14.

  Saturday, February 5

  1:50 p.m.

  I stood on the pavement of Bumpers Lane, looking across a river of cars towards the Deva. Behind me, the training ground where we schemed and planned and prepared. Ahead, the arena, the contest, the culmination. From theory to reality. From the abstract to the concrete. Saturday at 3 p.m. was where the rubber met the road.

  I crossed.

  There was no turning back.

  (Unless I had left something in my office.)

  I went into the fan zone outside the McNally. We had tried to make it colourful and fun but the overriding aesthetic was black and grey. Thick black coats, thin grey clouds. As foretold by the Wet Wet Wet perk, the temperature had hit its high for the day of 8 degrees celsius. The sun was sliding down the table; the wind was resurgent. 16 mile-an-hour howls rushed straight through me. They would be down to 12 by kickoff, and in the second half we would find the 8 mph gusts laughably weak.

  The wind would make it hard for Middlesbrough to play high passes and crosses to their expensive new striker, but one can never be too careful. I had picked a team to combat that particular threat. Some extra brawn, some extra height, some extra defensive solidity. How did I know it would be blustery? Shucks. Just lucky, I guess.

  "Stop smiling. It draws attention." Briggy was beside me, quietly scanning for threats. "This way."

  She led me to the right, which was a direction I wouldn't have gone had I been alone. That was the food area and while I wasn't playing or even named on the subs bench, I didn't want to stuff my face.

  I spotted a few people I knew, and plenty of randos. The crowd in the McNally skewed young, as intended, but there were some middle-aged guys and a few older dudes, especially the ones who had been tearaways in their own youth. Brooke's targeted marketing was paying off. I wondered where she posted ads that would be seen by the reformed hooligan demographic, but I was learning that there were some things I didn't want to know.

  "Is that Cheb?" said Briggy. "Let's see what he's up to."

  There was something weird about her voice, but I didn't have time to think about it. She took my elbow and moved me past some food and drink stands to a stall twice as big as any other. There was a wedding-style canopy (112 days to go, Max), and it was providing shelter to a bunch of guys in turbans, along with some large silver cylinders from which they were ladelling up curries and rice. There was a gaggle of teenagers in puffy jackets to the side, stuffing their faces. "Smells crazy good," I said, mouth watering.

  "Mr. Best!"

  I was fairly astonished to find Youngster and Cheb next to me, wearing aprons. Why were they outside an hour before the match? "Um... did I put you two in the bomb squad?"

  Cheb said, "We're promoting the Gurdwara."

  I nodded. "You've got to do that, yeah. Got to."

  Youngster said, "Do you know what a Gurdwara is?"

  I scanned the canopy looking for clues. "It's a new kind of curry that makes people forget they're at work and should be inside getting changed."

  Youngster smiled. "It is a Sikh temple! They give food to the homeless and the needy. For free! This group are from the temple in Warrington. I went to visit them and told Cheb how splendid their work is and we decided to get together to give them some publicity. Brooke is helping."

  "A Sikh, a Christian, and a Muslim go into a fan zone. It sounds like the start of an offensive joke. So how much is a curry?"

  Cheb said, "It's free, Max! Some hungry people are too proud to go to food banks or the Langar because they think those are services for the other types of poor people or they think they're taking food away from those who deserve it more, so Youngster's idea was to give food away here and raise awareness. It might be that a few people who are in need will see the posts on social media and will be convinced to give it a try."

  My first (shameful) thought was to wonder what the people selling food thought about being next to a tent giving away free curries, but Youngster was nodding. "The number of people experiencing food insecurity at least once per year has risen from 11 million in 2022 to 15.5 million last year. When one is hungry one cannot make good decisions. I want to tell people to eat. Fuel your brain and then you can start to fix the things you want to fix. Everything is possible through Christ our Lord, but first you must eat!"

  Cheb put his arm around Youngster and squeezed him. "I love this kid. Can I take him back to Munich with me, Max?"

  "You're the same age!" I said. "How's the food? Have you tried it?"

  "I'm fasting."

  "Shit, right. Soz. I've got a lot on my plate. Not like you. Wow, terrible, cut that."

  Cheb eyed the food. "I'm gonna have a small plate at sunset." He grew thoughtful. "Breaking my fast with this delicious curry during the match would be even more impactful, Brooke says, than the photos we have already taken. I wonder if she's right."

  "Of course she's right," I said, instantly. "That's Brooke you're talking about. She has only ever been wrong once, and that was when she said she was bad at football." I squinted as I tried to imagine Cheb getting a meal on the side of the pitch during a match. "Sikhs feeding a Muslim during a fasting break in an important Championship match. People asking themselves, why's that happening? To raise awareness of the Guru..."

  "Gurdwara," said Youngster.

  "Gurdwara," I said. "It seems like it could be a powerful moment. Cheb's not too proud to eat their food, why are you?"

  "That is not quite the tone I wish to go for," said Youngster. "But it would help," he added, slyly, "if Cheb were on the pitch at that moment."

  I tutted; they both knew Cheb wasn't in the starting eleven and I didn't like being pushed to make non-tactical substitutions. As soon as the football stopped coming first, all my hopes and dreams would crumble to dust. All the changes I made today had to be made with complete and utter respect for our opponents and the sport and to make sure we didn't win. "Hang on, sunset's just after 5. The match will be long over."

  Youngster eyed Briggy and looked shifty. "There could be some delays that push us close to sunset."

  "Could there?" I said, hands on hips.

  Briggy said, "Don't act like you wouldn't turn the floodlights off to get a sporting advantage. Do it for the hungry kids, Max."

  I eyed her, then Youngster, then Cheb. They had cooked up this plot together. That's why she had led me this way. Fortunately, they had no chance of succeeding - not even close. "Match kicks off at 3. Quarter to 4, half time starts. 4 o'clock, second half. 4:45, we're all done. You need..." I checked the Wet Wet Wet perk to see when sunset was. "You need to delay the game by 18 minutes. More, in fact, because if there's thirty seconds left the ref isn't gonna stop the match to let Cheb have a snack. He'll say bro, you can wait half a minute."

  Cheb shrugged. "Matches end 20 minutes late all the time. There's a small delay with the crowd getting in. The referee's comms break. There's an injury. There are some VAR checks."

  "We don't have VAR in this league," I said.

  He kept going. "There's a medical emergency in the crowd."

  "Mate," I complained.

  "We come out three minutes late for the second half. There's another injury. There's a concussion protocol and you have to get a sub ready who wasn't expecting it. We can stretch the match out."

  "Concussion? You know how I feel about fake head injuries."

  Youngster said, "You hate it when it is for cheating. When inept managers use it as a time out. This is different."

  I looked up at the scattered clouds. This conversation was ridiculous even by the standards of Chester FC. "You want me to waste 20 minutes of everyone's time just for a publicity stunt?"

  Youngster said, "Yes, please. It would be extremely beneficial to the community. Many hungry people would see it and take action."

  "Christ," I snapped. "Why are there so many hungry people anyway? The fuck happened to this country?"

  Briggy stood between the young men and put her arms around their shoulders. "Too many immigrants." She was joking, of course, but seeing the immigrants and children of immigrants working together to make the country a better place, under the umbrella of the football club I was running - it did make my chest swell.

  While I tried to unclamp my jaw, which had locked in place in case I ran through the nearest wall, I looked at the teenagers who were tucking into the free food. They were lads from North Wales who had come to Saltney to be scouted and to get some free training. As an extra bonus, they were getting to see an English second-tier match. They had been stuffing their faces the whole day. Breakfast was demolished. Lunch was demolished. Was that just them being hungry teenage boys or was there something deeper at play? How many of their parents couldn't sleep worrying about how they were going to pay for food, for clothes, for transport? How many burst into tears in the supermarket when they saw that the price of butter had gone up again?

  My eyes rested on one of the kids. Chase Jones was 14 and was the standout player in today's group. He was a DM with PA 147. Ten million quid right there. That's a lot of bowls of rice.

  I had my life's missions and Youngster had his. I jabbed my finger at my three friends. "If the floodlights go out, you're all sacked. I do not want that under any circumstances. Is that completely clear? Have I made myself understood on that point?"

  Cheb was the only one who didn't nod. "This is you saying the opposite, is it?"

  "No," I said, with a bit of heat. "Floodlights going out makes a club look small and amateur and shit. Sponsors will think twice about partnering with us and then I'll lose millions of pounds and have to shut down all our social programs. You will be directly responsible for pain, suffering, and misery."

  "Right," said Cheb.

  I left a pause to make sure those words sank in, then I eyed Briggy. "I can't condone any silliness, okay? This is elite sport. This is serious business. If there happens to be a fake medical emergency, it should be fake, okay? I don't want to hear you've been poking our fans with poisoned umbrellas."

  "What about the away fans?" she said, not smiling.

  "Holy Christ. Leave the poor bastards alone - it's bad enough they have to live near Darlington." One of our security people was listening to something on a walkie-talkie. "See if Spectrum and Pradeep can find the frequency of the referee's comms."

  Briggy said, "And then what?"

  "And then nothing, obviously. It's an idle exercise to keep them busy while DOVE's crunching its numbers." It occurred to me that if we were going to stretch the match out, as much as possible of the added time should be between the whistles that started and ended the half - that way, I would get some bonus XP out of it. "Maybe in finding the frequency they accidentally break something. Oh, and James, do not ask anyone else to go down with a head injury. It would be wrong to ask someone else to do that."

  "I'll do it," said Cheb.

  "You're not going to be on the pitch!" I hissed, before looking around and lowering my voice. "James, if you are in the concussion protocol, you will miss the next two matches and you will have to lie to your parents. And to Physio Dean. Do you really want the people who care about you to fret and worry? Personally, I think it's not worth it, but I've got backup DMs now so if anything happens to you, the team will somehow muddle on." We would be weaker without Youngster. I could already imagine the next post-match interviews. We competed well today but in the end, we lacked a bit of bite at the base of midfield. When Youngster is back, we'll turn these defeats into draws. I'm not worried about us slipping down the table, no. "Heh," I said, which was objectively mental but now my head was spinning as I came up with ways to add little delays to the game so Youngster and Cheb could get their photo op. Many of those delays would weaken us today, and some would weaken us for the next few games, too. "Heh," I said. And think about the experience points! 12 points for every minute the match was delayed! "Mmm, yeah. That's what I like."

  Cheb had a grin fixed into place. "Max, you okay?"

  I started to stride left and right in front of them, gesticulating like a Roman general. "How about if someone gets sent off but refuses to leave the pitch? Big drama. He starts to walk off but runs back on. I rush to calm him down, lead him away, but then behind us, someone starts pushing and shoving and the sent off player runs back to join in the melee. Heh. That could take two minutes. And then - " I stopped dead. "What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I saying? Guys, this is stupid. We can't do this. Let's wait until there's a sunset that's actually in a match."

  Cheb shook his head. "The Sikhs are here today, Max."

  "They'll come again! They have temples all over the country! I'll send Sealbiscuit to pick them up. I'll send a fucking helicopter. Don't put these crazy ideas into my head, okay? You know what I'm like; I have zero sense of perspective. Well, guess what? You're straight out of luck because today I have to go and talk to the fans and that's me at my most serious. So take those aprons off."

  Youngster and Cheb did as they were told, and looked down, chastened.

  "Good," I said. I took one last look at the vats of food and the plates and the cutlery. A guy was looking at the Welsh kids - and their plates. It was plain to me that he was hungry but was too shy or proud to step forward. I went to him and pulled him towards the nearest Sikh. I smiled at the latter. "My friend here would like one blob of Chicken Caesar, one blob of - " I looked at the fan and assessed him. "Tandoori lamb? Yeah."

  The Sikh guy smiled at my mad energy. "It's all veggie, Max." He loaded a plate and handed it to me.

  "It smells insanely good," I said, bringing it close to me. I slapped the guy on his back and passed the plate over. "Eat this for me, will you? I need to be sharp for the match so I'm only allowed blueberries and wasabinuts."

  The fan was grinning. "Okay, sure. Take one for the team, yeah?"

  I jabbed him. "That's it, exactly! Team work! Here we go. Come on!" I strode off, then took a couple of steps back to where Youngster and Cheb were miring me. I narrowed my eyes and lowered my voice. "There are no words to express how proud I am of you."

  With that, I walked through the fan zone, through all the colour and the life and the music and the smiles, to the club shop.

  ***

  I scanned the shelves, noting that there were no Dazza 16 shirts for sale, but I didn't immediately spot new merch and I knew there would be some. There was a young man who worked in the shop every home game, so I went to him. "Bro, what's new?"

  He understood the question. "Much Addo About Sumtin' t-shirts. Vini-as-a-Roman-Emperor posters." He led me to a sort of 'games' corner. "PlayStation controller in Chester colours."

  "Ooh," I said. "I like that."

  "Special Rubik's Cube," he said, taking a box from the shelf. "It's your basic three by three, but instead of colours, there are player faces. There's you, Wibbers, Youngster."

  "That's fun," I said. "Good gift idea. I was a guest speaker at a games convention so now I get invites to all sorts of events. They wanted me to speak at something called Rubik Con, along with a lot of other managers from different industries. Bossing the Rubik Con, it was called."

  The guy stared at me. "I have to get back to work, Max."

  ***

  Earlier in the season, I had promised to meet with the fans before matches and answer their questions, but for various reasons I hadn't actually done it. Now that the transfer window was closed, I was far less busy. I also felt great. Since agreeing to sell Wallace and actually selling Dazza, I had felt lighter. Streamlined. More powerful. It was the right time to face my bosses.

  "Max Best!" I cried, striding into the Blues Bar, where a hundred and twenty fans were waiting for me. There was applause, cheering, a few chants.

  I worked my way through the crowd and onto the raised platform in the corner. Someone had a microphone ready for me.

  "Let's smash into this. Quick overview, then questions. We are 7th in the Championship." Cheers. "We have been 7th since the week before Christmas. It's actually pretty crazy that we have stayed in one place for so long. We'll probably slip back a bit but obviously we're well on track for a top-ten finish, which I have to say is ahead of my expectations. In a couple of weeks we've got Leeds United in the FA Cup. That won't be easy but if we can beat Wolves we can beat Leeds." The fans cheered. They would have cheered louder if they knew about Bench Boost. I would use it against Leeds, for sure.

  "The women will win the league or a playoff. The boys beat Chelsea and are favourites to win the Youth Cup.

  "We've made progress off the pitch. The integration of Bumpers and Saltney has performed better than expected. Vincent Addo's improvement this season has been incredible, which is why I brought him over already. At the top end, Cheb Alloula has been nudging up his performance data. We can take a good player from Bayern Munich and make him better. Very satisfying.

  "We have continued to attract and retain elite coaches, we've had the least injuries in the division, we've made a player trading profit, and the PetPride stand is locked in. After the last game of the season, the bulldozers go smashy-smashy, we prepare the ground, and we assemble the new stand. It's much more substantial than the McNally and the away end so it's going to take much longer to finish, but we'll aim to open it section by section as we did with the away end. We'll start next season with a capacity of 10,100, and by the end we'll have 16,100, plus tons of skyboxes.

  "That's the overview. Yes we have challenges, yes we have our struggles, but we're struggling on a much higher level than anyone expected. Including me. And that's a testament to all the hard work everyone has been putting in. I wanted to build a football club you could be proud of. This is a football club you can be proud of." Ear-splitting applause. "Let's do questions! Keep them short, please, so I can answer as many as poss."

  Hands flew up. I pointed to one guy. He called out a question, which I repeated into the microphone so that Boggy could take this audio and use it for The Seals podcast.

  "The question was, to make it more concise, as per my request, could we?" Big cheers. "Could we get promoted? No, we couldn't. Right now we are the ninth best team. Bathe in the awesomeness of those words! Ninth best out of 24 giants of the English game! Truly incredible." I exulted before moving on. "You know, this division has unfairness baked in. Parachute payments - the vast sums of money you get when you're relegated from the Premier League - are worth 16 points a season. Think about that - you get five wins and a draw as a headstart over everyone else. If you look at points earned per pound spent, we're miles at the top. Miiiiiiiiles."

  I grabbed a bottle of water and took a swig.

  "We don't have a culture of excuses. We don't complain about our financial constraints because if other clubs are wasting half their money, you're gonna have a chance, right? Next season we'll have closed the budget gap enough that we will mount a very, very serious title challenge. So if the question is could we, the answer is yes, next season." I laughed. "Not very inspirational, is it? You watch, though. This time next year I'm gonna be the Championship's final boss. Will we win 14 of our final 15 matches?" I scoffed. "Why only 14?"

  While the fans cheered, I lined up the next question.

  "Question 2. When am I gonna make the drone video I promised? Are you the guy who keeps sending emails about it? Imminently, is the answer! We got some great shots at the Wolves match, when the stadium was all lit up and it was popping, and I'm working on a script. Some people don't remember what I'm talking about. When I was pitching for this job, I painted a picture of what Chester would look like in the future, with a little drone flying around the new training ground and the stadium. Ah, some of you remember it. I promised a drone tour and that's coming very soon." I smiled at the questioner. "Just to be clear - I unsubscribe from the reminders!"

  Next, I chose a woman.

  "Question 3. How do I choose which matches to attend? Okay, easy. On Monday - deadline day - I was in the North East, so I went to watch Newcastle against Fulham in the Prem.

  "Tuesday we had a free night so I went to watch Newport County. Henri's there, and so's Banksy. Just checking in on them, really. They're pulling away from the chasers in the National League and they're playing some good football. Seeing a young player like Banksy in action helps me to decide what to do with him next season.

  "Wednesday was Coventry versus Blackburn. Interesting to see how teams are stronger or weaker after the international break and obviously we're playing them both soon.

  "Thursday I went with Jay Cope to watch the Nando's Cup semi-final. Man City against Chelsea. Two of the three best women's teams in the country, right, so very interesting to see the levels. Yes, we played City recently but I thought I might learn something by watching them again. Also, it was convenient." City had an average CA of 128, Chelsea were streets ahead on 143, and the game was much more tactical than we got in the WSL 2.

  "Last night was Tranmere versus Crawley. You might have seen I was with Diggy Doggy and Bigg Dogg in the owner's box. Fun to hang out with those guys but the main thing was to support Jackie Reaper and check out our players, past, present, and future. Both teams are in deep doo-doo at the bottom of the league, so it was quite attritional until the second half, when Josh Owens did one of his long throws and caused havoc. Yeah, I'll tell you what, Tony Herbert, our new centre back, is looking great. I'd say he's Championship quality already." He had moved to CA 111 and if he avoided injury, he would arrive at Chester in fine fettle.

  "So, yeah, that's what I did this week. Wait, that wasn't the question." Good-natured laughs. "How do I choose? It really depends what's on that particular night. I'm finding football really interesting right now and I'm learning a lot." And hoovering up XP, too, which is why I had been grinding so hard. I was only 50 short of unlocking the final Attribute.

  The woman who had asked the last question was waving her hands at me. I pointed at her and she asked a follow-up.

  "Oh, apparently that last question was a trick to get me to confess to being interested in the Fulham job. Soz, did you say Fulham?" My tone got some laughs, but I realised there was a nervousness in the room. Fulham had sacked their manager recently because they were on a run of six straight defeats, plummeting towards the Premier League drop zone. "I know there's a vacancy but I didn't know my name was being mentioned. Am I being mentioned?" Huge buzz of chat. "This guy's saying I'm the bookies' favourite. Er, don't gamble, people. You're just throwing your money away." Another buzz. "Here, I know how to deal with this."

  I got my phone out and dialled. I spoke into the mic so everyone could hear.

  "Hey, snookums! Hey, squishy! Listen, I'm doing my talk thing and they're asking about a job offer. Can you check if I got a letter from Fulham?" I left a pause. "What do you mean, you're not home?" Another tiny pause. "Where?" I gave the audience an annoyed glance, then spoke more quietly. Still into the microphone, of course. "Gin tasting in Derbyshire with a real-life Thursday Murder Club?"

  Someone called out that Emma was in the Glendale Logistics box, but that I was right about the gin.

  "Okay, next topic."

  Amazingly, the audience hadn't finished with the Fulham rumours.

  "People are asking me to confirm that I don't want the job. I'm not going to do that because people are making money from these stories. It's just liars and grifters desperate for clicks and attention and if we engage with the story we give it validation. When I'm thinking about leaving Chester, you'll know about it." There was an even more desperate murmur, which made me laugh. "Guys, please, come on. There must have been 200 job openings in the time since I became a manager and if I responded to every rumour I wouldn't have got any work done. I'm gonna have to politely ask you to shut up about Fulham now. Hearts was real, this isn't. Okay, good. Who's next?"

  I pointed to a nerdy type.

  "He asks, if we're the 9th best team, why are we 7th? Okay, first of all, I don't like it when people remember things that I said. I'm a vibes-based personality type, okay? But the difference between 7th and 9th is nothing, really. A couple of penalties given or not given. An offside. A tackle that leaves a bruise versus one that breaks a leg. But I will say that although we haven't often been stronger than our opponents this season, we've had more flexibility. We can shift tactics and we can shift players around the pitch without using substitutes. Parachute payments give you 16 points a season, but how many does tactical flexibility give you? Five? Eight? I don't know, but it's something. Next."

  I picked an older guy.

  "Why is our training so much better than other teams who also have elite coaches and even better facilities? Which, yeah, it's actually a great question. First is the raw material. Think about Wrexham in recent years." Someone called out, provoking laughter. "Did he say, 'I'd rather not?' So Wrexham were buying mature players, old guys, the finished product. We've almost always gone to the other extreme where we've signed or bought potential. To grow, you need room to grow. From what I've seen, Wrexham have pivoted and have been signing guys with a high ceiling, or guys they hope have a high ceiling. That's when we see how good their training is, right? Because until recently it has been more about maintaining levels than lifting levels.

  "The second thing is, do other clubs have elite coaches? I went to watch Helge Hagen at SK Brann and I thought it was a good session. It looked good, felt good. But I was talking to Helge recently, checking on how he was feeling because I was worried the time since he joined had been overly turbulent, and he said, it's tough. My head was spinning with all the things he might be about to complain about. He goes, yeah, it's really tough. The training. The levels are so high." I mimed wiping my brow. "Whoo! Our sessions are top notch but we also give more personal feedback than most clubs. We don't let individual players slack off and I know when they're falling behind." I took a sip of water. "I just think that sometimes we hear 'little old Chester' and 'plucky old Chester' so many times that we forget what we actually are. We are a menace. We are a beast. We are the big dogs. We can be slowed but we cannot be stopped."

  That got some chants going; I got the next topic going.

  "The inevitable Emiliano question! Yeah, look, it's simple. He's a good lad. He's popular around the training ground, you know, with the staff. That kind of thing's important to me. The issue is that I want him to play the Chester way while he wants Chester to play the Emiliano way. I mean, fine, yeah, you need grand ambitions, right? Julius Caesar didn't want to retire and grow watermelons, did he? He wanted to be the king, so he crossed the Rubicon. He took history by the scruff of its neck. I don't mind a bit of that, you know? The thing is, if Julius Caesar had crossed the River Dee and marched on my stadium, he would have gone home with no points and his troops would be chanting, 'you're getting sacked in the morning'. Next."

  I chose a rough-looking young dude who kept it snappy.

  "Why did I sell Dazza? Okay, so what it was, right, was I read this article about how over the course of your life, everyone ingests an average of six spiders when they're sleeping. I read that and thought, huh, what sort of stuff is Dazza carrying around inside him? Do you know the movie Alien?"

  There were some laughs, but most of the listeners didn't think it was funny. Can't win 'em all.

  "Chest-bursting scene. No? Okay, fine. The real answer is, I sold Dazza for money." Some laughter, some groans. "No, but really. I've been floating on air all week. We've got substantial funds. I think when I promised the drone tour all those years ago, one of the things I wanted to have in place was an X-ray machine. We still don't have one but we can easily afford it now. If the medical team say we'd benefit from one, bosh. I mean, we would benefit but is our workflow really that bad? Can't we pop down to the clinic? It could be that the benefit of having a quick diagnosis on a Saturday or Sunday is worth the couple of hundred thousand pounds it would cost. Okay, well, for the first time we can really have those conversations - thanks to Dazza."

  The dude shouted out a follow-up.

  "Did I sell Dazza because he pissed me off? Short answer, no, of course not. Long answer, yes, do not defy me." I left the longest pause I could, which was barely over two seconds, before laughing at the range of shocked faces. "Guys, come on. I'm not that bad... I hope. It was a good deal for Chester. You don't need to overthink it."

  The dude said more things.

  "Why sell him to Middlesbrough, you know Dazza's going to score against us today. Yeah, he probably is. So what? The season has 46 games. Next season will have 46 games. The season after that... will have 38 games." Cheers. "Selling Dazza will keep us improving. If we keep improving, amazing things are possible. As soon as we say this is it, this is how high we can go, let's freeze this in amber for the rest of time, that's when things turn to shit. I'm gonna sell a lot of players you love. Christian, Fitzroy, Wallace, Dazza. We have made or will make a profit on all those players. Remember that drone tour conversation? I said I didn't want to take money from fans. I wanted to stop running the Boost the Budget campaign. I wanted to keep the ticket prices low. This is how we do it while powering ahead. We 19x our investment on Darren Smith."

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Someone at the back yelled.

  "What are you going to do with all the money? Okay, well, this fucking drone video's gonna cost a fortune." Laughter. "So we bought Vincent Addo, who will be on the bench today. I'd like to give him minutes." I might have to, if Youngster did a fake head injury. "Vini's got Dazza's old squad number, by the way. 16. In case you want to spend some money in the club shop." There were many blank faces. "Yeah, that was lame marketing. I'm not a natural salesman. Okay so the most important thing I did with the Dazza money was to give Magnus a pay rise." He went from getting 1,400 a week to a much chunkier but still inadequate 3,500. He was also getting 750 as a physio/coach, and he had done very well out of his time at Saltney Town.

  "As for what the media likes to call my war chest, I'm not planning to dip into it too much just yet because it's helpful to have cash on hand when you're negotiating with a bank for a loan. We need big money for the PetPride Stand, don't we? But we'll get another big chunk of TV money in the summer, so we're in a good place.

  "There are a couple of things I'm looking at investing in soonish. We have expanded Bumpers a lot in recent years, and our energy costs have obviously gone up as every new building has gone up. The McNally has solar panels and batteries, but the new away end doesn't.

  "Basically what I'm thinking is that the running costs for Bumpers should be minimal so that the club can keep it operational long-term. The dream is to have it so cheap to run that you could keep the entire setup even if you were in League One. Does that make sense? Solar, batteries, heat pumps, and it will basically be almost self-sufficient. Kinda. Sorta. If you squint.

  "The second thing I'm interested in doing is adding another 3G pitch to our collection. We've got two full-size ones at Bumpers, one at Hoole, one at Ellesmere Port. They're all making money for the club while promoting health and fitness in those areas. I want to get back to expanding that side of our, er, business, if you'll let me use that word - I can't think of a better one - because the money we spend now will pay off for years."

  Someone yelled, 'spend it on transfers!'

  I did a big, smiling sigh. "We can afford some transfer fees but not the wages. We need to reduce our cost base and increase our revenues. The way I see it is that these investments raise the club's floor. Our budget in League Two was 30 grand a week. I want to get our investments generating 30 grand a week. Imagine we drop to League Two and we've got a budget that lets us compete before we even sell a single season ticket! Before we talk to a single sponsor! In that scenario, the club's floor is as a heavyweight in League Two and that’s a minimum.

  "Can we secure our future without compromising on the quality of the first team squad? Yeah, I think so. If we put one pitch somewhere and do some energy investments, that's a million quid. There will be plenty left for transfers but let me say one thing - success is built, not bought."

  Loads of hands went up. I picked the guy I judged least likely to recommend a player he had read about in some obscure corner of the internet.

  "The guy asks if I will take some of the money to build a scouting network. The short answer is no because having almost zero cost for scouting levels the playing field.

  "Clearly, if I jump ship and go to - what was it, Millwall? - then Chester would have to start building a scouting network, sure. But my hope is that we can exist without scouts - except Fleur, who is top and is really helpful - until I get my analytics company thriving.

  "You might think, well, that's dubious. We'd be completely reliant on Max for our player recruitment. Like, if you ever sacked me I'd jack up the price of the data and stuff like that." I looked up at the ceiling. "It depends how gruesome the sacking is," I laughed. "Nah but honestly, I want Chester to do well long-term. I see Chester as being the showcase of what my analytics can do, right? If you're in the Prem and staying in the Prem long-term because of my data, that's the ultimate in marketing. I can sell our advice to one club in every country in the world. I'm not gonna starve, I promise you."

  It was just a phrase, but it reminded me of what Youngster and Cheb had been doing outside.

  "Um... none of that matters if the data isn't good, right? I think it's quite good at the moment and getting better. We're ready to expand the inputs, so I'm sending Spectrum and Pradeep over to Brazil. They're gonna monitor the installation of our cameras at Corinthians, Palmeiras and S?o Paulo, and that's gonna give us amazing data that will help us refine the tool. Plus we will be able to alert those clubs if an oppo player looks amazing. If there's a mega genius, I'm gonna fly over and check him out for myself. Heh. Great question, thanks. I think maybe one more? Two more?"

  The next one came from Crackers, a blind fan.

  "Crackers asks if the drone video will be available in braille." That got a big laugh. "Okay, apparently Crackers was joking and he wants to ask his real question, which is can I explain today's line up? I guess, sure. So Middlesbrough have been doing a 4-4-2 diamond recently and I thought it would be fun to match them. Except we have slightly different versions. Theirs is narrow. The left- and right-sided midfielders are basically central midfielders, and there's a DM and a CAM. Their diamond is tight, yeah? The nerds in the room will realise what that means - the centre backs, central midfielders, and strikers are all in a line, which goes against the core principles of positional play. You don't see that very often these days.

  "My diamond is much wider, which creates an interesting contrast, but in the end, it’s all about the players.

  "Swanny's in goal." Owen Elmham's 'INJ' note on the squad page had changed from a dark red to a light red, meaning his injury was healing. He would be back in a couple of weeks.

  "Back four is Helge, Zach, Fitzroy, and Nasa. Helge gives us some extra height, which will be useful against Dazza." Also useful in lowering our average CA. "Nasa's our best pure defender, which will be great for stopping the left back from getting crosses in." Also great for lowering our average CA.

  "Midfield is Youngster as defensive mid, Joel Reid on the left, Andrew Harrison on the right. Great in those roles and if we need to change formation, we don't need to change players." The longer I could keep Andrew and his wonderfully low CA on the pitch, the better.

  "Pascal as the attacking midfielder. Wibbers and Colin up front. It's gonna be windy so I want to keep the ball low and build slowly." Everyone seemed to take that comment at face value, not asking what to me was the obvious question. If I wanted to build slowly, why had I left a huge hole in the centre of midfield? How was the ball ever going to reach Pascal?

  Answer: it wasn't. AhahahAHAHAhahaha!

  Our eleven had a CA of 124.3. Boro's was 126. With home advantage, the sides would be dead level. Would I take a draw? I'd love a draw!

  "What you can expect to see today is Boro dominating the centre of midfield, simply because they have players there and we don't, but we'll dominate the wings. We will have a left back and a left midfielder against their right back. If that's an olden-days battle, we win, right? Because we crush the flanks and then roll inwards and hit the centre backs from the sides. Anyway, we won't have it all our own way, that's for sure. The final result will come down to individual duels.

  "There are the obvious ones, like Youngster against the CAM and Pascal against the DM. Can Joel and Andrew create threat on their wings?

  "The juiciest battle, obviously, is Dazza against Zach Green. They had epic battles in training and I know Zach is pumped for this one. He has been out with the US Men's National Team’s B-list and he's got a taste for the high life. He wants to break into the full squad, wants to play for his country, and he's not gonna let Dazza get in his way. It's gonna be tasty, guys!"

  ***

  At 2:59, everything was ready. The players were in position, twisting and turning, the referee and his assistants were all set, and both sets of fans were in full voice. Some of the noise they were making was being lost to the wind, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  I clicked my head left and right. Go time.

  The ref put his whistle to his mouth and was about to blow when he saw the Brig and a police officer jogging onto the pitch towards him. The ref went over to check out the sitch, and the three guys had a chat. The Brig spoke into a walkie-talkie. It all seemed very serious, and I was actually getting worried until I saw that Youngster was slinking away from the area. Cheb couldn't look me in the eye.

  "Oh my God," I said.

  "What do you think it is?" said Sandra.

  I rubbed my eyebrows. "If this is a bomb scare, someone's going to the bomb squad."

  "What?"

  Brig, the cop, and the ref moved towards the tunnel, where they continued to discuss whatever was going on. I stepped near and was ignored. "Oi," I said, because that's what Max Best would say in this situation. "What's going on?"

  The Brig stiffened. "That's confidential, sir. It's a security issue."

  The police guy was too excited not to blab. "There's a drone, Max! A drone!"

  A laugh burst out of me. "What? A drone? Who cares?"

  "I care," said the Brig. "It's a security issue."

  "What's the issue? Some idiot got a toy for Christmas."

  The Brig sighed. "It could be anything. The drone could be carrying a political message or an offensive flag. It could be illegally broadcasting the game. It could be carrying an IED."

  "A bomb?" This was too much. I pointed to the sky. "Have you seen this wind? There's a hundred mile an hour wind. No-one's risking a thousand-pound drone to save ten quid streaming the match."

  "That's why if there is a drone flying around," said the Brig, "it has to be military grade. That's what scares me."

  "Scares you?" I said, in disbelief. "Nothing scares you."

  His eyes widened. "Many things scare me, sir. The last time I was this afraid was in the SAS." My jaw dropped open; the Brig rarely talked about his military past and never about being in the elite commando unit. On hearing the three magic letters, the referee got a boyish look and was rapt as the Brig spoke with unusual charisma, as though the four of us were gathered around a campfire. "We had been on a dangerous mission deep in enemy territory, painting targets with laser sights to guide precision munitions. Mission accomplished, time to get out of Dodge. Our exfil turned to shit and we had to improvise. Turns out, our maps were laughably out of date. I tell you what - we weren't laughing.

  "We survived off the land, made painstaking progress towards the border. Very possibly the most militarised border in the world. The one you're thinking of? Not that one. The next one? Not that one, either. Finally, we made it to the last river we had to cross. The currents were treacherous and the enemy patrols even more so. We crept along the bank, pulses racing faster with every step closer to safety and freedom. One false move and..." His expression darkened. "We got within sight of our goal. It was a moment in time thrilling beyond anything I had ever experienced before or since, but then, just as we seemed to be home and dry, a goat farmer saw us.

  "What to do? Give him the red card and we'll be home in time for supper. Let him off with a warning and who knows? Maybe he has a walkie-talkie round his belt. Maybe he calls us in. As it turned out - " The Brig's handset beeped. He pressed a button and spoke into it, then listened to the reply. It was a woman's voice on the other end. The Brig stood straight. "All clear."

  I put my hands to my head. "What the fuck are you talking about? All clear? So what! Finish the story, dude!"

  "Negative," he said, which I think was him speaking American to wind me up. He turned to the ref. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter. You handled it perfectly. Were you in the forces? No? You would have done well. Cool under pressure."

  Frustrated, I went a few steps back into my dugout. Sandra said, "What was that?"

  "Just the Brig droning on," I said. I clapped my hands and shouted across the pitch, "Okay lads, let's go!"

  It was five past three.

  ***

  The first ten minutes went as expected. Zach and Dazza started smashing into each other right away, which was ideal for the writers of Chester FC fan fiction but got me stressing about red cards. Youngster delayed a free kick by tying his shoelaces. The goalies hesitated about whether to rush out to catch crosses or not - the ball would sometimes get caught on a gust of wind.

  Boro had two modes of attack. The first involved high passes forward for their big strikers to get headers on. The wind made a low-percentage tactic even worse. The second involved patient build-up that got the full backs into position to cross into the box. The wind made a low-percentage tactic even worse.

  Meanwhile, we played some decent football by keeping the ball on the deck, but we couldn't get the forward players involved. Funny, that.

  I stood on the touchline, frowning, looking worried.

  Sandra covered her mouth and said, "Quit it."

  "What?"

  "Quit pretending you don't know what's wrong. It's winding me up."

  I scratched my head. "It's just baffling. I mean... we've got good strikers. Why aren't we creating chances?"

  "I'm warning you," she said. "The wind puts me on edge at the best of times and I don't have enough nerves to watch you doing an acting disasterclass."

  "This is great acting," I said. "Wait till you see it on TV. The commentator in a hushed tone. Max Best looking anxious there. You don't see that very often. The co-comms is all, let's hope his nervousness doesn't transmit to his players. Ooh, do you think that's something I could actually do?"

  "I hate this season."

  I laughed. "I'm starting to like it." I remembered I was supposed to be acting worried, and slipped right back into that mode.

  Sandra made an enraged grunting noise and pushed me back into the dugout. "Sit," she said, which made me laugh some more.

  I obeyed because from the bench I could relax instead of doing a performance, and because I had earned enough XP to unlock the next - and final - Attribute.

  This felt like a big moment in my career.

  I went to the perk shop, spent the money, and was beyond aggravated to realise the 'cell dance' animation was happening even though there was only one cell left! The cell turned yellow and stayed like that for about 15 seconds.

  Then it revealed a word:

  Crossing.

  Very, very good to know!

  But before I investigated this new data point, I nipped back into the perk shop. Unlocking the final Attribute had also unlocked... nothing. That was disappointing but not totally surprising. I knew there were 'hidden attributes' in the old version of Soccer Supremo that I had played for hours on end. I was pretty sure that two of them were Loyalty and Professionalism. I would happily spend good XP to make those numbers visible. It would save me a fuckton of hassle. No more Emilianos! Many more Christian Fierces!

  All was not lost.

  There were a few perks that had been available since the start of the curse. For example, there was Player Comparison, which would allow me to look at two players side-by-side and compare their numbers. Maybe I needed to buy those 'fundamental' perks to get more advanced ones. Player Comparison was only 630 XP, so if I wanted, I could buy it today and I would barely miss the XP. It might be worth it just so I didn't have to see the words 'player comparison' in the shop for the billionth time.

  Okay, Crossing. How good a player was at kicking the ball from a wide area into the middle. Crosses were normally high enough for someone in the middle to meet with a header, but low crosses could be effective, too. I would have to do some testing to see if this Attribute only covered the old-school winger crosses, or if it also included whipped passes that curled around defenders.

  We had plenty of good crossers of the ball in our squad. Roddy, Cheb, Wibbers, Lewis.

  Middlesbrough had a couple on the pitch. Their full backs.

  The back of my neck went haywire and I shot out of the dugout. Danger!

  "What?" said Sandra, but just hearing her speak had a soothing effect. We already knew Boro's full backs were good at crossing. I had sold Dazza to Boro for that very reason - he fit into how they wanted to play.

  "I just had a homework panic."

  I crouched and watched as the away team pinged the ball around. They passed to Dazza, who had Zach jostling him. Dazza touched the ball to the CAM, who moved sideways, apparently unbothered by the attentions of Youngster. The CAM slipped a delicious pass between Fitz and Nasa. Boro's left back had run the length of the pitch and he got to the ball, leaned back, and clipped it into the middle.

  Swanny wasn't sure if he could get it, but for once there was no wind at all, and the ball sailed onto the kitchen counter-sized forehead of Darren Smith.

  Dazza watched as the ball hit the net, and he sprinted towards the Harry McNally terrace, arms aloft, jubilant. I watched in amazement as he prepared to launch himself into the stand. The fuck was he doing? Was he going to kung-fu kick a fan who had been giving him lip? No, it was nothing like that.

  Just in time, Dazza realised what he was doing. He skidded to a stop, turned around, and tried to run away, but was swamped by his new teammates.

  "Fucking hell," I said. I went to the side of the dugout, where there was a special laptop. I opened it, typed, and hit send.

  On the electronic advertising boards and the two giant screens came the text:

  You play for THEM now, ya big doofus!

  Boro's captain spotted the text and drew Dazza's attention to it before giving him a head rub. Dazza bent and covered his face while his team laughed at him (in the nicest possible way). He shook his head a few times and gestured apologetically to the Chester fans.

  I hovered my fingers above the keyboard, thought, and typed. I had to split the text.

  When you see your ex on a first date...

  ...and she walks into a glass door.

  Dazza read the giant screen and looked at me. My lip-reading skills told me he said, "I scored!"

  The ref came over and told me I wasn't allowed to mentally disintegrate my opponents by means of in-game text. I said I had nothing to do with it, and that it was actually an advertisement for a forthcoming John Liner show in our venue. He didn't seem to believe me.

  ***

  The next ten minutes went flawlessly, with my shitty formation preventing us from creating chances while giving us the appearance of trying really hard and playing nice footy. But at half past three, disaster struck.

  There was a medical emergency in the crowd. I wondered who had been affected. Mr. Yalley? A Sikh gentleman? A member of the Welsh army? I didn't want to learn too much about the incident, just in case. It took about six minutes to resolve, and in that time I continued to gather experience points.

  The medical emergency meant two things. The most immediate one was that Pascal had time to beg me to tweak the formation because the current one wasn't working. I glared at Youngster. If he hadn't instigated this foolishness with the sunset, I would have been able to wait until half time before making a tactical change. As it was, I could hardly tell Pascal that things were going to plan. He knew they weren't! I shook my head, annoyed at myself. If I was going to do bad tactics, I needed to keep Pascal out of the squad entirely.

  "Okay," I said, trying to think of different ways to achieve my goals. "3-5-2 with Helge and Nasa wide." That would give us no attacking threat down the sides, while making Boro's full backs even more dangerous. Heh.

  Pascal squirted water into his gob. "I was thinking Bestball."

  "What?"

  "Relationism."

  "Why?"

  "We are struggling because of the wind. With Bestball, the passes are shorter, they are mostly on the ground, and Middlesbrough are in any case a mostly central team. If we push down the sides, they'll have to change their approach because otherwise we'll swarm all over them, and if they change their approach, what do they change it to? You said it yourself that they don't have much of a plan B."

  I eyed Sandra, and in that moment neither of us were thinking about losing the match. "I like it," she said.

  I opened my mouth to say that our lineup wasn't ideally suited for Bestball, because we had Helge, Nasa, Fitz, and Joel who either weren't naturals or didn't have much experience of it. But hey - this was Pascal's plan. If he thought it would work, he would blame himself when it bombed. I would look like the normal Max Best, trying things, taking big swings. "Let's do it. Sandra, I'll take the lead for a bit."

  "Got it."

  As the match was about to get underway, I switched us into the Relationism module, and our players started to drift closer. It was subtle at first, but after a couple of minutes we were squashed up at the side and Middlesbrough were trying to keep their shape while compressing. It wasn't a good approach because they were leaving insane amounts of space on the opposite side of the pitch.

  "They're betting we won't be able to play a good pass out that distance in this wind," I said, crouching as I scanned the pitch while studiously ignoring the offers to pop imaginary bubbles and earn temporary boosts for the lads.

  Sandra overhead. "I think they're not prepared for this."

  "Why wouldn't they be? They know we have this in our locker."

  "We barely use it."

  I shot to my feet, alarmed. "Fuck. This is gonna slay. Unsubscribe! Unsubscribe!"

  Too late. Pascal had taken a leadership role inside the blob, and he was yelling at his mates. Zach was at the base. Nasa was outside as the last defender. Wibbers was miles away on the other side of the pitch, which seemed odd given that he was brilliant in the blob. Colin was standing on the shoulder of the last defender, which was keeping Boro's defensive line pushed back.

  The ball pinged around, we moved up ten yards, back five, up ten, and then Zach cracked a pass hard to the left.

  Wibbers tracked it, anticipated what the wind would do, and caught the ball on his chest. He surged ahead but surprised everyone by playing a ball towards the penalty area much earlier than seemed necessary.

  Colin Beckton reacted sharpest, took a touch, and lashed the ball past the goalie.

  I pulled my hood down, covered my face with my hands, and screamed. When I got back up, Sandra put her arm around me and said, "You are shit at losing." She slapped me on my back.

  An excited Pascal came running and threw himself into a hug. He was so delighted with himself, with the team, with football, it melted away my frustrations. "Let's go again!" he said.

  I had a better idea. "Or we switch it up, go back to normal, then blast them with Bestball again before half time. Don't give them the chance to find their feet."

  "Yes!" he cried. "That's perfect. Yes!"

  "Go back to diamond," I said, looking at the tactics screen. "But I'll tweak it."

  "Kay," he said, scampering away, skipping away.

  Sandra eyed me. "What are we - ?"

  "We're gonna swap Joel and Helge."

  "Helge left midfield?"

  "Yes. Zach will do big diags to him."

  "What about the wind?"

  "What about it? Let's cause some havoc." That was a big tweak I could do without altering the formation. How would I use my one deformation? "If we're hitting that zone... let's nudge Pascal to the left. He'll be closer to the second balls."

  "Let's use Wibbers for that."

  I nodded. "Because he's got better anticipation. Bosh."

  We got to work conveying those orders, while I made them happen on the tactics screen.

  As Middlesbrough were preparing to counter our weird tippy-tappy football, we suddenly switched to bombardment mode. Ian Evans had never done anything so rudimentary.

  Zach pounded passes high to the left. If the ball stayed in play, Helge won the header. Most of the time, that led to nothing, but one time, Wibbers got the ball and sped forward. Pascal was in the second striker slot and he sprinted to the left, bringing a centre back with him. Wibbers slipped the ball into the gap that had opened up, and Colin was in the right place, right time, to apply the finish.

  2-1, and this time I danced around, celebrating for real.

  "Fucking brilliant," I shouted, hugging Physio Dean, hugging Livia, hugging my laptop. "That's gorgeous. Ian Evans meets, fucking, I don't know... a Roger Federer backhand."

  Pascal came over. "We should switch again!"

  I bit my lip, because I was having way too much fun and if we weren't careful, we were going to really shoot ourselves in the foot. I opened the Live Tables screen and saw that if results stayed as they were, we would still be 7th. "Fine," I said. "Bestball."

  "Yess," hissed Pascal, as he ran back onto the pitch.

  I walked around the technical area, head in hands, because my heart was racing. This was far too enjoyable. Even without me doing the Candy Crush-style gameplay, this way of playing - mercilessly creating and exploiting opportunities - was addictive. Middlesbrough were making it easy for us by having such a rigid and predictable way of playing, but still, it was far too much fun. I rubbed my temples. "Don't get promoted. Don't get promoted."

  I tried to give myself a mental cold shower by imagining the Premier League table after 7 games. In 20th place, Chester. Played 7, lost 7. Zero points.

  Zero points, Max. From hero to zero. Don't be a fucking idiot, Max.

  Fortunately, Dazza had used the goal breaks to gather his mates and give them a crash course in defending against Bestball. One of the main dangers from our point of view was a fast break, and one of the 'secrets' Dazza knew was that a throw-in was a great way to trigger such a break. With our players squashed into one zone, a long-ish throw could bypass the blob and cause counters.

  It happened.

  We were on the left, working our way up the pitch, when a tackle came in. The ball hit Youngster on the way out. A Boro player grabbed a ball from a cone and hurled it towards Dazza. The Aussie flicked it behind him and the second striker was away. Fitzroy was the closest defender and he sprinted backwards but his hamstring popped.

  The striker neared the penalty area, unaware that Fitz was on the deck. Swanny rushed out and made himself big. The striker pushed the ball past him... but it went just wide!

  Sandra turned away in disbelief. "Fuck me, he's got to score that."

  Physio Dean sprinted onto the pitch to check on Fitzroy, but we all saw what happened. I blew air through my cheeks. "Two months out, do you reckon?"

  "Good job you got his transfer all lined up. Who should we put on instead?"

  I looked at the options. Magnus was too good. Peter Bauer had played almost all his football in England as one of three centre backs. He was CA 121 these days, which was higher than Christian Fierce, but he was never going to beat Dazza in an aerial duel. I didn't want to destroy Peter's Morale by making him look shit, but we had the excuse of Fitz's injury. "Peter. And we'll switch Zach to the other striker."

  That pissed Sandra off. "No fucking way! That's too much! Dazza will body Peter. We need Zach for that duel!"

  I reacted sternly. "I'm worried about Zach losing his temper after all these challenges! You remember him and Dazza swinging at each other in training! If it happens here, Zach's off and we're fucked."

  Sandra glared at me but she couldn't fault my logic.

  Peter got ready to come on, but out on the pitch there was some kind of delay. Sandra said with extreme weariness, "What is it now? Does Youngster think he's a physio or what?"

  I peered. "I think he's... Yeah, he's laying on hands."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He's doing a faith healing. He's going to cure Fitz's hamstring through the power of prayer." I knew why this was happening but I was annoyed regardless, that is, until Youngster asked the referee to join him. That got me cackling like anything. "The cheeky fuck. He won't let anything stop him from doing good."

  Youngster helped Fitz to leave the pitch - so, so slowly - then he signalled he had a question. I bent and he whispered, "Should I do it now?"

  "No. Second half or it won't work."

  He returned to his zone.

  The match restarted with us still in Bestball mode. I thought about switching it off, but Boro were attacking. Their DM played a high ball towards Dazza, who had his strike partner already running into position for the flick-on. My heart leaped - this was a great scenario! Dazza against Peter and the other striker was faster than Zach!

  The ball got closer and closer. Time slowed. Dazza was watching the flight of the ball, and timed his jump - no! He missed his header completely. Peter Bauer had given him a cheeky little nudge at the exact right moment, then nodded the ball to the left.

  "Holy shit," said Sandra. "That was beautiful." Dazza was yelling at the referee, telling him there had been a foul. "The ref didn't spot it at all." She took a step towards me and gave me a cheeky little nudge. "Peter's ready to play in a two."

  "Yeah," I said, miserably. "He's so intelligent he doesn't need to win headers. His positioning is so good he doesn't need to outmuscle strikers. And by the way, he's not exactly weak, is he?"

  "And he's amazing on the ball," said Sandra.

  My head snapped up. I had been so focused on Peter's frailties I had forgotten how much of a weapon he was going forward. He was in a mass of players on the left of the pitch, at its base, when suddenly he dribbled at full speed through the blob, using Helge and Joel as blockers. I laughed in surprise and delight as he exchanged passes with Wibbers, and suddenly we had attackers running everywhere at mad angles.

  Peter passed to Pascal, who gave it to Colin Beckton. Colin lined up a long shot, clearly thinking about getting his hat trick - Emiliano FC - and as a defender slid in, Colin crisply played the ball back to Pascal, who flicked it to Peter, who took the ball into the penalty area and dinked it over the goalkeeper. A finish Messi would have been proud of, carried out at pace by our centre back.

  "Oh, no!" I cried, stomping around the technical area, pulling my cheeks down, torn between laughter and dismay. "Oh no," I said, as the celebrations shook the Deva, as the subs, coaches, and physios buffeted me. I checked the time. 3:49. Four minutes past what would normally have been the end of the half. Something stirred to my left. My opponent was making a change.

  Middlesbrough are adopting a more defensive approach.

  "Christ, no," I said. "He's frazzled. He thinks it's nearly half time." I stared in horror as the referee's assistant moved to the touchline. He held up his electronic board and showed that there would be 12 minutes of injury time.

  Twelve!

  Boro had switched to a pure 4-4-2. Men behind ball. Just survive until half time and regroup in the dressing room.

  "Attack!" I screamed. "Attack!"

  Sandra nearly pushed me out of the way in her haste to reorganise. She was in charge. She moved us into a formation I didn't have in my arsenal: 2-4-4. Wibbers wide left. Helge as a striker!

  We pounded Boro's goal. The stadium vibrated. The fans chanted. Attack, attack, attack attack attack. 10 minutes left. 8. 5. Still we pressed forward. We crossed to the near post. We crossed to the far post. We chipped, lobbed, and dinked. We took shots from the edge of the area. Those shots took deflections and spun at mad angles. When the ball was cleared, Dazza tried to get control and dribble out. Tried to buy a free kick that would give his defenders a second to breathe.

  But Peter didn't give away those free kicks - he either stepped in front of Dazza to take the ball, or he delayed the Aussie long enough for Youngster to nip it away from his toes.

  Dazza's match rating fell. Not many strikers scored and slipped below 7 out of 10, but it happened today.

  The ref blowing for half time was like stopping a one-sided boxing match.

  The time was 4:04. One delay in the second half would be enough to warrant a fasting break.

  ***

  I sat in my little manager's room, alone in the dark, with my head throbbing.

  By the end of the break, I felt a little calmer. A little more confident. Youngster was going to do his fake injury, wasn't he? I would replace him with Vincent Addo. CA 102 replacing CA 132. Losing 30 points in one fell swoop! Boro would revert to their initial style of play and would come at us through the middle. The wind would die down a little, making their way of playing more tenable. It would be a tough debut for Vini, but one he would learn from.

  Surely Boro could grab a couple of goals? 3-3 final.

  Come on, Max! You can do this!

  ***

  The teams emerged for the second half on schedule, but the referee didn't. I later learned that Briggy had told him his car was about to be towed because he was parked in a disabled bay. It delayed him by a minute. It was a scam that would normally have pissed me off because it would turn the ref against us, but under the circumstances, that wasn't a bad thing.

  Sandra had made the decision to switch us to a straight 4-4-2 with Andrew in the middle and Pascal on the right.

  That was smart, but Boro had come out re-energised. Having ridden their luck at the end of the first period, they were in high spirits. Let's do this!

  Time passed in blissfully large increments with nothing happening. We were still 7th in the Live Table.

  Then the magic moment. The world's worst actor jumped for a header and stumbled around the pitch like a drunk. "Taxi for Youngster," I mumbled, as Physio Dean stood by the touchline, desperate for the ref's permission to enter the field. Had there been anything wrong with the goofy little weirdo, I wouldn't have waited.

  The delay while Dean did the concussion checks ensured that the match would go well past sunset. I told Vini to get ready to replace Youngster. That wouldn't cost us a sub.

  The impossible question became how to get Cheb onto the pitch without massively increasing our chances of scoring again. I liked to think I was pretty clever, but I couldn't find a way to do it. He was so good he would improve us in almost every case. Unless I put him in goal...

  No, the only thing to do would be to wait as long as possible.

  Youngster wobbled off the pitch to huge applause, but the dozy idiot found his legs long enough to high-ten his mate and give him a big hug. Are you concussed or not? Jesus!

  I mentally rubbed my hands together. Here came the collapse!

  ***

  Five minutes later, Sandra said, "What's going on with Vini?"

  I groaned. "I don't know."

  She stared at the pitch. I stared at the numbers in my head. Vincent Addo. Match Rating 9.

  Why?

  What had I done to deserve this?

  "He's in the zone. Absolutely in the zone. I give up," I said. "Let's just go for it. 4-2-3-1. Joel left back. Peter, Zach, Cheb on the right. Vini and Magnus as pivots. Lewis, Pascal, Wibbers. Colin." That eleven had an average CA of 128.5. Boro had made a couple of changes that brought them down to CA 124.

  Sandra thought about it, then rushed around to make it happen before I could change my mind.

  ***

  As the temperature dropped, we turned up the heat. Joel Reid wasn't a natural left back but he was competent defensively and his Crossing was very good. He got into space on the left and demonstrated his talent. Cheb did the same on the right, but normally after doing a piece of skill to get past the first defender, which created better angles.

  Pascal and Wibbers were having a lovely old time. Colin was haring around like he was 20 years younger, happily making runs that put him into a great position or created space for a teammate. Lewis Lamarre brought even more pace and energy to the front line, while Vini and Magnus knew each other's games well from playing together at Saltney. They were a very good DM combo. So good that there was a six-minute stretch where Dazza didn't get a single touch of the ball.

  Our fourth goal came from a somewhat unlikely source. Zach, keen to make up for letting Dazza beat him to the header early in the game, pushed forward, kept going, and when he realised no-one was planning to tackle him, the American let fly. His shot was powerful but too close to the goalie. Too close, yes, but also, too hot to handle.

  The keeper spilled it, and Colin was there, as ever, to turn it into the net. 4-1. Three points for Chester; a hat trick and a leap into the McNally for Colin.

  Sandra was right. I was shit at losing.

  As we neared sunset, Cheb said something to the referee, who to his credit didn't hesitate in pausing the match. Cheb came over to the technical area, while Briggy let one of the Sikh guys onto the side of the pitch. He was carrying a little plate of curry. Youngster, the idiot, emerged from the tunnel. Vini said something to the ref, who came over to be part of the photo op. We would put this on the socials and on our billboard. I tried to think of the caption. Football United. Give Food Insecurity the Red Card.

  "Mr. Best!" cried Youngster. "Come in here."

  He wanted me in the photo. Reluctantly, I joined him, but not before I grabbed Sandra Lane. The photographer gave us a thumbs up, then I took the plate from Cheb. “You’ve eaten, now get back to work,” I said, before spooning a mouthful into my gob. “Oh, that’s good,” I said.

  I stayed over by the side, eating, thinking about the one hundred million pounds we would get if we were promoted to the Premier League. What could we do with that sort of money?

  Played 7, lost 7. Max Best has been relieved of his duties by Chester FC. No! Promotion was a non-starter. I would do far, far more good things for the world if I retained my allure - and my job. Slow and steady wins the race.

  Keep grinding. Keep improving your skills.

  With that in mind, I bought the Player Comparison perk. As expected, it was simply a tool to show players side by side. More useful now that I had unlocked the entire player profile, but no surprises. And no new perks in the shop.

  It seemed that the hidden attributes would stay hidden. I had eaten, but I was hungry for more. More skills, more power. More budget. I was looking for somewhere to put the plate when I realised that because of Youngster's shenanigans, every other 3 p.m. kick off had long since finished. I dipped into the Live Tables screen.

  Chester FC were in 6th position.

  We were in the playoff spots and we would finish the day in the playoff spots.

  "We have crossed the Rubicon," I said. The ref blew the final whistle. I put the plate on my seat in the dugout, grabbed Sandra, and pulled her towards the tunnel. "I need to talk to you right now."

  We went into the manager's room. I closed the door and took in a huge breath. I held up a finger.

  "We can't get promoted. Disaster. That's armageddon for us. But I have decided," I said, slowly, giving myself time to back out. "I have decided I want to go to the playoff final."

  Sandra's eyes lit up. "Okay," she said, inviting me to keep talking.

  "Wembley Stadium. Winner goes to the Premier League. Winner gets a hundred million quid. It's the richest game in the world. There will be 80,000 there for sure. That's two million quid for us."

  "One million per team, you mean."

  "No, it's two. There's a gentleman's agreement that the loser gets to keep all that money because the winner gets nine figures from the Prem. It's two million quid. A million to buy the next Wallace Wells, a million to do some good. Feed some fucking people. Unfuck this fucked up country to the pitiful extent we can. It'll be amazing for the club. The publicity. Chester FC's million-pound food drive. Everyone's second-favourite team. When we go again next season, everyone will be behind us. We'll ride that wave in style. Christ, did you see us today? How good are we? We're so good I can't even fuck us up. We overcome all the hurdles I put in our way! It's frustrating." I blinked. "I'm really proud of us."

  Sandra pushed forward a box of tissues but I waved them away. She said, "So the aim is to finish sixth? We're allowed to be 6th now, are we?"

  I scoffed. "3rd plays 6th, and 3rd will beat us. That's pointless, so, no, we're not allowed to be 6th. I want to be 5th. We beat the team in 4th, lose heroically to the team in 3rd in front of a massive crowd." I brightened. "Christian Fierce will play at Wembley!"

  Sandra waited patiently, then said, "The team who finish 4th plays the team who finish 5th, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "So if we're going to finish 5th... we might as well finish 4th."

  I frowned while I worked through her logic. It was pretty irrefutable, tbh. I brought up the league table in my head. "5th is six points away. 4th is... seven points away."

  Sandra seemed to be thinking exactly the same as me. "Max, it's one extra point. It's nothing. Okay, we might not get there, but we can aim for it, right? We can go hard at every match from now on."

  "Except before the cup matches," I said.

  "Of course," she said, in a soothing voice. "And you can give minutes to your Youth Team, course you can. But when it's like today and everyone's flying, we can lean into it. Play to win, have some fun."

  I dug my thumbs into acupressure points at the top of my eye sockets, then held my palms up. "Right. New goal for the season. Fourth. Yes, bosh, done. Fourth in the league, playoff final defeat, cup run. That's it, write that down, carve that into stone, because whatever happens from now... I'm not changing my mind."