Soccer Supremo 4

  The story so far:

  Max Best has taken lowly Chester FC to 13th in the EFL Championship, England’s second tier of football, one step below the Premier League. His plan had been to stay at Chester, consolidate, and then push for promotion next season, but an unexpected opportunity to help his sick mother has arisen - if he can raise truckloads of cash, and fast.

  To save his mother, Max needs to earn 80 million pounds over the next three years and seemed to be on track until his Welsh team, Saltney Town, experienced a crushing disappointment in the Champions League.

  Now Max is considering two far more lucrative contracts than Chester would ever be able to offer.

  Meanwhile, his mother’s best friend, Anna, has asked Max to drive her back to Poland so she can be buried with her parents.

  ***

  "Don’t start your book with that scene. Are you crazy?” My wife.

  ***

  1.

  It is rare to see Max Best in a state of indecision.

  He strolls around the showroom, knocking on different types of wood. "Ooh, listen to that. That was quality." He knocks again. "Beth, did you hear that? Beth, listen."

  "They all sound the same, Max. Just pick one."

  We're in Poland at the end of a long, long drive, and I'm not in the mood for his shit. I try to tamp down my annoyance, though. Maddening and slappable as he is, we've got the same goal. We want the same thing.

  We have to choose the perfect coffin.

  Max stares at one for some time. It's light brown and it's bigger than the rest. He places his hands on the top and slowly spreads them, before raising his palms in an excited way. "You know what this says to me?"

  I sigh. "I don't know, Max. What does it say to you?"

  "Raiders of the Lost Ark!" He raps his knuckles against the side a few times. "Good knockage. Yeah, you could put an Ark in there. Anyone opens it, they get zapped by the Lord Almighty. Unless..." He turns and looks at Anna, a tiny, elderly Polish woman. This whole trip is about her. About her and a whole lot more besides. Without taking his eyes away from Anna, Max addresses his German bodyguard. "Briggy," he says, "ask the coffin dude which model has the best ghost-containment technology."

  Briggy is as sick of Max's nonsense as any of us, but is as keen to get the right outcome as anyone. "I'm not going to do that."

  "Fine," pouts Max. He potters around with a scowl on his face, then turns away and when he faces us the next time, he's clearing his throat into his fist. "Keh," he says, actually saying the word. "Keh," he repeats.

  "Babes," says Emma, Max's fiancée, who at this point has to be thinking she could do better. "What are you doing?"

  "There's a lot of coffin in here," says Max. "Coughing. Do you get it?"

  "We're ready for the end of this scene, babes."

  Mercifully, that seems to skip us ahead about ten minutes. Max sticks his bottom lip out as he walks around, before finally he puts his hands on a dark-brown model with old-fashioned carvings around the side. "This one. But it's way too big. Ask if they have this in, like, child size."

  Anna says, "I'll take the normal size, please."

  "Nah," says Max. "That'd be a waste. We'll get a small one and just squash you in. You don't want to be sloshing around in there, do you?" Max looks at the various women in the room and finds he has no support. "Oh my God! Fine. Let's get decadent. Let's order the steak Fiorentina for the woman who eats 6 grams of food a day. Jeeeeeez! What the actual eff! Okay, Briggy, ask the guy about accessories."

  Briggy looks up at the ceiling and visibly counts to five. "What accessories do you wish to know about?"

  Max taps a spot on the top of the box. "Right about here, let's install a Nintendo Switch, just in case. Charge it up the morning of the funeral, attach that to the underside of the lid and Bob's your uncle. Anna's ghost will have, like, eight hours of gameplay to distract her. We'll be in France by the time it starts its vengeful rampage."

  I get to my feet. "I'll be in the car."

  Anna reaches out to take my hand, which stops me dead, to coin a phrase. She smiles, which makes me settle back on my chair, then she gets up. She shuffles over to Max and wraps her arms around him. "It's the right one. Thank you, Max."

  He puts one arm around her, ever so gently, and I'm reminded that he's actually good, he's actually decent, and his constant prattling is a defence mechanism, his gibbering is a feeble attempt to stop anyone from getting to know him. As he closes his eyes, clearly struggling, I feel a surge of affection. He takes a slow breath and I open my ears wide - he's finally going to say something profound. "I've had an idea," he says, his voice catching.

  "What's that?" says Anna.

  With his free hand, Max slides the lid of the coffin a few inches to the side and jerks his head towards it. "Try before you buy."

  Anna gives him a feeble slap. "No!"

  Max is a complete dick. He slides the lid another ten inches and when Anna tries to escape, he suddenly lifts her up. She squeals like a seven-year-old and kicks her feet. Max laughs and places her down, then offers the crook of his arm. Anna slaps him again, then takes his offer.

  They leave the showroom together with Anna grinning from ear to ear.

  THE DECISION

  by Bethany Alban

  In 2010, the NBA star LeBron James left one sports team with the intention of joining another. A relatively common event, but one that proved endlessly fascinating to basketball fans. Which team would he join? A nation awaited the announcement with bated breath, for it had the potential to shape the landscape of the sport for years to come. The announcement came, but it was simply the announcement of another announcement - James would reveal his decision during a live TV show. The programme was given a suitably grand title: The Decision.

  13 million people tuned in to discover James's next destination.

  In 2027, there is nowhere near the same levels of hype, but every football insider who has two brain cells to rub together is keenly awaiting Max Best's decision. Will he really leave Chester, the non-league team he has brought to within sight of the Premier League? If he leaves, where will he go? His decision will ripple across Europe, and perhaps even the world.

  Our trip hasn't started yet, and Max claims not to be thinking ahead, but we know our destination. We're taking Anna to her home city in the south of Poland, where she wants to be buried in the family grave. Along the way, Max Best will decide his own future.

  We're in Manchester, saying our last goodbyes.

  Anna met Max's mother in a nearby care home, where they became fast friends. When Max had the means to move his mother into a bungalow, along with a full-time carer, he insisted on bringing Anna, too. In the past couple of years, she has been fussed over and pampered. Nothing has been too much trouble and no expense has been spared. When she asked Max to drive her home, he dropped everything. The Decision? It has to wait.

  Anna, Max, and his mother enjoy one last cup of tea together in the bungalow. I imagine it being quiet, punctuated by sips of tea and the gentle murmurs of daytime TV contestants attempting to buy objects they can sell at a higher price. When the mugs are empty, Max waits outside, wondering what's being said inside.

  Is Anna telling Mary Best the truth? That she's leaving and won't be returning? Is she simply saying that she'll be taking the dog for a walk, knowing that Mary will not remember the encounter? Will Mary remember Anna at all?

  It's too heartbreaking to dwell on, but the worst moment is imminent. Anna has to say goodbye to her dog, Solly.

  Four women, a dog, and a player-manager get into a mini-van. Max is in the driving seat. He turns and looks us all in the eyes. "We do this without scaring the D-O-G, okay? That's the mission."

  He hears no objections and the luxurious black rental van smoothly accelerates, takes a few turns, and we pull up outside the home of a Geordie who looks like Julia Roberts. Gemma is the best friend of Emma Weaver, Max's fiancée. She's the boss of a fast-growing sports law firm, and has fought various legal battles for Max, including two against UEFA. Gemma is dating Andrew Harrison, who plays in the EFL Championship for Chester FC, which is managed (for now) by Max. Andrew's younger brothers - Michael and Noah - play for West Didsbury, a local club which is 'advised' by Max. We will meet a lot of footballers on this journey, but none more perfectly suited to take care of a dying woman's pet.

  Gemma and the Triplets (as they are known) are waiting for us in their front garden. Max helps Anna get out of the van. She calls her faithful companion down. "Solly, come. The Triplets want to take you for a walk."

  "That's right, buddy," says Andrew, bending to fuss Solly around the mouth, around the ears. The elderly dog's tail wags. Michael and Noah bend, too, and take their turns making Solly feel like a star player. The humans are doing a good job at making this easy for him.

  Gemma says, "Are you sure about this, Max?"

  Max is wearing an expensive hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. He's as fit as he has ever been and hours spent in the gym have given him a strong, upright posture. His face, though, is much more gaunt than usual. Managing in high-pressure football matches for Bayern Munich didn't turn his hair grey, but this current situation is affecting him deeply. He says, "Solly," and the dog wiggles towards him. After a rocky start, they are fast friends. That's how it goes with Max. "Do you want to live with me or the Triplets? Bark ten times for me, eleven for Triplets." The dog admires Max, tongue hanging out. "That's settled, then."

  "What does that mean?" says Gemma. "You didn't answer my question."

  "I can't take him to Scotland or the Middle East, can I?" He kneels and Solly uses the human's knees as a step, with the apparent intention of licking Max's face. Max favours him with a chin rub instead. "Anyway, he loves it here. He's got his park, his people, and you can drop him into my mum's house when you're popping out. He's got his corner and Angela has cupboards full of food and treats." Max stands, decisively. "No, he should stay here. He's a gobby Manc twat, isn't he? You can take the man out of Manchester, but you can't take Manchester out of the man."

  Gemma says, "If you take the man out of Manchester, you get Chester."

  Max smiles at her as though she’s a child who has counted to ten for the first time. "That's right, Gemma! Great spelling!"

  Emma, a stunning blonde who is just as sharp as her friend, elbows Max in the ribs. "Gems," she says, hugging her bestie.

  "Ems. See you in a few weeks."

  There are hugs and handshakes. The Triplets and Gemma take Solly's lead and take him towards his favourite spot in the whole world - his park. His tail slaps from side to side; he doesn't look back.

  Anna says, "Can I cry yet?"

  Max says, "No. He's gone from living with two elderly women to living with four energetic young people. The house is five times bigger and three of the guys work outside. Every day's gonna be a new adventure. Solly has levelled up. He has ascended."

  As we watch the four people cross the road, Solly straining against his lead to get to the park faster, it's hard to argue with Max's logic.

  Anna cries anyway.

  Max looks down and kicks a stray piece of gravel back onto the driveway. "Let's get into The Hearse. We've got a long drive ahead."

  ***

  We're going to a city called Opole, which lies between Wroc?aw and Krakow. In theory, we could blast through the 1,130 miles in 20 hours, but Anna is too frail. Max has come up with a plan that involves as many as 34 stops, and a route that will take us through France, Belgium, and Germany. While Anna is in her hotel room resting, there will be plenty of time for football.

  "What's on today?" I wonder, as we leave Manchester and take the motorway south towards Birmingham.

  "We're having lunch with the Smith-Smithes," says Max.

  "Oh," I say. "Dani's family? That's unexpected." Dani is one of the players on the Chester Women team. She's deaf and Max had to work extremely hard to persuade her to sign up.

  "They're on the way, more or less."

  "Hmm," I say. Part of my reason for coming on this trip was to be the first to know his plans, and if he hadn't already decided, then to follow his thought process. Recent comments on my posts suggest that readers love it when I track my ideas in numerical form. To that end, I created the Decision-o-meter, which tracked Max's options and the likelihood of them 'winning'.

  Stay at Chester 33%

  Conquer Scotland 33%

  Sell Soul to an Oil State 33%

  Why are we going to Dani Smith-Smithe's house? To say goodbye? I take a couple of points from 'Stay at Chester' and distribute them to the other options.

  I take stock of the mood in the van. Anna is upset; she'll never see Solly again. Emma is pensive, looking out of the window. Briggy, a tough German woman who is Max's personal assistant and his bodyguard, is quiet. Saving her energy, perhaps, because she will be driving next. No-one is chatty and now that Max is distracted, this could be a good chance to get some info out of him. I have to start gently, though. "How are the Triplets doing?"

  "Good," he says. "Very good. Michael and Noah are capped out but they're helping West crush the National League North." West Didsbury have got off to a flying start in England's sixth tier, and they easily raised the small fortune needed to redevelop their stadium to make it suitable for life in even higher tiers.

  "I love the stadium designs," I say, which might be a slight exaggeration. The stadium will be encased in a wavy greenhouse shell, inside which trees and plants will flourish. The club's hipster fan base are in raptures over it, but there's something about the design that I find off-putting. When it comes to a football stadium, you want a pristine lawn, not an overgrown jungle. The humble, manicured grass being surrounded by wild foliage, trees and bushes fighting for light and air? On paper, at least, I find it messy and stressful.

  "Yeah," says Max, slightly downcast.

  "What?"

  "I love the design, too, but the other day I saw this stadium in Turkey. It's got a kind of a snake thing wrapped around it and there's a big snake head as a sort of Fun House-style entrance."

  "Alligator," says Emma. "Not snake."

  "You keep saying that," says Max, "but it looked like a snake to me. Anyway, it's mint. If I had seen that, I might have done one of those for West. Kids would lose their shit over it."

  "I'm not sure so many people would have bought the mini-bonds to fund a giant snake, Max."

  He shrugs. "Maybe."

  "I saw you had raised about five million. Did you decide to bin off the pitch drainage and all that?"

  "Briggy," says Max. "Can you give Beth a withering look, please?"

  "Yes, done," says Briggy, without moving.

  "Hmm," says Max, who is a cautious driver at the best of times but with Anna in the van he is concentrating even harder. "No, Beth, I'm doing the drainage. And the stitching. It's going to be an elite playing surface. The pitch is everything. It means we'll be able to play a skilful style of footy, and it'll be hard-wearing which means West's women can keep playing their home games there. Some of the kid's games, too. Undersoil heating and mega drainage means games won't be called off unless there's an extreme event. It's an essential investment. I'd rather do the pitch and have a three-sided stadium than not do the pitch."

  "You could afford to do your stretch goals, then?" I smile. "Apart from adding a giant snake head, I mean."

  "West sold 5.1 million in mini-bonds so I only had to put in 900K." There's something in his tone that makes me lean to my left to see more of his face; I see an unexpected look of determination. "That leaves me with a bit more cash than expected. How can I use it? I'm gonna go hard at the January transfer window. Buy some talented players from League Two and the National League. They'll happily drop divisions because West will be 10 points clear by then and it'll be a safe career move. But the idea will be to quickly flip those players. Buy for 50 grand, sell for a hundred. I'm going to stack West with coaches to squeeze every inch of improvement out of everyone."

  "Your football factory," I say. That was a phrase Max used when I first met him. He had big dreams. I didn't hear the phrase for a long time, because it turns out that running a football club isn't as easy as it looks from the outside. The phrase is back in use, though. Max has the skills and the capital to turn nobodies into good players and good players into great ones. Which reminds me. "What about Andrew Harrison? You didn't mention him."

  "There's no need," says Max, eyeing a road sign. "His progress is self-explanatory."

  "He's playing in the Championship, you mean. But that doesn't really say much. All the Chester players get minutes but some are very obviously not ready for the level. Where does Andrew rate?"

  Max taps the steering wheel. Is he clamming up already? We've barely covered 10 miles. "He's a proper second tier player, now. He'll start appearing in the data. I think he's already up there in terms of running stats, but he's getting to be technically solid, making decent decisions. He's really useful at our level and he's got a good bit of improvement in him. He's a million-pound player for sure." He taps the wheel again. "I don't much believe in destiny but I know I was always supposed to meet Andrew. When I spotted him playing on a beach in Tenerife, that's what I was thinking. There's a million-pound player! It's amazing to look back and think about how far he has come. He's gonna play in the second tier for five or six years, his girlfriend is fit, his brothers are happy. I used to think about what he could do for Chester on the pitch and what we would buy when we sold him. Like, we'll need to sell some players to pay for the new stand we're building and Andrew might be one of them. But I don't think like that any more. I think of him popping in to check on my mum. Walking the dog, bringing over some teabags, fixing something that broke. Yeah, okay, he's a million-pound player but he's a billion-pound person."

  Anna says, "That is true. They are lovely boys. Solly is in good hands."

  Max looks away from the road (for the first time in his life) to check on Anna, but she seems to be fine. Max looks straight ahead.

  I say, "What does Andrew think about the possibility of you leaving Chester?"

  "Don't know. I didn't ask his permission."

  I tut. "Come on."

  "No-one's really keen but I'm not doing it because I want to go or because there's something better out there. It's just for tons and tons of cash and that's something everyone can understand."

  "So your options are to stay in Chester, go to Scotland - that's a strange one - or the Middle East?"

  "Why's Scotland strange? Apart from the obvious reasons."

  "There is less money there. If you need money, why leave England? You're a few months away from potentially being in the Premier League."

  "Christ," says Max. "We're not going to the Prem this season. Could you grow up, maybe?"

  "I'm just saying - "

  "Yeah, but could you grow up? Don't talk to me like I'm some rube who clicks on juicy headlines because one word is spelled in all caps. Chester only 35 matches from the Premier League INSISTS Max Best. Jesus. If you're going to be trying to do gotcha moments the whole time, I can drop you off in Crewe and you can get the train home."

  "It's not a gotcha moment! It's simple fact. There's way more money in England so from that point of view, it's weird you would even consider going."

  "The job offer comes with big bonuses for achieving certain goals. Goals I would certainly achieve."

  I see an opening and take my best shot. "Even with you there, Hearts aren't going to win the Scottish Prem this season, are they?"

  Max shifts on his seat. "Hearts? What's that?"

  "Come on, Max. Heart of Midlothian. I know you’d love to manage a club with the word ‘of’ in the name, and they play in purple. You love a purple kit. Hearts are the only club outside Celtic and Rangers who could afford you. They're owned by a billionaire who loves data and who doesn't mind crazy managers as long as they win. But I'm guessing you only get a bonus if you win the league and if you don't, you're not going to be all that much better off, right? By the time you win the league in Scotland, Chester would be promoted to the Premier League, and no Chester fan would have a problem with you giving yourself a massive pay rise."

  Max has settled into the slow lane behind a truck and seems very relaxed about our mind-numbing pace. "Hearts are 2 points behind Celtic right now. If I took over tomorrow, we would one hundred percent win the Scottish league." We! He said we! In his mind, he's one of them. The Decision-o-meter goes haywire. He continues to confirm my suspicions. "The January transfer window would be about setting the squad up for next season's assault on the Champions League. I would be looking to get into the knockout stages. Semi-finals might be overly ambitious for the first go but we would be aiming high, for sure."

  The most annoying thing about Max Best discussing how he would not only win the league - which Hearts haven't done in 65 years - but expect to get close to the semi-finals of the Champions League... is that no-one in the van doubts that he would do just what he says. "So you could achieve your footballing ambitions there, and the money's good. Why is it even a decision?"

  He shifts in his seat, checks his mirrors, overtakes the truck, and settles in front of it. "Because there's a club in Saudi Arabia that's willing to pay me what I earn at Chester in a year... every week."

  "Fuck," I say.

  Chester 3%

  Hearts 17%

  Saudi 80%

  ***

  I do some quick calculations and decide that the Saudi offer has to be in the region of 30 million pounds a year. It's a number that overwhelms the senses. Almost every question has the same answer.

  What about human rights? 30 million pounds.

  Would you take Emma to live with you? 30 million pounds.

  The football wouldn't be as interesting, would it? 30 million big ones.

  There's only one question that isn't immediately buried under the weight of cash. "What's the Saudi government going to do when you start dancing around in your rainbow outfit on Pride Day?"

  "I have retired the rainbow outfit."

  "Yeah, but, you have a reputation as an ally to the gay community. If you do this, all that goes out the window."

  "If it helps my mum, who cares? I'll sleep at night."

  "Yeah but Max, you can't help yourself. You'll do things that will get you into trouble and - at best - they'll sack you and kick you out of the country."

  Max sighs and leans back, driving one-handed for a spell. "What the hell are you talking about, Beth?"

  I am used to his belligerent tone and swipe to a photo album called He's Done What?! "I took a screenshot so you couldn't flip out that I got a word wrong. You posted this on Friday morning, on Chester FC's official accounts. Quote: If your football club's social media output is indistinguishable from that of an alt-right edgelord, do something about it. If your football club is mocking disabled people to get shares, clicks, and likes, it has lost its sense of purpose. Protest. Demand change. Show your fury. Hashtag Borussia Dortmund. End quote. Of course, you didn't use a hashtag but typed out the word. What's this all about?"

  "You know what it's about, Beth. Dortmund used their socials to laugh at a woman with a speech impediment. When there was the inevitable backlash, they said soz and invited her to go and watch a match. Basically chucked two 50 Euro tickets at her and told her to shut her gob. Never mind that she lives in England and can't easily get to Dortmund. Here's two 50 Euro tickets you can't use, lol. Fucking makes my blood boil."

  Emma frowns. "Babes. Did you say Dortmund?"

  "Yes."

  "Aren't we driving through Dortmund?"

  "I can't remember," says Max, and it's such a transparent lie I sit up straight.

  "What are you planning?" I demand.

  "Nuffin," he says, and it's another lie. "It's none of my business. The second biggest football club in Germany made fun of a disabled woman and there's nothing anyone can do about it. They live in a consequence-free environment. No-one can touch them."

  "Holy shit!" I say, squealing with delight. "What are you going to do? What are you planning?"

  Max gives me a cheeky grin. "Nothing. Can you calm down?"

  I swipe to the next photo. "Anna, do you know this story?"

  "No."

  "So Max fires off that first message, puts Dortmund on blast. They reply with this one. 'Max, we already apologised. Come and see us sometime. You will see that we are good guys.' To which Max replies, I only talk to football clubs, not banter accounts." Max is trying to hide a grin by resting his cheek on the back of his hand. I'm giddy. "Max, what are you up to? Tell me."

  "I just think it's weird that a massive club acts so small-time. My social media team know that if they post stuff like that, they're gonna get fired. But it's all about incentives. If you tell people they need to get a certain number of clicks per week, you end up turning your institution into the Daily Mail, which - as you know Beth - is the lowest plane of human existence."

  "Here we go," I say. Max loves to complain about me working for the Mail. "I suppose you have a problem with me writing for myself on Substack, too."

  "No, that's stuff's all great," says Max. "It's all behind a paywall, isn't it? Where it can't do any harm."

  "Christ," I mumble. When I started as a journalist, Max tormented me by saying that things we discussed were 'off the record'. Then he learned about embargoes, which is a process used by British journalists to save certain stories and quotes until a specific time. Max would tell me some juicy gossip only to say 'that's embargoed until the year 3000'. Now that I'm putting my long-form content on Substack, he has switched to declaring that certain quotes and pieces of information are 'paywalled'.

  He says, "Dortmund need to fire the prick who thought it was cool to mock the disabled, but they also need to fire the guy who told him his priority was engagement. And where are the fans? Where are the protests? The club is humiliating its fanbase while it chases clicks. I don't understand it. It's so far from how things should be that's it's surreal. When I saw the original post I assumed it was from a Bayern Munich fan who had created an account with a name similar to Dortmund, right, to trash their reputation. But then you realise, no, this is from the club itself! They made a video mocking a woman with a speech impediment, slapped their logo all over it, and posted it on their own accounts! It's wild. Something has gone very, very wrong in this sport. Very, very wrong."

  I lean forward to gauge his reaction to my next statement. "And by going to Saudi Arabia, you'll be able to fix everything."

  "I know that if I go there I'll forfeit all credibility forever," he says. "But if I can use that money to help my mum, and she gets well enough that..." He hesitates, and once again shuffles on his seat. He decides it's safe to talk. "If she gets well enough for me to tell her that I'm a famous footballer, if she gets well enough that I can show her some of my goals or even..."

  "Babes," says Emma, putting her hand on his arm.

  "Just, like, if I could bring her to a match one day. You know?" Max nods a few times, and Emma takes her hand away. The situation is under control. Max says, "Until I go to Saudi, there's no reason not speak my mind."

  The thought suddenly resonates that Max is testing the boundaries of what his next paymasters will tolerate. If the job is still available at the end of this trip, it will be one he, in turn, can tolerate. I feel that I'm close to gaining some deep insight into his psyche when Briggy holds her phone in front of me. She's on a page that shows the Bundesliga schedule. She pinches the screen to make one fixture stand out. Given the slow pace Max expects to set, it is instantly conceivable that we will be passing the city in which the match will be played on the VERY DAY it's being played.

  Borussia Dortmund versus VfB Stuttgart

  I give Briggy an excited look. Max is going to fuck Dortmund up! In their home stadium! But how? He can't play for Stuttgart, can he? He has already played for Saltney Town. The next team he plays for will be the one he stays at for the rest of the season.

  I know the name of Stuttgart's manager; it's not hard given that his uncle is one of the most famous men in the sport. "Max," I say, while trailing my fingertip across the fabric of the arm rest. "Are you still in touch with Toddy Braun?"

  He makes a big show of checking all the mirrors before leaving the car exactly where it is. "No." He's lying! I turn to Briggy and grab her hand. I shake it wildly, trying to be quiet, but Max can sense my energy. "Shush back there."

  ***

  Crewe

  The Smith-Smithes make a fuss over us. Their amazingly talented daughter, Dani, is a wide player who like tens of thousands of young people tries to emulate Max's in-game madnesses - slaloming dribbles, long-range nutmegs, backheels, no-look backheels, no-look backheel nutmegs that come at the end of slaloming dribbles. Unlike enthusiastic amateurs, Dani can actually pull off such tricks and flicks, and in high-profile matches, too. Chester's women's team are in the second tier and have made a solid, contained, very slightly stodgy start to their season. If Max is to be believed, it's only a matter of time until his talented players start bossing the division. "It isn't skill o'clock yet," he tells me.

  Dani shares a fandom for Harry Styles with Emma, she sees Briggy almost every day, and counts me as an old friend simply because I once ran a story about how unfair it was that she was booked for not being able to hear the referee's whistle. She doesn't know Anna, but she treats the old woman like she is Harry Styles's mother and is thus the second most important being in the universe.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Dani's father is not deaf and does much of the translation. We go through the living room, which is adorned with photos of Dani playing for her old pan-disability team and for Chester. Max guesses which match every photo is taken from, and is quite accurate. He tells Anna a couple of key points. Dani was so lazy that day. Dani was still learning to trust her left foot. Dani got kicked early on and wanted to punish the full back even though that's not what the team needed in that moment.

  "I wonder where she learned that," says Anna.

  "Her mum," says Max, leaning down to make strong eye contact, defying Anna to gainsay him.

  "Without question that's where," says Anna.

  We eat and even though it's rather strange with the hearing people muted and the deaf people talking a mile a minute, it's perfect. Anna can recharge. Dani can be the centre of attention.

  Max makes a big show of examining everything on his plate before tasting it and making a surprised face. Dani finally cracks. "What are you doing?"

  Max says, "I've never had deaf food before. It's surprisingly similar to what I usually eat."

  Dani explodes into a flurry of gestures that her father refuses to translate.

  Emma says, "Is it just my imagination or when you talk about Max do you make devil horns?"

  Anna drops her fork, which Dani notices. Dani's father explains. "It's Dani's nickname for Max. I'm awfully sorry. It's quite rude after all you've done for her, Max."

  One of Max's most annoying habits is how well he takes criticism. I would love to see him get flustered, splutter that it's all so unfair. This equanimity? It feels out of character. He waves, regally. "It's not a problem. Underperforming players often like to have a pop at the manager. It's much easier than sorting out their own deficiencies."

  There is some translation followed by a snort from Dani. She looks like a bull about to charge. She signs back. "Underperforming?"

  Max slides some potato into some dip. "Are you the best player in England?" he asks the potato.

  "No," says Dani.

  "Then you're underperforming," says Max, before popping the contents of his fork into his mouth. He's so smug!

  Dani's nostrils flare and she gets up, strides around the table, and gives him a neck hug. She can still sign. "I'll stop the nickname if you stay at Chester."

  "If I leave, are you still going to come to my wedding?"

  "Our wedding, babes."

  "Are you still going to come to ours and my wedding?"

  Dani sighs, but nods.

  Max points at her. "Promise you won't hijack it by making boys ask you to marry them?"

  Her mother looks panicked. "Wait, what?"

  Dani rolls her eyes. "I promise."

  Max smiles. "I love the nickname. It's my best chance of knowing when you're talking about me. I'm actually quite needy."

  Dani spots that Anna is trying to communicate. Anna makes a halo gesture and when Dani doesn't immediately react, the Polish woman repeats the circular shape. "Max," she says, to make her meaning even more clear.

  Dani lets out a different kind of snort. "He's no angel."

  "I disagree," says Anna, leaning into his arm. "God sent him to me. Do you believe in God, Dani?"

  "Not really," she says, via her dad, as she returns to her seat. "Are you afraid of dying, Anna?"

  "No," says Anna. "But I will be. At the end, I will be, and that's very scary to me. I don't want to be a pathetic mess, in my final moments, after trying so hard for so long to be strong. I'm sure you can understand me."

  "I can," says Dani. She eyes Anna for a few moments, realising that despite the chasm in ages, they are very similar. "As your dying wish, can you ask Max to stay at Chester?"

  Anna dabs her lips with a napkin. "For my dying wish, I rather think I will be asking God to forgive my sins, but I may be able to find a way to help you."

  "Sins?" says Dani. "You?"

  "Of course," says Anna. "We are all sinners and the wages of sin is death."

  "What a lovely lunch we're having," says Max.

  "I once stole a pair of jeans from a store," says Anna. "Why do you think I haven't been back to Poland for so long? I'm a wanted criminal."

  "The fuck are you blabbing on about?" says Max.

  Anna's eyes glaze over. "In the communist times, we had a store called a Pewex. It sold western goods but only for western currency. I had an aunt in Germany who sent me one Deutschmark every quarter. It took me four years to save up for the jeans."

  "Four years?" says Dani, but she is by no means the only one at the table who is gobsmacked.

  "Four years. I went in wearing blue trousers, tried on a pair of jeans, tried on another, hung up the blue trousers, paid for the jeans while wearing a pair of jeans, and left."

  "You scamp!" said Max.

  "And," says Anna, triumphantly, "I got a plastic bag."

  Dani and her parents have a long, increasingly animated argument that ends with Dani's father saying, "Soz, what?"

  Anna leans back, smiling. "We didn't have plastic bags. We didn't have the western lifestyle. I remember the first time I ate a banana. I remember that plastic bag. I treasured it. The jeans, too. I timed my theft to coincide with me fleeing the country." Her smile fades one centimetre at a time. "I have had a great life. Leaving was the best thing I ever did. But I always longed to see the skies of my homeland once more. I long to be surrounded by my mother tongue. There is more to life than jeans and plastic bags."

  The host family hold hands. Emma looks as sad as I feel. Briggy seems to have heard stories like this before, perhaps from her own relatives. It's up to Max to break the tension. "I remember the first time I ate a Polish banana," he declares. "It was rank."

  Anna slaps him feebly on the arm and when he merely smiles in response, she raises her index fingers about an inch above her skull. Dani honks and rushes around the table to give her a big hug. After a tender moment, Dani slaps Max on the arm. "Take her home!"

  "I'm doing it!" laughs Max, rubbing the impact zone. "But if either of you slap me again, I'm gonna call the police as soon as we cross the border."

  Dani waits for the translation, huffs, and eyes Anna. As one, they make the devil sign.

  ***

  The Midlands

  We drive towards Birmingham, pull off the motorway, and wind up at a secluded, luxurious hotel. Max and his bride-to-be share a room, while Briggy and I sleep in the same room as Anna. This is my unwritten job description. Max will let me tag along and write an article. He'll pay for my food and board. All I have to do is keep Anna alive at night.

  She's wonderful. She's extraordinary. She tells spellbinding stories set across Europe.

  It's my dream job.

  ***

  Northamptonshire

  The next day, we crawl south, so slowly that even Anna complains.

  ***

  Bedfordshire

  On Tuesday, the reason for our slow pace becomes clear. Max wants to watch a tiny football club called Tempsford FC.

  Emma is very busy and important. I am on a short leash from work. Briggy could be doing all sorts of high-level tasks for all sorts of governments or major corporations. Anna is keen to get to Poland asap so she can croak.

  All that is put on hold so that Max can watch 10th tier football.

  The evening turns out to be memorable.

  There are something like a hundred people watching as Tempsford FC annihilate their opponents. The final score is 5-1 but the hosts could have scored 10. Max appears to have some connection to the home side, but even so I'm astonished when, at the final whistle, we make our way towards the home dressing room.

  Max knows it's a tiny space so Emma goes to the car with Anna. I'm invited as a treat, because Max knows I like sweaty, triumphant footballers. It becomes clear Briggy is there as his bodyguard.

  The manager, a dark-haired fellow called Liam Mills, is beaming, as well he might be. His team have won 8 and drawn 2 in the league and appear to be untouchable. His star striker, Tosh, has dropped from a much higher tier, and has scored 15 goals in those 10 games. Everything is amazing. Everything is perfect.

  Mills introduces Max and something about the Mancunian's energy makes Briggy come alive. With a glance, she bids me to step back, while she moves almost imperceptibly to the right, between Max and Mills.

  What the actual fuck is going on?

  "Hi, guys," says Max. "Good start to the season."

  The way he delivers these words is positive yet menacing. The mood in the cramped dressing room turns from jubilation to astonishment.

  "Mills," says Max. He clicks his neck around, and for the first time I realise that Briggy doesn't only protect Max from others, she protects others from Max. "I notice you didn't make all your subs."

  "Well, no," says Mills. "It was, uh... It didn't seem... I thought it was working."

  "Yeah but if you remember when I interviewed you for the job, we talked about using all your subs every match and you whole-heartedly agreed with me. We talked about giving minutes to squad players so they could develop and you agreed with me. We talked about giving minutes to young players and you agreed with me. Where's, ah, where's little Billy? Not in the squad?"

  "Not today, Max, no. He missed training."

  "Ah, right. The 15-year-old, who has school, missed training. Huh. That's something we talked about in the job interview." Max pinches his nostrils, causing me to back away even further. I've seen him this angry before, but only on TV. "Culture. Seems like we talked about culture in the job interview. Were you at the same interview as me? Did I think I was giving the job to someone else or was it you who agreed to stamp out bullying and promote inclusivity and things like that? No, yeah, it was definitely you. You said you'd crush cliques, spread minutes around, stop experienced players from bullying young lads." Max scratches his head. "It's weird, though. I'm seeing cliques everywhere. I'm seeing bullies. And it looks very much as if you're one of the bullies."

  "What?" says Mills, but the way his eyes are darting around tells a tale. Busted. "Now look here."

  "Grab your stuff," says Max. "Grab your stuff and clear out. You're sacked."

  "The fuck?" says Mills. "I've won 8, drawn 2. Undefeated!"

  "Yeah, I have thoughts about those 2 draws, believe me. But you're not sacked for underperformance. It's breach of contract and if you want to come at me, I will bury you in legal fees. You'll spend the rest of your life paying the north of England's two top law firms. We'll take your house and Beth will wreck your life in the Daily Mail." Nothing happens for three seconds, which is time enough for Max to snap. "I said GET FUCKED!"

  It feels like an age, and it's so awkward almost everyone watching wishes the ground would open and swallow us whole, but Mills finally grabs a bag and clears out. Max isn't finished.

  "Would the King of the Bullies please identify himself?"

  No-one stirs. Grown men try to shrink.

  "So you're a coward as well as a dickhead. Tosh, stand up and get out. You'll never play for this club again."

  The 10th tier's top scorer can't believe it. "I've got a contract for a year."

  "I know; I'm paying it. A contract's a contract, don't worry. But I suggest you look for a new team because if you stay here you'll get paid but you won't get played."

  "What have I done?"

  "You're awful. You've tried to get rid of this squad's most valuable player. Why? I don't care why. You're no good to me. You're no good to anyone. Get out before I lose my temper."

  "Is this about that kid Billy? He's shit!"

  Max gets in his face. Briggy positions herself behind Tosh. If he acts up, she'll have him in a heap on the floor in an instant. Max's eyes are wide and unblinking. He jabs Tosh in the chest. "Yeah, I forgot, you're the best football scout in the world. You're a generational genius when it comes to assessing talent."

  "He's weak as piss!"

  "That's what everyone said about me when I was 15. Let's take this outside and see how that turned out." Tosh doesn't seem keen to get pummelled, which is what everyone knows would happen. Max sneers. "Youngster. William B. Roberts. Roddy fucking Jones. I've got three of the best players in the world at Chester for a combined fee of under a hundred grand! You're fucking demented thinking you know better than me! GET!" screams Max, from close range. "TO," he adds. "FUUUUUCK!"

  Again, it's a painful minute while a man who thought he was untouchable is booted out. This is how it feels to be deposed. This is how it feels to see your statues torn down.

  The dressing room, stunned and fearful, waits for the next axe to fall. It falls on all of them. Max has calmed some of the way down, but the way he doesn't seem to have slept, the slightly mad energy he's giving off, the way everything he's doing feels unpredictable and unexpected, it's all just unnerving.

  "It's fair to say I'm disappointed. Here's a room full of red-blooded Englishmen and when you've seen bullying and snideness and mockery and exclusion not one of you has done a fucking thing about it. You've let it happen to get in with the cool kids and to stay onside with the manager. I'm tempted to bin off the whole lot of you, and that's not an exaggeration. I would happily bin off the lot of you. I could replace you by Saturday, easy."

  Max tries to make eye contact but there isn't much coming back.

  "It's my fault, though. I hired Tosh. I hired Mills. If you thought I was happy with how the dressing room was going, why would you go against that? Well, now you know. What has been happening here is fucking unacceptable. That kid Billy is the best player in this squad. Here's a clue: he's 15. He's fifteen and Max Best has chosen him to be here with you. We've got some other talents but no-one like him. You look after him and it won't be long before he's making the difference in tight games. You need delivery from a corner? Billy. You need someone to sweep a free kick into the net to rescue a late point? Billy. You need a guy who can dribble out of pressure into the oppo's half, draw a foul, give you time to breathe? Billy.

  "Is he ready? Of course he fucking isn't. That's why it's your job to look after him. Someone smashes into him, you smash into them ten times harder. Someone gives him verbals, you give that guy nightmares. Mad as it sounds, lads, that's called culture. Accepting that everyone's at a different stage in their development but knowing they have something to offer is what took my little Welsh team to within 20 minutes of the Champions League. That's what's taken Chester to mid-table in the Championship.

  "You want to be a load of fucking playground bullies? Go back to school. You want to be men? You want to win every week for fucking years? Then act like it."

  I'm ready for more, much more, because I feel like I'm witnessing the birth of a dynasty. Chester went from the sixth tier to the second, non-stop. Best's previous passion project, West Didsbury, have gone from the ninth tier to the sixth - and counting. Is Best deliberately starting lower each time to make his achievements all the more absurd? Where will Tempsford FC be in 6 years time? The answer, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the fourth tier. League Two.

  Max is striding back to the car and I jolt awake, trying to catch up with him. A couple of fans accost him. "Hey, mate! Is it true we just sacked the manager? And Tosh?"

  Another fan, equally furious, says, "He's the best player we ever had! We're top of the league! Was that your idea? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  Max grabs the first guy by his coat and peers into his soul. I'm aware that a couple of fans are filming the scene, while a couple of well-dressed gentlemen are a few yards behind, inching away from the aggravation. Max growls, "This is Tempsford! It's not enough to win!"

  With that, he lets go of the fan and strides away, radiating righteous fury.

  The second fan looks at Max's retreating form, looks at his mate, and I see that his eyes are shining. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on, but like me he's ready to run through a brick wall. And we have both just learned something: Max Best is making the decisions around here.

  He's driven and he's a perfectionist. He doesn't tolerate drops in standards.

  How could he ever work for someone less talented?

  Chester 10%

  Hearts 20%

  Saudi 70%

  ***

  We head towards our hotel. I'm driving, which limits how much I can spy on the others. I can ask questions, though. "How did you know about all that? The bullying and stuff?"

  "I saw it in the warm-up," says Max, which seems far-fetched but what's the point in challenging him? Maybe someone from the club told him during the match. When he went to pee, for example. If he wants to protect his sources, I can get behind that. Some content should be paywalled.

  Emma says, "How did the other matches go?"

  Max doesn't need to check his phone. "West won. Newport County won with Banksy saving a penno and Henri scoring twice. Crawley Town lost. Tranmere got a scrappy draw. Jackie Reaper has got them battling but Lucas Cook had to play as their striker and he's a few months from being ready. All this action he's getting is amazing for his development but Jackie needs reinforcements and fast."

  Emma says, "When are you going to meet Diggy Doggy?"

  "Dunno," says Max. "When I get back, maybe."

  "Wait," I say. "I thought that was all for show. Marketing."

  "I'm really gonna meet him, if that's what you mean. We were planning to make it into an episode of the documentary. Yeah, it's theoretically about the women's team but if there's a random episode where I meet Diggy Doggy and make fun of how shit he is at football, I don't think people will mind." He puts on a highly artificial voice as he adds, "I could even imagine it being quite popular." He taps on his phone and says, "Shush everyone."

  "The car's completely silent," I say.

  "Shhhh!" He has his phone to his ear. "Hey, mate! Good point tonight. How was it?" I think I hear a man's voice on the other end of the line, but it doesn't seem to be Jackie Reaper. After about twenty seconds, Max continues. "Yeah, we're on the Death March right now. We're staying in Saffron Walden tonight. I hear it's gorgeous. Tomorrow we're gonna hang out with Donnie Wormwood and the Flashes. Yeah, Don's still going! Then after that we'll be in Maidstone and we'll spend some time with TJ and Sharky." The voice speaks for a while. "Oh, yeah, TJ's toast," says Max. "He's one of the only managers who has been in place longer than me. It'd be great if he got sacked in the next couple of weeks so I could overtake him." The voice speaks; Max laughs. "He's a mate, yeah. Okay, Vimsy, listen. I've had an idea. No, don't hang up. Heh. It'll help me out while I'm doing this thing, and it could help Jackie, too."

  I glance to my left. Vimsy was the most senior coach at Chester when Max arrived. He's old-school, which means he loves 4-4-2, hard work, shouting, and complaining about referees. It's amazing that he survived the Max Best revolution and only left Chester to join up with Jackie Reaper at Tranmere.

  Max glares at me. "Hang on, Vimsy. My driver thinks she's in a Hollywood movie and doesn't have to pay attention to the road. We're doing 60 in a 30 zone and we don't care what we hit. Yeah, it's objectively terrifying."

  I click my tongue and face the front.

  "Okay, here's my idea. I just sacked the prick I put in charge of Tempsford. What's that? Didn't I tell you? It's a tiny club near Cambridge that I'm turning into a big deal. It's tenth tier and I need someone to come down for a month and pick the team and do some expert shouting. Of course I mean you." There's a pause. "I know you've got a job but that's what's genius, right? If you take a month off from Tranmere we can play with the messaging. Everyone knows Diggy Doggy and his band of clueless fuckwits want to choose their own manager and they can't wait to sack Jack.

  "So what if you go on this mini-break and we spread the rumour that this is a compromise they've cooked up? They have to keep Jackie because otherwise Max Best will slaughter them, but they can put in their own assistant. It'll make the fans go, oh hey, Jackie's staying, Max has found a way to work with Doggy, we can properly get behind the team. You go down to lovely Bedfordshire for a nice holiday, bit of scream therapy, all the 4-4-2 you want, and in a month you go back to Tranmere and by then either Jackie's safe and no-one is bothered you're his assistant again, or he's sacked and you would have lost your job anyway. It's genius." Max spots the sour face I'm making. He glares at me while he speaks into the phone. "It's a literally flawless plan with no holes."

  There's a longer pause while Vimsy speaks his mind. There's a question at the end.

  Max inhales. "Okay... I do think a new assistant could help Jackie. It's politics and it's annoying but that's the position he's in. But yeah, mostly I see you as being perfect for this job and you could do it long-term. From the tenth tier to the fourth, mate. Six promotions in six years, that's my target, but I'll accept 6 in 8. I will build the squad. I will make sure you've got the best starting eleven every season and a bunch of talented lads to develop. I see you as being the heart and soul of that club for years to come.

  "You know the kind of culture I want and okay, you might not dress as a rainbow or legally change your name to ‘Fuck FIFA’ but I know you'll give me a dressing room where everyone's welcome, everyone's determined, everyone's together, everyone has equal chance to flourish. This is not a social media exercise. I won't sign a goalkeeper because he's got two million followers. You won't have to explain the offside rule to your new owners, or tell them you don't think a 4-4-3 formation is very practical. This is a football project and I need a football man at the helm. If it helps, there's a poppy on the club’s badge, and a couple of Spitfires. It's the most patriotic badge I've ever seen." Max pauses. "Change the badge? Only to add more poppies and more Spitfires!

  "Look, here's the plan. I see you doing what Bob Horseman does at Kidderminster. This season you'll blast the league but medium-term you'll need a tactics guy and some hot-shot coaches. I'll find you guys you can work with, no problem. What I want is for you to try it for a month because I think you'll love it and you'll want to keep going. It's not much now but there will be facilities and a new stadium. I'll even let you choose if we build a snake head entrance or an alligator. Er... That was a joke. But if you hate it, no harm done and you'll have bought me some time to find the next sucker. I mean, the next multiple-league-and-cup-winning legend. All right, well, sleep on it and I'll call you tomorrow, I reckon. Yeah, cheers. Seeya."

  After a quiet moment, Emma says, "Do you think he'll go for it?"

  "Um, maybe. I think he'll do it for a few weeks to help me out. That would already be incredible."

  I say, "From the third tier to the tenth. It's a hell of a step down, Max."

  "That's not how I see it. I see it as going from unemployed to having one of the most desirable jobs in footy. If I hadn't kicked up a fuss, Jackie and Vimsy would have been sacked already."

  I say, "I'm wondering how this affects your decision."

  "What? It doesn't. It's not connected."

  "Everything's connected."

  Emma sings, to the tune of Dem Bones, "The Tempsford's connected to the Scotland, the Scotland's connected to the North Sea."

  Anna sings, "Now hear the word of the Lord."

  "Yes," I say, politely. "Back to my point. Vimsy's the most reliable person you could possibly think of. He knows lower-league football and he knows your methods. With him in place, you would be able to go to a distant land and not have to worry about this particular project for another year. If you were going to stay in Chester, you would be able to take more of a risk with the next manager because you would be more able to check what's going on." Max doesn't reply. "Ha! I'm right. I'm adjusting the Decision-o-meter."

  Chester 5%

  Hearts 23%

  Saudi 72%

  ***

  The drive settles into a routine. We have breakfast near the hotel, drive for a while, and stop for lunch in the next town. We drive some more and stop for tea. We get to our next hotel at four or five p.m., and while we settle in, Max dashes out to the nearest park to do what he calls 'scouting'. This would seem to involve him flirting with joggers, but history shows that at least some of the time is spent discovering talented football players.

  If there is a nearby match in the evening, Max goes, either solo or with different combinations of his fellow travellers. One night it's Bromley alone, the next it's Canterbury City with the entire troupe.

  As we go, Max makes calls, sends texts. He talks to Ryan Jack about the players who are out on loan. He talks to Sam Topps about the club’s flourishing but unorthodox youth system. He uses an app to watch Chester's squads train, and he knows his players so well he calls his medical team and asks them to check on Helge's ankle or Swanny's wrists. In short, the growing distance between us and his office doesn't stop him doing his job as director of football of Chester FC.

  In his downtime, he watches videos. Highlight packages of clubs and players. Entire matches. He watches at 2 times speed, but frequently rewinds and watches passages of play in slow motion. It looks tedious to me, but to him it's utterly entrancing. Emma has to remind him to finish his tea, his scone, his cheesecake.

  At first I see lots of Arabic names in the corner of his screen, but as the days go by, it more often is HEA vs RAN or LIV vs HEA. In more and more matches, one of the teams plays in purple. Max himself begins to say 'pish' more often, and uses phrases like 'I've no got a scoobie'.

  I ask him, "Are you listening to Scottish podcasts?"

  "Yeah," he admits. "But half of them are about the Saudi Pro League, so you can't get any clues from that."

  Chester 4%

  Hearts 56%

  Saudi 40%

  ***

  At our next pit stop, Emma shows Max something on her phone. It's a property listing on Country Life's website. A big house with land and paddocks. The princess wants a pony.

  Max likes how green the photos are. "Has it got a loch?"

  "On the doors, yes."

  "Has it got a bothy?"

  "It's got a bathy."

  "Can we afford to buy it?"

  "At this price, can we afford not to buy it?"

  "Send me the link."

  Chester 3%

  Hearts 77%

  Saudi 20%

  ***

  Essex

  We take a detour to Donnie Wormwood's mansion. It's sprawling and luxurious, as befits one of the finest boxers ever to grace these shores. Donnie's a huge Max Best fan, and he's amazed to hear that Max is really plotting to move.

  "Donnie," I say. We're on first-name terms because I have interviewed him for my podcast. "If you were going to resume your boxing career, would you do it in Edinburgh or in Riyadh?"

  Anna says, "Or in Chester?"

  Donnie twinkles. "There's only one answer to that."

  Briggy appears, holding two pairs of boxing gloves. "Actually, there are three answers. Now, I was promised the chance to beat up Britain's greatest ever boxer."

  Max shoots to his feet. "Hey! Don't tell them my nickname!"

  Donnie chuckles, a low, pleasant, uninhibited sound. "The only sparring you do is at your local shop." He turns to Briggy. "The pun is mightier than the sword. You see - "

  "I get it," she says, with her gloves on. "We have Spar in Germany. Less yappin', more slappin'."

  We walk to a building in which Donnie has a private boxing ring. He's not seriously going to fight the much, much younger woman, is he? She would batter him. He starts to put the gloves on but tuts. "Forgot to take me teeth out." He goes to the side and pretends to reach into his mouth. At least, I hope he was pretending. He puts his gloves on, gets into the ring, and smiles. "Germans fight well but they've got glass jaws."

  "That right?" says Briggy. She swirls her arm around as though charging it up.

  "Whoa whoa whoa," says Max, apparently just realising that his bodyguard is loosing up to fight a British sporting legend. "You're not gonna knock him out with one punch, are you?"

  "That was my plan, yes," says Briggy.

  "Nah," says Max, "Make him suffer."

  Briggy and Donnie look at him, then each other. They tap gloves and instead of the brutal combat I was dreading, Donnie gives her a twenty-minute coaching masterclass in the sweet science of boxing. He compliments her footwork and her reflexes, and shows her a couple of sneaky moves that if she's lucky, the referee won't spot. Briggy loves every second and could have gone on for longer, but Donnie's stamina isn't what it was. He saves enough energy to look at Anna and wink. "Your turn, love."

  Max says, "She's a rogue, not a tank."

  Donnie leans against the ropes and looks down at her. "I reckon she's more of an enchantress."

  Anna shakes her head. "I have been in England for so long. Why is it I finally meet a charming man just as I'm leaving?"

  "Hey, I'm charming," says Max. "Briggy, hurry up and have a shower. I don't want to be late for dinner with TJ. He's gonna get sacked soon and I want to taunt him about it."

  ***

  Kent

  Max actually starts out being quite pleasant that evening, which is probably because TJ's new girlfriend is, to quote Max, 'well fit'.

  Max is supportive and listens patiently as his manager friend complains about Crawley's new owners. The Bitcoin bros have sold up, and the new owner is a faceless hedge fund.

  TJ is handsome, with big biceps and a mysterious, ever-changing accent. "The Bitcoin lads were a bit mad, a bit scatterbrained, but they had energy and enthusiasm and they learned from their mistakes. This new bunch, it's like working for a computer. When they send someone over from America, I keep expecting the front of his face to fall off to reveal cogs and wheels and a tiny fan belt."

  Max nods. "I kept expecting that from Brooke Star when we first met, so I got Crackers, our blind fan, to ask if he could palpate her face. She had to agree because, you know, he's disabled, and he gave her face a good old rummage. Turns out, she's actually human, or at least the clockwork inside her is really well done."

  I tilt my head. "You've spent years begging people like Brooke to stay at Chester and now you're fucking off. How does that work?"

  Max shrugs. "Everyone's in the right place. What do you want me to say? Anyway, I think Brooke wants to build a billion-dollar business. Get there before her dad."

  "Oh," I say. "So she'll be going soon anyway?"

  Max gives me a stare that I don't understand until Emma says, "Chester's the billion-dollar business, Bethany."

  "What?"

  Max sighs. "Burnley and Leeds both went for over two hundred million dollars and they're yo-yo clubs. If you can take a club and establish it in the top half of the Prem, you've got yourself a half a billion dollar business. If you are getting in the Champions League every year, why wouldn't it be worth a billion?"

  I say, "Because you've filled every nook and cranny with poison pills and mousetraps. No-one would ever buy it."

  "It's not about selling it," says Max. "It's about building it."

  "But with Max gone," says TJ, taking my side, which I find very attractive, "Chester aren't going anywhere but down."

  "Bzzz," says Max, to indicate that TJ is wrong. "There's too much talent to keep it down, and I've integrated my analytics company into the heart of the club. I'll be advising them for years whether they want it or not." He gets a dark look about him that I'm afraid is quite sexy. "Chester's rise is a historical inevitability. We're going up."

  We! That's the first 'we' in relation to Chester for ages. I want to mentally adjust the Decision-o-meter, but Briggy seems to enjoy teasing TJ and I can't take my eyes off the scene.

  She says, "Maybe TJ will become Sandra Lane's assistant manager?"

  Briggy looks to Max. She has thrown a full toss and wants him to hit it for six, although being German she doesn't know what any of those words mean. Max disappoints her. "There would certainly be a role for TJ at any of my clubs."

  TJ smiles. "Really?"

  "Yeah," says Max, seriously. "I've been thinking it'd be cool to have someone play acoustic guitar at half-time. Bit of live music to class the place up, you know." Max cracks into a big smile and holds his hands up because it looks like TJ is going to throw something at him. Briggy is in heaven. "TJ," says Max, leaning forward urgently. "Are you willing to perform under the stage name Superb Owl?"

  "Why?"

  "Because then we can advertise that we've got a superbowl half-time show, every week! Imagine what Brooke could do with that!"

  TJ's face solidifies. He takes a drink and growls, "I haven't been sacked yet."

  "Yeah, and Anna hasn't croaked yet. I wonder which will come first?"

  TJ's new girlfriend looks confused. "Timo, I thought you said you were friends."

  TJ sighs. "We are. It's what in German is called galgenhumor. Gallows humour." He pinches his bottom lip, then suddenly brightens up. "If he goes to Saudi Arabia, he won't just get sacked! Now that firing will be real gallows humour! Won't it, Maxy boy?"

  Max narrows his eyes, but Briggy gives him a punch. "He did you there, Max."

  Max relents. "Yeah, fair's fair. Good jab. One thing I'd like to make clear, though. I could totally survive two years in Saudi without being, you know, gallowsed." He nods so hard it's like he's pumping the Decision-o-meter. He goes, "Yep. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut."

  There's a silence, followed by TJ mumbling, "Good God."

  Chester 5%

  Hearts 55%

  Saudi 40%

  ***

  France

  We go through the Channel Tunnel and when we emerge, there's a subtle difference in the social dynamics. Briggy is more in charge, and since Anna's language skills are far better than any of the English people’s, she takes more of a lead role in shops and restaurants.

  When we hit the first motorway after leaving the train, Max says, "I spaced out for a minute. Where are we?"

  "France," says Briggy, who's driving.

  Max pulls a face. "Nobody panic, okay? Nobody panic. Briggy?"

  "Yes?"

  "Floor it."

  "What about Anna? You said if we drove too fast we would rip apart the atoms that were just barely holding her together."

  "Yeah but we're in France and I need to not be. Look at that sky! Why is it so low? So menacing? Is it just me or is that crow following us? Look, fuck this shit. Full speed until we hit the border."

  "Okay."

  "What's it going to be the border of?"

  "Belgium. We're going to Bruges."

  "Oh, top. There's a great movie set in Bruges. It was set in Bruges and filmed in Bruges. I can't remember what it was called."

  Emma says, "The one that was set in Bruges and filmed in Bruges? I know which one you mean but I can't remember the name."

  "It's on the tip of my tongue," says Max.

  Briggy sighs. "I do not know the joke because I only know the names of movies in German. The one you are talking about is called Visit Brugge and Die. Something like this. Anna," she says, "Max is going to watch a football match in Bruges." When she says the last two words, Max and Emma snigger. Briggy grits her teeth and continues. "Bruges is beautiful, as you know, so perhaps Emma and Beth would accompany you around the centre? I would like to attend this match."

  "Why?" I say.

  "I have a bad feeling about letting Max go alone."

  My spider senses tingle. "I'd like to go, too," I say. "Emma, will you be all right with Anna for a few hours?"

  "Course," says Emma. "We'll be in Bruges together."

  Max snorts, drawing a frown from Briggy. She says, "Is the movie called In Bruges?" She shakes her head. "From now on, we are not passing through any cities where movies were filmed."

  There's a five count before Max says, "Leipzig and Let Die."

  Emma says, "One Hanover the Cuckoo's Nest."

  "Oh, very good," says Max, and he hunches over so he can think harder.

  "Christ," I mumble. "This is gonna be painful."

  ***

  Bruges

  Club Brugge have historically been one of the stronger teams in Belgium, and so it seems natural that Max wants to take a look at their squad. They might, after all, be an opponent in a future UEFA match, whether it's for Max's Welsh team, one of his Gibraltarian clients, or for Hearts.

  But as the match plays out, I realise Max asked Briggy to speed up this morning so that he could watch the away team, Royale Union Saint-Gilloise.

  USG are the new power in Belgian football, and that's surprisingly relevant to Max's needs. They are part-owned by Tony Bloom, the gambling genius known as The Lizard, who also owns Brighton in the Premier League and - here it comes - a minority stake in Heart of Midlothian, the club that wants to make Max Best its next manager.

  Max spends the first thirty minutes enraptured by how USG play, how balanced their squad is, how much potential there is in the players. He tells us that most starting elevens in major clubs have seven or eight players who are more or less capped out. They're at their maximum level, give or take five percent. That leaves three or four players who might still improve. USG, however, have nine players with plenty of room to grow.

  "This is mint," he drools. "I knew their data models were top but this is really something else."

  "You don't think you could do better?" I say, trying to tease him.

  "Of course I could do better," he says. "But it's exciting, isn't it? I would be refining an organisation that's already set up in the way I want to work. They've got a pipeline of talent identified. I'd still scout players myself, obvs, but it's a weight off my shoulders, isn't it? They could do the majority of the work, I'd check it, and other people would handle the negotiations. But it's, yeah, the alignment. I wouldn't need to explain why I was doing what I was doing because they're already doing it."

  "Hearts might be run differently," I say, as the half-time whistle goes and the players move towards the tunnel.

  Max leans back. "True, but there won't be much opposition to change, right? USG were in the wilderness for 90 years, Tony Bloom bought his stake, suddenly they're the best team in the country again. It's not a coincidence. I think we would work together seamlessly."

  I check his face as I say, "Too seamlessly?"

  He smiles. "You think I'm addicted to drama?"

  "You're driving a dying old woman across Europe one city at a time. You're dragging it out so you can decide what you want to do with your life. We stop off here to have a cup of tea, here to have a scone, there to sack a manager and give a fire and brimstone sermon, there to go three rounds with Donnie Wormwood."

  Briggy agrees with me. "You are a drama baby, Max."

  "Talking about babies," says Max, which causes me to gasp.

  "I knew it! When Emma covered her glass and said 'no more wine for me, thanks!'"

  Max tuts. "Can you calm down? She does that to wind you up. I'm talking about these little shits."

  Some teenagers from Club Brugge's youth system are running onto the pitch carrying small goals and cones. They set things up and are soon playing six-a-side. "Weird half-time entertainment," I say. "I think I'd prefer TJ with his acoustic guitar. Can we get some food, please?"

  Max can't hear me. He's entranced. "Wow," he says. "Fuck me. Shit."

  Briggy is staring at the pitch. "Which one?"

  "The blonde dude on the left. He's cutting into the middle. He's got the ball now."

  "The one who just scored? It's more of a light-brown, his hair."

  "Whatever it is, he's unbelievable. Wow." Max is leaning forward, unblinking, and for a second I imagine I see dollar signs in his eyes. He leans back and rubs his forehead. "Brexit. Age rules. What a pain in the arse this is!" He rubs his head even harder. "Huh," he says, suddenly stopping. He's had an idea.

  "What?" I say.

  He looks from me to his bodyguard, who has a master's degree and, unlike Max, can do sums in her head. "Briggy, how would you like to be a football agent?"

  "Pardon me?"

  Max points. "There's your first client. You'll be the European arm of R.E.M., the way Chelli covers South America. You've met Don Pino and Ruth. Two different approaches but it's all the same thing. Sign players, help them navigate their careers, keep them out of trouble, make sure they get paid. We can find you a batch on this trip if you're interested."

  Briggy seems to be taken aback. "Did you just offer to create the European arm of a company you don't own?"

  "Yeah. But I'm its main advisor, aren't I? Ruth's not gonna say no. Any excuse to fly to Paris and Munich and Athens and whatnot. She'll love it. We can talk to her later. Emma, too. We've got loads of contacts and things already. You'll need to find someone to help you with the paperwork in different countries, starting with Belgium. And you'll need to find that kid's family and get to know them before a superagent realises how good he is."

  "Huh," says Briggy. "This wasn't how I expected my day to go." She looks around. She's not a big football fan but spending time with Max has shown her the sport from all angles. For every dickhead billionaire, there are a hundred smiling cleaners, gentle Club Secretaries, coaches putting their heart and soul into developing their young charges. You don't have to like the game to like the game, and neither Ruth nor Don Pino are football fanatics. "I'm interested, yes."

  "Bosh!" cries Max, and he pulls her into him, excited. "We're gonna make so many Deutschmarks!"

  "I'm gonna get a burger," I say, and shuffle back into the concourse.

  While I'm there, I wonder what this latest twist means for the Decision-o-meter. Max is planting seeds that will one day grow into magic money trees. Would he do that if he were going to Saudi Arabia?

  But what if his goal in this case is not to increase his own income, but to take care of his faithful bodyguard? Briggy the superagent. Why start that process now? Because he wouldn't take her to the Middle East, and he wouldn't need her in Edinburgh.

  I eat my burger alone, in contemplative silence.

  By the time I return to my seat, I'm convinced that Max is not thinking about staying in Chester. It's a two-horse race.

  Hearts 85%

  Saudi 15%

  ***

  A few minutes into the second half, Briggy jumps up. "I can't stand this. I'm going to find him."

  "Who?" I say.

  "My first client. The KDB regen, whatever that means. He's probably still here, right? Watching somewhere. I'm going to find him and introduce myself." She looks to Max for permission.

  "Visit Bruges and Die. That's such a shit name. What's wrong with you people?"

  "In Bruges is a shit name!" snaps Briggy, and disappears.

  The scene delights Max. I try to change the topic by saying, "The way you keep oohing and aahing at everything USG are doing makes me think you're very close to making your decision."

  He clicks his teeth a few times. "Er, paywall this, but yeah. I think my Hearts is pretty set, to be honest."

  The sudden confirmation hits me like a sledgehammer. Max has worked so hard to get Chester to where they are - almost the top half of the Championship. It has to be gut-wrenching for him to even think about leaving everything he has built, but nowhere near as hard as watching his mother fade away. I clear my throat to say something, but my phone explodes. "It's my boss at the Mail," I say. I wonder if he's going to recall me, and even though it's not all fun and games in The Hearse, I really, really don't want to go back to my normal life.

  "Take it," says Max, as he sweeps his gaze across the pitch, seeing patterns that are invisible to mere mortals.

  I hit the green button. "Bethany Alban."

  My boss is more excited than I can remember hearing him. "Bethany, are you still with Max Best?"

  "Yeah, he's right next to me."

  Max leans towards my phone and raises his voice, "I'm behind a paywall; you can't talk to me."

  "That's him all right," says my boss. "Bethany, listen very carefully."

  "Go on."

  "Do not get kicked out of that mini-van."

  "I wasn't planning to."

  "Suck up to him, tell him he's smart and brilliant and his hipster stadium design is wonderful, whatever you have to do. But make sure you're still friends with him by next Saturday."

  I glance to my left and lower my voice. "Why? What's going on? Hang on. Next Saturday. That's Dortmund versus Stuttgart. What's he done?" I raise my voice. "What have you done?"

  Max pretends not to understand the question.

  My boss says, "I'm sending you Stuttgart's latest social media post. Hang on... there." My phone buzzes. "This place is already going mad. Stick with him! Find out everything he does! You're in pole position, Bethany. Don't let this slip!"

  "If it's that important, let's talk about a pay rise," I say, but he has already hung up. I huff while I open the file my boss sent me. It's a screenshot of a social media post. "Max!" I yell. "What the fuck!"

  "What?"

  "What the fuck is wrong with you? We're supposed to be going to Poland."

  "We are going to Poland, Beth. Poland's that way, look, and that's where we're headed. East, east, east. Always east. Into the sunset of poor, sweet Anna's life. Wait, do I mean sunrise? Is the sun upside down here or is that just Australia?"

  "Stop talking shit and explain this." I show him the message.

  He nods sagely. "I think that's a different guy with the same name. Yes, that must be it."

  As I sit and gawp at his stupid, punchable face, I get message after message from my fellow journalists, from footballers, from football managers. Christ, I even get one from Paul Braun, the head honcho at Bayern Munich, whose nephew looks set to be a major character in the next chapter of the story. Paul Braun's message to me is simply a laughing emoji.

  I shake my head. "It's a madhouse."

  I bring up the screenshot once more and stare at it, wondering what insane process led a host of serious, experienced professionals to make this decision.

  VfB Stuttgart are pleased to announce that Max Best will co-manage the team in their upcoming fixture against Borussia Dortmund.

  I have a Patreon that I rarely mention. I should probably mention it more than once every 300,000 words, so here's the pitch. Support me in writing this story, get more chapters, be part of a fun Discord community with custom emojis, get a decent amount of bonus content. (I do things like commission Cameos from actual footballers, the narrator of the audiobooks does bits for me, plus there's some insane stuff that I think is hilarious. Other opinions are available.)

  PATREON