you go!"

He had been thinking about this far too long; I suddenly got in a panic. "What do you mean, stay? You're an important part of the team! I need you, mate! You're indispensable."

He smiled. "Thanks. I don't mean stay forever. I was thinking until January. I can help the team here and it will be a softer landing than if we all left, and I can learn from Nicole here, with her regular patients as well as new ones." He pulled his ear. "I think we can convince her to come to Chester in the new year a lot easier than, like, now. And... I'd get to see her work on all kinds of injuries, not only football. It's so fascinating! Every day there's something new to learn."

"Just so I know... Have you been talking to any distinguished older gentlemen recently? Silver hair, silver tongue?"

"Only Mateo."

I was going through the ramifications. One less player in Chester's squad. We could cope, for sure. If Magnus did inspire College to a few good results, I'd get even more coin. Chester would lose his services as a physio, but he would come back in a few short months even more skilled. And he would come back with an absolute maestro. "Hang on," I said. "You're on a contract with College."

"Yes."

"I was going to offer you a new contract."

"You still can."

"In January," I said.

"Yes."

"But that means - " I decided it was better to shut my gob. I would split the remaining wage budget between Christian Fierce and Youngster, and I would hope that by January I would be in a position to convince MD to increase my budget by enough to satisfy Magnus and to hire Nicole. It was a slight risk, but it was a risk. Wait - my spreadsheet had Magnus on 700 a week even though we weren't currently the ones paying him. I could redistribute that 700... No, that was a bridge too far. Still, it felt like I'd gotten some extra wiggle room. "You know, I think that could work," I said. "It's like you're out here on loan at a club paying 100% of your wages and you're doing a physio course. If you told me you wanted to do that, I'd definitely say yes. But look, I a million percent need you back. Just because I can make do for a few months doesn't mean you're not absolutely vital."

"I know, Max. I'll come back, I promise." When he realised he was getting what he wanted, his Morale jumped. "Who's the man you described? The silver-haired one?"

"He's my defeated foe," I said. I turned as a cheeky seagull divebombed some poor tourist. The Maxnificent Seven had long since learned how to deal with the gulls, but the Seven had disbanded. Magnus was all that was left. I wrapped my arms around him and I caught a glimpse of the two of us in a window. My tan was something to behold. "We're the last men standing. The Maxnificent Seven becomes Magnus Evergreen and the Sun-Drenched Kid."

He patted me on the back a few times before pulling away. "We never got to watch Casablanca in Casablanca."

"That's why God invented next year, mate."

"Next year," he agreed.

***

We had a few minutes before our meeting with Mateo and his friend from the Gibraltarian FA, so I sat in the shade and followed the latest transfer news and rumours on the curse feed and on the big screen that was behind me.

It was interesting, as always, especially when some of the gossip revolved around Chester players. Good luck signing anyone without my say-so!

Transfer deadline day was pretty much the last chance for my rivals to leap above us or do something unexpected. That would fit in with the idea of Old Nick putting his thumb on the scale, tipping the balance of power against Chester.

As it stood, the top five threats would be Portsmouth, Plymouth, Bolton, Oxford United and Wycombe. They ruled the roost in terms of known CA and Oxford topped the spending charts at 200 grand a week.

A few other clubs had big budgets and weren't afraid to use them. Rotherham were spending in the region of 145,000 a week on player wages. Stockport County and Bristol Rovers weren't too far behind that, while I estimated Bradford City's wages had rocketed to about the same as Rotherham's after Chip's recent spending spree.

Secretary Joe: Sorry to interrupt your post-holiday holiday but Brighton would like a reply to their latest transfer bid.

Me: Tell them I'm thinking about it.

Secretary Joe: Maaaaaaax.

Me: We're not selling anyone today! Leave the office, lock the door, go to Spoons and have a couple of beers while you laugh at every club that isn't us.

Secretary Joe: Wetherspoon's? You think I'm made of money?

I smiled; Spoon's was the cheapest pub going. I would buy a few rounds when I got back; Max Best was currently one of the most profitable enterprises in the entire footballing world.

***

Mateo and Brito, the guy from the local FA, came to eat with us. Emma and I had been snacking the whole day so we didn't have much.

Brito said my win was well-timed. There was such a lot of excitement about the sport, and what better time to announce that the development of the national stadium would finally commence? Work would begin very soon and I was not to worry - they would hold up their end of the agreement regarding the apartment.

"If only there were some other ways we could work together," sighed Brito. "We have the enthusiasm but you have the skills. Alas, you are returning home. What a pity."

"Yeah," I said. It was hard to imagine what I could do for Gibraltar, though. It wasn't like with Wales, where I could literally pop across the border. Even when I owned a flat I would visit The Rock twice a year, maximum. Something I'd said to Josh rattled around my head. "Um. Just thinking out loud. Do you do that thing where you pay clubs to use their players for the national team?"

"Yes," he said, dipping some fresh bread into a little bowl of olive oil. I wasn't hungry but watching it made my mouth water. "It's, ah, four thousand Euro per time."

Mateo knew this. "That fee is traditionally split with the player. It's an incentive for the club to train players for the Gibraltarian national team."

"Right," I said. "And how many national team squads are there per year?"

"Let's say ten per season."

"Ten?" I said, amazed. It sounded high. That was 40,000 Euro in free money. Wait, the club only kept half and gave the rest to the player himself. Still, twenty grand was a decent chunk of a player's wages. "Okay well if you want help, it's easy. Pick Jesse Picardo for the national team."

"Jesse? He is not quite ready."

"Oh, okay," I said. The guy asked for my advice and immediately dismissed it! What a world.

He spotted that I tuned out. "I mean, he's too young, surely?"

I tried to summon up some of the enthusiasm I had been feeling before getting shot down. "He has a high ceiling. If you pick him in the squads he'll get to the level faster. He's already playing European football. If he gets some national team action, too, he'll be one of your best strikers for years to come. There are a few players like him who will be more interested in joining College now that they know what we're all about. We could be the fast track for five or six national team prospects. We would give them proper coaching and the right amount of minutes, if you would commit to picking them in every national squad. If you did that, they'd develop fast and for us it would be like a subsidy."

Brito didn't seem sure. Perhaps he had already promised too much regarding the stadium flat and the coefficients. He rapped the table as he chewed. "How does Jesse compare to William Roberts?"

"Jesse's final form will be better than Wibbers is now," I said. "I don't think he'll be scoring spectacular scissor kicks or long-range thunderbastards but he's a very good goalscorer. Him being at College means his training is directed by me. That, by the way, is worth a lot more than two grand a match. Fortunately," I smiled, "I'm not greedy."

Mateo sensed the chance to strike a deal that was very much in the interests of College. "Give us six slots in the national team squads and let Max choose who goes. Within years, your team will be transformed. Look at Chester!"

"Yes," said Brito, dreamily. "I cannot promise six slots, though. It is impossible. The manager picks the players; we cannot interfere."

"Tell him if he doesn't play ball," I said, "you'll find a manager with better survival instincts." I dabbed a hunk of bread in olive oil; the stuff out here was amazing. "If he doesn't like one of the lads, fine, but Mateo and I are talking about a big, expensive move. We're saying we'll invest in your national team for years. It's not that hard to understand."

Emma said, "Why don't you do ten players? Twelve?"

"That might happen anyway," I said. "But I don't want College to hoover up all the talent. The league needs to get more competitive, not less. If we get too powerful we'll destroy it, which seems okay but it's not. In that sitch, we won't be able to keep our players sharp and motivated. You win the local league but get crushed in Europe. No, we need to raise standards all round."

Brito frowned. "You want to raise the standards of your rivals? Aren't you worried they will get better faster?"

I laughed before realising I might be coming across as arrogant. I wouldn't want that. "Er, no. I'm pretty good at this."

Brito smiled. "That much is true."

***

Brito left. As the sun set, Mateo, Emma, and I nibbled and chatted happily while on a big screen, DigiWorld Sports HD informed us about the late-breaking transfer news. The window was going to SLAM SHUT imminently but Mateo kept talking about the Aberdeen match. Get over it, mate! That was ages ago. It's not like it changed our lives forever.

"It's the most fun I can remember having at a football match. Maybe the day Tranmere got promoted back to the football league; that was amazing and noisier. Tranmere's so intense, though. It's not enjoyable. It's more like my civic duty, you know."

"I do know," I said. "I feel like that sometimes. So many people depending on us. Results matter. I can sit here in my ivory yacht thinking it doesn't matter we lost to Lincoln, but it does. It changes the mood."

Mateo placed his knife and fork down and spent a few seconds nudging them into the correct position to tell the waiters we were done. "I get offers to buy the club. They're getting more and more tempting. I had one on Saturday. I was watching Tranmere in a bar here and a businessman recognised me and we got chatting."

A businessman. Recognised Mateo? The night was warm but a cool breeze passed right through me. "Oh, yeah?"

"He said he knew a group who had ten million pounds ready to buy a football club. It's common. Americans, you know. They've seen Welcome to Wrexham and they want to get involved. If it isn't them, it's Middle-eastern guys. I haven't been short of offers. Don't worry, Max, I'm not selling this season."

"Oh, thank fuck."

"But if we get promoted, I really think that will be as far as I can take the club. Financially, but also... It's exhausting. I don't need the fans to be grateful but they could be less ungrateful."

"I know what you mean. Six defeats in a row and they'll bin me off."

He took a swig of his wine. "College is a lot of fun. I'm glad we did this. No fans, just a few players, the FA is ambitious and they're willing to try things, and when the stadium is built they're going to start finding they have more money than they know what to do with. Not that it's a big money-spinner, you understand, but they get good money from UEFA and their costs aren't so high. What will they do? I want to convince them to bring Marbella to The Rock. Is it possible? I don't know. It's fun to think about, though. Very low stakes. Everyone is appreciative. Tranmere Rovers? More than ever, it feels like a weight on my shoulders. I want to give you notice that if I get a good offer next summer, I'm going to take it." He eyed me and smiled. "What's that look?"

"Nothing," I said.

Emma knew. "He was wondering if he could afford it."

"Oh!" laughed Mateo.

"Just sell it to the right people."

"Absolutely," he said. "What now, Max?"

I was frowning. Old Nick had been at work all over the continent, it seemed. He'd nudged Chelsea and Brighton to make bids for Wibbers. He had tried to tempt Josh Owens into something. He had explored getting to me via the sale of Tranmere. And those were only the things I knew about.

It was just... all so feeble.

My companions were waiting for me. I broke out a lazy smile and stretched my arm around Emma. I sighed. "It has been dreamy. Amazing. But all these talks, tracking the transfer news. It's not Greece and Cyprus any more, it's Barnsley and Bradford."

Mateo nodded. "Getting time to go home."

I tried to remember what that reviewer had said about The Corrections. "You've got a book on your yacht. I looked it up. One reviewer summed it up with something like: You can go home again, but do you really want to?" I looked around. The sun was a distant memory. Life on The Rock was winding down. The spirit of sun-lit adventure was yawning and stretching. "Babes, are you ready to go back?"

She thought about it. "Nearly," she said. "I don't want to go to some bog-standard town. We're skipping Coventry, right?"

"Yep."

"Who's after that?"

I knew if I said Rotherham she would roll her eyes. There was an easy fix. "Tell you what," I said. "Why don't I take you to the New York Stadium?"

"Canny!" she said. "I thought you didn't want to go - " She eyed Mateo and got suspicious. Foiled! I would have got away with it if it wasn't for that pesky pensioner and his pathetic poker face. Emma tapped on her phone and showed me the result. "The New York Stadium is the home of Rotherham United. Maaax!"

"Okay, busted. I have to be back for that one, though. That's a tricky game, so... But the one after is easy! Sandra can do that and we can take another mini break. I want to scout Scotland, or more places in Wales if you prefer. You can choose!"

She wasn't fully sold. "Babes, I'm on my Bebsimoon, yachting around the Med in perfect weather. Look at my tan! Taste this olive oil! It's different gravy! You can't go straight from that to, I don't know, Dundee."

"Dundee's nice," said Mateo.

"See?" I said, but with a dip of the chin, my fiancée challenged me to do better. "Okay," I said, slowly. "How about Venice?"

She banged the table a little too hard. "Yes. Done. Bosh."

"The Venice of the North," I clarified.

"Where's that?"

"Birmingham."

She laughed. "Babes," she said. I'd caught her by surprise; laughter intensified. She was shaking but no sound was coming out.

"I'm gonna rent the nicest barge you've ever seen." Her laughter reached a new peak and she kicked out, banging the table leg. Mateo's wine glass toppled but he caught it before it smashed. The wine went everywhere. "I'll pay for that," I said.

Mateo dabbed himself with a napkin. He grinned. "I'll take it out of what I owe you. Oh."

"What?"

As Emma's breathing returned to normal, Mateo nodded towards the big screen. A major news item had broken. It seemed like the announcement had been timed to come just after the transfer window closed, so as not to distract anyone from the vital news that Chelsea had signed a centre back from a club in Belgium and immediately loaned him to one in Portugal.

The newsflash, bigger than any other that day, did not announce a player transfer.

"Ah," I said, as I stared at the screen.

I turned away from it. Old Nick had got his revenge all right. He must have started small and gotten bigger. A warning shot of a transfer bid. A reminder that he could meddle with my squad. The threat of taking away my closest football ally. And now, this.

BREAKING: ALAN TURNER IS THE NEW ENGLAND MANAGER

That was grim. Very, very grim. The thought of Turner, that absolute moral vacuum being in charge of my national team made me indescribably sad. A bankrupt man for a bankrupt nation. A nothing person for an age of nihilism. Turner's so-called 'football' bordered on sociopathic and was too high-intensity to work in a tournament. We would not win anything with him. He would have the power to call up my players at times that were inconvenient to me, and worse, he would have the power not to. Wibbers loved playing for England. If Turner refused to pick Wibbers until he left Chester, he would leave Chester.

I shook my head. Nick had overcorrected. He would learn that one day. Cold comfort.

Emma touched my shoulder. "Are you all right, babes?" I swallowed and felt the misery deepen. Emma said, "Remind me, am I the fiancé or the fiancée?"

I had to smile. "You're the she equals Ems E squared."

"What?" said Mateo. He let out a semi-exasperated sigh. "You make me feel old but you're such a great couple. I'm glad you walked into my life back in Tenerife."

"I'm glad you let us," I said. Mateo had been a ray of sunshine in a dark time. Those sunny summer days after my murder had been a lot darker than this pitch-black night. I had money in the bank, skills to die for, and most of all, I had Emma. "Not walking any more, are we? We're up and running."

"Yes, we are," said Mateo.

I took one more look at the TV screen before turning from the man who owed me a million pounds to the woman I wanted to spend the rest of eternity with. Old Nick and Alan Turner were a match made in heaven; I would see them in hell. "Hey, Mateo?"

"Yes, Max?"

"I've got an idea. Let's go faster."