DoF 1.6 - A New Home [T1] (Patreon)

6.

Thursday, February 22

Emma was already up and out of the bedroom by the time I lifted my weary head. I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, then made myself a coffee and took it out to the balcony.

From the balcony I had a great view of my domain - miles and miles of fields to one side, a lovely wood to the other. I also had a view of the outside garden terrace, which looked all kinds of inviting. I made my way down through the house and out to the terrace. From there, I had a great view of the seating area that appeared to float over the formal pond, which seemed a lot nicer than where I currently was. I went to it, decided this was the ideal spot, but no sooner had I sat down than I spotted the barbecue seats. Those were in full sun, so I moved again.

Somewhere on the side of the house, a massive doorway slid open and Emma's voice called out. "Sit still, babes, you're making me dizzy."

"I don't know where to go!"

"Go to your atrium!" The door slid closed.

The atrium was my office, which because it floated over the lounge gave me a wonderful opportunity to loom. Going there was a good idea, but first I drank half the coffee while staring at the mature and deep woodland that framed one of the property's boundaries. What was inside there? I hadn't explored yet but I was hoping for hedgehogs and maybe some owlets. Moorhens were right out, but there was a huge pond at the edge of my land. It belonged to the farmer but he assured me I would see all kinds of birds and wildlife there through the year. He swore, swore on the Holy Tractor, that my child would see a stoat.

I went inside.

From the Loom Room I could keep track of Emma as she pottered from the lounge to the kitchen and back, plus I had an almost panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Really nice, but I would have liked to see a football stadium from one of the windows. Maybe a cathedral? Was a herd of wildebeest too much to ask?

I sat on the chair and put my feet on my desk.

It wasn't really a surprise that I was so tired; I had been grinding hard, zipping around, foraging for experience points like a hedgehog looking for insects, head down, sniffing and calculating like Henri checking his meat stores. On Tuesday night, I had been in Madrid, co-managing a 4-0 defeat. That was the end of Saltney Town's adventure, and the end of all my European activities for the year. MD wanted to meet to discuss what we would do with the massive influx of cash we would soon get, but first I would have the same conversation with Sebastian Weaver and Henri, who would be representing the Gibraltar Conspiracy.

I had a general idea of how much money would be coming in, and even the low estimates were wild. "I should have bought a bigger house," I muttered, as I drained the coffee.

Last night I had been in South Manchester, where half of Mr. Yalley's church had taken the short trip to Cheadle to watch the local team get battered by Chester Women. I hadn't planned to use Kisi in the Cheshire Cup, but sometimes you need to give the people what they want. My presence showed the women that I was still involved and motivated and that I was taking the Cheshire Cup seriously, as ever, but it only brought in about 180 XP.

I was putting most of the Secret Sandra points into Ender Ciritoglu's training, which was paying off pretty well in terms of an extra point in CA per week. But that was financed by my tours of amateur games. The XP I earned from professional matches went into a different pot, and it was now as immense as Henri's ego.

XP balance: 10,632

Why had it got so high?

I was experiencing some amount of decision fatigue. Losing to Arsenal, the pricks, had nudged Chester back below one point per game, and Spurs had used their 60-million-pound 'get out of jail free' card to stop us humiliating them. It meant that we had played 27 matches and earned 26 points, which was very slightly below where we needed to be.

It wasn't a crisis, far from it, but it meant I couldn't get things wrong. The women's second mini-slump of the season wasn't helping. From now until the last kick of the last game, everything for both teams had to be perfect. Perfect, I tell you!

That kind of thinking was crazy, obviously, and not helpful, but I had learned that when I got like this, I needed to slow down, not be hasty.

When it came to which perks to buy in which order, I had a solid plan. I would buy the next three God Save the Queens - total cost 18,000 - then Hybridism. I had to do it in that order to make sure I got all four possible PA upgrades this season. Once the curse went through its post-season update, any unused upgrades would be lost forever. It wasn't going to be the biggest regret of my life, but I knew that one day I would look at Kit Hodges struggling in some match or other and I would feel crappy.

On the other hand, I would feel even crapper if Chester Men were relegated. Could Hybridism help with that? 

Possibly, but I was far, far more likely to use it next season when there was no risk of going down, when I could freely run experiments without thinking about job losses. Our performances and results were trending upwards. It was slow going but going they were. If we kept doing what we were doing, we would be fine.

Absolutely fine.

It just didn't feel that way.

From the lounge, Emma called, "What are you doing up there?"

I leaned over the balustrade. "Growing my ulcers." 

She looked up and smiled. "Just do 4-1-4-1 like you always do."

I scoffed. "Like I always do."

"Say that you defy the gods."

"I don't defy the gods. If I keep still, they might stop beating me up."

My beautiful wife's smile melted away a good 70% of my worries. "The nerds have Chester as 52% likely to stay up."

"What, really?"

"Yeah," she said. "As long as Peter Bauer doesn't get injured in training today."

"Cool, well that definitely won't happen."

***

Peter screamed in pain, grabbing his knee, rolling around. "Shit," I said, running to him. Emma hadn't actually said that thing about him getting injured, obviously, so this came out of the blue. It had been an innocuous collision with Gabby, one that happens fifty times a match. I pointed at Cheb and Marek. "Go to Medical and get everyone from there to here. And bring a stretcher!"

Peter yelled; his Morale dropped to abysmal.

I tried not to panic. We had other centre backs. In fact, with the Secret Sandra boosts, Ender had overtaken Peter in terms of CA. The Turk would never be first choice ahead of Peter, but he was a fine backup. I also had Edgar, Dumi, and Magnus. Chester FC would be fine, but what of Peter?

His profile had gone very red, and in the Injuries section was a horrible phrase: Potential knee injury.

No! No no no!

Even if the injury wasn't that bad, we were a month away from the final men's international break of the season, the one in which Jurgen Klopp was planning to add Peter to the Germany squad for the first time.

Missing out would be a crushing blow. Peter's Morale would tank. It would tank and it would never recover. He would be on abysmal for ever!

The lads had gathered round, looking concerned. Sandra was trying to stay calm but she was very clearly as stressed and distressed as I was. Peter was out. Foquita was banned. The margin for error was getting ever more narrow. A rich man must thread his team through the eye of a needle if he wants to stay in football heaven.

Gabby tried to apologise to Peter, for it had been his challenge that had caused this injury. Magnus told him to step away, Peter tried to say the right things through his pain, and I looked for someone to calm the Brazilian. Seemed like a job for... me? "Racing accident," I said. "Not your fault. Step away and let the medics do their stuff. I said step away!"

Physio Dean and Livia came sprinting, and behind them rushed another few physios, one with a stretcher. They gave Peter the once-over, but they were bricking it. "How did it feel? What did it sound like? Did it sound like a gunshot?"

Peter was still in agony, and letting us know about it, which was making everyone feel uneasy. I knelt by him and took his hand. "Shush!" I demanded of the wider group. "He's trying to tell me something. What is it, PB?" I cocked my head to hear better. "He's saying... Leave me here, boss. Leave me here with a flask of whisky. You go on without me. Keh, keh." Peter's groans got louder and he muttered in German. I gestured. "Priest! We need a prieeeest! Youngster, have you been ordained?"

"It was either that or take a scouting course and you chose for me."

"Ah, well." I let go of Peter's hand and rose to my full magnificence. "Men," I said to the entire group, in my most commanding voice. "This is a momentous day in the history of Chester Football Club. Peter Bauer is a trailblazer, an inspiration, and where he leads, others follow. Order the blue plaque, write the social media posts, create a new section on the website. Peter Bauer is the first ever player in this club's long existence... drumroll... to use our X-ray machine!" Peter spoke rapidly in German, a sure sign that his mood was improving. "Dean, it's plugged in, right?"

"It's plugged in, boss."

"It's loaded with Xs?"

"Fully stocked."

"Top. So let's go meter a Peter. Everyone else, get back to work. Especially Scrappy Doo," I said, pointing at Foquita.

He nodded like a puppy. "Yes, yes, of course!"

***

At the door to the medical block, I took off my boots and left dampish patches on the floor as I stomped to the X-ray room, which I was calling The Chamber of Secrets. The team lifted Peter onto the table. "Don't worry, bro," I said, "this equipment is top-notch. We bought it from a vet."

In the next room, I paced around while Livia pointed the X-ray's pointy bit. She came out, closed the door, pressed a button, and there was a gentle buzz as massive amounts of science happened. Dean tapped on a big iPad and said, "Got it." I continued to walk around, fretting, worrying. Were we talking ACL? A year out? It couldn't be an ACL - Peter hadn't described the pain in the usual way. But pain hit everyone differently...

To distract myself, I opened the Club Information screen. Thanks to our new gear, our Facilities score had risen by 0.1 points, soaring like an owlet to a sky-high 15.98. It was a small rise considering the X-ray and its installation had cost north of half a million quid, but any increase was a welcome increase.

"He's got a damaged knee cap," said Dean.

"Oh, great!" I said, which sounds rude and insensitive on paper but everyone understood what I was saying. Apart from very rare cases, a damaged knee cap was a piece of piss. "What's the range on that?"

"Could be anywhere between 3 and 12 weeks."

"Oof," I said. "12 weeks would be brutal. There's only about 14 weeks left in the whole season." As it stood, Chester FC only had another 14 weeks in the Premier League... Would Peter come down to the Champ with us? Probably. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not, if it cost him the chance to play for Germany.

I checked his Injury tab, even though I knew it wouldn't update with a full diagnosis until tomorrow, and was amazed to find the text had changed. Instead of being vague, it now read: damaged kneecap.

The alteration was useless but interesting. Was the curse allowed to tell me the true injury because of Dean's quick assessment? Had this happened in the past but I had never noticed? Or was it because our Facilities score had risen? When we got a full MRI scanner, would the Injury tab also give me the diagnosis plus the number of weeks out? Unless a guy was contagious, I needed to know the duration of his injury more than I needed to know what was actually wrong with him.

Using the Construction Kit suggestion box, I asked for a perk that would give me instant diagnoses. The difference between Peter being out for 3 weeks or 12 was immense, and knowing a day early could be seriously useful in some cases, like on transfer deadline day. If the perk came back cheap, I would definitely consider buying it.

Dean and Livia had been staring at the image, zooming in and out, softly discussing it. Dean said, "I think it's gonna be on the low end, Max."

"Bosh!" I said, striding into the other room. "I will now comfort the patient."

Livia caught up with me when I was only a couple of yards from Peter. She tugged my shirt - yellow card, ref! - and pulled me away. "Put your boots back on, train, then talk to Sandra about how to replace an irreplaceable player. Peter will still be here when you get back."

"You can't be sure of that! The North Korean transfer window is still open, as far as anybody knows."

After the initial shock of the collision, Peter had calmed down. "I'm not going anywhere, boss."

"You all heard that!" I said. "That's a verbal contract. The X-ray machine is a legal person and you're not allowed to lie to it." I gently prised Livia's fingers off me. "Be nice to my superstar defender, please."

She smiled. "I will."

I cupped my ear. "I think he's trying to say something. Max, keh. Max. If I die here, retire my shirt number. Aww, he thinks I'm American. What kind of pain must he be experiencing? He needs morphine and lots of it."

Livia pushed me out of the door, closed it, opened it immediately, and said, "Peter's dying wish is that you score a goal in his honour on Saturday." She slammed it with the carefree manner of someone who doesn't have to pay to replace broken hinges.

***

After training, I took all the coaches into the medical area, surrounded Peter, and tried to come up with a plan. "Wolves are at home and their form is as good as ours. If they beat us, they're not safe but they're close to it. Owen Roberts will line them up in a 3-4-2-1, flood the midfield, and they will start fast, be fast, counter-attack fast. My first instinct is to match them with a 3-4-3 base but Foquita's out and that means our best player is a full back." Willi Tillmann was loving the change of scenery and the fact that he was getting loads of minutes in the Premier League, so his CA had risen rapidly to 167. He wouldn't feature if I went with my gut. "Ergo, it would be insane not to play four at the back. Yes, I said ergo. Deal with it. Okay, thoughts."

Sandra said, "I've been liking 4-1-4-1. Whatever the circumstances, it always seems to suit us."

Colin Beckton, now that Saltney were out of Europe, was spending much more of his time on Chester duty. He was looking through a folder that Tyson and the IT team had prepared for him. "We played 3-5-2 against Wolves last time and they were lucky to get a draw. Lewis Lamarre played left mid and was excellent, and all the data says he's even better now. How much did Wolves strengthen in the window?"

I said, "They went from 149 to 153. It's actually a fantastic window." 

Colin said, "Better than ours?"

"How could it be better than ours? We smashed it. I won the window by miles. Don't say that in public, please, I'm trying to be humble." They all grinned, even Peter - though his smile was brief because of, you know, the pain. "Peter, we'll leave you alone in a sec. Do we follow our heart and go with a formation we think will work, or go with our head and start by writing the name of our best player first."

Peter scribbled on imaginary paper. "Maxxxx... Besssst..."

"The poor guy," I said, feeling his brow. "In his agony, he didn't hear me say I wanted to be humble."

Peter said, "Max Best in the Peter Bauer role."

I smiled, but when I turned my head, everyone else was deep in thought. "You're not gonna let him describe his own position as the Peter Bauer role? I might say that, Sandra might say that, but he can't say that!"

Sandra said, "It solves a couple of big problems. You're just as press-resistant as Peter, you can win a header, and you could coach Ender through the game while wrapping up their new Paraguayan striker."

"Ayala," said Colin, turning a page in his folder.

I brought up the squad screen. Even with two good players unavailable, we had amazing flexibility. "Let's go step by step, see what obstacles we bump into. Marek against Wolves, Owen against Notts Forest. We're all happy with that, right?" Everyone nodded, which meant that the least happy person was me. Owen had opened a 6-point gap to Marek. At what point did Marek's superior ball-playing skills cease to matter? "Willi, me, Ender..." 

"Not Edgar?" said Colin.

"Wolves are rapid and mobile. Ender's a better fit."

Peter said, "Or pick your best defenders and let the structure do the work."

I bit my nail. He was right, but Ender needed to play against the weak teams to raise his transfer value. Edgar Wilde had an effective transfer value of zero. "Ender," I said. Who for right back? We had three future superstars but for now it was a weak spot. "Magnus?"

Sandra said, "It depends where you want Cheb."

I nodded. "Okay, give me a second."

I went through loads of potential line ups, checking how the formations looked on the Tactics screen, and of course the average CAs. This wasn't a match for Matt Rush or Roddy Jones and we needed combative guys in midfield.

"Marek in goal. Willi, me, Ender, Magnus. The DM is Edgar. If Ender has a great first half, he can sub off and Edgar can come next to me. Cheb will start on the left with Willi. Wibbers will be in front of Magnus, and he'll link up with Gabby, kind of a free role. He can go wild knowing that Magnus will be disciplined behind him.

"Central midfield: Youngster and Santana. When Wolves are putting us under pressure, I'll drop Edgar to make a back five and either Youngster or Santana will take over as DM. Or I'll drop all three back to DM at times and absolutely fucking flood the place. None shall pass.

"Get really compact, frustrate the home fans, work the wings, score a free kick, get more adventurous in the second half maybe." That line-up wouldn't be our strongest but it would be an average CA of 158.4. We would finish the season over 160, easily! If we attacked crazy hard in every match, wouldn't we win four or five? "Actually, maybe we should rethink that and go really attacking. What do you think about going full Hybridism?"

"No!" said so many people so loudly that Livia came rushing into the room to check what was happening to her patient.

"Fine," I said. "Jeeezzzzz."

***

So that was the plan. Let Wolves crash into us for the first half, be incredibly solid in the middle, attack through Willi plus Cheb on the left and via Wibbers madnesses on the right. Reassess at half time.

I went to talk to the women’s team - some were going away for a couple of weeks because of their international break. The only new call-up this time was that Fioled had been promoted from Wales under 19s to the full squad. She was ecstatic, of course.

But I got a call from the England manager, a Dutch woman called Sarina if I get permission to use her real name or Sabrina if I don't. "Maksh? It's Sabrina." She was calling to tell me that she was keeping an eye on players like Sarah and Meghan. They weren't at Lionesses level yet but they were getting more and more interesting. 

"Cool," I replied. "Sarah, Meghan, Dani, Poppy, and Victoria Rose will be pleased to hear that you're aware of their obvious and immense talent."

There was what felt like a tiny Dutch sigh on the other end of the line. "Anyone elsh?"

"It's genuinely insane that Saffron Walden has never been called up. She should be in the under 19s at least. If I took over England Women tomorrow, someone would get fired for that inconceivable lapse in judgement."

"Shaffron? Really? You rarely use her."

"Mate," I said, like that was the end of the argument. In a very real way, it wash. I mean, it was. "Last thing, I'm sure you're relaxed about Kisi Yalley giving up on anyone from England ever bothering to talk to her and you're absolutely cool with her choosing to represent Ghana like her brother. We've got billions of players of that level in this country, haven't we? Yeah, don't worry about it."

Another pause. "Thank you, Maksh. You have given me a lot to think about."

***

I drove home, which took noticeably longer than the old ten-minute pops to Ruth's cottage. Going along my lengthy crushed gravel driveway at ten miles an hour made me feel very regal. For the first time since moving in, there were a couple of strange cars out the front, so I parked the Mini in my garage, next to another electric vehicle. It was charging up, which meant Emma had used it.

My wife had been giving Sebastian and Henri the tour, and I have to admit that I was gratified by how gob-smacked they were. They crunched down the path to the garage, where Seb shook my hand warmly and said, "This place is amazing. You've done well. Very well."

"Thanks."

"What's this thing?"

"The car? It's from CFC, the Chinese car brand. I'm going to film a video for them soon and this was a gift. We call it The Panda." The car was white with black patches. "It's cute but maybe too distinctive. We might paint it."

Henri said, "That would be a shame."

I started walking towards the house and the others fell into step. I put my arm around my soulmate. (Emma. Why did you think Henri?) "I know, but safety's everything. That's why I chose this place. It's remote and you can see anyone coming for miles."

Henri nodded. "The garden is spectacular."

I stopped walking just for a second. "Yeah."

"What? Don't you like it?"

"It's a dream garden. The mature acers, the formal paths, the layout. It cost three hundred grand and it's practically perfect in every way."

"Ah," said Henri. "But you didn't have a hand in any of it."

"Bingo," I said. "The one at the old cottage was a bit crap, a bit random. It was the result of lots of very comical trial and error but in the end almost all of it was my hand, my choices. This house is amazing, the garden's a dream, but I didn't make a single decision. I don't regret it," I said, but didn't finish the sentence.

Henri got wistful. "When your child is born, you will explore together, create memories together. You will learn to love this house and this garden - together."

I didn't burst into tears. Didn't even come close.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "Emma called it 'lock up and leave'."

"Yeah," I said, pausing near one of the entrances. "It's a house for the superyacht class. You pack your bags, go to Gibraltar to escape the fallout from your latest very public tantrum, and you don't need to worry about anything. There are special reservoirs and water retention features and that sort of thing so the garden will be just fine when you get back, and the house will look after itself when it comes to ventilation and heating and not using all your energy. You can just go for ages and not worry about it. It's not really why we bought it but it could come in handy."

Henri said, "I note, Max, that the fireplace is surrounded by approximately half a metre of bubble wrap."

"Yeah, sharp edges. Baby. I don't want him ending up with a head as bumpy as yours."

"But the baby isn't due for months."

"Doesn't matter. We're not using that fireplace for the next six or seven years, if then. Did you see the atrium? It's cool but it's a deathtrap. Baby clambers onto my desk, thinks he can jump onto the hanging lights. That whole area is gonna have a big circus net all around. The formal pond isn't that deep but there will be two lifeguards on duty at all times. I'm gonna baby-proof this place, let me tell you." I clapped my hands. "Okay, Grandad Seb, you've seen the place, where do you want to have this meeting?"

Sebastian did that thing where he stooped his head so he could eye me over a pair of spectacles. It would have been more effective had he been wearing spectacles. "Pardon me?"

Emma hugged him. "Grandad Seb!"

Sebastian did a thin-lipped smile, then said, "You've only been here for two minutes and I can feel the stress literally building up inside of me."

"Okay, so let's get the rest of the teasing out of the way," I suggested.

"Max," warned Emma.

"What? I'm just saying, guess who's above Newcastle United in the UEFA club coefficients now? To put it another way, which club does UEFA, the organising body of European football - "

"I know who they are," growled Grampsy S.

"Which club do they think is bigger and better than Newcastle United?"

Emma blinked. "What, really? Saltney?"

"Yep! We're ranked 65th now. We've gone up 100 places in a single season, which is a record that will never be broken unless it's by me. The Sportsman contacted me for a statement about it for one of their tedious deep dive articles. Yeah, we're absolutely massive, and what's craziest is that the numbers are counted over five years but we've only been in Europe for two. In three years, when we've got a full set of numbers, whoa lordy. It's what happens when you focus on winning matches instead of becoming mouthpieces for brutal - "

Emma jabbed me in the ribs, and Henri quickly said, "Where are College?"

"About 100th. Still pretty great when you think about it."

"I want to think about it," said Henri. "Can we sit by the floating pool? I like that space very much and would like to enjoy it before you clutter its serenity with bubble wrap, netting, and gaaaaards."

***

Gramps and Henri had come on Conspiracy business, going through the final numbers with me. The Gibraltar Lions had made it to the second round of qualifying in the Conference League, Bruno's Magpies had gone one step further, but College had made it into the Europa League league stage, where they had won two and drawn two. The prize money in that competition wasn't as insane as in the Champions League, but from our point of view it was considerable.

"So," said Henri, coming to the final number on a piece of paper. "Minus wages, the usual generous bonuses, the transfer fee for Emiliano, and travel costs, the Conspiracy has made a profit of 9.1 million pounds."

"Fuck me," said Emma.

Henri pushed his hand through his hair. "The amount is sizeable, yes, but it is commensurate with our skill and work ethic."

"Is it?" laughed Emma.

Pop-Pop said, "Leaving your ego at the door and doing whatever Max says... turns out to be quite profitable."

"Emma!" I complained. "Why isn't your father drinking our best champagne? Where are the hams? A man of his class needs at least four hams. Make a fuss of your father, for God's sake. Can't you see he's the greatest living Englishman?"

Ems got up and gave him a huge hug and a cheek kiss.

Henri said, "Max, your share comes to just over 4.5 million. That's safe. You're keeping that." He signed an imaginary cheque, folded it up, and stuffed it into my breast pocket. "We need to decide how much to keep in the clubs and how much to distribute. Mateo, the Weavers, the Fragonards, are minded to double down. It's fun to watch College go deep into competitions, but two successful teams would be double the fun. Can we talk about that?"

"Why wouldn't he?" said Emma.

Her dad said, "It could mean we make less profit next year, or none at all."

I swept my hand to the right, indicating my mansion. "What am I going to do, buy a bigger house? More rooms means more sharp corners which means you need to cover more stuff in bubble wrap."

Henri sighed. "We need to talk about this latest mania."

Emma brought a glass of water to her mouth and just before she drank, she muttered, "Good luck with that."

I said, "In theory I don't object and I would even leave some of my earnings in the pot, but the limiting factor isn't money, it's the standard of the league and the reps of the clubs. We've got our three teams who are pushing each other, plus the Red Imps who are clinging on to being decent. That's a way better scenario than in Wales, by the way, where Saltney have an almost total monopoly. Having that competition in Gib is really good and the standards are rising. That's good for the Gibraltar national team, too, because half that squad plays for our clubs, and because they're getting better there are more good players for us to choose from."

"Virtuous circle," said Seb.

"Right. The Conspiracy has ten players who are getting European plus international exposure. They're getting to play in the national stadium and getting to train in Mateo's brand-new centre. That's top and mint. Our baselines are improving across the board, and obvs we're hoovering up any young talent that comes in.

"But we can't just go spend five mill on players. The players who would raise the level won't come. I mean, some will, but we can't sign 33 new guys just because we have some cash, do you get me? I'd seriously love to accelerate this but we're going as fast as we can. It's like... Take a club in the North-East of England who have dodgy owners and they want to inject money into the balance sheet via shady sponsorship deals. They start at 10 mill, take it to 15, 20, and so on. That's how we do this. Push the envelope but don't tear the paper. Hey, that was great. Someone write that down."

Henri nodded. "Bon. Our side, let me assure you, we want to go to the max, heh. What do you suggest?"

I took the paper on which he had scribbled the key numbers. "The Lions budget of 0.3 mill can go to 0.5. They'll pick up some guys who cascade down from the Magpies, which will make them a fair amount stronger than this season. Will they get through qualifying? Probably not, but they'll help lift the standards and they will have the best manager."

"Who?" said Emma, frowning.

"Celi Segarra," I said. "Remember her? She's one of the best coaches in Spain but she couldn't get a UEFA Pro badge because the courses are 98% men or whatever. The deal is she works for us for a while and she gets her badge in Gib. Win-win. She's the Lions' assistant manager now but I'm going to promote her in the summer. Wouldn't surprise me if she gives the other clubs a fright."

"So give her more budget," said Emma.

"But it's not smart. We have a gold, silver, and bronze system, and it's all very carefully calibrated to help make sure every club has the absolutely optimal balance between cost and performance."

"Fuck that," said my charming wife. "I am a Segway fangirl and always have been."

"Segarra," I said. "It means bronze in Spanish. It means I'm happy with the third-best squad."

"Show me the money! Gold! At least silver. Come on, Max. Girl power."

"You've never even met her! And where are the players going to come from? Narnia?"

Emma pointed to the house. "Have you even checked all the cupboards? There could be all sorts of Maldini regens in there."

I cackled. Emma had fixated on the term 'Maldini regen' even though she didn't know Maldini's first name. A young player with the exact same profile as Paolo Maldini would be worth a hundred mill, easy. There were none of those in the house and none in the woods. I stood and slapped myself in the face. "Christ. How do you make a small fortune in football? Start with a large one and wait. Just let's keep doing what we're doing! You know what, I'm going to write down a big number and when Emma's not looking, I'll write the real one."

Henri said, "Why not go for it, Max? Let's live a little! Perhaps DOVE could help find us players?"

"Who's gonna persuade them to come? Where are they going to live?"

"Let the Conspiracy deal with it. Give us a gold budget and two silvers and let us take care of the rest. We have more experience now, and a track record. Players listen to us."

"Gold and two silvers? That's not how we optimise the profit."

Henri gave me a pitying look. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"Every club gets knocked out in the first qualifying round and you're in the hole for 4 million quid. That's the worst that can happen." Emma tugged me into a sitting position.

"Max," said Sebastian. "We're up 4 million this year, aren't we?" He mimed spinning a roulette wheel. "Let it ride!"

I couldn't believe these sensible people, these cut-throat b-boys, were talking like this. I knew one woman who would put a stop to it. "Henri, does your mum know about this?"

"Of course. She says she can't lose money she never had and she loves touring Europe with her new besties: Sebastian, Mateo, and the Rachels. And sometimes Emma. And sometimes me. She won't hold it against you if we have a fallow year. She is clear-eyed about what this means."

I shook my head. Sebastian said, "What's up, Max? Talk to us."

I pointed to his daughter. "I'm not going to spend my summer in Gibraltar and the south of Spain looking for players so we can make LESS money next year! That's bonkers! Yeah it would be fun, sure, I get that, let's live a little, I do get it. But I'm not doing it. I'm gonna be right here, bringing Emma chilled grapes one at a time, checking my child's temperature once every ten minutes, things like that. I'm not going anywhere that needs a passport, I can promise you that."

Seb clearly found this rant amusing. "Let's put it like this. We can agree to a high budget and if, at any point, Emma decides she wouldn't mind if you were not around for a day, you can nip over on a scouting run. Or do it from your laptop in the spare room." He rubbed his mouth but couldn't stop the smile reaching his eyes.

Henri stepped in. "We are going to support you. Since we will have twins, babysitting one more child will not be such a burden."

Seb said, "Rachel will come at least once a week and stay overnight."

"Grammy Rach?" I said. That wiped the grin from Seb's face, only for it to come right back.

Emma said, "We're going to have lots of support. Of course I'm not going to kick you to the spare room but, yeah, I can imagine there might be a time when I need a break from all the chilled grapes." She smiled; it tickled my heart.

I took the paper and Henri's pen and scribbled some ideas. I showed them to Henri. He pointed up. I made the numbers go up. He pointed higher.

The new playing staff budget for College was 2 million, with 1 mill for the Magpies and 1 for the Lions.

"Agreed," said Seb, barely glancing at the paper. "So what's the plan with Emiliano?"

"He needs a new home. I'm probably gonna bring him to Chester in the summer, but I'll loan him out again. To the Championship, maybe. I wish I had a good link there."

"What will the fee be?"

"For Emiliano? I dunno. Haven't thought about it much. A million?"

"A million?" cried Sebastian.

"What? Two? What?"

"Well, it would be nice to make a profit and for whatever comes in to be used to supplement wages or to buy new players."

"Oh God," I said. "You want to be a transfer deadline dad. On your phone, chomping a cigar, yelling get me Jack Grealish!" Seb chuckled, which I took as him being guilty as hell. I brought up Emi's profile. His Teamwork was improving and he had taken a leadership role in the current season. He had grown up a lot in a relatively short space of time. "The hard part of this is that the guy who runs Chester is awful. He's a nightmare to deal with. I have no idea what he will pay for Emiliano. And if Chester are relegated, that changes the calculations, right? Chester might not have any spare cash. Okay but whatever we can get for Emi, that's the transfer kitty. Actually, it's not a bad idea to have one of those. People will see that there's a pathway from Gibraltar to big clubs, and we'll be able to pick up some young talents."

"Swedish wonderkids," said Emma.

"Babes, please," I said. "Not in front of G-Pa!"

"Oh my God," said Sebastian.

"Anyone want anything from the fridge?" I said. I took their requests and headed inside. I had thought I would be able to coast this summer, at least when it came to Gibraltar. But if Emma's mum was going to come and stay a few nights a week, that would help me relax. Swapping an evening of my football skills for an evening of her wisdom was the deal of the century from my point of view.

I pushed the fridge closed. So what was I gonna do with this 4.5 million quid? Briggy was struggling to find sellers of Temps Perdu shares.

I glared at the counter, with its fashionably sharp edges. I put on an American accent and twinkled at an imaginary TV camera. "Bubble wrap? I liked it so much I bought the company." I daydreamed about being a bigshot investor as I headed back outside to the perfect seating area in the perfect garden with my perfect wife, my perfect father-in-law, and Henri.

***

Friday, February 23

Peter Bauer - Damaged knee cap - 3 weeks

Yiiiisssss!

Literally the best possible outcome. All hail the great random number generator in the sky!

When Kloppo was picking the Germany squad for the international break, Peter would be back in our team, looking fit and sharp. He might not get his first cap, but he would get his first training camp experience. That alone would lift his spirits and accelerate his CA growth.

Resuuuullllt!

New Perk Available: Rapid Diagnostics

Cost: 4,000 XP 

Effects: Gives faster injury news.

Hmm, so that was a bust. 4,000 XP to get injury news instantly instead of waiting until the next morning? I would probably never be able to justify this expenditure.

Ah, well.

I checked my phone. There was a text from Henri.

I told Luisa about your new house and she had a nightmare last night. She's terrified you don't have enough ovens. Won't you please install just one more?

Me: Imagine you're staying at ours. Your solitary child, an unsociable chap at the best of times, is watching my triplets as they frolic in the newly-planted wildflower meadow. What's that incredible smell? Why, there's a flan in one oven. A brioche in another. Luisa's baking a bifana. I am preparing my specialty - baked air. You come to me with a big stupid grin on your face, wearing oven gloves, carrying a casserole dish. You say, which oven may I use? I say, they're all full, tough shit. Yes, I think we have the correct amount of ovens.

***

That afternoon, I got a text from Kisi Yalley.

Guess who called?! Only Sabrina Wigwoman, the hunt chief herself! We had a long talk. She asked me to choose England, said I am very much on their radar! Arggggh, that was amazing. My heart is racing! She's like you but NICE!

And then one came from Secretary Joe.

Not sure if you've heard this already, but Saffron Walden got called up to England under 19s. It's after the deadline and we could refuse but if you ask me to refuse, you're gonna find me glued to the railings in protest.

Me: What railings?

SecJoe: I'll find some.

Me: Put your glue back in the shed. We will somehow survive this blow.

SecJoe: I've just realised you made this happen. I feel stupid. Sorry.

***

Saturday, February 24

English Premier League Match 28 of 38: Wolves vs Chester

Cold, sunny, good referee, two teams with all to play for. What more can you want?

I felt good, I felt confident, I liked our game plan. But I didn't defy the gods. I kept my head down, listened to the home fans boo me, and got myself primed for action. As soon as I was able, I used Seal It Up to give our defence a slight boost.

***

2'

Willi passes to Cheb.

Cheb to Youngster.

Santana. Crisp pass to Gabby, who touches it back to Youngster.

He opts to find Edgar Wilde.

Chester are moving backwards but they won't mind.

Best pops it to Wibbers, who touches it to Magnus.

He's put under instant pressure, so he fires a pass to Best.

Best shapes to hit a long pass... but lets the ball go through his legs!

It goes all the way across the pitch to Willi Tillmann.

Audacious play from the Chester player-manager!

The Chester fans loved that.

3'

Long ball from Wolves.

Ayala will chase. He barges into Best.

Best has to be precise with this header...

Best nods the ball down - it bounces into the midriff of Marek. The keeper looks to hurl the ball to someone...

But the referee blows for a free kick to Chester for the foul on Best.

This has been a good start for the away team.

4'

Chester pass the ball quickly and neatly.

Wolves increase the pressure. Max Best orders Cheb and Wibbers to get ready for the counter.

Wibbers moves closer to Gabby...

Ender takes a loose touch and is forced to give the ball back to his goalkeeper.

Best waves Gabby and Wibbers leftwards so they can compete for the long pass.

The home crowd roar with anticipation. Ender's pass to Marek was underhit!

A. Gomes slides towards the ball.

He gets there before Marek!

A. Gomes tackles the ball into the goal!

Disaster for Chester.

The Wolves fans are jubilant!

9'

Since the goal, Wolves have been rampant. They are swarming all over Chester.

Best shuffles his midfield pack again.

Omar Chanko chips the ball over the defence. Best is first to it, but his clearance doesn't go far.

B. Gomes looks for Ayala, who is quickly closed down by Best.

Ayala is forced wide, but does well to get a shot away.

It's on target, but lacks - 

IT HAS GONE IN!

Ayala has scored! He launches himself into the nearest stand and celebrates with the Wolves fans.

Marek has his head in his hands. How did that slip through him at the near post?

It is very quiet in the away end.

The home fans are chanting, 'Going down, going down, going down!'

It's cruel but they might be right. Chester are deep in the mud.

***

Have you ever been 2-0 down after ten minutes with ten games to go in the Prem and the Live Table is showing that the team that's beating you will go 7 points ahead if things stay the same? What, really? That's quite the coincidence.

It sucks. It's a gut punch. It's two gut punches.

You think, 'Owen would have saved that.' You think, 'Peter Bauer wouldn't have underhit that pass.'

You think, 'This is all my fault'. 

As the Wolves announcer called out the name of the goalscorer, provoking a new wave of cheering, I beat myself up just a little bit more. We should have used three at the back. We should always pick our best goalie. We should have stuck with Murray Burnett - he would be ahead of Ender and wouldn't need months to adapt to the league. You have fucked this up, Max Best. Call yourself a floating megabrain? You've bought a nice house and covered it in bubble wrap. You're a bald fraud.

A different voice told me to look at my Match Rating.

It was 9.

I leaned my head to the left until I heard a click. "Number go up."

***

11'

The match restarts. Gabby rolls the ball to Santana, who finds Best.

Best hits a crisp pass to Marek, runs to the side, and takes the ball back.

Best passes to Willi.

12'

Best wins the header.

13'

Best wins the header.

14'

Wolves are caught offside.

15'

Great pass from Chanko!

But Best intercepts it.

16'

Santana is in the DM slot. He takes a pass from Best, who overtakes him.

Santana feeds Best, who spins a pass through the lines to Wibbers.

Wibbers takes a touch, crosses early and low.

Gabby...

Is crowded out by defenders. He wants a penalty!

No, says the ref!

***

Match Rating: 10.

I stopped thinking about the score and the league table and all the people I would have to sack if we couldn't stay up, and focused on the next pass, the next header, the next moment.

The better I played, the better the guys near me played. Santana's rating rose to 8. Ender's wobbled between 6 and 7, but that meant it was a high 6. We moved the ball around neatly, but so did Wolves, so I couldn't go too attacking or we would get done on counters.

For ten minutes, we went back to basics, played simple, played short.

When I moved Wibbers to the top of the pitch, Wolves reacted by overloading our right. I reset Wibbers.

Max Best, patron saint of Patience.

***

39'

It looks like Wolves are adopting a more cautious approach.

I snapped my head to the right. Owen Roberts was turtling up before the break? Protecting his lead going into half-time?

Yeah, well, I had to react to that.

I moved Edgar Wilde to CB next to Ender, moved Youngster to DM, and took the central midfield slot next to Santana. Actually, I planned to play ahead of him, behind Gabby, sort of in the classic Number 10 role.

I knew I would get one chance, and that when it fell to me, I had to be perfect.

A perfect 10.

***

40'

Wolves attack. This looks dangerous!

But they try to be too clever.

Youngster mops up and gives the ball to Willi.

Willi shapes to pass to Cheb's feet. The Wolves defender anticipates it, but Cheb spins and runs down the line.

The pass lands perfectly in his stride.

Cheb with a first-time cross. It's low, with curl.

Gabby uses his strength to hold off a defender, but he can't get a shot away.

Max Best is steaming into the area!

Gabby lays off the pass beautifully.

And Best must score!

And Best hasn't scored!

He has shot into orbit!

***

Match Rating: 8.

The Wolves fans: gleeful.

Beth's next headline: How Not to Kick a Football.

I stared up, out of the stadium, eyes wide and unblinking as I reviewed the incident. Gabby had put the ball deliciously into my stride, and I lined up a right-footed slam, keeping the ball low, job done, easy. But the goalie had read my intentions and I had pivoted. Lean back, left foot, smash the ball high where the goalie had just come from. Ain't nobody saving that.

Gabby was apologetic. "Boss, boss, soz! I give you the shit pass! My God."

"Nah, mate," I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. I had to project confidence even if I was mentally scripting the 'sorry you're fired' letters I would soon be sending out. "That was all me." I was only human, and maybe I hadn't spent enough time on the training ground. I wasn't going to admit weakness in front of my troops; I needed them positive. "But you know what? That was a sick fucking turn and a perfect layoff. Do that again and we'll score. Mint, Gabby. Mint."

***

As I walked back, I thought it had been blindingly obvious that I had changed my role, but I wondered if I could get another bite at the cherry.

Millions watching around the world saw me wave my arms around asking the question, 'what the fuck happened there?' Almost everyone thought I was asking myself how I missed the shot so badly, but this was a private broadcast for an audience of one: Owen Roberts. Or Roberts and his analytics team, meaning an audience of about 200. They knew that I was asking my players how they had got themselves so badly out of position.

I undid my previous changes and walked all the way back to the defensive line. We played normally for about 90 seconds until I felt Roberts relax, then I retreated Edgar and Youngster and made my way alongside Santana.

Wolves didn't react in any particular way.

"This is our chance," I said. "We have to be perfect!"

Santana eyed me. He was playing well but his Condition score was dropping faster than anyone else on the pitch. This was a fucking hard league. "What was that, Mister?"

"I'm just mocking myself so that the gods won't."

"Which gods?"

"I dunno. The French ones."

***

41'

Max Best is jeered as the ball comes to him.

He bounces it to Santana and sprints backwards. Santana offloads to his boss.

Best, jeered, angles a pass to Wibbers and rushes into position for the return.

Best gives it back to Wibbers and sprints away.

Gabby runs to offer an option, but Wibbers leans back and chips the ball wide left to Cheb.

Cheb has plenty of time to think, but two Wolves players are rushing at him.

Cheb dabs the ball straight down the line.

Willi Tillmann bursts onto it!

Willi knocks the ball ahead, smashes it across goal, and Max Best is there to redirect it low past the keeper!

***

The goal as shown on DigiWorld's coverage.

"It's slow from Chester."

"Too slow."

"Bounce pass from Best. Now they pick up the pace. Now here's the tempo. Best, Santana, Roberts, with a neat triangle. They draw opponents towards them, then Roberts goes wide left. Oh, that's cheeky from Alloula! He hits a no-look pass down the line to his mate."

"He yawned! Stretched his arms out like he was ready for a kip."

"Tillmann isn't asleep! Look at the speed. And the cross! And the goooooooal! Best makes up for his earlier miss with a tidy finish! It's 2-1 and the home fans fall silent. Gabriel runs into the net to collect the ball. He tussles with the goalkeeper, who is trying to stop him. Young William Roberts doesn't know whether to help Gabriel or follow his manager to the sideline...."

[The angle cuts to camera 6 or whatever the fuck as Max Best approaches it. He's unhurried, and while he's not shouting, what he says is completely audible.]

"Who's in charge, me or the devil? I think I'm in charge." [Best taps the screen.] "All iconic all the time. WAKE UP!"

***

It was 2-1 at the break. I ate paste, drank water, and in the time allotted to quiet contemplation, stood and shouted, "We're not changing anything! Everyone's gonna play better and we're gonna fucking rip. THE END."

***

Owen Roberts didn't change much for the second half, merely tweaked a few things. I started as a CB again, but when I bombed forward someone marked me, and when I say marked I mean bruised. Guys were tripping me up twenty yards from the ball, standing where I was sprinting so that I would have to check my run, really pushing the boundaries of what was possible in the sport, committing offences that wouldn't trigger a VAR review.

Responding to that tactic had the potential to be fun... next season. For example, I could follow the referee and use him as a shield. I would start giving him tactical instructions for where I wanted him to stand so that I could move without being fouled. At the Deva, there would be a half-time collage of all the incidents shown on the screens, and if we were away it would go on our socials.

It's not like Brooke would complain. She'd be in St. Louis or somewhere high-class like that.

But this wasn’t the time for jolly japes. I decided to stay in the CB slot and let my attacking players attack. We were short of someone creative in the middle, but the duo on the left were dovetailing perfectly and Wibbers was having a good game.

What was I the patron saint of?

Ah yes.

Patience.

***

Time ticked up. We eked out small advantages here and there. I used my perks. I thought about slipping into Relationism for a couple of minutes to see what would happen, but we were doing well. The momentum charts wouldn't show huge spikes on our side, but they would show consistent pressure, while Wolves's good moments were getting to be few and far between.

Marek was essentially playing as a sweeper, and it looked like he wasn't going to get the chance to make a big save and get his moment of redemption.

Roberts made his first changes; they didn't make a ton of sense to me.

I got the impression that he was trying to provoke me into changing something myself, but I was happy with how we were playing and so was Sandra. She was in our technical area, sometimes yelling things, but mostly looking pleased.

***

In the 70th minute, I noticed that the guy up against Magnus was playing garbage. His Match Rating had started high, as had many of Wolves' guys, but since peaking at 9 when the second goal went in, it had been sliding. Magnus had very quietly wrapped him up.

It gave me an idea.

I swapped places with Ender - so that I was the right-sided CB - and 'inverted' Magnus from full back into central midfield. That would give us yet another body in the middle of the pitch when we had the ball. When we lost the ball, Magnus would rush to recover his position, but in the meantime I would clear up most messes that came along.

Most.

It felt worth the risk.

It would have been an even better plan if I had someone more creative on the pitch instead of Youngster, Santana, Magnus, or Edgar, but I was stubbornly clinging onto this idea that the eleven who got us into this mess should get us out.

My tactical tweak worked well. In the next phase, we pushed Wolves ten yards back and they pretty much stayed there. I was covering two positions but felt good about it, and when we lost the ball in the middle of the pitch, our counter-press was utterly ferocious. Youngster, Magnus, Santana, Wibbers, Edgar, they chased like demons, hunted as a pack.

The pressure was rising, but our xG wasn't.

I glanced at the bench. Carvalho. Jari. Leo. If I were Owen Roberts, I would fucking hate to see Carvalho warming up.

Carvalho was warming up.

"Sandra, you little minx."

During the next break in play, I ran over to ask who she wanted to sub out. "Youngster?" she said.

"Santi," I replied. He was on a solid 8 out of 10 but he was on the verge of looking quite leggy.

She gave me a thumbs up. 

***

78'

Martim Santana leaves the pitch, replaced by Carvalho.

The home fans chant, 'Who are ya?!'

"Hear that, Ender?" I said. "That's the sound of fear."

***

80'

Ender wins the header.

Willi plays it back to Marek.

The goalkeeper feeds Best, who is put under pressure.

Best deflects the ball at a strange angle, into the path of Magnus.

Magnus passes to Youngster, gets his head down, and runs ahead.

Chester's back line shift across to compensate.

Youngster gives Carvalho his first touch.

Carvalho to Alloula. Good exchange, but Wolves look solid.

Carvalho turns and looks for an option. He chooses Edgar Wilde.

Wilde to Wibbers. He looks for a cross but there are too many gold shirts in the way.

Roberts to Magnus. He plays a simple pass to Carvalho.

The Portuguese forward is fouled... but he keeps the ball.

He dribbles past one defender, then another. He exchanges a pass with Wibbers.

Carvalho enters the penalty area and accelerates. The away fans are on their feet.

Carvalho shoots!

Saved!

The ball lands at the feet of Gabby...

His shot is saved!

Gabby again...

Scores!

He doesn't know which body part it hit and the ball didn't go where he was planning, but he won't care!

Chester have equalised, and it's no more than they deserve!

They have been outstanding in this second half. Their fans are singing all the old hits, and some new ones, too.

***

Stick or twist? Double or nothing? 

I made eye contact with Sandra. She showed me her palms.

Calm. Don't do anything crazy.

I undid Magnus' inversion instruction, made Willi and Cheb a little less attacking, moved Wibbers to more of a traditional right midfield setting, and made Youngster our playmaker. We would play sensibly. We had good attacking potential on the pitch and we would carve out chances, but it wasn't worth undoing all our good work. Shipping a third goal at this point would feel really horrible and would set alarm bells ringing. 

It would also make Wolves almost impossible to catch. I checked the Live Table. That equaliser had blown up the bottom of the table in a very delightful way. Wolves were back in range. If anyone should have pressed for the win, it was Owen Roberts.

He didn't.

When the full-time whistle blew, I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Had I left two points on the table? Or was that just the tension talking? The unease?

Every logical bone in my body told me that recovering from 2-0 down after ten minutes against a talented side, coming away from Molineux with a point, not letting a relegation rival pull away from us... was fine. Was good.

But I rushed off the pitch and headed right to the dressing room, forgetting even to thank our fans, just so I could stand there pulling my hands down my face without anyone seeing.

Ten games to go.

We hadn't won a league match in February.

Half our relegation rivals were playing tomorrow and would have the chance to seriously fuck us up.

Livia was the next person to enter the dressing room. She saw me, headed over, and put two fingers onto my lips. She pushed her fingers out and up, demanding a smile. I blinked, then nodded.

More people came in. "Great result, men!" I cried. "Fucking brilliant. Yeah!"

***

Sunday, February 25

The women had started their international break, so I couldn't get double XP by co-managing them. The best way to get a chunk of XP was to go and watch one of our relegation rivals. I really didn't want to - I barely had the stomach for it - but I forced myself to go to Leicester, who like Wolves raced into a two-goal lead.

That put me in the horrible position of hoping Liverpool would get their act together.

They did. I mentally cheered both of Liverpool's goals and silently, secretly, urged them to get a winner.

I felt dirty and wrong, but when it finished 2-2, Leicester were still only 6 points ahead of us.

Had it been a good weekend? Leeds and Ipswich had both lost and they were due to play each other next week - I didn't know what I wanted from that one.

West Ham had lost, which was maybe the most significant result because it brought us to within three points of someone. Spurs won, though, with a penalty and an own goal.

I brought up the latest table.

[Team, points, everyone has played 28 matches.]

Leicester 33Tottenham Hotspur 33Wolves 31West Ham United 30Chester 27Ipswich Town 23Leeds United 21

That was much, much better than the table I had seen when Wolves were leading! I had to keep reminding myself that the teams at the bottom of the table were there for a reason. Sure, our rivals had improved in the transfer window but all these teams had problems. Our problem? It sounds harsh but yesterday it had been Marek.

My XP counter was ticking up. 

XP balance: 11,354

The women's team were on a break so Kit didn't need her boosts just yet, and there was no way I was going to use Hybridism against Not Forest, so there was no immediate need to use my XP. For now I would focus on building the pot, making it so big I wouldn't even need to prioritise my spending.

I asked the Construction Kit to give me a perk that paid interest on unspent XP, but it was instantly rejected. Harsh.

***

Monday, February 26

Remember I had a meeting with the Conspiracy and they tried to drown me with cash? I had the same meeting again but with MD and the Saltney Town prize money. Unlike a Newcastle fan and a drama-loving Frenchman, MD was happy to wait until after the Wolves match to get this sorted.

Things had been weird between the two of us ever since MD had tried to quit which led to me firing him on the spot. ('Asking for his resignation', if you want to get technical.) But one thing I had learned in my brief career in management is that if you have a meeting in which both parties are certain to leave with at least a million quid in their pocket, it tends to be held in good spirits.

"Mike, do you want to punch me in the dick? You can punch me in the dick if you think I deserve it."

"Course not," he said, but his eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. Picturing it! He settled into a chair in the simple boardroom at The Legends, home of the 65th most important football club in Europe. "Max, quick Chester chat. Do I need to be worried about these new signings? It's such a lot of money. The interest payments must be..." His demeanour changed completely; he burst into a grin. "That Carvalho! Woof! What a star!"

"I know, right? It's like playing against an eel. Carv-eel-ho? Cut that. He's doing what he was bought to do, which is to cause havoc against compact defences. He gets into the oppo's space and he's like a little mosquito. I told him, just get the ball and dribble. Don't dive, but do draw fouls."

"You told him not to dive? Specifically?"

"Yeah. Gave him a quick history lesson. Dribbly wingers come from other leagues, do a couple of dives, English refs get pissed, never give them any decisions ever again. We had a session where the defenders got to kick him in the shins and he had to keep on his feet. Welcome to England! Naw, he's a livewire, though. He's so much fun to watch! Just before you get too hyped, he won't always be that effective. English teams are aware of him now so they'll be studying what he can do." I switched to a low growl. "They'll discover that what he can do cannot be stopped." I laughed, because I had gotten carried away and was talking shit but MD was bouncing with delight. I said, "Carv’s brief stay at Chester will be a fun ride, that's for sure. Enjoy it. Right! Numbers!"

We went through the prize money, the TV money, the weird little UEFA bonuses that came in the small print, and added our share of the ticket income from The Racecourse.

MD said, "So after deducting, ahem, three hundred thousand pounds for the cost of, ahem, watching Die Hard at Nakatomi Plaza - that's an item I've never seen listed on a balance sheet before - we need to decide - you need to decide what to do with 15.09 million pounds."

"Fifteen? Holy shit," I said, laughing. "What the eff."

I had known the amount would be, ah, commensurate with my ability, meaning obscenely high, and I had given serious thought to paying MD the rest of what he was owed and never having to speak with him again.

But that was the old me.

"Would you be happy with three million?" I said.

He smiled. "I already got three million from the qualifying process. Is this the same one or...?"

"Another one. Actually, let's call it 3.5, so we've paid you back more than half. 8 out of 15. That's years ahead of schedule." MD was also due 10% of future transfer profits, which could start kicking in from the summer in small but welcome amounts. Long term, that would be the real return on his investment.

He seemed totally chill. "I'm totally chill," he said. "Will you be taking out the rest?"

"No. I was thinking maybe I'd take out 4 or 5 mill but leave the rest so we can do this again next season. I kind of want to focus on the Forest game and I'll probably be freaking out for most of the next 13 weeks and there's no need to make a quick decision. Right now I don't need this money and I'm kind of curious to see what sort of players will become available in the summer. Does Saltney being ranked 65th mean we can get players like Nikos from day one? Because that would be something."

"From day one? And keep them for the whole season? It would be a huge risk. What if we don't make it through Champions League qualifying? If you're on paternity leave..."

"I reckon at worst we crash into the Europa League. Make ten mill in prize money, right? So we could have a budget of 10 mill and expect to break even."

"Ten million!" cried MD. "In the Welsh league! That's... We would be a T-Rex against ants."

"We're not competing against Welsh teams these days. Our opponents are Arsenal and Atletico Madrid." I shook my head at how stupid this truth sounded.

"So that's lots of Greek imports. Italians. A couple of spares from Wrexham. What do I tell Gwen about the Northern Powerhouse?"

"Don't tell her anything! Throw her over your shoulder and take her to your cave. And after a few days of what we will euphemistically call ‘cave work’, tell her the powerhouse is working as intended. Charlie Cullen will get good minutes next season. He'll be the star Welshman, the young hotshot. All the lads currently in Chester's youth team will go back to Saltney and will play league games, while five 16-year-olds will get promoted to the first team squad. The pipeline is working, MD. You can see the kids coming up the tubes. But they can't play against Arsenal, can they?"

"No."

I batted a patch of air. "Bah. It's fine. It's better than fine. Your girlfriend has the best youth production system in world football. Shame she couldn't keep a generational talent national team manager happy, but hey ho! Maybe she'll see sense eventually."

MD counted to ten on his fingers, which I had never seen done before. Then he said, "Sorry, did you say something?"

That was an interesting technique! I would have to try it on Dylan to see if he strangled me. "Yeah, I was giving you 3.5 million quid and telling you that it was possible I would reinvest a lot of the remaining money into the club but it depends on what sorts of players we can get. There is a timeline where I decide that if I can't play it's not worth the risk and the best bang for our buck would be to fill the squad with Welsh lads and sort of take a year off."

MD's face fell. "That would be a shame."

I counted to ten on my fingers. "One for every million I'm gonna spend. Boo-yah!" I paused. "No but seriously, I'll probably use 6 or 7 mill and have a good go while still making a profit. Okay, let's lunch! I've invited Ender and Salome. Try to be as enthusiastic about Ender as you are about Carveelho. And don't spill any bread crumbs! Turkish people hate that. Yeah, I know things; don't look so surprised."

***

Tuesday, February 27

I trained, showered, and met Brooke outside the block.

"Good sesh?" she asked, as we headed towards the zen garden.

"Basically, yeah. I keep asking myself if we should have taken a risk to get the win against Wolves but if we'd fucked up, morale would have cratered. This way, people are uneasy but positive, if you get me. It's quite weird. I'm finding it very hard to get my tone right."

"When I rode in competitions, it was one day, maybe a full weekend. This relegation battle anxiety drags out over months. From the stands, it's tough. The constant worry. Looking at the league table and the fixtures. Pradeep keeps updating his power rankings and calculating who's got the hardest run-in. I can only imagine what it's like in your boots."

I smiled. "It's a mind-fuck, tbh. I know, in my brain, that we're on track. Foquita's got one more game on his ban, Peter will be back soon, Carvalho's the most-bought Fantasy Football player this week... But tell that to my ulcers."

We walked around the outside of the zen garden, towards one of our super-duper new training pitches, which was gleaming under floodlights. Under that grass was a million pounds of piping, water retention systems, special matting, stitching, sensors, everything that Jonny Planter had ever dreamed of. It was as identical to the Deva pitch as possible, so we could truly train as we intended to play. The green stuff here was short and feeble and the white lines were not fully painted, but this was elite. There were megaclubs that didn't have this.

We approached a group of people that included Jonny and his team, SecJoe, Jojo, and some of our Media and Communications guys.

They formed up into a line behind two poles. Strung out between the poles was a red ribbon. Jonny handed me a pair of oversized golden scissors, then he tapped on an iPad and the little robot that painted the lines on our football pitches did the last two yards. Task complete! We posed for photos - I insisted on Brooke being in shot - and as I gently cut the ribbon I said, "A new home for first team training. I declare this luxury football pitch open!"

The gathering applauded...

The big screen by the side of the pitch read: Huzzah!

And our Facilities score rose by 0.6 points, to 16.58.

"Holy shit!" I said. That was a massive rise! Six times higher than the X-ray machine!

Brooke smiled. "Are you happy?"

"Very happy! Very very happy! Jonny, release the hounds!"

He nodded at his lads, who ran off and pushed two massive glow-lamp upturned pylon things into position. The pylons began smashing pink neon light into the grass. We could play on it right now, hence our Facilties score rising, but this pitch was still just a baby.

"Jonny," I cried. "I am the main character and main characters always have twins. Bring me to my next child!"

"Yes, Max," he said. He picked up the paintbot, the others took the plinths, we walked around the corner flags and soon arrived at our SECOND NEW MEGA PITCH.

Jojo threaded another ribbon, Jonny positioned the paintbot, checked I was ready, and soon the last line was drawn.

"I declare this pitch also open," I said, cutting the ribbon. We posed for more photos. The giant screen on THIS pitch read: Yay.

Our Facilities score rose by 0.5 points, to 17.08.

I cackled. "Fuck me, I'm good at this!"

Brooke said, "Round of applause for Max's ribbon-cutting technique."

People applauded. I rose above it. "Same time tomorrow, everyone!" To Jonny I said, "Which child do you love more? Lefty or Righty?"

He considered his options, but pointed beyond the zen garden to the current main training pitch. "The old girl, Max. I gave her everything I had. Used what was to hand, had to beg, borrow, and steal to make it happen."

"Yes, mate!" I said, grabbing him. "You don't want to buy a house with a ready-made garden, do you? You want to grow it from scratch. You know, if they made an 80s TV show about you driving around in a talking car, it would be called Nitrogen Rider."

Jonny laughed - because it was funny not because I was his boss - and rushed away to whisper sweet nothings into the ear of his paintbot. Brooke and I walked towards the canteen along with Jojo and the others, but the Texan put her hand on my arm to slow me down. When there was a gap, she said, "Can I ask a favour?"

"Yes, yes, a million times yes. Unless it's hard."

"I have a new job lined up. I'm real excited."

"Oh? Top. What are you gonna do? Rustle cattle? Build hyperloops? Data centres, am I right? You want to cover Michigan with data centres."

"It's a football club in England."

"Oh!"

"Remember I started working here because of Biscotti? And there's Zach’s career and the dogs are happy. I like it here."

She said the last part sincerely enough, but just for a second, she looked doubtful. There was at least one thing in her life that wasn’t up to scratch. "You're thinking about ribs, right? You can't get good ribs. Or is it the taps? You hate bagging your own groceries."

She smiled. "It's all an experience, Max. I'm having a great time. But look, if I'm going to stay in football, it needs to be at a club that makes sense. It needs to have an owner that I can get along with. I was wondering if you would come and meet him, talk to him, see if you get a good feeling."

"Oh, it's a him, is it?" I said, rubbing my chin. "That narrows the field. Yes, that rules out... one club in the entire country. You're not going to tell me?"

"I want to go Full Brooke on this. If you agree to come, there might be a little twist."

"Ooooh I love twists!" I took her by the arm and stopped her. "When I'm doing them."

"Tough shit, this is my rodeo. Are you coming?"

"When?"

"Sunday would be ideal."

"So it's a club that are playing on Sunday. Hmm. Interesting... Look, yeah, of course I'll come. You just want me to say that the guy's not a total clown, right? You want to know if you increase the club's revenue, it will get used well. That sort of thing?"

"That sort of thing."

"I'm down."

***

Wednesday, February 28

After training, I walked with Brooke across Bumpers Lane and went around the outside of the PetPride. This area had been a hole in the ground for a long time, it had been a shell for a long time, but now everything was starting to look close to finished.

How do you build a stand? Slowly, then all at once.

I cut a ribbon and gave a moving two-word speech ('It open') as a builder screwed in the first seat. Nothing changed with our Facilities Score. Huh. I let that particular crew get on with things - we had sold 200 tickets in the PetPride for Saturday's game so we couldn't have too many delays - and we wandered around the innards of the stand.

A guy fitted a handle to the door of a men's toilet, and I opened it. (The room, not the door, lol.)

I opened a women's toilet.

Jojo went to find more ribbon, then I opened a food stand.

I watched an electrician fit the final light switch in the dental clinic, then grandly declared it open.

None of those moved the needle.

But then came some successes. The grand opening of the four new dressing rooms, Jonny's utility rooms, and a brand-new referee zone added a total of 0.2 to our FS.

We would go into the Not Forest match with a Facilities Score of 17.28. Still the lowest in the division, but we were catching up. And there was no way the dental clinic was a zero add. I would re-open it when there was a dentist's chair and a reception desk.

When it came to the Facilities Score, there were still many unknowns, but one thing I knew for sure was that all the pain and time and money was paying off. We had a Premier League squad, we had a Premier League training ground, and soon we would have a Premier League stadium.

The only problem was that we had Premier League opponents...

***

Saturday, March 3

English Premier League Match 29 of 38: Chester vs Nottingham Forest

Social media was blowing up with all the 'opening' videos we had been releasing in the past few days. People couldn't decide if it was small-time, funny, a waste of the club's money, or all of the above. Brooke was delighted by the metrics and I was delighted that I had a good excuse to be present when individual jobs were finished. How else could I know for sure what was contributing to the Facilities Score?

But the only score that mattered today was the final score.

(Print that line and hang it up in The Louvre. All that transition training was making me a better writer. Chef's kiss.)

We were the early kick-off and we had the chance to pile the pressure on everyone around us by winning, but I had decided not to start. First, I needed the XP from managing. Second, Forest would throw themselves into tackles and I was desperate to be fit for next week's FA Cup match. That way led to glory and the chance to take Chester into Europe. Third, the way Forest played was horrible, stifling, and oppressive, and dealing with that seemed like work for people who didn't have a choice in the matter.

Like Wolves, Forest used 3-4-2-1 as their default, and they never, ever changed. Their manager, Ried Gwinn, was very good but very set in his ways. It was going to be a tough encounter against a team that didn't make mistakes and would pounce on any we made. The way they set up was Kryptonite for me. I wanted to be expansive, dynamic, entertaining, but if we did any of that, Forest would grind us to dust.

Relationism might have worked against them, but I couldn't run that particular experiment this season. Hybridism? Again, I wanted to test it under better circumstances.

While we were in the relegation zone we had to play like a team fighting for our lives, which meant we had to match Forest. Not necessarily in terms of formation, but in terms of mentality. Safety-first, play the percentages, play for territory, and let our superior Technique eke out that one magical moment that would give us the lead.

"Right," I said, scratching my eyebrow. We were still using the Main Stand's dressing rooms even though the bigger, far more modern ones in the PetPride had been officially opened. We would move over in the summer - it felt logical and right. "It's another new attendance record, as will every home match be until the end of the season. The fans are well up for this so make sure you battle."

I went to the tactics board and nudged a couple of magnets around. They were laid out in a 5-4-1 shape.

"This is the first half and we'll re-assess in the break. It looks defensive because it is. If Forest score they will get even more compact than they already are and we'll be in big trouble, so the first priority is to keep a clean sheet. None shall pass.

"Forest beat us 2-0 first time round and they're a little bit better today than then. Ried Gwinn is a really good coach. Really good. If he spots any weaknesses, he'll gut us. Hence 5-4-1."

I looked around the cramped room. Small room, big club. Training had been great, possibly fuelled by the new facilities coming online. Youngster and Santana had pushed each other to CA 160 - yissssss - while Ender was loving the minutes, the extra coaching, and the Secret Sandra boosts. He was already up to CA 157.

Also moving to new milestones were Jari (130) and Foquita, who was so disappointed with himself about his red card that he had trained like a crazy person and driven himself to CA 170. Okay, the scrap with the Spurs defender had been moronic and his ban had added to the stress levels of a quarter of a million people, but tiny little Chester FC now had a CA 170 striker.

You hear that sound?

That's the sound of fear.

And you hear that sound?

That was the sound of Sandra gently coughing.

"Owen in goal," I said, tapping the relevant magnet.

Marek was quietly on my shit list. I would need to give him a start in one of our final matches, just in case Owen got injured, but basically Owen was my boy until he fucked up.

"Willi, Edgar, Ender, Dumi, Cheb."

Pace on the sides, and in the middle, two wise old heads guiding the young pup. The young pup was 26 and had cost 14 million pounds, but you know what I mean.

"Lewis, Youngster, Santi, Wibbers."

Again, it wasn't a creative midfield but it was one that would allow us to compete with Forest, whose midfield was a real strength. Lewis gave us moments of attacking quality, but I expected Forest would be far more worried about Wibbers.

"Gabby up top."

The Brazilian's Morale was maxed out after scoring his fourth goal of the season against Wolves, and we would appreciate his strength and determination - Forest had a collection of absolutely massive, hard-tackling centre backs.

Our average CA was 159.4. Forest were 2 points better than at the start of the season; they would be CA 157.

Tight.

Tight tight tight.

Nerves would be shredded. Nails would be bitten. Ulcers would be bathed in bubbling bile.

***

Before kick off, though, there was a brief period of enormous optimism. There were 200 people sitting in the PetPride! It was only a test event, but it showed just how much work had been completed.

There was something different about the noise, too. Those 200 people seemed to be bending the soundwaves, so the songs and the chants sounded different.

Almost certainly my imagination, but I got the feeling that everyone else was experiencing something similar. We were nudging towards being a big club and our fans could feel it in their bones.

Up, up, up we go!

The referee's whistle sounded, and all our fears came flooding back in.

Up we go... unless we go down.

***

The first half was tense beyond my capacity to cope. I had been on the pitch so much recently that I had almost forgotten how different it felt on the touchline. I wasn't helpless, obviously, but all I could do was tweak things and hope for the best.

I hit Seal It Up right away in case Forest made a fast start, but even doing that gave me flashbacks to the Wolves horror show.

The lads tried to fizz the ball around with quality but it quickly became clear that this would be a 6 and 7 out of 10 kind of encounter. Cheb briefly touched 8, as did one of Forest's midfielders, but they got dragged back into the mud.

The action was fitful, tactical, tedious, and there were long VAR checks for decisions the ref had got right first time, but only the neutrals watching on TV cared about the quality. For the 13,220 fans in the stadium, all that mattered was the score.

Forest had the best two chances of the half, but Owen Elmham made two great saves. 8 out of 10, just when we needed it!

***

At half time all I wanted was to hit a treadmill and run fast until I was dizzy. Sandra took over, gently reminding the lads what the plan was, which things they had done well, which they hadn't. Then she said, "Boss, what's your favourite movie?"

"I don't know."

"Is it Die Hard?"

"Maybe."

"Why is it Die Hard?"

"Er... because the baddie doesn't make any subs at half time?"

Pascal cried out, "Boo!"

Youngster got to his feet. "Alan Rickman plays the villain in Die Hard. Alan Rickman plays the villain in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, which is set in Nottingham. My favourite movie is Die Hard because it shows that villains from Nottingham always get their just deserts."

Jimmy McNeill said, "See that? That's flimsy, that is. That's weak as pish."

Youngster pointed at me. "It was better than his!"

The broke the tension in me. "He makes a good point! All right, lads, you know the deal. Keep it tight next 45. I like how you're playing so I'm not gonna change it until Ried Gwinn does. He'll make the first move, it'll be a mistake, I'll shove it down his throat. Come on!"

The room went: "COME ON!!!"

***

Amazingly, the tension went up a notch. One mistake, one slip, and it would be game over.

We underhit passes. We overhit passes. We played perfect passes and were fouled.

Forest were the same. We were cancelling each other out.

I bit my nail. Sandra said, "Ried Gwinn is waiting for you to make the first move. He wants to shove your mistake down your throat."

"You think he won't make a sub until I do?"

"Yeah. I picked it up in their interviews. It's subtle but I don't think they believe you can stay disciplined for a whole match."

I clicked my tongue a few times, then said, "Are you doing psychology on me right now?"

"No. But do I want us to stay like this? Probably."

I pulled my lips tight to help me think, allowed a few minutes to pass, then decided she was right. So if I was waiting for Gwinn to make the first move and he was waiting for me, I could engineer a stalemate. "You're happy with a point?"

Sandra swallowed; it looked painful. Did I detect a few grey hairs? She was suffering, the same as everyone else. "Yeah. I'd take it. I'd bite your hand off. I don't care what the other teams do. If we keep getting points, we'll be all right. We will. Hundred percent." She said the last words with all the conviction of Jackie Reaper inviting someone on a date.

Another few minutes passed - a series of headers, throw-ins, passing moves that ended in hard tackles, the ref being yelled at while physios got to work. I summoned Martim Santana. His Condition score was decreasing faster than everyone else's, but it was within acceptable limits. "Bro, can you play the whole match?"

Annoyance flashed in his eyes before he mastered his emotions. "Of course."

I put a finger in his face. "Don't give me that. The goal isn't for you to finish, it's to get a result. If you're getting leggy, you tell me right away. Yeah?"

He had become totally calm. "Yes. I understand. Right now I feel very good. It is a shit match but I feel good. I can help the team."

"Okay, bosh. Tell me if it changes."

***

70 minutes. 80. 82. Still no activity from the Forest bench.

"Fuckers are waiting for me to slip up," I muttered. "That pisses me off."

"I know," said Sandra.

"Warm up Carvalho. Give them something to get excited about."

"On it. What about you? Go on for a little blast?"

Santana slipped a pass into the path of Wibbers, who did a shimmy, drove forward, and smashed a shot towards the top left of goal.

The keeper saw it from far out, watched it all the way, and got a good hand to it. Good save. When I glanced back, Wibbers was on the turf, rolling around, clutching his ankle. His oppo had wiped him out as he was shooting. No lasting damage, but a reminder. "Gonna give the FA Cup a new home, Sandra."

"Have you ever managed a match where you didn't make a single sub?"

"I can't think of one, but I must have done."

She pushed me. "Why don't you warm up, too? That'll distract Gwinn in a big way."

"Good call."

***

I jogged up and down the touchline, being applauded by the fans. It was good to move. Took away some of the anxiety.

When I arrived back at the dugout, I declared, "You know what? We got this. We're brilliant."

Forest sent in a cross, a giant striker outmuscled Dumi, beat Owen all ends up.

The ball went a yard wide of the goal.

Sandra pounded on my arm with both fists. "Stop saying things!"

***

94.

95.

96.

The ref... blew the final whistle. 0-0. A point against one of best-coached teams in the country.

The crackling applause from the Chester fans told me what they thought of the result.

Now we would all spend the weekend following the results from the other clubs, which would prolong the agony. Why did we torture ourselves like this?

But whatever happened, we had one huge advantage over our rivals. Thanks to the vagaries of the fixture computer and a rearranged match, 6 of our next 7 league matches would be at home, and every time we played there would be more Chester fans in the Deva, cheering us on, calling our names, lifting us up.

Keeping us up.

***

Sunday, March 4

Brooke picked me up from Bumpers and drove south-east. Towards London. Towards Paris and Madrid, for that matter.

"How was your morning?"

"Fine," I said. "Didn't get a ton of sleep. That yesterday? That was draining. You can't believe the coaching of that Forest team. The guy's like a puppetmaster, pulling all the strings. There's no way forward, no way back. It looks really dull but he's a top coach, he really is." I shook my head. "I think the way to beat him is to do the opposite. Top tekkers all over the pitch. Skill, flair, dribbly wingers. But that's for Future Max to worry about. We got a point. Shake his hand, move on. This morning was all about Wolves in the FA Cup. Thinking how to beat them."

"What's the plan?"

"Same as last time but don't give them two goals in the first ten minutes! Nah, we'll have Foquita back and we'll probably be quite adventurous. Oh, hey, having the PetPride open, even a little bit, was mint. The players responded."

"We've got 28 points after 29 games. I've heard different takes on what that means. How are we doing?"

"So Leeds beat Ipswich, which is funny but it puts Leeds two points closer to us. Heat from below is the last thing I need right now, let me tell you."

"But we're four points ahead."

"Yeah, and I'd be amazed if Leeds overtook us. That was a terrible result for Ipswich. They're five points behind us, so they're not totally out of it but it's getting there."

I looked at the seat behind me. Absolutely no dog hair anywhere, and the car smelled like it had just been deep cleaned, which meant Brooke wanted to impress me, which meant she wanted something from me. Interesting.

"Emma's found this relegation percentage thing that she believes in with religious fervour. The draw against Forest took us to a 54% chance of staying up, so... Yeah, good result. It's just always gnawing at me, you know?" We eased into the lane to take the next exit, which made me frown. "Not London, then. I kind of thought we might be going to West Ham. They're playing at 2. So if it isn't West Ham and the game is kicking off at 2, that means - "

"Don't say it," said Brooke. "Pretend to be surprised. Tottenham losing is great, right?"

"Oh, yeah, that's the result of the weekend for us. We're back to within five points and they're back to looking absolute dogshit. Lee Kennedy is right on the edge. He'll be sacked any day now. I keep checking my feed to see if it's happened."

"Won't they get a new manager bounce?"

"Is the new manager a 20-goal-a-season striker? Then no."

"West Ham are playing at 2, Wolves at five thirty, Leicester tomorrow. We want everyone to lose, right?"

I looked out of the window. "We just need to win our games. One game."

"Knock Wolves out of the cup, smash Man City. Easy."

"Easy," I said, smiling.

***

We pulled up in the VIP section of a stadium I knew fairly well. When Brooke put the handbrake on, I slapped my palms to my cheeks and gasped. "No!"

She nodded. "You're stunned. You're speechless." Behind her mask of permanent competence, I detected nerves. She tried to play it cool as she said, "So what do you think?"

"Pros," I said. "It's only an hour from Chester. Cons, it's literally called the Bet Everything You Own Stadium."

She counted to five on her fingers. "It's not called that. But seriously."

"Stoke City? It's a good club," I said. "Rich owner who's a fan. As a little kid he got a home kit for Christmas, away kit for his birthday. Net worth three billion quid and he would give a billion to see Stoke win the Prem. Club's got a great history. Stanley Matthews' ashes were buried under the centre circle. Big stadium. Yeah. You could be dangerous here."

"They once won a game 26-0. The opponent was called Mow Cop."

"What?" I said, laughing, as I reached for the door handle.

"Wait," said Brooke. Her nerves were back. "I need to tell you something. I thought I'd tell you later, but... It's better to do it now."

"Oh, shit."

She smiled. "It's not bad. I think it's great, I just can't predict how you're ever gonna react to anything, so if you're gonna explode, do it here."

"Deal."

The way I said 'deal' made her turn pale, for some reason. She leaned forward, against the steering wheel, stayed there for a while, then pushed herself back, laughing. "This is all your fault."

"Naturally."

"You put the idea of Stoke City into me. The Stoke Timeline. Clueless billionaire owner dumps bottomless piles of cash into the club and all it needs is a couple of competent people to straighten the ship and let it fly to the moon. Since you got me doing Stoke City saves on Soccer Supremo, I've been watching from a distance, sometimes staying an extra hour when I met someone from Stoke, and all your predictions came true. The club sank and sank and shipwrecked themselves all the way down to League One. Andrew Harrison is running their midfield and he's the best player in the league and they're fighting to go straight back up as champions, but it's still a badly-run club." She did a slow blink. "When I look at it, I see so much potential. Massive potential."

"Yeah, it's a sleeping giant."

"I bring two things to the table. One: clever and entirely legal ways of allowing the owner to invest more of his money into the club than the rules would seem to allow."

"Heh," I said, because this part of Soccer Supremo's Stoke City Challenge Mode was entirely my invention. It was great that the real-life owner was playing by the rules but come on. Your advantage is money. Use it.

"Two: increasing the revenue. There are some easy wins to be had, plus the medium-term challenge of filling the stadium. The average attendance is 20 thousand. The stadium holds 30 thousand. There's a clear goal, right?"

I nodded. "And it's all built. The stadium, the training ground. They're basically Premier League standard so, yeah, you can focus on other things. After Chester, it'll be a breeze."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want a breeze. I want to build a billion-dollar organisation."

"Kay. So you need to get to the Prem and get into Europe more or less every year."

She locked onto me. "The owner knows that he has trusted the wrong people, hired the wrong people. I've got a deal on the table where I can buy 10% of Stoke City at the current valuation if I do for Stoke what I've done for Chester. That way, I'll be rewarded for building the club up and driving it forward." She raised her hand. "That's not a criticism of you or Chester. I'm just saying it's a great reason for me to come here. What do you think Stoke is worth today?"

"As a League One club? Hard to say. You’d have to pay me to take it off your hands. It bleeds money so you need to be a billionaire to own it. As a Championship club? It's worth something like 60 million."

"You're very close. I can buy 10% for 7 million. I'll cut costs, increase revenues, fix it as a business, and I have a plan to fix the football side, too."

I frowned. "Okay. This is the bit where I explode. You're gonna poach Sandra, Peter, Jay..."

Brooke didn't blink. "I'm gonna poach you."

She was serious. So serious I laughed. "What the - Come on!"

She faced the front, stuck her index fingers up, and laid it all out. "I can't prise you away from Chester and I don't want to. I just want what's in your head, and this time you'll be paid properly for your expertise. The Messi Rule, Max. You're allowed to invest in football clubs. You can invest in Stoke alongside me. You get 10%, I get 10% and we won't ever have to put more money in. We only have upside. If we get to the Prem, into Europe, if we turn it into a serious brand, we will 10x our investments."

"I can't own a piece of Stoke if they're in the Prem."

"I think you can. According to how the new rules have been written, you can. If there's any dispute, Stoke's owner will cover the legal costs. He has spent half a billion on the club and his return on investment has been catastrophic. A few memorable wins, many entire seasons of drudgery. He's not getting any younger and he knows what it's like facing a Max Best team."

"We beat them 3-2 twice last season."

"He says you relegated them, and he says you've sucked up all the upward mobility in the entire sport, which is why he's so excited that you're coming today. He's one of those crazy sports fans who wears a jersey for pyjamas and wants to be buried in full kit. He told me he used to play cricket wearing a Stoke top. Even I know that's strange! He followed them home and away before he ever made his first million. He's a totally normal person, totally decent. Don't tell him I said this, but he's the most boring billionaire I've ever met."

"That's... a plus."

"I know! His backing plus my skills plus your skills… To use Henri’s favourite phrase, that’s overpowered. The Stoke Timeline, the power fantasy you designed, your speedrun to the top of the sport, it's on. We can do it. You're allowed to own 10% but legally your stake will be held in a blind trust.

"Just to be even more safe, we'll say you're part of a consortium of investors. Consortium. Sounds grand, doesn't it? The others can be Emma and her parents who invest one pound each, but who's going to take the time to look into it? Maybe someone will, but they won't ever find records of you getting involved with Stoke's transfer dealings or match day tactics, because there won’t ever be a digital trail.

"You'll let us use DOVE, and maybe once a year a slip of paper will appear under my hotel room door and it will have a list of names and it will self-destruct." She shrugged. "With you unofficially guiding our transfers, we'll stop wasting money on useless players and this ship will follow the course you laid out for Chester but with even more firepower."

I tried to imagine the damage I could do with infinite money and a passionate fanbase. "This is bananas but if we did it, let me just say up front that Chester will always beat Stoke. If it's the last day of the season and Chester have nothing to play for and Stoke need a win to stay up, Stoke are going down."

"Of course."

I closed my eyes and thought. "They get promoted to the Champ this season. We bin off ten guys whose contracts are expiring. We replace them with guys I like. They finish in the playoffs, narrowly lose. Next summer we replace another ten. Now it's a serious team. They finish second, go to the Prem, then it's lift-off. Top half finish, Europe, up and up we go." I opened my eyes. "In ten years, Stoke would be worth 700 million. You're offering me free money. What's the catch?"

"The catch is that you keep your mouth shut." She was deadly serious, which made me laugh. After a moment, she copied me. She said, "Look, if you want to turn Chester into your personal mouthpiece, that's... It's not fine. I don't think it's fine but it's your baby. You've earned it. Stoke will be my baby. Together we can awaken this sleeping giant, have a ton of fun, do a lot of good, and make a lot of money. But this is my thing that you're helping me with. Keep doing your stunts and your shenanigans at Chester if you want but don't bring Stoke into it, ever. If that's clear enough, there's an upside. We know you only want what's best for football and when we're in the Prem, we'll vote with you almost every time."

"Almost?"

She waved a hand. "You get mad ideas. I can't promise to go along with everything, but you can count on us for the important issues. That's a promise."

"Two votes out of twenty," I said.

"Ten percent of Stoke, ten percent of the Prem. Didn't they call you Mr. Ten Percent in Germany?"

"I think that was Grimsby." I leaned forward and looked up at the massive stadium. I could own a slice of that! It was every boy's dream to own a big football club. How much work would it be to get Stoke into the Prem? I shook my head. "Even if it only takes me an hour a week, that's an hour I should be spending helping Emma. Raising my child. Being there. I don't want to be a dickhead dad, Brooke."

She counted to five, this time without her fingers. "You're lots of things, but not that."

"It's too much work. I mean, everyone has to go from the current squad. Everyone. Gemma will take my balls when I dump Andrew again. She'll take them! Everyone out, 25 new players in. I mean, think how long it would take. How many hours of my life." A name popped into my head. "Huh."

"What?"

"There's a guy whose contract is expiring this summer. His club have offered a new one but I was thinking about getting in touch saying, bro, if Chester go down we'd sign you and you'd have way more fun. So... Oh, shit. Emiliano. He'd be perfect. Cole Adams. Banksy on loan. Would it be too soon for Banksy in the Champ? Nasa on a perm? Fuck, and I'd have a new stock of players to loan to Gibraltar. Another place to send Exit Trial lads."

"Max, you've been in charge of Stoke for twenty seconds and you've already got us five new players. We've seen you do this for West Didsbury, Tempsford, Tranmere, Saltney, God knows who else. This time you'll have a stake. You'll have your name on the building. Er, metaphorically speaking."

"You're thinking about statues, aren't you? What's the statue? You admiring me? Could you be swooning? Wait wait wait. Your dad cut you off and I pay you buttons. How are you getting 7 million quid?"

"Zach's helping. His dad, too. Which is why you can't throw your tantrums, Max!"

"Whoa, Nelly," I said, showing my palms.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Eh," I said.

"The owner says he won't be in a rush for you to raise the funds. It's not like he needs the cash and obviously it's a lot."

"I might be able to lay my hands on it," I said, distantly. Would Marek drop to the Championship? He was showing his age but he would be one of the best keepers in that division. I shook my head, trying to stop myself from spending the rest of the day writing the first chapter in The Stoke Timeline. "One question. Whose idea was this? The 30th richest man in England's... or yours?"

"Mine," she said. "Ride a superhorse, build a superclub, buy a superyacht." She aimed a finger in my direction. "I just need a tiny bit of help from a superstar." Her face fell. "What? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm gonna bag the easiest 10x ever."

"So?"

"So what am I gonna do with 70 million pounds?"

Her eyebrows twitched. "You'll think of something."

"You're right. It's a problem for Future Max." I held my hand out. "Let's fucking do it."

She shook my hand while grinning from ear to ear. We got out of the car and as we closed the doors, she leaned over. "One last thing. When we're in there, don't swan around like you own the place."

"Whoa," I said. "No can do. You should have made me agree to that before we shook on the deal." I put my hands on my hips and looked at my new home. "Has there ever been a statue," I wondered, "of a guy who didn't play for a club or manage it...?"

A jovial car park attendant in a bright yellow jacket ambled up to me. "Max Best," he said, reaching for a handshake and getting one. "Just want to say thanks for Andrew Harrison. He’s brilliant. Got any more like him?"

I grinned. "Funny you should ask that…"

...

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