8.

  "There are decades where nothing happens, there are weeks where decades happen, but I didn't see any of it and the referee was shocking" - Lenin via Alan Turner.

  ***

  Wednesday, October 29. The morning after Newcastle.

  I woke up alone.

  After spending some much-needed but not very private time with Emma in the Blues Bar, I had watched her drive back up north with her mum and dad, saving her a train ride. All very logical, very reasonable, but I couldn't help but feel Sebastian was punishing me for defying his team.

  I pottered out of my house looking for some human contact. Ruth wasn't in. The Brig was out. The horses weren't in a chatty mood.

  Back inside, I made a cup of tea and decided I would spend a lazy couple of days taking stock of the season so far, checking my plans, doing some admin. Top of the list was finding a way to cover for Sandra when she was off. What else? Get Andrew Harrison to a new club while he was on people's minds. Check the mini-bonds were being sold. Pick an eleven that could win our easy FA Cup match while our key players rested for the potentially explosive one against Liverpool under 21s in the Vans Trophy. Manage our under 18s in the Youth Cup, introduce them to Relationism.

  It seemed straightforward enough but the universe had a couple of surprises in store. And when I say a couple I mean ten.

  ***

  I rode the Green Baron to Bumpers, taking a detour past our latest giant poster. It was advertising the Chesterness doc that would air on Sunday night. I had some ideas for next week's design - when I got to my office I would sketch them on my ancient iPad and send them to Brooke.

  I was surprised by how full our car park was. I had given most of the lads two days off but loads had come anyway. Some had come to eat breakfast together, some (Josh, for example) were getting looked at by physios, and a few had asked Spectrum to take them through bits of video from last night. In truth, I think people just wanted to be together, to stretch the feeling of the evening before as far as it could go.

  I had brek - Full English, for once - which eased the aches and strains wonderfully. Spectrum was with Christian Fierce and Wibbers trying to answer their questions simultaneously.

  Sharky was there, basking in all the attention he was getting in real life and online. The Newcastle game had been his breakout performance and at the age of 27 he had finally arrived. If he could play like that at CA 59, imagine how useful he would be when he reached his ceiling of 86. I actually expected him to get within shouting distance of his peak this season, since he was getting minutes, the coaching was good, the facilities were good, and now one of his mental blocks had been obliterated. Surely it had. Right?

  Sandra's car was in its spot, so when I finished eating I pottered around looking for her. I finally found her in the Sin Bin, watching some parts of the match on the big TV. She liked to watch without sound.

  I perched on the edge of the table. "Pressing traps," I said.

  "Yes, boss. They are sophisticated. I want to watch this while it's all fresh in my mind so I can learn to do it and learn how to combat it."

  "Any news about...?"

  "No, Max."

  "Do you remember the thing they were doing against the double full backs? Kind of a zippy triangle."

  "Yes, boss."

  "When we start facing low blocks again that could be a nice move. And that in and out thing?"

  "Know exactly what you mean."

  "I'd love to add that to the Art of Slapping. And I liked the one where they draw you out all the way to the touchline and it's bish bosh bash and they're away."

  "Yep."

  "I loved all that. So simple but it just looked dead right every time. It’s the Wayne Gretzky principle."

  "What's that?"

  "It's where you watch some sport and you pause it and say what the player should do with the ball. You say, well he should pass there and that guy should draw the player and pass square and then that guy should turn. Then you press play to see if he actually did that thing that's obviously right. Wayne Gretzky always did the right thing. Decisions 20. Newcastle did that most of the time and it was only the last pass where they stuffed up. Everything leading up to that final step was gold."

  "I've never heard it put like that but I totally agree. So much of it was superb. Turner has actually coached out the decision-making process, though, boss. They're not making those decisions, they're going through their set patterns." She went through the move she was watching one more time.

  "Can we learn to do it?" I said, as green shirts swarmed Eddie. Sandra rewound and watched the move again, slower.

  "Yes," she said, "but there's no point in doing this one if we can't keep the ball when we have it."

  "Next time we'll be better at that," I said. I felt confused, somehow. Did I want brilliant, unstoppable scripted passing moves or did I want my players to do it all samba-style? What level of hybrid system would I want if I could design it? "If it's next year, we'll have a more mature Wibbers, Dan, I'll be more ready, Pascal will be fit. We have players who can pass, who can beat a press. But I'm thinking even further ahead. When we're playing these sorts of matches every week can you give me these moves?"

  "Sure," said Sandra. "If you give me the training ground time."

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Because then you'll be asking where the passing drills are." She went much more Mancunian than normal, I suppose because she was doing an impression of me. "Where's the technique? Where are the slaps?"

  I smiled. "That's the trade-off, is it? If we focus on one thing, something else gets lost?"

  "Championship-winning teams play beautiful football, score goals, get a hundred points, go to the Prem and can't do what they used to do. The step up is immense and most promoted teams go straight back down. We need to be very defensively solid, have a top-class goalie, and either attack well enough to scrape 40 points or defend well enough to do the same. We won't be able to do both. Not in the first season."

  I smiled. "I love that you're planning for the Prem."

  She gave me a level look. "That's where we're going, isn't it? To the Prem to be everyone's second favourite team."

  I checked the door was closed and was about to make a joke about the nearest Prem being the Northern Premier League Premier when my phone rang. "Better take this," I said. "It's the manager of Morecambe calling to congratulate me." I pretended to sigh like it was such a chore. Sandra scoffed, shook her head, and got back to work.

  Five minutes later I knocked and went back into the cabin. Sandra looked over with a slight frown. It wasn't like me to return to a finished conversation. "All good?"

  "Erm," I said, considering the question. "I mean... yeah? Morecambe want to sign Cavvers."

  "Ben?"

  I grabbed one of the new chairs, pulled it close, and sat. "They have the chance to get into the National League playoffs but the manager's sick of his current goalie. He saw Ben against Newcastle and was like, there you go. Bit of skill, bit of character, won the NL before, and he's not Chester's first choice so we can get him cheap."

  "Can they?"

  "I mean, he offered fifty thousand."

  "Fifty?" she said, pulling a face. "That's shit."

  I tapped the table a few times. She was right, but Ben was at his cap. CA 67 and we were out of the AOK Cup. Every cup we got knocked out of was a long stream of future matches that he wouldn't be playing in. He would spend most of the rest of the season on the bench watching Sticky, losing value. "Yeah but it's the most we're ever going to get. He'll never be as in-demand as he is now." I tapped some more while I looked at the goalkeepers in my squad page. Sticky, Ben, Banksy, Rainman. Rainman was on loan at Saltney and the gap from Ben to Banksy was vast. Without Ben, if Sticky got injured or suspended, we would be in big trouble. If I sold Ben I would need a replacement, and if I was getting a replacement, what was the point of the trade? Well, to get someone with a higher ceiling, obviously. Someone in the CA 50, PA 100 range. An upgrade. Someone who would benefit from having an elite goalie coach. "Ben gets a pay bump, first team football. Morecambe isn't that far and it's nice up there. I assume."

  While I was going through my database of goalie options, my phone rang again. It was my mate Timo, manager of Crawley. His side were struggling in League One but he was fairly unflappable. I showed Sandra who it was. "Crawley for Ben?" she said, baffled. I stood, intending to take the call outside but she grabbed me; she wanted to hear. "Just don't let him blab about his latest girlfriend."

  This is what she heard:

  "TJ. Sup? Oh, you did? Oh, come on, it wasn't 60 yards. 59 and a half maybe. Yeah! Who cares? Fuck him. Don't remember doing that, no. Did you just want a chat? What? Are you fucking joking? Sharky?" I jumped up and Sandra did the same. "That's mental. Are you low-balling me on my birthday? I've got two birthdays, mate. Two hundred? Haven't you got all that bitcoin money? He's my only winger. Two... The hell are you talking about? A triple threat like Sharky doesn't get out of bed for less than three hundred grand! He's a lethal weapon if he gets some space and teams are always battering you lot because you're shit - he would destroy League One on counters. Don't waste my time with... You'll ask your board? Mate, your board is a teenager who made fifty mill by accident trading shitcoins, he's not someone who gets to have an opinion on the market value of - oh, he's gone."

  Sandra was agog. "Crawley want Sharky?"

  "I know," I said. "Talk about a bolt from the blue."

  I went into the curse shop and brought up the details of a perk called Interested Parties. It would add an indicator to a player's profile that told me which clubs were interested in which players. It cost 6,000 XP but had the potential to transform how I did transfer business. After buying Shocktober and accumulating XP at a fairly steady rate, I was getting towards the amount I needed to buy Relationism.

  XP balance: 17,818

  I was within ten thousand now. It would be moronic to buy anything that delayed it. Apart from Shocktober - that had been ace.

  Sandra was waiting for clarity. "Do I understand it right that Crawley might offer 300,000 for Sharky? Don't you think we could get more?"

  I did a slow circuit around the TV and then leaned on the table. "Yes, eventually. A fully-grown shark is worth half a mill. He's still a baby shark, though, isn't he? 300 would be generous. I think at 300 we'd be stupid not to bite. Hey," I said, rapping the table as I got up. "TJ's board won't go for it anyway. God, what a morning this is turning into."

  ***

  I caught Sharky as he was about to head off home and told him what had just happened. All kinds of emotions crossed his face - pride, worry, dollar signs. I promised to keep him updated.

  In need of a normal, non-weird conversation, I walked around Bumpers trying to chat to the ground staff, to JoJo, to the chefs, but I kept getting interrupted by callers who wanted my employees. I'd often heard games like the Newcastle one being described as a 'shop window' for players but hadn't really thought anyone meant it seriously. Apparently it was a real thing.

  I batted away enquiries about Wibbers and Youngster, and the market for Josh Owens was forming but wasn't currently too serious. But when I suggested a price to club A for player X, other clubs seemed to instantly know about it. It became a known fact that I would take 50 for Ben, 300 for Sharky, and that I would accept one hundred thousand pound bids for Eddie Moore.

  It seemed like my January had the potential to be a lot busier than expected, which was good in one way - more money for the club - but bad in the sense that if Sandra was still on leave, I could be up to my neck in work at a time of year when I wasn't at my effervescent best, what with my mum and everything.

  To take my mind off things, I scooted the short distance to the Deva, where I found Secretary Joe among some volunteers who were cleaning up the debris from last night's match. I joined in but they soon kicked me out, since I was wincing every time I bent to pick up a crisp packet.

  Joe eased away from the others, put his hand on my back, and pushed me inside towards his office. "I've got something interesting to show you," he said.

  I told him about the bids for our players and that I was minded to accept them so if he wanted to get on his club secretary chat groups and spread the word, we could attract more offers for the guys in question and let them choose where they wanted to go.

  Joe listened carefully. "Four hundred thousand pounds for three players. It seems like a lot, but it isn't really, is it?"

  "Wouldn't buy that Charlton lad's toenail. Better than a kick to the nuts though, isn't it?"

  "They're nice boys," said Joe, with a slightly accusing tone.

  "Yes. And they're getting their rewards for all their hard work. If they leave," I added, because none of the interest seemed likely to actually turn into deals. "I've not had one of these shop window matches before. Maybe today everyone's hyped and tomorrow it's all forgotten? We will see. All right, what have you got?"

  He sat at his computer where he had read-only access to a spreadsheet that was being updated through The Wall's cloud. "The mini-bonds, Max! Some interesting patterns I thought might amuse you."

  "How, er... How's it going?"

  "Good! We did ninety thousand on Monday."

  "Ninety thousand... out of five million?" I tried to do the maths in my head. "At that rate, we'll have sold out by the time a Chinese AI entity steals the secret of silk production from Japanese mecha-zoids."

  "The other way round, Max. Don't let Henri hear you make that mistake. Well, I thought ninety was quite a good start seeing as we broke the news late. On Tuesday it went viral and we sold a lot more. Two hundred and twenty thousand."

  "Total?"

  "Extra. Mostly people in Cheshire, of course, as you'd expect."

  "Right." Joe clicked around and brought up a new screen. It showed sales per hour. What kind of nerd would be interested in that? Me, for one. "Are you having fun with this?"

  "Yes," he said. "Now look. Here's the start of the Newcastle match. Bit of action. I think that's uncertain Chester fans seeing their club on TV against a big team and thinking well I never thought I'd see this again, let's look down the back of the sofa. Then..."

  "My goal."

  "Yes. Big spike."

  "What's this one?" I said, pointing to another spike about ten minutes after the goal. I couldn't think of anything that had happened in the match that would make people get their chequebooks out.

  "There was someone filming on his phone when you scored. He caught it, got you celebrating and you screaming give me your money! He posted it and people gave you their money."

  "Ha," I said. "Brooke will be pleased. She's always at me to include a call to action in our stuff. We bicker about it; I find it tacky. Okay then there's a sort of low hum of sales, that's all good. I'm starting to get the hang of this now; it's like an Expected Threat graph. Expected Wonga."

  "Expected Bread," said Joe.

  "Oh, that's good. You win." I followed the line with my finger. "Another big spike when Dazza scores."

  "Yes. A couple of investors from Australia, too. Might be his relatives. And then this one is my favourite." He pointed to a spike from after full time.

  "Erm... oh. That's when I was doing the advertorial."

  "Yes, but if we split these sales by geography..." He clicked to show me a different graph. There was the usual chunk from Cheshire, with bits from Wales, Merseyside - one from Darlington, which was unexpected - and a TON from the far north-east.

  "Not Newcastle fans," I said, finding it hard to believe.

  "No, Max!" squeaked Joe. He was loving this. "Sunderland!"

  I laughed. Where one door closes, another opens. Sunderland fans were voting with their wallets because I'd had a pop at their rivals. "Wow, okay. What a country this is, bloody hell. Okay so hit me with some numbers."

  Joe seemed less interested in the total than the stories that came with each surge. "As of last night, we had raised just over 550,000 pounds."

  "Ooh," I said, impressed. Half a mill from the bond, four hundred grand from player sales. A good day for MD's blood pressure!

  "Yes," said Joe, dubiously. "Of course, the first days see the most take-up and it will tail off quickly, plus we don't have another match as big as Newcastle on the horizon. You should expect the daily amounts to dwindle. On the other hand, Norwich City's mini-bond sold out in two weeks. Perhaps there will be some further spikes of interest around our home fixtures and episodes of the documentary. Would you consider scoring from the halfway line again? That would help."

  "Sure thing," I said. My phone buzzed. "One second," I said. I picked up, heard that it was someone asking about Wibbers, rolled my eyes, and slowly left the office. I ended the conversation by saying 'a hundred million' and as I stood in a corridor shaking my head, I realised Joe was lurking behind me, a polite distance away. "Joe! Want me to teach you how to make a proper cuppa for the hundredth time?"

  "I like it how I like it," he said. "But you might want to come and look at this."

  Intrigued, I followed him back and we re-took our positions at the spreadsheet. There was a new entry. In the last few moments, someone had bought three hundred thousand pounds of Chester FC mini-bonds. My eyes bulged and my mind raced. Who did I know with that kind of cash? Sebastian Weaver? No way. Mateo? He was investing in Gibraltar, wouldn't directly invest in one of Tranmere's rivals, and anyway I owed him a hundred grand. Ruth? She had mocked the 8% return on investment saying she could earn more by cleaning her riding boots on a private stream. "I wonder who it was?" I said.

  Joe gave me a strange look and pointed to a long cell on the left of the screen. It hadn't immediately registered as a name.

  Aurélie Fragonard

  We stared at each other for a moment, before Joe copy-pasted the text into a search engine. "Not much to go on. It's the same family name as a literature prize, podcast, perfume. I'm not seeing anyone with this exact name."

  "Could it be some sort of scam? A fake purchase from a disgruntled Geordie?"

  "I wouldn't have thought so," said Joe. "I'd be astonished if the money wasn't already in The Wall's account. They're very precise people. Er, as you know. Nice name, isn't it?"

  "Aurélie?" I said. "Aurélie Fragonard. Yes, it's nice. Oh, well, suppose it's just some rando. So we're on about eight-fifty now? That's mint. Top. Amazeballs. Keep me posted."

  ***

  In anticipation of being absolutely mentally wrecked by the Newcastle game, I'd asked Pascal to be on standby for the 3 R Welsh match. As it was, I went after all, naming myself manager so I could get 2 XP per minute while the army guys jogged around the pitch. It was incredible how slow it all was compared to real football. It was like watching my old iPad try to load an app.

  In the time it took for a defender called Dylan to take a pass, look around, count his feet, and give the ball straight back, I told Pascal that I was happy with his ten minute cameo, made sure he understood it was a mad gamble from me and I wasn't disappointed in him, but that I wanted him to forget about playing for a couple of weeks and build his fitness back up.

  He fell still but didn't complain, and soon enough he was shouting at 3 R Welsh again.

  Pascal ended up doing most of the actual managing - such as it was - while I stole the XP and pounded my phone. Tiggy had driven us and in between calls I sounded her out about the possibility of her dad, Clive OK, doing a few hours a week extra when Sandra was away. Tiggy used neutral phrases and didn't look at me - it was how I reacted when people asked about my mum. She didn't think her dad pushing himself was a good idea. Okay, scratch that avenue.

  In between calls from other football club managers, I had quick chats with Ben, Eddie, and Sharky to keep them updated on their situations and to prime them for me formally accepting a bid. If that happened I wanted the contract talks with their new clubs to happen quickly so that I would have certainty that the deals would go through on January 1.

  It must have been crazy to get those calls. One night you're in a completely harmonious team playing your best against a big club, the next your manager is talking about selling you. It was patently good news, of course. Everyone wants to be wanted. Everyone wants a pay raise. But the subtext to it all was: Max Best is willing to let you go.

  They would think about it, tell themselves that I was willing to sell due to the mini-bond as much as anything, and in the end, would take a move if the salary being offered was high enough. We were paying Ben 640 pounds a week, Eddie 950, and Sharky 600. The first two would double their money. Sharky would quintuple it.

  At half-time, I didn't really have anything to say to 3 R Welsh, and they only wanted to talk about the Newcastle match. My phone rang just as the 50th person of the day asked me how it felt to score 'that goal'. To Pascal's amusement, I showed him that the caller was, yet again, Dieter Bauer. We had been joking that he had been calling me as a sort of free weekly English lesson to keep his vocabulary fresh before the big summer event.

  I wandered away from the group - Pascal could make the subs and give pointers just as easily as I could - and did the usual small talk with Dieter. I always got the feeling he had an ulterior motive for contacting me but I always hung up wondering why he had called. He asked how I was and I told him about the offers for my players and how it always felt strange. He tried to put my mind at ease but seeing Tiggy tell off a player who wasn't listening to Pascal - now delivering a thunderous half-time team talk, amazingly - reminded me of my real challenge. I had to find a part-time coach to stand in for Sandra, ideally one who could help me with tactical ideas during matches.

  I explained all that, then said, "If only there was a loan market for coaches the way there is for players." There was a silence. "Hello?"

  "I'm here, Max. You have given me an idea. When is Miss Lane away?"

  "Er, like December and January."

  "Okay," he said, and I heard him scribbling a note. "May I please call you back? I might have a small proposal to make that you will find beneficial."

  "Of course," I said. Suddenly it hit me - Dieter had been the one investing three hundred K. These old Germans had secret bank accounts for days, didn't they? I turned away from the army guys, covered my mouth in case of lip readers, and murmured, "Aurélie Fragonard."

  "Pardon me? Are you still there, Max?"

  Nothing. Not him. "I was just ordering from the drive-through."

  He wasn't listening. "Yes, good. Goodbye."

  ***

  Tiggy dropped me back at Bumpers and I immediately hopped on the Green Baron to check out a schools match happening at Saltney.

  With Henri's Syndicate in line to pay Vincent Addo's transfer fee, my immediate financial problems were gone. In fact, Henri was pushing me to sign more players to Saltney in January.

  Addo was on his way, as was Toquinho - as expected I had needed special permission for the unknown Brazilian but it hadn't been too hard to get. Those were the two foreign players I was allowed and now I was more in the market for a Jamie Brotherhood type. Someone talented I could pick up for ten to twenty grand from a lower tier Welsh or English club and sell for a hundred in a couple of years.

  The Saltney Town project was purring along. Well In had led the team to the top of the table, which was made more impressive by the fact that unlike Jackie Reaper and Jay Cope, he didn't have the best squad in the league. I'd had to be careful with my spending in summer and the average CA in the first matchday squad was 37. The best team had 40, but they didn't have a coach like Well In. The ultimate goal, of course, was to catch the Welsh champions, The New Saints, who had 65.

  We looked likely to win the league with the squad we had, but now that the 3G pitch was generating money I planned to bring in another couple of players in January, just to be sure the club would get promoted if Well In took a better job. Those two new guys plus Addo and Tokkers, plus Tom Westwood on loan again, plus anyone else I bought with the Syndicate's money - that would be a disgustingly overpowered squad for the level and potentially already enough to finish top half in the Cymru Premier.

  The only shame was that the squad Well In would have at his disposal by the end of the January transfer window would have a slim but tangible chance at winning the Welsh Cup. The prize for winning the cup was a place in Europe - ka-ching!

  Well In had made mincemeat of the previous opponents in the cup but they would face Cardiff Met FC in the third round. That was a solid mid-table Welsh Prem club, and beating them was maybe a little too much to ask.

  I couldn't help but daydream about the money winning the cup would bring. Piles of cash always seemed to be just over the horizon.

  ***

  Saturday, November 1

  I woke up to cursemail. The imps thought they could distract me from buying Relationism with a perk called Shocktober 2: November. It did the same thing as Shocktober, but in November.

  It was the same price, 2,777 XP, but represented much worse value. First, there were far fewer matches in November, and this season's schedule was fairly easy - we would win two of the three league matches without any supernatural help, while the two FA Cup matches were likely going to be against smaller clubs.

  It just wasn't that tempting. The only thing that made me think hmm well maybe was the fact that I was getting a reliable 250 XP per week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank in the evening and watching parts of all the matches that were going on. Shocktober 2 was ten weeks of that... Nah. Relationism or bust.

  ***

  FA Cup First Round: Chester versus Coalville Town F.C.

  Brooke won yet another Employee of the Day award.

  She had done some research and discovered that a lot of our fans simply didn't understand the mini-bond. They thought we were asking for a donation of five hundred pounds and didn't realise it was an investment. So Brooke set up information booths outside the home stands. Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe stood there for a couple of hours before kick off, patiently explaining what it all meant to people while to draw people towards the booths, Christian Fierce and other star players signed autographs and posed for selfies.

  The attendance was quite low, not even 1,500, but we sold a ton of mini-bonds. When people understood they would get the money back, when they saw the images of what the new Harry McNally stand would look like, when they realised the stadium would be back under the control of the football club again, it was no longer a case of selling the bonds but trying to make sure people didn't invest more than they could afford.

  "Brooke," I said, after I had watched her convince a family to downsize their Christmas so we could upsize the Deva. "You are amazing at this. Absolutely amazing. Let's go beyond the stadium on match day, what do you think? What about going to the town centre opposite the Liverpool FC shop? You can remind people we're playing Liverpool this week."

  "It's easier to sell a stadium bond when you are at the stadium, but I'll think about it. MD is schmoozing some of his friends from the big pharmaceutical companies in the box today. We could sell more in five minutes in that one room than five days on the street. Are we going to win? It goes easier when we win."

  I tutted. "Please," I said, and thought about withdrawing her award.

  Coalville were a tier 9 side playing in something called the Hellenic League, which really should be in Greece. I let Sandra manage this one, but we collaborated over the starting eleven, opting for an attacking 4-3-3. With Sandra in charge, we could have spread the three forwards out if we wanted, but based on the characteristics of the players she opted to go narrow.

  I was tempted to push for Banksy in goal, but a good FA Cup run could solve a lot of our problems so we went with our cup goalie, the in-demand Ben Cavanagh.

  The back four was Cole Adams, Zach, Sunday Sowumni, and Jamie Brotherhood. Zach had played against Newcastle but the curse said he was fully fit. Lee H was suspended after his red card, which was actually perfect because we wouldn't have used him in this match anyway.

  Lee C, Ryan Jack, and Noah H were the midfield three, while the strikers would be Tom Westwood, Benny, and Dazza. We told the Australian not to run around too much. "Just score," was the instruction.

  Coalville were strangely disorganised from set pieces and Ryan Jack had fun putting free kicks and corners into the danger zone. We quickly got a grip against a limited team, scoring three first half goals, including Dazza's second for the club and big headers from Cole Adams and Zach Green. Zach was captain for the day and did it flawlessly.

  Sandra didn't have much to do, but she kept herself busy making tiny tweaks. Her main decision was how many kids to bring on for the second half. She thought it safe to put Henk on as centre back, which wasn't all that much of a risk in terms of CA. Henk's was actually higher than Sunday Sowumni's, but Henk was one point away from his cap. Tyson replaced Noah, and Chas Fungrieve got ten minutes, too. It was very, very good preparation for the Youth Cup.

  In the second half, Tom Westwood got the goal his work rate deserved, and Lee Contreras bagged another. That was his third goal of the season. Decent but Bradford City's R. Brown already had six having played fewer games.

  I was an unused substitute and I spent most of the match wondering if I liked this easy life, where thousands of good decisions had got us to the point where our under 18s could have given Coalville a pasting, or if I preferred the high-wire knife-edge tension of playing mad formations against a fast and relentless Premier League team.

  I decided either one was fine as long as it ended with me and Emma being in the same bed.

  I tried to stick to the positives.

  Our total prize money for our cup heroics so far that season - which included an improbable win against Bolton, beating a very good Fleetwood side and neeeeearly dicking Newcastle - had stood at 30,000 pounds.

  The prize money for beating a tier 9 side in the FA Cup first round was 45,000, bringing the prize pot to a tasty 75 grand.

  I love the FA Cup!

  ***

  As I was looking through the results from the other matches, I saw that Ziggy had scored again. That was 5 in 10 games, most coming as a substitute. FC United's new manager was taking his sweet time realising Ziggers was the best striker in the whole fucking league.

  I called Ziggy, had a quick chat with him, and realised what I needed was a night out in Manchester.

  I remembered I didn't have a car and could not envision a universe where I would get on a train. Not in the north of the country, anyway.

  "Why don't you buy a car, mate?" laughed Ziggy. "You're rolling in bread. You're cashed up."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I shook my head. "No need to rush in, right?"

  "You need to visit your mum."

  "Yeah," I said. What I didn't say was that if I bought a car, my emergency fund would be obliterated. "I'll think about it."

  ***

  I watched Match of the Day, which showed highlights from the Premier League. I didn't often watch the show but I didn't have anything better to do. The first match was Newcastle versus Arsenal, and the action was pretty good.

  But there was a brief clip of what looked like hundreds of Arsenal fans covering one eye when Alan Turner was walking past.

  I had started something.

  ***

  Sunday, November 2

  Emma, as you may have guessed, didn't spend the weekend with me. She said she was incredibly close to finishing a big project, after which she would see a lot more of me.

  I mean, hard to complain about that, isn't it?

  I complained anyway, for some reason choosing Jackie Reaper as the guy most likely to lend me a sympathetic ear. He listened carefully as I described how little I was seeing of her, then he formed his hands into little fists and rubbed them against his eyes.

  "Waah," he said. "My girlfwend is working as hard on her caweer as I am on mine and I don't wike it!"

  "I do like it," I said.

  "Then shut the fuck up," he said. "Now pay attention Maxy Boy. I'm going to teach you how to play rugby."

  ***

  Division 1 North: Chester Women versus Rugby Borough

  Rugby Borough came to Flint with an average CA of 45 and hopes of topping the table at the end of the season. They looked a good unit.

  That was, they looked a good unit in the twenty seconds until our ladies walked onto the pitch.

  Jackie had named his favourite 3-5-2 and it was ridiculous - an average of 54.2.

  Scottie Love, as usual, was the goalie. She had improved to CA 54 and her ceiling of 63 was in sight. I needed to scout the higher divisions to find a better keeper for next season. I'd probably keep Scottie as the backup for one season until Queenie, our 18-year-old PA 94 prospect, was more consistent.

  Femi (59), Meghan (65), and Luxury Bell (54) were the back three. Former captain Bonnie was getting decent minutes, what with all the cup matches we were playing in, but since she had hit her PA limit of 41 she had been sliding down the pecking order and was being left behind really quite quickly. I wondered if she would want to play for Saltney Women next season or move to another club entirely. It would be sad when she left, and as always I only hoped we would part on good terms. It was hard to envisage Sharky being mad that I'd sent him to quintuple his wages, but it was easy to imagine Bonnie feeling hurt.

  Kisi (50) had finally done enough to make the right midfield starting slot her own. Left or right - she switched with Dani (57) to give defenders different problems. Pippa's CA 44 made her something of a weak link, and there were times when she looked like the token old woman in the team. The ex-Man City midfielders, Charlotte (58) and Sarah Green (66), were far too good for the teams we were facing, and Jackie was keeping them interested by always pitting them against each other in training. Maddy Hines was on the bench. At CA 44 she was a great option and she still had tons of room to improve. If she worked on her tackling she would displace Pippa in the centre, but Jackie wanted to keep her as a creative, attacking force.

  The strikers were Angel and one other. Today's other was Julie McKay, edging out Bea Pea because Jackie had subconsciously realised that Julie's CA had overtaken her rival's - 39 against 36. Bea Pea, like Bonnie, had hit her ceiling. As with Bonnie, her all-action, somewhat rustic style would go great in the Welsh leagues, but again, I wasn't sure if she would be into it. Maybe if I could get one of them to join, the other would, too. I couldn't pay them, though.

  Angel was on CA 51. I had seen her flying around in training being absolutely lethal but today she spent the match walking around doing absolutely nothing - until it was time to score. I later learned that she was sick with worry about how the documentary would be received and whether it was true that her life was really about to start.

  The first half ended with us three-nil up, same as in the men's FA Cup match. The difference was that Rugby Borough were supposed to be able to compete with us. They seemed stupefied by what had happened to them, by the quality of the moves they'd seen. Jackie must have told the ladies to take their foot off the pedal because the final score was only four-nil and we got three of the Ffamous Five into the fray. I texted Jackie that he was doing a great job giving minutes to the young players but warned him not to attend a real rugby match because his head might be mistaken for a ball.

  Anyone watching Chesterness that night and looking to see how the ladies were doing would see them right at the top of the table. And Brooke, being a smart cookie, had bought space on the top of search engines so that people typing 'Chester Women' or similar were directed to a specially-written page that quickly morphed from pictures of happy players into a sales pitch promoting the benefits of the mini-bond to the women's team specifically.

  Chef's kiss.

  ***

  Emma surprised me with a video call ten minutes before Chesterness started, and we watched the whole thing while chatting about it. It was nice, like the time, early in our relationship, when we had watched The Proposal. The time I had fallen asleep but she had stayed on the call until the movie finished and I thought, oh maybe she really likes me.

  That had been years ago; I kinda thought we might be a bit closer by now. Like in the same city.

  The doc was just as I'd seen it but some scenes had better music. "This is so good," said Emma. "You're fun in it. Aww, look, there's Lucy. Aww."

  "She's fine. She has moved on. If we can make their time at the club as memorable and enriching as possible, it'll be easier to watch them leave."

  "If you're gonna keep talking shit I'm gonna put you on mute."

  I smiled. "Soz. Do you think we'll sell some mini-bonds because of this?"

  "Deffo," said Emma. "You'll get people with big hearts who want the women they're watching to do well. They'll go on the website to find out the latest and they'll see there's a chance to support the club and make some money. And you'll get horny dudes who think Angel's fit."

  "Did your dad buy any?"

  "I don't like the juxtaposition of what I said and how you replied to it."

  I turned red. "No! I didn't mean... Oh my God. I'm going to go into the garden and cover myself with rocks. Goodbye forever. Bye."

  "I'm sure he didn't and won't ever buy any Chester FC mini-bonds, Max. He wishes he'd never got involved with them. After the match the Sunderland fans at his golf club were all texting him like hey Seb, do you think your Emma's lad is really that good or should we wait to see if he can do it against a big club? That kind of thing."

  "Banter," I said, realising my actions would have real-life consequences for Sebastian and trying not to look too smug about it.

  "So much banter," she said, yawning. "We're going to Manchester soon, location scouting. You know, because The Wall is going so good."

  "Oh, right."

  "Me mum and dad were wondering if they could meet your mum."

  I fell silent. What? What the actual what?

  Emma sat up on her bed. "Only, like, the way you do it. Not meet meet, all formal. Just in the big room where they play cards. They won't say anything if you don't want. They could be on the next table while you talk to your mum and Anna. And they want to get appraised by Solly."

  "I don't know," I said, my insides eating me up. "It's..." I started, but I didn't know what it was. The fear of stressing mum? Anxiety about knowing how anxious I would be the entire day until the ordeal was over? Worry about why Sebastian and Rachel wanted to 'meet' her?

  "Don't worry, Max, we won't do it. It's okay. They just always ask me about it and I've been, you know, telling them to wait."

  "They always ask you about it?" I said. There was something about the phrase that I found relaxing. This wasn't a new impulse. This wasn't something that had come up after the Newcastle game.

  "Yeah. I'm sorry, let's drop it. Is this one of the better episodes, do you think?"

  She was trying to change the subject but I couldn't concentrate on the TV. My brain was doing loop-de-loops all over the north, playing join-the-dots from Chester to Manchester to Newcastle. Nothing good could come from any of it. No no no. Veto.

  I snapped out of it long enough to seem like a real boy in front of Ems, then said I was tired. We ended the call, I put my phone on silent and plugged it in on the far side of the room, and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I knew what Chesterness was going to be: a sure-fire smash hit that made me look like a manic cross between Darth Vader and Willy Wonka, that made Charlotte look like the best player in Europe, and would surely turn Angel into one of the country's top ten most famous female athletes.

  I wished I had such certainty about the success of any kind of 'meet the parents' day.

  ***

  Tuesday, November 4

  Secretary Joe: I think the word to describe yesterday is... jackpot. We did four hundred and thirty grand off the back of the documentary! That's one point nine million total.

  ***

  FA Youth Cup First Round: Chester versus Hartpury University F.C.

  I had been looking forward to this match for so long... and it was worth it. It was ALL worth it.

  Hartpury had done well to make it through the qualifying rounds given that their average CA was 9, so there wasn't any particular jeopardy regarding the result.

  But I'm sure you remember that the previous season we had played Chelsea's youth team and they'd had an average CA of 37. Admittedly, some of their better players hadn't been there that day for various reasons, but I had a target. If I could get a team close to an average CA of 37, anyfuckingthing was possible.

  Our best formation was probably 4-3-3 so I went with that.

  In goal I had a choice between Banksy and Bivvy, who were both CA 25, but that wasn't any sort of dilemma.

  In front of Banksy I had Lucas Friend (39), Captain (32, capped), Henk (37, also capped), and Jamie Brotherhood, who I'd been force-feeding first-team minutes like there was no tomorrow. He had swollen to a majestic CA 25 and his family had bought some bonds, too. They seemed to be loving the Chester story so far.

  Dan Badford was the star of the midfield with CA 52. Noah was on 33, and Tyson 41.

  Up front I had the lanky sixteen-year-old, Chas Fungrieve, whose first team exposure had helped him get to 29. Benny was 38, and Wibbers was 61. Still very much the star but with a lot of help from the supporting cast.

  The bench included decent options like Bomber, Sevenoaks, and a wide-eyed Roddy Jones, but it was the first eleven that got me excited because if you add up all those numbers and divide by eleven you get, drum roll please, 37.4.

  Thanks to all my hard work and yes, some dropped points in a few league matches, this Chester team was BETTER than the Chelsea team that had beaten us. It was close, of course, and Chelsea hadn't brought all their starlets that day, but I felt sure that with Bench Boost and my perks we could beat the first Premier League team we faced.

  If we faced a second... well, that's where continued exposure to the first team would kick in. 37.4 was our starting point - how high could we get by the final?

  By then, of course, we might have developed a secret weapon.

  I told the lads we would start our Relationism training on Friday - if we won today.

  I think they found the prospect motivational. They won ten-nil.

  ***

  Secretary Joe: Ten-nil! People loved that. Five goals from William! People love the idea we have a real star. Boggy's broadcast brought in a hundred and forty thousand pounds. Same again tomorrow please!

  ***

  Wednesday, November 5

  Vans Trophy Group Stage match 3 of 3: Chester versus Liverpool under 21s

  We'd sold more tickets to this match than our FA Cup game and expected a quite decent attendance of 1,500, where the word decent is relative. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that interest was high; Liverpool were a big draw in the area.

  I watched the warmups and saw that Liverpool's young team would have an average CA around 85. That would make them a top ten League Two team, easily. They were better than us! We were coming with CA 77 ish.

  I nearly reconsidered allowing Sandra to manage this game - with her in charge I wouldn't have access to Bench Boost. I really wanted to save it for the next round, though. If we crashed out in the group stage, so be it, but if we wanted to go deep I had to keep my powder dry.

  I decided to leave things as they were, meaning Sandra Lane was the gaffer. The under 21 teams were mostly brilliant and played outstanding football... but got beat in the end. I didn't think this Liverpool mob would have the tools to handle Dazza, for example, while Christian Fierce played with a kind of barely-contained ferocity you couldn't replicate in the genteel surroundings of a top academy.

  I went outside to help Brooke sell some mini-bonds. We had sold just over two million pounds already, which was great, but not quite enough at this stage to guarantee we would hit five million. Much of the early enthusiasm had faded and the fact we were slapping our fans with non-stop calls to action could turn positivity into resentment.

  "The problem," she said, after drinking something from a fancy bottle, "is the league position. The cups are great, Max, but we are 18th in the league. It's too close to the bottom and people are wondering if the new stand will turn out to be a white elephant. Win today by all means, but if I could choose, I'd prefer three points against Wimbledon on the weekend."

  The Dons were CA 82 or thereabouts, and the match was down in London. As well as home advantage, Wimbledon had a tall team with good shape, hard-running strikers, and they always used all their subs so that they could keep pressing until the final whistle. Very Newcastle-esque, though much less technical. "That might be a big ask."

  "Well, I'm asking."

  I checked her out. She was dressed in smart-casual clothes which I'm sure were carefully chosen to straddle the line between looking good, being approachable, and being smart enough for someone to take financial advice from her. She had slightly rosy cheeks and on her little information booth were a pair of gloves. To me it was a gorgeous autumnal evening, perfect for footy under the floodlights, but I guess for her it was quite wintry. "How are you doing?"

  "Good, Max."

  She looked good. Healthy. The mini-bonds might have come at a good time to keep things fresh, give her a new challenge. The summer, of course, would involve lots of complicated project management, on-the-fly decisions, stress, pressure. All the stuff she loved. I looked around and leaned a little closer. "Listen. We've got like two million, right? That's enough for the deposits on the demolition guys, the pitch people, the stand makers, the builders. I want you to give them all the go-ahead."

  Brooke made a show of biting back the first thing she wanted to say. With a very slight eye roll, she said, "We need five, and even that amount worries me. We have no contingency, we won't be able to outfit all the bars, restaurants."

  She stopped talking as a rando passed by, gawping at us. It probably looked like I was making a move on Brooke.

  "I know," I said, when the rando was out of range. "I want that stand demolished and the pitch done. I'll tell you one thing that will raise a fuckton of money pretty damn quick and that's having a huge hole where half the stadium used to be. New slogan: Give me your fucking money or it'll look like that for twenty years."

  She rubbed an eyebrow. "That's your instruction, is it? Demolish a stand before we have the money to rebuild it?"

  "No," I smiled. "We will demolish it after the final game of the season, of course. But whether we quite have the money to pay for absolutely everything, we will demolish it. This summer." She was going through some calculations in her head. I said, "Do you think we will hit five million by May?"

  "If it's a good season, yes."

  "There you go, then. There's no time to waste. Strike while the iron is hot and make sure we don't get bumped down the list of projects at one of the four suppliers. And," I said, doing some thinking of my own. If the league position was holding us back, which seemed logical, we needed to improve it fast. If I used Bench Boost against Wimbledon, then we won two straightforward matches against Newport and Colchester, we would get nine points from nine and move up to something like tenth in the league. It didn't sit right to use Bench Boost for anything other than sporting reasons, but this had to take priority. "Okay, done. If you get everything booked, we will beat Wimbledon. I promise we'll make a move up the table so fast you'll have your finger in your ear to relieve the pressure."

  "And if we don't sell enough bonds? How are we going to pay for everything?"

  "I'll sell players." I got next to her and showed her tentative approaches we'd had for Wibbers and Youngster. The numbers were seven digits. I spoke more quietly. "I promise the club will be in no danger. The biggest risk is that we're too late booking these companies and there's, you know, a bottleneck. Imagine if we can't get the stand demolished because we were too slow booking them."

  She bit her lip for a moment. "You're asking me and not MD because he'll say no."

  "Yes. Work with Secretary Joe to do, what's it called? Letters of intent? If MD finds out before we've got all our ducks in a row, you front it out and look surprised because you thought it was obvious that when we hit two million we would blah blah. You can make up something business-sounding better than me. Oh, if he gets mad, offer to resign. He'll shut right up."

  She inhaled. "You promise you'll sell if we have to?"

  "Yes." I gave her a friendly shove. "If it cheers you up, I'm going to sell a player right now."

  She glanced towards the stadium. "Now? To Liverpool?"

  "Yep."

  "Who?"

  "Don't worry, not Captain Zachtastic." I grinned. "I don't want to jinx it by telling you. All right, why don't you put your rich lady gloves on? You want to look relatable but I don't want you getting frostbite, do I? Not before you've sent those emails, anyway."

  ***

  Liverpool's academy managers had come to watch their team. Adrian Matthews, the Academy Director, was in the seat we'd reserved for him, near a bunch of his colleagues, scouts, and something called 'head of pre-academy recruitment'. Wayne Robins, the scout who had been watching little Simon Black, was there.

  I popped along the aisle and introduced myself to Adrian Matthews. He was inordinately pleased to be recognised. I invited him to come inside for a tiny bit of business. He joked that he didn't want to buy any mini-bonds, but came along easily enough. The first sign of friction was when I suggested that he might want Wayne Robins to come, too.

  With increasing reluctance, the two followed me to the boardroom. The Brig appeared out of nowhere and closed the door behind us. While the two Liverpool guys sat down, the Brig simply loomed.

  "Okay, I won't keep you too long," I said. "It's about a lad in our youth system called Simon Black. Your boy Wayne there has been scouting him for a while and I understand you're going to try to snatch the kid without offering compensation to Chester Football Club."

  "Bullshit," said Wayne.

  "Wayne, please," said Adrian. "I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding."

  I blew air from my cheeks while looking up at the ceiling. I didn’t want a good relationship with these people and I had to get myself ready for the match. "Fine," I said, reaching for my laptop. "We're going straight into dick mode are we? You don't know who you're dealing with. I am going to ruin your lives, ruin your careers, and when I'm done I'm going onto that pitch - " I pointed through the window - "and ruin those kids."

  "Who do - " said Adrian, but I had a sound file open on my MacBook.

  I pressed play.

  The audio was hissy but clear enough. We heard the voice of Wayne Robins and, coming through the speakerphone with double the hiss and extra crackles, someone who sounded very much like Adrian Matthews.

  "Wayne? You just done at Chester? How'd you get on?"

  "Good. Nearly dere with Simon. Lad wants a PlayStation 6 an' some games. Dad wants ten grand."

  "Ten? Fucking bargain, that. Doesn't he know his kid's the next Michael Owen?"

  "I know. He's been laid off, like. Strugglin', else he wouldn't leave Chester. Kid loves it and the dads get together and do stuff. We need to move fast, get this sorted now while he's off work and he's wondering how he can pay for Chrimbo."

  I pressed pause and spoke to John. "Up north, Chrimbo means Christmas. Posh guy like you wouldn't know that."

  "In my house, we called it the Feast of Wenceslas."

  "Did you?" I creased up. "You're fucking with me."

  "I am, sir."

  I pretended to be surprised the Liverpool guys were still there. I gave them my full attention and waited.

  "Er," said Adrian.

  Wayne went with, "That wasn't me. You can't illegally record someone and use it in a court of law. That's worthless, that, whatever it is. AI deep fake."

  "Yeah," I said, getting bored. I'd already won. "Let's leave it to the Daily Mail to decide if it sounds like you or not. If it's fake or not. John, what's the name of that Daily Mail reporter who's always writing about how cute and wholesome our youth teams are?"

  "Bethany Alban, sir."

  "Bethany Alban," I said, typing her name plus Chester FC into a browser. "Article here about a youth tournament. The Wizard of Oz had eleven writers. Interesting. What else has she done? Loads about Dani. What's this? Baby Bale? Fucking Beth! When did she do that one?"

  Adrian stirred. "If you release that audio, it'll go badly on you. You're recording people in their cars. That's very, very strange. All sorts of illegal."

  "Thing is," I said, leaning back. "I'm one of those cut off my nose to spite my face kinda guys. Top of my bucket list is to blow up a building and walk away while it's exploding behind me. Isn't that right, John?"

  "You mention it really quite often, sir."

  "It'd be so cool. Blowing up the Liverpool academy? Mate, I'd be on that all day. Illegal? I can't remember how I got this audio. I left my laptop open in Starbucks and when I came back, there it was. Legal problems? Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver. You two will lose your jobs and get football bans. Proper bans. I'll get some parents making jokes about listening to Eros Ramazzotti in the car park. And if anyone at Chester is actually upset by this, I'll score a hat trick and we'll all be friends again. No," I sighed, "I have you on toast. The question is, do you want to keep your job?"

  I hadn't said jobs, plural. Adrian glanced at Wayne, calculating how useful the twat was. To me, he said, "What do you want?"

  "You want to sign the next Michael Owen. What would Owen be worth today? Hundred and twenty million, easy. I want a hundred and twenty thousand for Simon Black."

  Adrian spluttered. "That's crazy. He's twelve! That's impossible."

  "Man City paid almost two hundred grand for a 13-year-old. You lot paid two million for a 14-year-old. I know the market so don't talk shit. I want a truckload of money and I want it tomorrow."

  Adrian got up, but when the Brig moved closer, stayed awkwardly tucked in behind his chair.

  I dialled Beth. She picked up right away. "Max?"

  I put her on speakerphone. "Is that Bethany Alban from the Daily Mail?"

  "Yes," she said, warily.

  "I have, what do you call it? A scoop."

  "Hang up," said Adrian.

  "Who's that, Max? Shouldn't you be warming up? What are you up to?"

  "I'm not sure but I think I might have uncovered a scandal. Big, nasty, ugly one. Big horrible story with some truly awful people taking advantage of the working poor and their cute, cute little kids."

  "Tell me," said Beth. Her voice was dripping with excitement. "Is it something to do with Liverpool? You're playing them now, right?"

  Adrian was doing a weird gesture with his hands. Sort of pulsing his fingers. I put Beth on mute. "What?"

  "Fifty," he said. "I can do fifty."

  "You must think I'm fucking stupid. I've got you over a barrel. There's loads of this audio and it's all grotesque. The way this pig talks about kids and their parents is sick. I want a hundred grand and I never want to see your scouts at my training ground ever again."

  Adrian glared at Wayne, then sighed and placed his palms on the big table. "Sixty-five."

  "Seventy-five, deal's done tomorrow and you never talk to me again. If I don't have a fucking binding, watertight deal by one p.m., I'm going feral. And Mr. Black still gets his ten grand. I'm gonna ask him about it in about a month and if you haven't sorted him out, I'm leaking this anyway. John, will you help them back to their seats?" I paced out. When I was far enough away, I unmuted Beth. "You still there?"

  She sighed. "Yes. Did you just use me in a negotiation? I'm not a toy, Max."

  "Thanks for your help. You were great."

  "Who was that voice? Sounded Scouse. You'd better tell me this story."

  "You did a good thing today, Beth. A good thing. Let's Nando soon. Okay, got to run. Byes."

  ***

  The match itself went as a lot of the lower league men versus top tier academies went - the kids played brilliant football, took the lead, but were overwhelmed by the end.

  This one started with Liverpool scoring two goals in the first half an hour while we were adjusting to their style of play. They were doing 4-3-3, same as Newcastle, and the press was just as intense but only in patches. I wasn't sure if they didn't have the fitness to run that hard for ninety-plus minutes or if it was tactical, but when we beat one player we found that Liverpool fell back into neatly spaced rows and allowed us to pass the ball around. A much less frenetic experience, then, and one that Ryan Jack thrived in.

  We played 4-4-2 diamond with the CAM moved back to central midfield. The idea behind that was to have two hard runners, Lee C and Andrew Harrison, to do Ryan's donkey work, leaving him able to concentrate on outwitting his inexperienced opponents.

  The formation also allowed me to use Youngster in his preferred role while keeping two strikers. As expected, Henri and Dazza were too much for Liverpool's centre backs.

  When we pulled a goal back before half time - Ryan floating a ball to the far post that Dazza angled past the young goalie - I knew we would be all right.

  Two goals from Henri meant we were three-two up by the time I went on, and the only surprise was that I didn't score more than one goal from my six shots on target. Four-two final score.

  A decent evening.

  We'd sold a load of mini-bonds, got a fee for a young player who might have left for nothing, put the fear of God into the academies of one of the kleptoclubs, added eight thousand pounds to the cup run prize pot, had burnished Sandra's reputation, and were in the next round of the Vans Trophy.

  Amazing. Brilliant. Mega. The dressing room was absolutely buzzing. In one week we had drawn against Newcastle and beaten Liverpool, Dazza had three goals in three games, we were squeezing more juice out of our midfield.

  Before showering, Christian Fierce used his craft skills to update the prize money sign. It now read: 83,000. Then he put some banging tunes on to get everyone moving.

  I waited until the stadium had cleared and went home alone.

  ***

  Thursday, November 6

  Emma called in the morning. "Would you like to have lunch in Manchester with us?" Us meaning 'me'.

  Of course I did! In fact, this was the kick up the backside I needed to finally get a rental car. I scooted to the place, chose the second-cheapest model, paid for three months, bosh. I was fully mobile again.

  Before driving to Swagger Central (AKA The Jewel in the Crown AKA Manchester), I checked in on the end of training. Our CA numbers were healthy.

  I'd expected a big surge of green after the Newcastle match but I had given the lads a couple of days off - wisely, in my opinion - and I had put out a strong team against Liverpool. I would name pretty much the same one against AFC Wimbledon, too, so my key guys weren't getting the kind of focussed training time that would let them pop fast - they were in non-stop recovery mode.

  They were improving so I wasn't too stressed, and after an absolutely mad schedule - 12 games in 5 weeks - the rest of November was a piece of piss. We had four matches in four weeks, each on a Saturday. Any stored-up training gains would erupt out of the lads - so long as Sandra's leave came on the dates we had planned.

  I got to Green's, the famous vegetarian restaurant in West Didsbury, and immediately realised I'd been tricked. First of all, the place was closed. Permanently! Gone. An institution. Something older than me was no more.

  Secondly, Emma was not alone. Sebastian and Rachel were with her, as was Gemma and a slow, older man with hair turning white. He was introduced to me as Jimmy, but I had to piece it out from clues that he was Gemma's dad. He was uncomfortable around me, as if Gemma had been bad-mouthing me for rather a long time.

  "You said you were alone," I complained, quietly.

  "I said come have lunch with us," she said, seeming to be confused by the conversation. She was a great actress, though. I wasn't sure if she had scammed me or not.

  I looked at the shuttered frontage of a local landmark. "Green's is history. Wow. What now?"

  She checked the time. The lawyers had worn suits because of an early meeting, while Rachel was in a striped, French-looking top under a beige coat. Gemma's dad was in a dad jumper and jeans, and even that seemed like something his daughter had forced him into. "Oh, I don't know. This road has some nice places, doesn't it? Let's get something fast like an avocado on toast. We're off to look at houses later."

  "Houses?" I said, confused.

  "Yes, for Gems."

  "Oh. Where?"

  "I don't want to say because you'll get all weird about it."

  I looked around the group, hoping for some clues. Nothing doing. "What?"

  "I'll tell you when we're eating. I'm hungry, babes. Fill me with avocado, stat."

  "If you're going house-hunting, tell me where and maybe there are nice places to eat nearby."

  Emma glanced at Gemma, who shook her head. Emma made a decision; she do opposite. "We're going to Chorlton, Max."

  That was where my mum's care home was. This was them trying to get to meet her. My head sank. I'd been well and truly scammed.

  Gemma felt the need to explain. "I was there a lot when Michael was playing for West Didsbury. It's nice. It's like where I live in Newcastle and there's a tram to the city centre. We've seen a nice place online and me dad's going to come and look to see if it's sound."

  "You're moving... to Manchester... for work," I said, slowly. Sebastian and Emma had been in Manchester for a meeting and Rachel had decided to join the squads to go house hunting for Emma's best friend. It hit me for the first time ever that not everything was about me.

  "Yeah, I've been staying in an AirBnB during the week and all that and now it's time to make the move permanent."

  Emma took my arm, looked up at me and croaked like a thirsty man who'd just come out of the desert. "Kah," she said. "Kah."

  I tried to smile but couldn't. Something to get out of the way, first. "Let's go see my mum. There are good places to eat in Chorlton village. Kale for days."

  Emma gripped me. "Babes, we don't have to. I said to forget it."

  "It'll be five minutes. Let's pop in. Now or never."

  ***

  I went in first, dreading what version of mum I'd find in there. It was lunchtime so all the residents who could move were in the big room on their tables. Mum and Anna were in their usual spot - the home did a decent job of building a routine - and I went to join them. Solly wasn't allowed in while food was being served.

  Anna didn't look well.

  Mum was having a bad day.

  I sat there and was briefly furious. Why the fuck would anyone want to see this? Anna sensed my distress and gave me a sharp look. For mum's benefit I let the anger leave me and all the highs and lows of the last week passed through me, replaced by emptiness.

  There was a new treatment that had shown promise, but it had failed. They were getting closer every time, weren't they? I had to grind for money, grind for XP, keep Old Nick onside. He had promised to get me a drug that worked as soon as there was one.

  "Will you take Solly for a walk?" said Anna.

  I nodded. "I will come back after I eat and do a thing."

  "It will rain later."

  "Good," I said. "That's thematic." I nearly got up to leave but it hadn't even been two minutes. I felt eyes on me. Eyes on a scene that should have been private. "How are you, Anna?"

  "Bad."

  "Is there anything I can do?"

  "You can take Solly... for a walk."

  There was the tiniest fraction of a delay in the middle of that sentence. Anna had been about to ask me to take Solly when she died. Or had she? This wasn't standard lunchtime chat, but I hadn't been around much since The Duchess had died. "I'll take Solly... for a walk."

  Anna's lips wobbled. Mum smiled, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and said, "Lovely soup."

  ***

  To punish Sebastian for making me go through all that, I chose the most hipsterish restaurant in the north of England. It was called How Quaint! and offered vegan hotdogs, bowls of cereal, drinks with ironic names. Most of the early conversation was Rachel reading the menu and saying how funny it all was.

  I poked at a dismayed avocado on cooked bread while listlessly sipping a chai-in-the-sky.

  "Max," said Sebastian, sort of lifting himself up. He had barely spoken to me since the Newcastle match.

  Rachel reached out to touch him. "Not now, honey. Emma first."

  Emma wiggled on her chair and cleared her throat. "Ahem. I've got some news." I looked up. She was trying not to smile, was twisting her lips. "I am leaving Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver."

  "What?" I said.

  She nodded, smiling for real. "That was me last project I just finished. Did about eight months of work in three. I'm a proper legend."

  "Absolute ledge," agreed Gemma.

  "I'm going to work for The Wall," said Emma.

  "Wow," I said. Some good news, at last. And it made sense she would move into football law - it was much more interesting than the corporate crap she had been doing, and it would help us grow R.E.M. Suddenly, my brain was fizzing. She wouldn't need to stay in Newcastle. She would move much closer to me. I would see her more - that's what she had said. And - of course! If Seb and Rachel were in town, they weren't only house-hunting for Gemma! "You're moving to Manchester!" I said, beaming.

  There was uproarious laughter from the entire table, a vast release of tension. Even Jimmy chuckled. Emma eventually took pity on me. "No, you dimwit. I'm moving in with you." Serious joy from within me and a lip twist from Emma. "If I'm still allowed."

  "Of course you are," I said, now perma-smiling. "So you'll commute to Manchester city centre?"

  "Sometimes. I'll work from home, mostly. I'm going to ask Ruth if I can rent one of her rooms as a home office. I might stay overnight at Gemma's new house if we've got a lot of work on and meetings."

  "Gemma's new house," I said, nodding, with everything starting to make sense. The Wall was growing fast. Gemma was a partner and needed to live locally. Chorlton was a cool location for a hot young woman and her just-about-footballer boyfriend. "Tell me about it."

  Conversation flowed.

  ***

  We drove to the house Gemma was interested in and I hopped out of the car, super interested.

  I was immediately gobsmacked. Gemma had described a cute little place but this was one of the nicest houses in the area, newly redecorated, tasteful, big garden, beautiful finish. It had to be the best part of a million pounds.

  A million!

  We explored it like our first evening in a castle.

  Jimmy looked at the place from a structural point of view, looking for evidence of damp or subsidence or any of the other terrifying things homeowners have to worry about. Rachel was interested in the garden - where the sun would be at different times of the day and year. Emma was plotting which spare bedroom would be her one and where Noah Harrison would stay 'when Max sends him to West'. Seb was thinking out loud about converting bathrooms into bedrooms, adding extensions, doing a loft conversion.

  I drifted apart from the others. Emma was going to live with me. That was incredible. It was almost enough to make me forget what I'd seen at the care home. Almost, but not quite.

  Rachel saw me staring into the fireplace, one of those huge cast iron things that in my childhood had equated to wealth. "Can we talk, Max?"

  I nodded. She led me into the garden and with some unseen command, summoned Sebastian. "Thank you for letting us see your mother. I know it was very painful."

  "No-one should have to go through that," said Sebastian.

  I imagined Gemma and Andrew having garden parties in this space. Nice big lawn for the kids to run around. Safe, too. The road wasn't busy and there were speed bumps. The big park was across the road and the tram stop was just beyond it. If you wanted to raise a family in a city but have a secluded, quiet retreat - oh, and you had a million quid sloshing around - this was it.

  Sebastian eyed Rachel; she nodded. He said, "Emma says you worry about money and that's understandable because you have your priorities straight. Erm," he said, not sure how to continue.

  Rachel said, "I don't know very much about football, as you are well aware, but I am told - " she glanced at her husband - "that you could be earning two hundred thousand pounds per week. The amount sounds preposterous to me but - "

  "He scored from sixty yards, love! He dropped two men on their arses and blew up the best offside trap in the country!"

  Rachel smiled at the outburst. "I take it there's a reason you don't want to move to a big club."

  I nodded. Answering that fully would take hours.

  Sebastian said, "I think you're crazy but you want to do it your way and my daughter is..." I couldn't quite tell what I was looking at but it turned out that he was trying not to burst into tears at the thought of his daughter finally, irrevocably flying the nest. Rachel put her hand on his back. He got a grip. "I've dreaded this day, Max, but this day has come." He went through some kind of steeling process that ended with him lifting his chin up. "You're taking care of my daughter now. She likes you and you make her happy but you're always worried about money. My daughter wants to go on nice holidays and while she doesn't need you to have a flash motor..."

  "She needs you to have a car," said Rachel.

  "You put off even renting one, Max, because you're so in your head about money. It's good you're not chucking money around like the footballers in the newspapers but at the same time you need to live your life and you need to give my daughter the experiences she wants to have while she's young enough to have them. Salsa lessons in Rio, Max. That's what I want for my little girl. You understand that, right?"

  "I understand," I mumbled, not looking at him.

  "We're not your family, Max, not yet anyway, but we don't want to see you suffer and torment yourself for the lack of money that you'll have soon enough anyway. Emma said you wanted to buy a house in this area, near the care home, and move your mother in."

  Rachel nodded. "With your Irish player's mother looking after her."

  "He was sold," explained Seb. I got the feeling Rachel had heard that before and it hadn't stuck, the way I couldn't remember the names of the horses at Ruth's stable. I hadn't spoken to Aff recently but I hoped we would still be on friendly terms when we next met. I had no idea if his mother had found a job in the meantime. Probably - she was amazing. Seb continued. "What I'm saying is that if you'll let us, we will buy a house here. One that suits your mother's needs. You can buy it from us in a few years, if you like. I thought about it and I probably would if I were you, to have that little extra peace of mind. From what I understand, you could afford to pay for a carer already."

  "And if you can't quite," said Rachel. "We'll help until you can."

  I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it straight away. Why? How? What about rent? Who would pay if my mum broke a window? There were infinite questions. Nothing mattered. If they were seriously going to buy an actual house that I could move my mother into, I didn't want to say anything that would change their mind. One question seemed unavoidable. "What's... the budget?"

  Rachel took me by the elbow and guided me back to the house, to the huge kitchen, where she coaxed me to sit on a stool at the large kitchen island. "I was wondering about a bungalow. Does she do well on stairs? Bungalow's best, isn't it, so you don’t ever have to make a move again. We're all here and Jimmy knows houses. Why don't we look together?"

  "Today?"

  "Why not? We're all here. It's perfect."

  "I promised I'd walk the dog."

  Rachel pushed a strand of my hair back into place. "Sebastian will walk the dog."

  "Oh, will I?"

  "Yes, dear."

  I felt strange and hollow, scared to move too fast or this fantasy would evaporate. I risked eye contact with that confounding man. "You might meet some joggers."

  Sebastian looked puzzled, but brightened up. Somehow he had apprehended my meaning. "I like dogs. He's a good boy, I heard. Yes, I'll walk him."

  Rachel looked from me to her husband and sighed. "You'll take your daughter. The dog knows her already so that's best. Why don't you go now before it rains?" She sat on the stool next to me, took out her phone, and brought up a property website. "Now, then. What's the postcode here?"

  ***

  About an hour later, Rachel and I plus Gemma and Jimmy were inside a bungalow near Southern Cemetery, a short drive from the care home, close to Gemma's new house (subject to contract) and not too distant from a football club owned by a Ghanaian entrepreneur.

  It was a three-bedroomed bungalow from the 50s or 60s, charming in an ugly way, on a surprisingly large plot. Solly would love the space. His own private park! At six hundred thousand pounds it was overpriced but any other buyer would be paying for the location and the chance to build something denser.

  The rain poured while an apologetic estate agent fretted about the furnishings. "Of course, it needs to be updated but it's a wonderful plot. Significant scope to extend."

  "Needs to be updated?" I said.

  "Well," she said, passing her hand along the countertop by the sink. "I think it hasn't been touched since the 80s. The bathroom looks like it might have been done in the 90s."

  "It's perfect," I said, looking from the kitchen to the living room. It wouldn't be easy to get it looking like our house from when I was a kid, but it would be possible. Some of it already felt familiar. The big ugly sofas, the hideous chandelier that was supposed to look classy, the yellow fabric curtain thing behind the sink, the flowery tiles in the bathroom. I would have to dig out the old photos from the house I'd grown up in.

  "We'd need to dig up the paving stones and get it all level," said Rachel. "And it needs a good clean. This isn't exactly one where you'd just move in. Not like Gemma's."

  Gemma squeezed her dad, beaming. I had the impression, later confirmed, that he was paying a huge deposit to make the monthly mortgage just about manageable. "I think it's lovely," she said. "And it's just down the road from mine. Mine! That'll take some getting used to. I can pop by and check on her sometimes."

  "Really?"

  "Course," she said, popping a Polo mint into her mouth. "Every time you put Andrew in the team I'll come and walk the dog."

  I raised my eyebrows - maybe amused, maybe not. "The poor dog," I said.

  "Maaaaax," complained Gemma. "Come on, we're both having a legendary day. Let's talk about Andrew. If not today, when?"

  "Well," I said, which as you can guess was the start of something incredibly biting and hilarious. The door opened and a blast of cold air whipped through the space. Two very damp Geordies dripped miserably onto the carpet.

  "Bloody Manchester!" complained Sebastian.

  "Max loves it," said Rachel, which was true, but she meant the house.

  "Oh," said Sebastian, eyebrows raised. He looked around. "It's a bit dated."

  "Which is good," said Rachel.

  "What?" I watched as the cogs turned. It took about five seconds. "Oh, of course."

  Gemma said, "Max and I are about to have a rapprochement."

  "Oh!" I said. "I didn't bring my helmet." Gemma snorted but I held up a finger. "Sorry everyone. Rude but I need to take this call. It's Dieter Bauer."

  Jimmy and Sebastian looked at each other like schoolboys. Seb said, "Can we listen? Is it private? Please, Max."

  "Sure. He waffles, though."

  "Amazing," said Jimmy. "Is it really - ?"

  I picked up and put the call on speakerphone. The two men and Gemma moved closer and listened.

  "Hi, Dieter."

  "Max! I must be brief, I have a flight soon."

  "Top."

  "We talked about sending you a coach."

  "We did?"

  "To substitute Miss Lane when she is away."

  "Right," I said, though I had no memory of such a conversation.

  "I would like to send you one of our coaches for a few months. On secondment, was the phrase I learned. Is that right? A loan deal for a permanent member of staff. Of course, you did it yourself when you managed Grimsby Town. Ever the innovator! Now then, let me think. He is a very good coach and you will have no complaints about his skill level. He is well-respected here but I think he is too, how can I say it? He is too safe. Cautious? Not in a footballing sense but in a personal one. He works for Bayern München, he has arrived, yes? I worry that if an opportunity comes up like the one you offered Miss Lane, he would be timid to accept. I would like to... what's that phrase? It's so simple but I forget it. Take him out of his comfort zone. Challenge him."

  "You think I'll mess with his head for a couple of months and he'll get motivated enough to shoot off on his own? What, like, if that clown Max Best can do it, so can I?"

  Dieter laughed hard. "Yes, perhaps. I am sure of one thing: it will be a memorable experience for him."

  "Hey, this is turning into one of the best days of my life, Dieter. If you want to send me a top coach from Bayern Munich to cover the time my assistant is away, I mean, yes. I can afford him, can I?"

  "Can you afford free?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. It is settled. The start of December, I think you said?"

  So much had happened in the last couple of hours that trying to remember anything from Chester felt like years ago. I was going to need so much therapy. "If he can come earlier that would be better so she can teach him what she does. Oh, but if he's shit, I'm sending him back."

  Another big laugh. "I cannot promise that you will be besties or that he will even laugh at your jokes - which I know is very important to you - but I can promise you he is not shit. I must go."

  "One second." Sebastian was waving his hands frantically. I covered the mic. "What?"

  "Who is it?" he said, reminding me of a pretty basic question I really should have asked.

  I uncovered the mic and asked Dieter Bauer for the name of the coach.

  He told me. Mine was one of four jaws that fell open. The call ended abruptly and we all stared at the black screen.

  I recovered first and let out a low chuckle. "Now that's a name that might shift a few bonds."