DoF 1.7 - Buzzing [T1] (Patreon)

7.

Excerpt from the voluminous first draft sent to the latest editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 17.

Sunday, March 4

"I'm worried about Max."

Tiggy looked up from her end of the sofa. "Worried about what? That he's too rich? Too handsome?"

From the kitchen table, Clive chuckled.

My editors recommend that I remind readers who the main characters are, 'once every million words or so'. Tiggy was my long-term partner and has been mentioned on almost every page in this story - except for in The Vegas Volume, of course - but the editors know best. Clive O'Keefe has also featured prominently in my tales. He was Tiggy's father, a wonderful coach, and in the British vernacular was 'doing much better'. I was Pascal Bochum, a Premier League footballer and manager of Chester FC's under 18s team.

I showed Tiggy a still image from my laptop. In it, Max Best was sitting next to Brooke Star at Stoke City match. "Look at him. He's lifeless."

"He's tired."

"He's drained. Battery's on empty yet he's out scouting. He has to, since he's our entire scouting department."

Clive said, "Don't forget Fleur. And her son Henk does bits."

"Come on, Clive," I said. "Fleur does opposition analysis and recommends the occasional player, but Max has to check everyone she suggests himself. He has been spotted at matches all over the country almost every night for... at least since the start of the year. He has been working too hard."

Tiggy scoffed. "Honey, true or false, you are right now watching footage from Charlton under 16s and 17s in case any of those lads are called up to the 18s next week?"

I tutted. "Yes, I am working hard, but I am in a nice, warm house with those closest to me. When we beat Charlton, our next serious match will be in a month. Max has vital matches twice a week and you know how hard he studies the oppo. He does what I do every single day, plus he scouts, plus he runs several football clubs. You can see it getting to him. They cut to him a few times in the Stoke match and every time he looked miserable. Have you ever seen him go two hours without smiling? No, I am very worried. Oh! And this Spurs thing yesterday. I'm told he is absolutely gutted about it and he wants to visit him in hospital."

Clive looked up from his iPad. "What's that, Pascal? I missed that."

"You know Shay Weerwind?"

"Of course. Dutch lad. Very expensive. Scored a wondergoal for Spurs against us. Maybe kept Spurs in the league with that strike. Max isn't a big fan. Did he get himself injured?"

"Yes," I said, shaking my head at the memory. "He stretches for the ball, screams, hand up, instantly you say ACL. Instantly. The physios arrive, stand with him on the sideline, they have a discussion, then Weerwind does star jumps!"

Tiggy blinked. "What?"

"I know! Social media is going crazy. What kind of clown car club asks a player with a fucked knee to do star jumps? Physio Dean says it's impossible, they would never, that it came from the player to prove he was fit. Anyway, he is out for the rest of the season and probably a lot longer. 

"Spurs are in deep shit now. It's good news for Chester but apparently this has hit Max hard. An injury from overplaying a star, someone making it worse - the player or the physios, either way is shit and unacceptable - and Weerwind's mother has a similar condition to Max's so he, you know, has natural sympathy even if he wouldn't sign the player for Chester. And I hear from Ruud that he wants to visit the player in hospital, which is kind of him, of course it is, and we know he gets sentimental about such things, but we are in the business end of the season now. We need Max to be present. Need him to focus."

Tiggy eyed me. "Right. Max's problem is that he doesn't spend enough time thinking about football."

"You're joking but you're right! He doesn't spend enough time thinking about Chester Men. I'm worried. He has a meltdown once or twice a season and this time the pressure is ten times greater than any other year. Without him, we're a decent team but we don't have the X-factor. It's coming, and the new players help, but Max is a gamechanger. Sandra is very good and she doesn't make mistakes but there was a clear difference when Max wasn't allowed in the stadium after Christmas. We need him.

"He wants to go far in the FA Cup but every time we win, we add another match to the schedule. That's more hours of watching tape, more hours of thinking and plotting. Less time for him to rest. Not that he can be persuaded to rest. Of course I want to win a cup, but the Premier League should be 99% of our focus. For our chances of surviving in the Prem, it could be good to lose to Wolves this weekend."

Tiggy said, "That's a good way to get yourself unselected."

I sighed. Sometimes Tiggy could be so obtuse. "If I'm chosen I will play my best. In fact, I rather think we will win. Wolves are in the AOK Cup final the following weekend so they will surely rotate their team and rest key players. Those who play will be trying to avoid injury more than they try to beat us. Of course, any second-string players who feature will be the opposite - playing hard, striving to get in the cup final team. On balance, it is undeniably good for us that Wolves will have one eye on the following week."

Clive said, "Wolves haven't been in a cup final for decades. Their fans won't be talking about the FA Cup Fifth Round."

"No," I said. "Like I said, we're confident. But I wish someone would help Max. He needs an intervention but Henri is busy. Emma has other things on her mind. MD is out. Brooke? He didn't look too happy to be sitting next to her. Oh, what a mess!"

Tiggy sighed. "If you want something doing, do it yourself."

"Me? Max outnumbers me."

Tiggy smiled. "Too funny. Why don't you talk to the rest of the lads and see if they're noticing the same things as you? It's probably all in your imagination."

***

One by one, I called Peter, Sticky, Colin, and Magnus. They had varying degrees of concern, but agreed to keep their eyes and ears open. "If anyone's going to help," I said. "It's going to be us. The players."

Had I done enough?

I went back into the house and poured myself a glass of imported German tap water. Clive was listening to the radio.

In sport news, the Australian Grand Prix was won by Charles le Bip after a lengthy delay owing to biters, Sam Clostebol retained his Miami Open crown, and Ethiopian runners took both men's and women's crowns in the Tokyo Marathon.

And in the Premier League, there were draws for Leicester and Wolves, while West Ham relieved their relegation worries with a combative win over Everton. The result leaves Chester four points from safety. Back to Nikki in the studio.

Nikki: Tough weekend for Chester! Must feel like one step forward, two steps back at the Deva. I wonder if we'll see any banter-loving bookmakers pay out on Chester to be relegated. Somehow I doubt it. While we're on the subject of the weird and wonderful world of Max Best, there was a highly significant result over the weekend that I haven't seen mentioned anywhere. In an under 15s match, Wales thrashed England 6-3, and every single Wales player came from the same club. I think you can probably guess which one it is... The clamour to reinstate Max Best as Wales manager will be growing ever louder after that.

In a moment, we'll be taking your calls and asking the question, what's the worst team that has sacked the best manager?

I went back outside. Was there a chance Max would be back in the Wales dugout this coming international break? They say if you have a job that needs to be done, give it to someone busy... but that would be ridiculous.

I couldn't rely on a few key allies. If we were going to help our boss, our leader, everyone needed to be involved.

My phone was on its way to my ear before I had even finished the thought. "Youngster? It's Pascal. I'm worried about Max."

***

MAX BEST

Monday, March 5

I jumped out of bed and cried, "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah!" I shadowboxed, pointed at myself in the mirror, dropped a quick twenty push-ups. I felt amaaaazing. Brooke had given me 63 million pounds and another club to run!

My brain had been fizzing all evening, and I'd been buzzing all night. So many ideas! But before I could Bestify another club, we had to get our legal ducks in a row. Emma's best friend Gemma ran a sports law firm and she was already on the case. I would sign a pre-contract that would guarantee me the chance to buy the Stoke shares at a set price at a certain date in the (near) future.

Why do it like that? Because that way, Brooke could gather the funds on her side - Zach's dad had done very well for himself, apparently - but most importantly, my involvement in Stoke would be kept secret for a while longer. I didn't want to annoy the Chester fans or distract my players while we were in a relegation dogfight, and also I didn't want Stoke to have to pay a Max Best tax. If clubs knew that I was on the other end of the deal, they might raise their prices. So far that hadn't happened to me very often, but that was when I was bidding as Chester. As Stoke, backed by a multi-billionaire, things might be different.

No, if we were smart we could get five to ten deals done before the rest of the sport knew what was going on.

Wa-heyyyyy!

I did another twenty push-ups just for fun, then made myself a coffee, intending to drink it on the bedroom's balcony. Except I couldn't - the handles of the doors had been bound together with about 600 elastic bands. "Yuhh?" I said, in an accidental impression of Scooby Doo.

I went down to the closest seating area, but it had been cordoned off with yellow tape. A sandwich board announced that the floating deck was 'closed'.

So I took my drink to the barbecue zone, which was in full sun. My wife was lounging with her e-reader. "Question," I said, pointing back towards the floating deck.

"Nope. Just sit down and enjoy yourself."

"Kay." I turned two chairs to face each other, sat on one, put my feet on the other. (I don't care what you think. My house, my rules.) "Whatcha reading?"

"Thirst Academy. Young man in a magical world goes to college to hone his talents, gets sidetracked."

"Is that a rec from Henri?"

"Yeah."

I took a few sips and listened to the world. This place was so quiet! I thought Ruth's cottage had been quiet but it was close to a road and the horses were always neighing and randomly kicking the shit out of barn doors and gates. This was ten times more peaceful. "I bought a football club."

"I know. You said."

"Kay."

"They're the Potters, right? Because of the pottery industry."

"And because of all the pots I'm going to bring them. Pots meaning trophies."

My wife shook her head. "That's terrible, babes. Did you get enough sleep?"

"It took a while to fall asleep but I feel pretty good now. Frisky."

She eyed me. "Not feeling any existential dread? Nightmares of West Ham winning matches you didn't expect?"

"Nope. I am one billion percent positive and happy about every single aspect of my life." I sipped my coffee and listened. It was so quiet that I thought I could hear one of the builders working on the PetPride saying, 'West Ham winning, that's us down, isn't it?' I felt my neck muscles stiffening. Aches and pains in my knees and ankles. "What does your relegation tracker say now?"

"50%."

"Oh my God. Down 4% over the weekend?" I shook my head. "I fucking hate that thing."

"So why do you keep asking me about it?"

"Because I'm sick, babes. I'm sick in the head."

"Aww."

"And because I like to be punished."

Emma put down the e-reader and gave me a special smile. "Say what now?"

"Uh-oh."

She got up and pulled the chair from under my feet. She stroked my cheek, then placed her fingers under my chin and forced me to look at her. "Here at Thirst Academy we insist on certain standards, Max, and it has come to my attention that you haven't prepared a tactical plan for the Wolves match this weekend."

"I actually have. 4-1-4-1."

"Keep it tight first ten? What have I told you about copying?"

"You're right. Sorry, Mrs. Emma."

"That's Miss Thirst to you."

"Uhhh."

"I'm going to put you in detention."

"Oh, great. That's something to look forward to." She locked eyes on me. I said, "What, do you mean now?" Her lips twisted. I said, "I've got work, babes!"

She took my phone and keys and swayed towards the house.

****

PASCAL

Max didn't turn up for the morning briefing. That wasn't completely out of the ordinary, but it felt significant. When Sandra wrapped up the meeting, Wibbers said, "But what's the plan for Saturday? The formation, the line up?"

Sandra said, "We will tell you later. Or tomorrow. Don't worry about it."

So Max hadn't discussed it with her! Wibbers looked at me. I nodded. See?

He saw.

***

We trained. The quality was higher than ever and once again, I felt myself being left behind. It didn't help that Max had bought a clone of me, one who was just as clever, just as fast, and much stronger. Carvalho was getting better rapidly.

I was not.

Half an hour into training, Max turned up, looking exhausted. He scanned the pitch, nodded at the coaches, put on his boots, and went to warm up on his own.

Peter and Ruud, watching from the side, eyed each other. Ruud looked at me and nodded.

He saw.

***

When we finished our drills, Max called us in. We took our bottles and our pastes and sat in a semi-circle. Youngster said, "Is everything all right, Mr. Best?"

"I'm deeply worried about the direction the education system in this country is taking, but other than that..."

My head nearly exploded. Of course! The academy! The buildings were nearly finished but that was only just the start of the work needed to open the club's first-ever academy. Dealing with teachers and unions, agreeing a curriculum, staffing, processes, paperwork. Yet more work, and knowing Max, he would want to be on top of all the details and he would want final sign-off on absolutely everything.

It was too much work for one man...

Max yawned massively, apologised, then spoke. "Great performance against NotFost, good result. Really professional; I'm buzzing off that.

"Next up is Wolves in the FA Cup. Good news for us is that they're got the AOK Cup final next weekend. Their first visit to Wembley in ages, certainly their first cup final in yonks, so I think they will rest a few key players against us. The guys on the pitch will be motivated, though, won't they, because if they do well they might get in the cup final team."

I started to point, saying, "See!" but I had only shared my thoughts with Tiggy, not yet with the lads.

"I want to go 4-1-4-1, keep things tight first ten. Vikki's cooking up some fun set pieces for us and she'll get a bit extra time on the grass this week because we've got the Cheshire Cup semi tomorrow. Most of you won't play but I need some of you to be available as subs. Basically it's a normal schedule. More info on the starting eleven for Wolves later in the week when I've seen you training. That's pretty much it. Let's get the goalies over and we'll do a mini match. I'll hand out bibs for the lads I want on my team."

Peter said, "We saw you at Stoke yesterday."

"Yeah," said Max, with no particular emotion.

"Are you going anywhere tonight?"

Max frowned, wondering why Peter was asking. Finally, he said, "It's the women against Chelsea. Monday Night Football. DigiWorld are making a big deal about it, and quite right. The Champions versus the uppity newcomers. Chelsea more or less wrap up the WSL title if they win. Er, you're all coming, right?"

"Of course," said Peter.

Max was nonplussed. He said, "Weird question," then grabbed a load of bibs and started to throw them at people.

***

Five minutes into the training match, the ball went to Max. He flicked it up, caught it in his hands and said, "I don't like this. Let me go to CB. Ender, switch teams. Jimmy, you're with us."

Five minutes later, he did it again. "Ender and Jimmy swap back. Cheb, you're with them. I'm going right back."

Five minutes later, there was another change. Max went to right wing.

He didn't know where he wanted to play! Nothing satisfied him. Nothing made him happy.

I jogged towards Edgar Wilde and tapped him. "See what I mean? He's on the verge of burnout. We need to help him, big time, before we lose him for a month."

Edgar looked away, not wanting to believe me. But then Max shanked a cross so far behind the goal line that it threatened the windows of the medical room. Edgar said, quietly, "Oh, shit."

***

At the end of the match, Max jogged to Marek and took him for a walk.

I watched from afar, worrying.

***

MAX

When training was over, I grabbed Marek and asked him to come with me for a quick walk. The guy was several inches taller than me, and would have been intimidating if I hadn't scored about a thousand goals against him in various matches. And if I had learned anything from my time at Thirst Academy, it was that sometimes the shorter person was the scarier.

Marek was CA 153 but it was obvious to me he would never again see 154. Owen was a year younger and while he had also capped out, it was at CA 159. That 6-point gap could no longer be ignored.

It was time to earn my wages.

"Mate," I said, as we strolled past the men's gym, towards the women's gym, which was close to being ribboned. "When you signed for us, I was buzzing. It was such a coup. We would have a top, top goalie in the Championship! I couldn't believe my luck. You know what happened next. Wrexham fluked their semi-final and we got to Wembley. When we won that, I looked around the squad I would have in the Prem and thought: oh shit, oh no."

The big Slovak nodded. "Me too."

I laughed. "But I didn't think twice about my goalies. You and Owen? That'll do."

"That'll do, pig."

"Babe reference!"

Marek side-eyed me. "You are dropping me because of my mistake against Wolves."

"What? No." I hesitated. "It did piss me off, yeah. It was like, even if we're amazing for the rest of the match we might still lose. It was like, the best we can do today is a draw. That was tough, sure, but in the same match, I missed an open net, didn't I? Everyone makes mistakes. No, you have been solid in matches, you've done what we brought you here to do.

"More than that, your effort in training is off the chart. You're 38, you've got back to something like your old levels, and you've stayed there. It's top, top quality. You're a great example to the young lads and especially to the young keepers. I think even Owen is learning a lot from you. He's 37 but it's a while since he had a keeper around who was even more experienced than he is. Nah, I'm in awe, Marek. There's no way I'll be busting my balls aged 38 the way you are. No way."

"You say it but you fight like a trapped rat."

I frowned. "What is it with you and Dumi and your distressing imagery? Okay, here's the news. This is where my head is at the moment. For the rest of this season, Owen's my number one and he'll play most of the remaining games. I know you'll train like a champ and you'll be ready to come in if Owen gets injured or suspended, but I'll give you a start in one of the matches to make sure you stay sharp. I'm thinking Fulham at home. Any questions?"

He appeared to take the news stoically, but his Morale slid as I spoke. "You are the manager," he said.

I tutted and gave him a punch. "Don't give me that. You're allowed to be unhappy and you're allowed to be pissed off. I just wanted to let you be the first to know my decision." He nodded. I went on, "I would like to tell you where my head's at for next season, if that's good for you."

There was a flash of something, but it went by so fast I couldn't tell what it was. "Yes. I like to be informed."

"If we stay up... Actually, it doesn't matter if we do or not. Whatever happens, I would be very happy for you to stay and be the number two keeper. Very, very happy. But if you want to be a number one, I have the perfect club for you. Championship, very ambitious, top wages."

He gave me a flat look and the curse gave me no clues what he was thinking or feeling. "What is your wish?"

"My wish, my earnest wish, is for you to be happy, which means it's your choice. Number two here - if we win the FA Cup we will be in Europe and my number two is going to play loads. But in the crunch matches, I'll be leaning on Owen. Just to be clear about that. Or, you drop a division and you're the best goalie in the Championship and the fans fucking love you."

"Which club is it?"

"I can't tell you yet, sorry. There are some legal things that have to happen but basically there's a chance I'll take an interest in one club in particular and you know me, my indie days are behind me. These days I make blockbusters and I want an all-star cast. If it doesn't work out with that particular club, we'll find you one. Or you can bin me off and go your own way."

"I bin you off?" he said, confused. "No. I am happy here."

"As my number two?"

"I will never be happy to sit on the bench but I am happy to be here. This is my home. Sticky is a great coach. Jojo makes me smile every morning. Here I am part of something."

I slapped him on the back. "I would offer you a contract extension right now but let's come back to this, okay? I think by the end of the season you might be more tempted by the other offer." This was going great! My mood spiked so high I gave him an impromptu hug. "One last thing. It's the Cheshire Cup semi-final tomorrow night. It's an important match for the club - we absolutely have to win that competition this season. Normally, Cody Williams or Sticky would start but it's against Crewe and they're likely to be the best team we face this season so if you want to play, you're in. It might be your last action until Fulham. That game's quite a while away."

I had taken some minutes away from him and he clearly didn't care if I took some from any other keepers. "I will play."

I grinned. "RIP Crewe's chances. Oops!" I slapped him on the arm, walked away, and mentally watched his Morale regain a couple of levels.

Eh. Not bad, Best. Not bad.

***

PASCAL

When Max had gone inside to change, I rushed towards Marek. "What happened? What did he say?"

Marek stared ahead and said in a gruff voice. "We will no longer rotate goalkeepers."

"Oh my God," I said, not because it was bad news for Marek, but that it was so out of character.

"Also, I play in the Chester Cup."

"Cheshire Cup," I said.

"Same thing," he said, picking up the last of his gear and striding towards the showers.

I remained there with a sinking feeling. Using Marek against Crewe in the Cheshire Cup was like using a hydraulic press to seal an envelope.

Max was losing the plot!

***

MAX

The women's team had come back from the international break straight into one of the biggest games of their season. Home to Chelsea, who were very much the big dogs of women's football in this country.

For about six more months, anyway...

The international break had been better for us than the Londoners. Most of their squad were full internationals, which meant that many of their players had come back tired, jetlagged, or injured. At their best, Chelsea's average CA was almost 145. Today it would 'only' be around 140.

On our side, the break had been relatively calm, with not a great deal happening. Haley had earned her third England cap, while Mari and Saffron got boosts that pushed them into triple figure CAs. Meredith Ann and Jisook Kim had both spent far too long on planes, so I told Jay Cope to split their minutes. That actually gave me an idea - I hadn't used Bench Boost at all with the women's team this season. When better to use it in the league than today? If nothing else, it would tell me what to expect from the FA Cup Quarter Final against Chelsea, when I would definitely use Bench Boost.

By starting with five squad players, we would meet Chelsea's CA 140 with 120, but that would rise to 135 by the end of the match. 135 with five key players boosted... Chelsea suddenly didn't look quite as unbeatable, did they?

All of which took me to the moment of decision. Should I give Kit Hodges the God Save the Queen increases now, or should I invest in the Hybridism perk?

It wasn't really much of a dilemma. Not when I saw her up close, excited, nervous, itching to get out and to warm up. With her in the starting line up, if only for a half, I would get to see the upgraded Kit in action, and during the break Elsa Lund, CA 166 and boosted, haha holy shit, would enter the fray.

I spent 12,000 XP to buy GSTQ 2 and 3.

From the second list, I gave Kit another point in Determination.

From the third list, she got more Acceleration.

Her CA and PA rose from 125 to 128.

After so much grinding and so much mental discussion, the uplift was very slightly underwhelming, but my entire life was a series of slightly underwhelming moments that cumulatively added up to me running the most talented women's football team in the world.

XP balance: 2,159

"Okay, ladies. Come in for a second. Very slight change to the starting line-up. Hands up if you're excited. Everyone put your hand up! Good. Now listen..."

***

On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

Author: D.Cox

Welcome to the Fun-derdome! Two Titans Tough It Out As Seals Say: We're Here to Stay.

A huge crowd piled into the ever-expanding Deva Stadium tonight to witness a top-of-the-table WSL clash between Chester and Chelsea. My estimate is that there were close to 10,000 in attendance, and whether or not they were drawn by Brooke Star's incredible 'Bangers and Match' concept, in which top tunes get everyone dancing, they will have been disappointed by Chester's starting line-up.

No disrespect to stalwarts like Femi and Charlotte or talents like Mari Hughes but they are not widely considered to be in our strongest eleven. Nor is Kit Hodges.

The starters played dutifully enough, flooding the centre of the pitch, making it hard for the away team to play through them. Haley Goodhew dealt with almost everything that came at her, but Chelsea increased the pressure such that by the 25th minute, it looked like the evening could end in utter carnage.

That's when Jay Cope channeled his inner Max Best - or since Max was two yards behind him, perhaps Jay was just following orders. But in any case, Chester made three subs and all hell broke loose.

Mari, Charlotte, and Kit were replaced by Cheeky Rabanne, Macca Serra, and Elsa Lund - three of the best players in Europe.

As if stung by being left out of the starting eleven, they threw themselves into the match. The action sped up, the quality rose, the spectators cheered and screamed. Shots, counters, slick passing moves, thunderous tackles, pushing and shoving, clever free kick routines, fantastic goalkeeping. England's number 2 was calm and commanding. At the other end of the pitch, England's number 1 made two reflex saves that defied belief.

At half time, we took a breath. 0-0, but that last 20 minutes hadn't needed thumping music or flame cannons to bring it to life. Meredith Ann replaced Jisook Kim and the relentless pace continued. 

After 70 minutes, Jay (and/or Max) took a risk and made our final substitution. Victoria Rose replaced Femi. VR took up her usual position at centre back, and as usual immediately drifted into the DM zone where she snuffed out attacks and started passing moves. The VR/Cheeky/Macca triangle became the game's focal point. Those three set the tempo while Dani Smith-Smithe and Sarah Greene covered, shuffled, and made lung-busting runs into the oppo's final third. Kisi Yalley tried to make things happen, but too often gave up possession.

Chelsea had a three-minute spell of dominance. We had a turn. Their next turn lasted but a minute. Our next possession went on and on. We moved their defenders around, asked questions, probed, until finally a series of one-touch passes carved Chelsea open and Meredith Ann had a run clear on goal.

She was hacked down.

Red card. Chelsea down to ten!

The Deva faithful yelled, cheered, demanded that we find a winner... but Chelsea went into a low block. 4-4-1, hold out for a draw, take the point, win the league.

They are wily, they are experienced, they know how to be champions.

This draw all but guarantees they will retain their title, but very rarely does a team force the Blues to defend their box and pray for the final whistle like we did tonight.

Bangers and Match ended with no goals... and a one-minute stadium-wide standing ovation. A group of teenage girls passed me as they were leaving. It was their first ever football match and they were, and I quote, 'absolutely fucking buzzing'.

Welcome to Chester, ladies.

***

PASCAL

Tuesday, March 6

We trained. Max was on time but he lost concentration during the drills, passed left instead of right, ran on beat 2 instead of beat 3.

In the match, he played left back, left wing, striker, becoming more dissatisfied with each change.

He was almost sulking during the set piece training, though the crosses he whipped in according to Vikki's instructions were a whole new kind of lethal.

I got changed and decided to have lunch in the canteen. When I left, Max was strolling around the car park, talking into his phone. "What the hell, Gemma? That's no good. That's no good! I don't want to hear that!" He spotted me, asked Gemma to hold, and said, "You okay?"

"Am I okay? What's that call about?"

"Oh, just legal stuff."

Legal stuff! More drama. More stress. "Can I help?"

He eyed me for so long I started to realise how stupid that question was. I don't have a legal background. What assistance could I offer? Finally, he said, "I'm gonna cut the ribbon on some stuff in a minute if you want to help with that."

I felt utterly useless and wretched. "I'll pass."

"Cool. See you at the match later?"

"Of course."

***

MAX

We had another top training session. I kept messing up my own personal drills because there were so many pops happening around me. Were we getting a little extra juice because of the rising Facilities Score?

I hoped so, because I was just about to cross Bumpers Lane and open some more stuff inside the PetPride when Gemma phoned. "Yo," I said.

"Hi, Max! I just wanted to let you know that everything's good with the contracts. You can sign them today and start telling Club D who you want them to get."

In case our phones were hacked, we would never use the word Stoke in a message or call. "What do you mean everything's good?"

"I mean we worked with Person D's lawyers and got it all drafted and it's good. I don't know what word you want me to use."

"Have you been working your staff all through Sunday night, the whole of Monday, to get this done? Can you slow down for one tiny minute so your team can enjoy their days off with their families? What the hell, Gemma? That's no good. That's no good! I don't want to hear that! Hang on, Pascal needs me."

Pascal didn't need me, so I went back to Gemma. She said, "Don't worry about my staff, Max."

"I worry about you, too. You push yourself too hard."

"Wow. One day this call will be replayed in a phone hacking trial and when the courtroom hears you say that, the laughter will be heard from the moon."

I tutted. "Laughter can't travel to the moon, Gemma. Because of gravity. Did you know that in Australia, comedians start with the punchline and do the setup after? It's the same principle as how toilets flush."

"What in the name of Christ are you wittering on about?"

I closed my eyes. The legal stuff was sorted. I could start to think like a part owner of Stoke City. What a fucking rush that was! While my body slipped into a pool of liquid euphoria, I reminded myself not not to make assumptions. Maturity 20. "So what you're saying is that I can talk to Club B about things? Get started."

"It's Club D. But yes. Get stuck in."

"Mint. I appreciate this, Gems. You're a ledge. Tell your staff that you poked with sharp sticks that I appreciate their blood offering. Their pain will fuel - "

"One small wrinkle in the contract. It says you can suggest purchases and sales to your heart's content but if you dick about with Player A's happiness, what remains of your life will be short and excruciatingly painful."

"I'll bear that in mind," I said. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to unveil a tattoo parlour, a hairdresser, and re-open a dentist's clinic, this time with furniture."

She groaned. "How are you successful? No, but really. How?"

***

Facilities Score: 17.48 (up 0.2 points)

***

Cheshire Senior Cup Semi-Final: Crewe 0 Chester 3 (Köngäs; Cullen; Obikwu)

XP balance: 3,667

Henri: I have been sent photos of you not reacting to the goals or the final whistle. It falls to me to ask: are you quite all right?

Me: Honestly? Yeah! It was such a cruise of a performance. Remember when Crewe were the big team in Cheshire? Now even our kids are better than their first-teamers. I was just quietly enjoying it. Our squad guys getting minutes alongside the hot prospects. Wait, what photos? Do I look weird or what?

Henri: Here. See for yourself. [Photos attached.]

Me: What are you even talking about? That's just my face. It's called THINKING. You should try it sometime.

***

@Transfer Town: Breaking news! Spurs sack Lee Kennedy!

***

Wednesday, March 7

I woke up, made a coffee, and went to find the seats I had been allocated by The Headmistress. It was the barbecue again. Emma was there reading Thirst Academy 2: Unquenchable.

She gave me another detention.

***

PASCAL

Max was late again. Sandra wanted to start training, but I said, "Everyone, please come in. I would like to speak with you."

I outlined my worries. Max was overworking himself. Managing, playing, training, scouting, opening buildings, getting the academy ready, his various legal troubles, and above all, his all-consuming reaction to his impending fatherhood. This on its own had led him to buy a new house, visit every baby store within a 10-mile radius, and caused him to carry a robot doll around for an entire week.

"We have to help," I said. 

Jimmy McNeill said, "The gaffer's daein' just fine, lad. Yer seein' things that are-ent there. Sometimes it is what it is but sometimes it isnae what it isnae, do you get meh?"

I wasn't sure I understood him completely, so I reiterated my position. "We have to do something to make his life easier."

Sandra said, "The way to do that is to beat Wolves on Saturday and beat Man City the week after. So let's get back to work."

We did, but the levels were down. Energy was low. We had other things on our minds than high-tempo counter-pressing drills (that were very obviously intended to prepare us for Hybridism, but I kept my mouth shut about that one. I had caused enough trouble).

***

That afternoon, the special chat room I had created burst into life. Roddy, Wibbers, and Carvalho were doing extra training with Max with his personal coach. Such sessions were commonplace, but my theory was that Max had set up this particular one to help him maintain some kind of physical standard.

As they were training, Secretary Joe approached and said that the Football Association were levying two punishments on the club, both in relation to the Arsenal game. One charge carried a fine of 50,000 pounds, and the other was twice that.

Max, apparently, took the news without a word, placed his hands behind his head, and left the training session for a couple of minutes. When he rejoined, he acted like nothing had happened.

***

MAX

Ender Ciritoglu hadn't popped in a little while and I got the feeling there was no point rushing him. Sometimes a player had a lot of latent improvement ready to burst out of him and if you gave him the right conditions, the CA pops would come in a rush. That had happened with Ender, for sure, but now he was experiencing a slower period or even a plateau. That was absolutely fine. Progress was never linear, unless your name was Foquita and you had the special secret trait that made you a machine. What it meant in the short-term was that Ender wasn't the ideal target for Secret Sandra boosts.

So I had switched the Secret Sandra payments to Carvalho, and to optimise them, I was making sure that he was getting double sessions every day. Cody Chambers, the elite coach who still refused to join Chester full time because he loved to travel and to mix things up, was giving us a masterclass in explosively reacting to loose balls and passing to a teammate with quality.

It was a tough session, physically and mentally hard, but one that all the participants loved. Secretary Joe arrived and told me that the FA had twirled their random number generator and come up with some bullshit amount for a fine. So apparently advising women not to go into a room with an Arsenal player is 'bringing the game into disrepute?' Anyway, the amounts were trivial and when I realised I wouldn't get any kind of personal ban, I had to fight hard not to burst out laughing. Victory! Glorious victory! It barely made a dent in my war chest. Would I pay 150 grand to see the look of utter fury on the face of that prick Pepe Salazar? Every day and twice on Sundays I would. But I couldn't gloat in front of the younger players I was training with. I had to, like, be sombre and thoughtful.

So I thanked Joe and took a time out. I brought up the squad list and noted guys who were close to a milestone. Helge would hit 150 in March. That was pretty sensational. To think he would have capped out as a CA 130 striker had I not intervened when I did. He dodged a bullet there. Matt Rush was creeping up to 150, too, and there had been absolutely no sign of his hamstrings popping again. This was turning into a very good season for him, even if he wasn't playing a ton. Cheb had snuck up to CA 165, close to his peak of 168. Why hadn't I reserved some God Save the King boosts for him? Ah, yeah. Because he had a 30 million pound release clause and he was already worth far in excess of that.

Leo and Wibbers were both 158. Leo was getting fewer minutes now that Santana and Carvalho had arrived, but he hadn't complained. It would be good to give him a start soon. Reward him for his positive attitude, especially since he had been grumpy at the start of the season.

Yeah, the only slight cloud on the training horizon was Magnus Evergreen. He was CA 154, but he had reached that level about three weeks ago. He and his Scottish pal Jimmy McNeill had been in step with each other for a while, but Jimmy had moved up to 155. I knew Jimmy's PA, though. I still didn't know Magnus's.

I went to the Perk Construction Kit and for the tenth time tried to create a perk that would tell me what negative PAs meant, or would give me the power to know a single player's PA for a fee, or something like that.

As always, it was insta-rejected.

If Magnus had capped at CA 154, he would be a seriously useful squad player for a long time to come, but he wouldn't be in the side that won the Champions League...

What could I do about it? Nothing. For now.

I turned back and rejoined the session, letting my mind go wonderfully blank.

***

@Transfer Town: Hearing a rumour that the 28-year-old Southampton midfielder Kyle Styles-Stanton, who can play left or centre, has refused the club's latest contract offer. His current deal runs out in the summer. Not exactly a big queue for his services, so this is a surprise.

***

In the evening, instead of going off to watch a match I hung around Bumpers. I watched every age group train, both boys and girls. I chatted with parents, asked players with low Morale how they were doing, commented on unreported injuries, gave them training tips, and most importantly, tried out dad jokes on everyone.

Jimmy McNeill had been getting some physio from Nicole Gimenez, so he was feeling all loose and relaxed when he spotted me. He came over and listened as I quizzed the under 12s. He wouldn't have known them very well, so I introduced them before telling jokes I had written down.

"Jimmy, this is Jordan Holland, Chesterborn, quality DM. Jordan, I've just been to see Bones because I've got a disease where I keep telling airport jokes. She says it's terminal."

"Nah," said Jordan.

"Jimmy, this is Carl Drexel, left winger. He's so miiiiiiint and I know he values his future career enough to laugh at this one. How many Alan Turner fans does it take to change a lightbulb? None. He says it's fixed and they stand there clapping in the dark."

"Woof," said Carl. "I mean... Just no."

"Shit," I said. "Jimmy, this is Patrick Rhodes, midfielder attacking midfielder left or right, Birkenhead, fantastic sense of humour. Patrick, why shouldn't you eat a clock? Because it's very time-consuming."

He scratched his head. "Can we go back and play now?"

"Urgh," I said. "Fine but stop getting caught in possession on the flanks after you've dribbled your oppo. You get isolated, they're gonna wrap you up."

"Right," said Patrick, nodding.

"You too!" I said to Carl.

"What about me?" said Jordan.

"You're miles off with your offload timing. I'm gonna tell your coach to show you the videos again."

He looked frustrated. "Why can't I get this right?"

"It's because the quality of the oppo varies so much," I said, gently. "When you're training against the older boys, you snap the passes away really nice, but then you play some randos on the weekend and they don't press you at all and if they don't press, why not enjoy the feel of the ball a little longer? I mean, it's natural. Everyone does it. It's not critical that you fix this right now but it's always gonna be an easier transition to the higher, harder groups if you maintain your level whoever you're up against."

He nodded, slowly. "Play like you train; train like you play."

"Totes. But look, chin up. It's hard, isn't it? It's our fault for giving you such a variety of challenges. I'm not worried about how you're developing, not at all, but you asked for feedback so there it is. You know what? Let's get you to watch the women train sometime."

"The women? Oh, Macca Serra."

I grinned. "Exactly. She's got that metronomic passing. Zak, zak, zak, every pass the same. It's incredible. For that particular aspect of your game, she's the one to copy."

The kid nodded. "Can I get out of school for that?"

"Can you fuck. The women are at home on Sunday in the Nando's semi-final."

"Against Spurs, I know. I tried to be a ball boy but all the spots got filled in, like, five seconds."

"We can do better than that; you'll come and watch the warm-ups, see Macca up close. Right on the pitch, yeah? I'll find Jill in a minute and she'll sort it all out. Good?"

He grinned. "Great!"

I watched them rush back to the session, grinning from ear-to-ear. Buzzing. I wondered if I could do the same for Jimmy. He'd had a good season for us but like Leo Los, recent minutes had been thin on the ground. Jimmy was 155/164 and had two-and-a-half years left on his contract, which put me in an interesting position. There wouldn't be much use selling him this summer - unless it was to Stoke - and the following summer, when he was maxed out and looking really good, he would only have a year left on his deal, so his transfer fee would be lower.

There was a timeline where I just kept him for the length of his contract and didn't worry about getting a fee. Having a CA 160 central midfielder I could call on would be pretty sweet.

He was eyeing me, I realised, clearly thinking about me the way I was thinking about him. He said, "You're great with those lads. It's not just how you see where they're going wrong on the pitch, it's the way you talk... to them."

He trailed off because I suddenly tensed. A guy from a right-wing newspaper had turned up, dressed like a parent. He had even brought a little girl with him to sell the illusion. The curse didn't tell me if the girl was his daughter or what, but I knew this guy was trouble. I pulled Jimmy's arm and said, "Give me some backup here."

I stormed over to the journo, and when I got close, jerked my head towards the car park. The presence of the little girl stopped me from going properly feral on this prick, but he could see it in my eyes. Or at least, I thought he could. I thought it would have been obvious! Incredibly, the guy tried to style it out. "Max Best? Great to see you. I'm here watching my son."

"Listen," I whispered. "I think it's sick what you're doing. Leave immediately or the next thing you write will be your obituary."

"Holy shit," said Jimmy. "Boss, what's gaenon?"

"Oh, that's even better," I said. I pointed. "Threaten him in Scottish so the kid won't understand."

"Max!"

I couldn't explain this to Jimmy in a way that wouldn't sound mental, so I phoned Dylan. He picked up immediately. "How fast can you get to Bumpers? We've got a problem. Ten minutes? Brilliant. Yeah, but there's a kid, so... I know. It's sick."

The journo's face twisted with anger. "We're leaving."

"I know you are," I hissed back. "It's just a question of in what condition."

They fled. Jimmy had turned slightly paler. I shook my head. "He's a journalist. Sneaking in here thinking I won't know, hoping to get dirt on me. On us. Like I can't tell by someone's rat face exactly which blood-stained rag they work for. What the fuck."

Jimmy side-eyed me. "You can tell who someone works for... by the shape of their face?"

"More or less, yeah. More or less. All right, I've got stuff to sort out. Seeya."

***

PASCAL

I got a message from Jimmy McNeill. He had just spent some time with Max. 'That man needs a holiday. Whatever we're doing, I'm in.'

He described what he had just seen.

I called an emergency meeting for 07:30 the next morning.

It was time to act.

***

MAX

Thursday, March 8

I woke up early with mad, inhuman energy. Ems was still zonked, so I went down to the kitchen, made her a cup of tea, poured it into a thermos flask, and left the flask and a cup by her bed so she could drink it when she woke up.

I wanted to burn some calories but decided my home gym equipment wasn't going to cut it. I left Ems some romantic Post-It notes, including a couple of poems, and took the Mini to Bumpers.

What a great day! This was the kind of fresh, crisp morning where my supercar would be fucking awesome. I was going to have to wait for it, though, and when it came I would be a dad and would have to be, like, responsible and mature. Maybe I could rent something sexy for a couple of months? That was the sort of thing Henri did.

I arrived at Bumpers and was gobsmacked to see that the car park was heaving. That was Ruud's car, wasn't it? He didn't normally arrive so early. There was no point him coming before the medical staff! Why would every single player - 

The back of my neck prickled. Something was going on. My paranoia kicked in, big time. Mutiny? But why? We were doing all right!

I pushed myself around Bumpers, head-first, my strides getting faster and faster as I tried the canteen, the changing rooms, the gym. Suspicion made me stare at the Sin Bin. I zoomed towards it, listened at the door, heard nothing, and went in.

At the front of the room, Peter Bauer and Pascal Bochum were leaning against the desk facing the rows of cinema-style seating. The entire squad was facing the German duo. Ruud, Jari, Jimmy, Magnus, the new guys, Lewis. Even Sticky, the goalkeeping coach. I blinked. There was no Sandra. No Colin. What kind of mutiny was this?

My appearance caused dismay. Pascal panicked. "Who told you?"

"Max Best knows all and sees all," I proclaimed. This bombed - Pascal's Morale dropped to abysmal - so I backtracked. "Saw your cars, came to find you. What," I said, sweeping my hand around the room, "the fuck."

Pascal was having a meltdown, so Peter took over. "This is actually perfect. Would you please take a seat, Max?"

He called me Max in front of the players! He almost never did that. In groups I was 'boss' or 'the gaffer'. He pushed the office chair towards me, the one from behind the desk, the one normally used by the person giving the presentation. I dropped into it slowly, painfully aware that I didn't have the desk protecting me. I felt like I was in detention, but not the fun Emma variety.

Peter said, "This is an intervention."

I took one look at the solemn faces in the room and burst out laughing. "Fuck me," I said, leaning back, hands on my head. "I thought I was doing so well. Forgive me father for I have sinned; it has been two years since my last intervention." I balled my hands into fists and pushed them against my eyebrows. "What have I done this time?" I scanned the room. Youngster looked back with soppy tenderness in his gaze. Magnus tried to project a sense of enlightenment. Santana looked interested. Jimmy looked away.

Ah, there was the Judas! But wait, come on, Max. Don't get like that. It clicked - the journalist incident! Yeah, okay, I could imagine how absolutely insane that might have looked. I resolved to keep my mouth closed for a while, to see what this really was all about.

Pascal had recovered his composure. "We are worried about you." He went on to list all my tasks, all the things I had on my plate, all the things I kept adding to my plate while I was spinning dozens of other plates. Honestly, he went on for so long I began to feel stressed and drained. "And there are your legal worries," he added.

"You mean the fines from the FA?"

"That and whatever you were discussing with Gemma. You were frantic when I heard that call."

It took me a while to remember what he was talking about. In that call I was being comedically over-the-top, ironically telling Gemma not to push her staff because I knew Gemma had done the whole thing herself. It was meant to be funny and Gemma certainly understood it that way, but yeah, to an outsider I would have seemed stressed off my tits. "Okay," I said, slowly, because the paranoia was gone, thoughts of betrayal were gone, and now I was getting a tingly, excited feeling. This seemed to be a series of misunderstandings but it had made the entire first-team squad come together. This was an opportunity! If I played this right, something amazing could come out of it.

Pascal stated his theory, that I was working too much, that I was clearly drained, that it was manifesting itself in small ways - for now. The shot I blazed over the bar. My increasingly conservative formation choices. Abandoning the rotation of goalies even though it was a core principle of mine. Putting Relationism and Hybridism on the backburner - though he noted that many of our drills were sneakily preparing us to use the newest way of playing.

(Lots of the squad looked at him sharply. They hadn't noticed. The guy was gonna be such a megabrain!)

"In the final analysis," said Pascal, who had very much warmed to his theme. "There is not much we can do about your workload. And we benefit from it. The new pitches look amazing, the PetPride gets more filled with life every time we see it, there will be a second gym soon, the UFO is nearly ready to launch and on some of these cold English mornings, the Portuguese players would like to train somewhere warm."

Carvalho pointed in accusation. "You're the biggest complainer of us all!"

Pascal smiled, but it was a brief one. He was on a mission. "We can't help you much, Max." Max again! "Not as a Director of Football, not as a manager. But we can help you as a player. We can make one contribution. We can do one thing to show our unity and our commitment to the team-first ethos you have instilled into this group. But you, Max the player, have to be part of it." He hesitated. His choice of language had been clumsy.

Peter appeared to think it was exactly the right construction of words. "That's correct. You have to be part of it. Everyone else has agreed."

I narrowed my eyes. I loved what was happening but I had a premonition of dread about the specifics. "Agreed what?"

Peter held up an object. The room became incredibly tense. "This," he said. The object glowed gold like the contents of the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.

Well, it was more or less what I had been dreading. "What - " I started, but I shut my gob and thought for a second. This was a no-brainer. This was great. I stood, excited. "Yes. Yes! Fucking hell, yes." I paused and made eye contact with some of the lads. "Everyone's in on this?" Most people nodded back. "Jimmy?"

"I'd do it right now."

"Marek?"

"One thousand percent."

"New guys, come on. You didn't agree to this. You've only been here ten minutes."

Ender, Santana, and Carvalho assured me they would do it if I did.

I pushed the chair away so I could stomp around. I couldn't stop grinning. "This is gonna cause a stir. Oh, shit! Wow. Argh, let's do it!" The guys were getting hyped by my reaction, but then I slapped myself in the forehead. "Shit! I can't! I'm filming the advert for CFC Cars next week. If you knew how much I was making from that, you'd understand." I pushed a finger into my temple then started grinning again. "We'll do it the morning of the Man City game. Fuck, wait! We'll do it twenty minutes before kick-off! We'll do it twenty minutes before kick-off and blow everyone's tiny minds. Yes? Oh my God, think of the reaction. Guys!"

Pascal, the chief mutineer, was drunk on high Morale. He had turned pale but with bright red cheeks. "You like the idea?"

I went to him and gave him a big hug. "That was shit; I was aiming for a bear hug. Owen, come and hug this German for me. Lift him all the way up." While that was going on, I paced around, my brain whirring. I went to Jimmy. "Give me your phone." He handed it over and once I realised there was ZERO system to how he had his apps arranged, I found a browser and went to an article by the journalist. Just from the headline you could tell he was a piece of shit. "He's vile," I said. "And he doesn't have a daughter. I got Beth to check on him. He literally borrowed someone's child so he could come and skulk around. I don't care if I look demented, I will fucking defend this place and aaaaall these people, all right? That includes you."

He looked from his screen to me, his Morale fluctuating, his cheeks flushed. "Yes, boss."

I glared at my troops. "Listen to me, guys. I love this. Interventioning me against my will because you want to help? Listen carefully. You help me every single fucking day. See when you come here and you push yourselves to your limit and beyond and you're lying on your back, panting, sucking down air and you can feel the nerve endings and every fucking capillary in your lungs and you go home and someone says, was it a good day in training and you go, yeah, yeah it was. That's the help I need. That's incredible. That's the gift that keeps on giving." I had gotten so intense I had to speak through gritted teeth. "The way you train is fucking immense."

My fists were tight; I fought to relax them. When I had control of my fingers, I let them drop, shook them up.

"What was the other thing? My tactics are boring?" I went to the tactics board and pulled it towards the front. I cleared the magnets and put one back. "Goalie. Am I allowed a goalie, Pascal? Is that being too conservative?"

He looked very slightly abashed. "No."

I put a left back. "Willi's our best player." Very slight exaggeration on that, but Willi didn't mind. "Is it all right if I use our best player?"

"It is all right."

"Foquita," I said, putting up a magnet. "Pace, power, strength, subtlety, movement, finishing." I added a right back. "I like symmetrical formations in most cases." I pointed to the gap between the full backs. "We can have zero centre backs, which would be thrillingly bold, but we would lose. One would be almost as fun, but again, we would lose. So it's two or three." I placed two magnets, then one in the DM slot. "Defensive midfielders in my systems are overpowered. They do the work of about 1.7 players. That's a big advantage that makes everyone else's life easier. We could use double DMs and we do sometimes but generally, one is the best number.

"Then we need two CMs in most cases so that we don't get overrun in central midfield. We can't win a match from there but we can lose one." I had two magnets remaining, which I placed in the left and right midfield slots. Perfect 4-1-4-1 formation. "There's a reason I keep coming back to this and that reason is that it's mint. It gives us a bit of everything. I know it was fun when I kept changing things and experimenting but..."

All the information flow from my brain to my mouth ceased. The magnets were vibrating, dancing, talking to me. Lines and numbers were bursting out of them, and instead of little discs I saw passes, runs, heard the crowd.

Four at the back was the optimal way to set up a defence, but the downside was that if you had players like Willi Tillmann or Matt Rush playing there, they were often as far from the oppo's goal as it was possible to get. Some full backs had insane physical gifts that would allow them to sprint all the way up and down the pitch non-stop for 90 minutes, but those players also broke down a lot. I might ask Willi to do it in one match but then I'd have to rest him in the next one. And I would never do it with Matt Rush. The last thing he needed was another hamstring tear.

What if we just nudged them one zone forward? Just a little closer to the oppo's goal as a starting point? They wouldn't need to run as much and they would generate more threat. What would that look like?

I moved the magnets.

Now we had a lovely zig-zag in our half. The left back was up, the left-sided centre back was down, the DM was up, the right-sided CB was down, the right back was up. The passing moves wrote themselves. Sure, you could press us and you could block off some of our passing lanes but this wasn't the whole team, was it? We could always go back to the goalie or play to the CMs. But our default passing triangles would be built-in and our entire posture would be more front-footed.

"Hmm," I said.

The back half was beautiful but the overall picture was ugly. The left mid was too close to the left back; it was repulsive and wasteful. There was an obvious solution - move the left midfielder one zone forward. Or what about trying him as a left-sided CAM? No, that was shit. But as an attacking midfielder on the left? Yeah. When I copied it on the right, I found myself nodding. Triangles everywhere. Passing lanes everywhere.

It was 4-1-4-1 with more attacking intent. 4-1-4-1 with balls. Almost to myself, I said, "When we lose the ball we're back in our normal defensive shape in two seconds..."

Ender said, "Two-three-two-two-one?"

Peter said, "That doesn't help anyone visualise the formation. This you would name 4-1-4-1 Reckless."

I scoffed. Trust a defender to fret and worry. "4-1-4-1 Wrecking Ball."

"4-1-4-1 Pity the Centre Backs."

"Pity the Fool. Pity the Oppo."

Youngster said, "Pity the City."

I laughed and gave him a long-range high five. Pascal was staring at the board, excited. "Join the dots and you get two Ws. Call it WW2."

Owen said, "Let's not."

Pascal said, "Ha, okay. Double Double-U."

I said, "Too long. Double Double."

The door opened and Sandra Lane came in. She looked bleary-eyed, so Aiden must have dropped her off. She shielded her eyes from the bright lights, saw who was in the room, and said, "What the shit is going on?"

I smiled and moved to the table. "Pascal is going to tell you about an experimental formation he wants us to try." I sat next to the team-building object and frantically gestured that someone should hide it.

Pascal watched me, frowned, then understood. While Peter hid the object, Pascal darted to the board and turned Sandra to face it. "This is how we want to line up against Wolves. We call it Double Trouble!"

Sandra said, "Is it trouble for us or the oppo?"

"That's what we're going to find out!"

***

@Transfer Town: Remember Charlie 'Duggers' Dugdale? The 27-year-old left winger had a good spell at Chester that led Norwich City to pay 1.4 million for him. He had his moments as a Canary but the move never quite worked out. Now Stoke have agreed a 1 million pound fee to buy him in the summer. It's a strange time to announce the deal but it looks like a sensible one that could work out well for all parties.

***

Friday, March 9

Another great training session was capped by a wild match. The first team lined up in Double Trouble formation and played fast, slick, and smooth. But I deliberately put Wibbers in the reserves to wind him up, and Christ, did it work.

He was flying around the pitch, pressing, tackling, winning headers, dribbling through our defenders, slapping a shot just wide. "Come on, Chester," I called out, clapping. "This lot are shit."

Wibbers gritted his teeth, dug deeper, ran harder.

The firsts won 4-3. I gathered everyone in and announced that Wibbers was Man of the Match. He felt like I was throwing him a bone, but he couldn't stop grinning anyway.

Our Squad Morale had started the week at 4.1. When I went into the Sin Bin and discovered the players plotting their intervention, it had dropped to 3.9. Now that we were on the other side of the drama, the level was 4.4. Not bad for a team that hadn't won a league match in so long.

***

That afternoon, I met Brooke in the PetPride to open more stuff. We opened three hospitality boxes, which increased our Facilities Score by a sliver and increased our earning potential by a lot. 

I did some calculations. It looked like adding all the planned VIP boxes would increase our FS by 0.2 points. That was decent!

More seats had been fixed into place, too, bringing the Deva's total capacity to 14,250.

"Will we get the safety certificate in time?" I said.

Brooke said, "We got it signed off over lunch."

"How many tickets will we sell before kick-off tomorrow?"

"All of them."

I had to smile. I took her aside, into a quiet space - there was so much work still going on that there weren't many of those - and I handed her a Post-It note. "Sssh," I said. "Don't say anything."

She turned it over. The back was blank, but the front had a lot of symbols arranged in a rectangle. "Max, are you the Zodiac Killer?"

I tutted. "Give that to any cryptographer and they'll decode it in seconds."

Brooke counted to five on her fingers. "What does it say, Max?"

"It says: Wallace Wells. 3 million."

She didn't react for a few seconds. "The left winger we sold to Chelsea for 4 million pounds."

"Yeah. They've gone off him. His book value is probably 2 million by now, so if we bid 3 mill Chelsea will be able to claim an accounting profit. They'll go for it. His wages are meaty but they're actually fair given his talent."

"But we signed Duggers. Don't they play the same position?"

"Duggers can play in the middle. Anyway, we're building a squad not an eleven." I checked there were no snitches in the area, then leaned closer. "Tell the sporting director dude that if he doesn't get this done quickly and quietly, he's fired. Now if you don't mind, I have a cup to win."

"Do you mean the FA Cup, the Nando's Cup, or the Youth Cup?"

I nodded. "Let's rewind. Er, tell the sporting director to obey my instructions or he's fired. Now if you don't mind, I have several cups to win."

"Great exit, Max. Legendary."

***

Saturday, March 10

FA Cup Fifth Round: Chester vs Wolves

Double Trouble. Owen in goal. The boy Best playing central midfield, box to box. Bench Boost? No need. Wolves had rested some guys and were down to CA 148 while we were setting a new record high average CA for Chester FC: 160.5.

Yeah, just casually slipping into the top ten best sides in the country. No big deal.

And the best part? That number was being dragged down by Matt Rush's 147. If I wanted to nudge the CA even higher, I could have done, but I wanted his pace. Rushy's blistering speed would be a force multiplier for Wibbers. If you're the left back and Wibbers is dribbling at you, and suddenly Matt Rush is going past on the outside, what are you gonna do? You're gonna cack your pants, that's what you're gonna do.

The tactical plan was solid and safe but with a fresh new twist. The players were fit and raring to go.

"Guys, listen up," I said. "It's gonna be intense, Wolves are gonna come at us fast, the usual. We need to be switched on for the first five minutes. Wibbers, I don't want long-range shots from you today; I want you to build with Rushy and do slaps into the side of the box. But I'm gonna treat myself to a few pops. Wolves have swapped goalies and it has pissed me off. You don't rotate your goalies. Not here. The fuck's Owen Roberts thinking? All right, let's do this."

***

PASCAL

We warmed up seriously and professionally. Our preparations for the match were perfect. My efforts to show Max that we were all behind him had at times veered towards disaster, but the entire squad had fallen into line and Max had embraced our concept. The mood in the dressing room was wonderful. Team spirit was high and like all highs, it was addictive.

I could not wait for kick off.

But first there was a typical piece of Max Best nonsense. Where did he find time to plan such things?

With just a few minutes until kick off, Max ran off the pitch and headed down the tunnel in the PetPride. All the advertising boards changed to say: AND NOW A MESSAGE FROM MAX BEST. 

The Chester fans groaned. What now?

Max came straight back out but in his trademark black hoodie and sneakers. How did he get changed so fast?

The text on the boards now said: BY ORDER OF THE FOOTBALL ASSOCIATION, STOP THAT MAN!

Max approached someone who wanted to hand over a microphone, but out of the tunnel came a man in a Liverpool kit, another in a Man City kit, one in an Arsenal kit and balaclava, three men in black suits and bowler hats, plus two attractive women dressed as nurses. They chased Max, who ran away. Over the speakers came Yakety Sax, the silly tune made famous by the British comedian Benny Hill, who played the song at the end of his TV shows when he was running around being chased by people he had irritated.

The text changed to read: BANNY HILL, LOL.

Sandra Lane looked to the heavens and said, "Why?" But she was laughing. Everyone was.

Max ran towards the tunnel and got there just as Max came out. What?

"It's Maxmax," said Gabby.

"So that Max can't be punished himself," said Livia.

After that, there was an incredible buzz around the Deva, which lasted until the ref blew his whistle. The match kicked off, there were a few sloppy touches and positional mistakes in the early minutes, and tension hung over the home fans like a tarpaulin.

Normally, a team starts with nerves and draws enthusiasm and belief from its fans. On that day, the Chester fans were nervous and it was the players who transmitted verve, swagger, and confidence.

Wibbers, Leo, and Rushy combined on the right, slapped into the area, slid a pass into the path of Foquita. One-nil!

Willi, Cheb, and Max combined on the left, probed for an opening, were rebuffed three times, so Max said 'fuck this' and unleashed a long-range piledriver so stunning there was a delay before the crowd roared. Two-nil.

Wolves came back at us hard. Ender cleared a header off the line. Santana and Edgar made good blocks.

Still they came at us, which felt strange. I bit my nails, but I saw the light. Max was nudging us deeper on purpose to create space for the counter.

Willi with a tackle, Santi with a neat turn and pass, Max to Leo, Leo to Wibbers, Rushy with the overlap, Wibbers sees the run but passes inside to Leo, clever through ball for Rushy, Foquita near post as the dummy run, chip to Cheb at the far post, simple finish, three-nil, thank you and goodnight. The Wolves fans saw the writing on the wall and pivoted to singing about their imminent trip to Wembley. But not in this competition! This one had our name on it...

We were so in control that Cole, Dumi, Jimmy, and Jari got run-outs. Max gave me 24 minutes at the end. I rated my performance as 5 out of 10 but celebrated the win as if I had scored a hat trick. 

When Max took me aside and said, "Thanks for this week," my heart doubled in size. I raced to the boombox and switched it to my favourite track from Fanta Vier. I was so popular that week that the lads let it play for almost a full minute.

Good times.

***

Sunday, March 11

My phone was buzzing, which was deeply strange because I had it set to 'do not disturb' - no calls should have come through. But it wasn't a call, it was our group chat. Apparently, we had left the dressing room in a state - WHY IS THERE SO MUCH POPCORN EVERYWHERE - and Peter wanted us to go in and make it right before any of the women's team got there and saw it. DO NOT TELL MAX - HE WILL COME AND HELP.

The rest of the messages said things like ON MY WAY.

I replied with BE RIGHT THERE and practically sprinted to the Deva.

We tidied, we cleaned, we mocked each other's mopping techniques, then we piled into the Bumpers canteen for a noisy, spirited breakfast, where we relived the Wolves match minute by minute. By the tenth retelling of Cheb's goal he wasn't virtually on the goal line but scoring from 65 yards! 

When Peter went to get more coffee, Carvalho slipped into his seat. He told me he envied me because even when I didn't play well I helped the team by creating space. He said Max had told him to watch my movement and learn, because there was no-one better in the entire sport. "He said that?" I said, trying not to blush.

Carvs nodded. "Yes. I said, really? No-one in the world? What about you? The gaffer, he thinks about it, says, yeah okay I'm good but you can't copy me because if you move like me I'll drop you. He's really crazy, I love it. Are we still going to do the thing?"

"I think so. Or maybe just agreeing to do it was enough to give him a boost? I think we will find out before Man City."

"I hear most of the team get a big, big pay cut if we go down. Is it for you?"

"Yes. 60%. We have the biggest drops in the world, I think. We were not supposed to go up last season."

He stared at me, unblinking and innocent. He was a brilliant player but he knew very little of the world. "Every day is so vital, so intense. When I dribble instead of make a pass, I turn and the gaffer is coming at me like The Terminator. When I skip some cones, Miss Lane comes to here - " he placed his hand an inch from his nose, " - and looks at me like I am a slug in her Crocs. When I say to the boy, the junior analyst..."

"Tyson."

"Yes! When I say I have not watched the videos, he closes the laptop and packs his bags and says, 'A lot of kids will go hungry next year. I hope the party was fun.' And he leaves!" Carvalho mimed his head exploding. "There was no party! It was because I had the different software on my laptop. But even this boy, this junior, he's so dramatic. In his mind, he's not junior, he's Max Junior. Max Best goes to Munich, goes to Wales, says everything is shit! I hear comments, jokes, it makes me think, no it can't be, but it is! He's really like that. It is unbelievable."

"Have you seen Chester's budget compared to the other clubs? Any other manager - any other manager - would have zero points."

He held his palms up. "My friend, I am into it. It is why I am here. People say that I have opinions, yes? But there are levels." He laughed and took one of my mushrooms. "There are levels."

***

The City match was hurtling towards us, as big as the moon, but when it got close we said 'that's no moon'. Here came the Death Star! Lose to the team that always won and I would have to start creating a new budget. Bye, bye, Disney Plus - only Premier League players can afford you.

There were two key matches for Chester before that one, though. First it was the women's Nando's Cup semi-final against Spurs. I asked Max why he was so keen to win this competition. At times he almost seemed to be prioritising it over the league. He said, "Because we'll never play in it again."

He meant that from now on, we would always play in the Champions League, and clubs in the Champions League didn't play in the Nando's.

I got chills.

So I was surprised when he named the same 'weak' starting lineup that he had against Chelsea. The first half was tense and bitty, but we didn't make changes until half-time.

Then came the obliteration.

Dani scored, Sarah Greene scored. Meghan powered a header from a corner. Meredith Ann hit the crossbar. Elsa Lund bagged a brace, and since it has been one million words since I last explained that term, I will remind you that a brace means 'two goals'.

The ladies celebrated the final whistle wildly. "I bet they don't have to clean up after themselves," I muttered.

"What's that?" said Tiggy.

"Nothing."

"Who's the final?"

"West Ham. It will be played at Pride Park, the home of Derby County. It's a very nice stadium. I hope we can bring a lot of fans."

"Brooke is probably booking every bus in Cheshire and North Wales as we speak."

I smiled. "Yes, she probably is."

***

The draw for the Men's FA Cup Quarter Final was made, and most of the men's squad gathered to hear it in the McNally, surrounded by our fans.

Our reward for tonking Wolves was... Fulham away.

Amazing! We could win that! The way big teams kept knocking each other out, we could win the whole thing!

Someone started singing.

"Wem-ber-lee... Wem-ber-lee... We're the famous Chester FC and we're off to Wem-ber-lee!"

***

Monday, March 12

FA Youth Cup Quarter Final: Charlton Athletic vs Chester

We traveled to London in Sealbiscuit 2, which the boys loved. Being allowed to use the men's team bus showed them how much the Youth Cup meant to Max.

Max himself turned up late. The first we saw of him was when he burst into the dressing room, yelling "Max Best!"

"Max!" I said, worried. "Thank God you're here. I tried to call!"

"I had my phone off, Pascal. Been filming an advert, innit? I told you. It's gonna be such a banger, wow. I punched up the script myself. Is it coherent? No. Does it make me want to buy a car? Yes."

"Monty Holmes picked up a knock so I put Roddy Jones in the team instead."

He tipped his head backwards and laughed loud. "Poor Charlton. Holy shit. Haha." With that, he left.

I looked around the dressing room and saw only smiles.

We took to the pitch and took the oppo apart. Max left me to run the match alone, only reacting strongly to the 4th and 6th goals, which were works of art. He came into the dressing room twenty minutes after the full time whistle while the music was still pumping. He turned it down, said, "Well done, lads, really top. One thing: don't leave this room a mess, okay? Some of you might end up wanting to play for Charlton one day. You don't want to be on a shit list." He looked at the floor and reacted with distaste. "What is that?"

I said, "Popcorn, Max. We have, er... We have been chucking it around."

"Nah," said Max. "Nah nah nah. Adam, go and ask someone for a brush. Christ sake, guys, have some dignity. You should see the dressing room at the Deva after the men win. Fucking spotless. Be more like the first team, yeah? Standards." He shook his head and left.

I licked my lips and looked sheepish. "Thanks for not ratting me out, lads." I laughed as I uncurled my fist and shoved the last pieces of popcorn into my mouth. "Give me the broom."

***

MAX

Tuesday, March 13

I woke up in a hotel in London, feeling great. After a long slog it felt like things were happening. We were getting to quarter-finals, semis, finals. The men’s, women’s, and youth sides were setting new records in terms of CA.

Mint.

I opened my stash.

XP balance: 3,720

Astute readers will detect a 2,000 XP hole in my wedge. That was caused by me adding Stoke City to the Panopticon. Now that I had their squad in my head I would be able to make sure they got promoted from League One to the Championship. Players carrying injuries would be properly assessed, the manager would be asked to stop using players who were in the red zone, the usual.

And if the manager didn't want to obey, the manager could see himself into the nearest bin.

I tapped on my phone screen and saw I had a text from Henri.

What do you think of the new Spurs manager?

I checked the news. They had appointed Dario Jakob as manager until the end of the season.

Me: I have literally never heard of him before.

Henri: But you know everyone.

Me: Apparently not. I've just skimmed his Wikipedia page and it says he specialises in helping clubs avoid relegation. So that makes sense from a Spurs point of view. Time will tell!

Henri: What are you doing today?

Me: Finishing the advert for the car company. You're gonna love it.

***

CLOSE-UP OF A HANDSOME MAN WITH GREAT HAIR.

TEXT ON SCREEN:Max Best: Player-Manager of CFC

MAXI'm a top footballer and I like to accessorise.

[The camera pulls back to reveal that Max is a substitute waiting to go onto the pitch in a fake football match. For trademark reasons, he’s wearing a plain blue football shirt. He's also decked out with gaudy, chunky rings, about a thousand gold chains, earrings, and two CFC baseball caps.]

[A whistle blows.]

MAXOh, that's my cue.

[A referee's assistant, played by Angel, stops Max from entering the field of play.]

ANGELNo accessories!

[She holds up a fabric bag.]

[Max starts to remove his bling; he drops the first piece into the bag.]

[Cut to: Vanity shots of a CFC-branded car. Max (dressed sensibly) is walking around it, rubbing his hands, tapping various parts, getting increasingly enthusiastic.]

MAXSo this is CFC? Full-width lights, go-faster spoiler, touchscreen, voice control, fast charge, drive assist, six airbags, twenty storage areas. Twenty? What?

[His eyebrows rise, then he looks off-screen. We see a new, wider angle, one from behind the other cameras. There are lights, people holding boom mics - it's a movie set with a car as the star. Max speaks to the producer.]

MAXLook, this is mint, you know I love accessories, but I wanted to do the entry-level model because that's the one most people are gonna buy.

PRODUCERThis IS the entry-level model.

MAX [TIGHT SHOT]Whaaaaaaat?!

[Cut to: A brief ‘call to action’ from CFC that varies from market to market.]

[Cut back to: The touchline of the fake football match. Angel is now awkwardly helping Max to take off his jewelry.]

MAXGet the clasp.

ANGELI'm getting it!

MAXNot so rough! Be nice to my ice. [Angel nearly smiles.] Don't fumble my frosting!

[Angel breaks; they dissolve into fits of giggles.]

***

That will be 900,000 pounds, please!

On the drive back north, Angel said, "Thanks for asking me to do this."

"Yeah yeah yeah," I said. "The producer said, do you know anyone who would look realistically bad at taking off a man's bling? I said I know just the person."

She tutted and laughed. "Yeah, but thanks."

"Hmm. Have you got Brooke's number? You have, right? Can you call her?"

"Sure. What do you want me to say?"

"We're gonna speak in code. You're not going to mention my name. You'll say... The painter of Swans is mightier than the sword."

"I'm not saying that, Max. I won't say anything weird to Brooke; I'm scared of her."

"Ugh, fine. I'm gonna pull over at the next services and I'll tell her myself. Let's add ten minutes to the trip home because you're a big baby."

"Fine by me." Angel tapped on her phone for about eight seconds before saying, "Bobby Ross, 32 years old, Swansea. Australian centre back. Oooh, are we going to sign him?"

"That's not what the code meant."

"Sure, Max, sure."

***

Wednesday, March 14

I spent a long morning with Sandra and the coaches going over our options for the Man City game. Peter was back from injury and needed to play to assure Jurgen Klopp that he was fit.

We had three main ideas. One was to try Double Trouble against City. It had crushed against Wolves, but in that match we were 10 points of CA better. We would be 10 worse against City, so Sandra's favoured option was the default 4-1-4-1.

The third option was not based on formations or CAs but player types. What if we leaned really heavily into decision-making? I'd been daydreaming about Carvalho and Pascal buzzing around Foquita. If we set up with two short guys in a three-pronged attack we wouldn't create many chances but when we did, it could be deadly.

No-one expected us to get anything from that game, so why not go nuts?

We had another couple of days to think about it...

***

Friday, March 16

Excerpt from the Hairy Potters podcast, the number one podcast for fans of Stoke City FC.

Ian: But before we get into our preview for tomorrow's vital, vital match, we need to discuss some transfer news. Chris, how does it make you feel to hear me say that in March?

Chris: I did some checking, mate.

Ian: Checking mate? You been playing chess again?

Chris: Number of transfer deals announced by West Brom this week? Zero. By Wolves? Zero. By the entire EFL, excluding us? Zero. Number of deals announced by Stoke City... four.

Ian: It's a head scratcher all right.

Chris: It boggles the mind. What in the devil are the club playing at?

Ian: I am honestly perplexed and have no idea how best to approach this. Let's go through the names one by one and you tell me what you think. Charlie Dugdale, attacking midfielder, one million quid.

Chris: Norwich City reject. Can't get in their team, comes on as a sub, offers very little. It's not much in the way of a fee, so maybe we're getting him as a squad player. 5 out of 10 deal for me.

Ian: Kyle Styles-Stanton, free transfer from Southampton.

Chris: Such a strange signing. Can't work it out. Not wanted there, contract running down, another reject. Free sounds about his proper value. 4 out of 10.

Ian: Wallace Wells, Chelsea, 3.1 million quid, left winger. Won the Youth Cup with Chester, has done bugger all since. Couple of loans, both cut short.

Chris: This one could go either way. On the surface, he's one of those young starlets who can't make the step up to men's football but he's a winger, he's exciting, he's got skills. At the very least he'll be entertaining. At the price it's a bit of a punt, but I don't mind it. 7.5 out of 10.

Ian: Finally, Bobby Ross, Australian centre back, free transfer from Swansea.

Chris: We've played against him. He's solid, he's good in the air, he'll score you 3 or 4 goals a season. Is he better than what we've got? I don't think so. Does he flesh out the squad? Maybe. 5.5 out of 10. But let me ask you a question, Ian. Why on God's green Earth is all this happening now, at this point in the season? What are we to make of it all?

Ian: Absolutely no clue, mate. Like you say, they're uninspiring players, Wallace Wells aside. I just... Normally, when you announce four players in a week, the fans are absolutely buzzing, aren't they? But this... Were the club hoping this bunch would get us to renew our season tickets early? Because I'll tell you what, from what I'm hearing, that ain't gonna happen.

Chris: A win tomorrow would get people to the ticket office.

Ian: Great link, Chris! So, let's get into it. Leyton Orient away. On paper, it's a solid three points. What do you think?

***

Saturday, March 17

English Premier League Match 30 of 38: Chester vs Manchester City

I spent the morning being normal. I checked out the new hospitality boxes - we had ribboned nine so far. From those awesome vantage points, I had a great view of the seats that had been added to the lower sections in the PetPride. (Brooke had prioritised the seats that would be seen on TV during broadcasts.) Our new capacity was 15,310, but on Monday it would be higher and on Tuesday it would be higher still.

We were in a golden age of number go up.

The staff in the hospitality areas could feel it. The guys working in the new kitchens could feel it. Everyone in the entire city could feel it.

Joe Anka played banger after banger. Can you feel it?

On my prediction spreadsheet, I had us getting zero points from this match. City's manager had an efficient if dull playing style that was especially effective if you had match winners in your team. City had match winners throughout, so anything more than zero points was a win for us. A draw would be a win. A win would be, uh... one point three wins? Cut that, but you get what I'm saying: we were playing with house money.

We warmed up, went through our usual routines, then headed inside, ostensibly for the usual pre-match discussion.

Normally this involved Sandra repeating our formation, line-up, and key challenges. Sometimes I rambled about Die Hard for a minute. Today, there was utter silence.

In the middle of the dressing room, there was a simple wooden chair. I stood next to it and closed my eyes. I pointed to Carvalho. "Me?" he said.

"If you can stand it, so can I."

He shuddered, but trudged forward. Derek Marsden, my hairdresser, took up his position. Peter Bauer handed over the official Chester FC Men's First Team Squad golden hair clippers. Derek turned them on; they buzzed.

Both men steeled themselves, then Derek got to work.

Carvalho's gorgeous hair fell to the floor like Portuguese wingers in the Premier League.

A few minutes later, Carvalho was unrecognisable. No longer a floppy-haired pretty-boy who danced and shimmied, fleet of foot and quick of wit. This ruffian was lean, mean, and fierce. Sharp elbows, sharpened studs. He would knock you out of the cup then steal your girl. He stood; I sat.

In long straight lines Jonny Planter's paintbot would have been proud of, Derek removed my hair. I couldn't swear it, but I thought I felt his tears drop onto my scalp.

I felt my head. The new texture was something like a tennis ball, apart from my attack scar. That felt smooth but numb, an eternal reminder that everything we had, we had to pay for.

Six more wooden chairs were pushed forward. Six more players sat down. The lads shaved each other's heads - we were buzzing. When Derek had finished with me, he walked around tidying up the other trims.

Some players looked more or less the same: Youngster, Ender, Gabby. But some were radically changed: Owen, Santi, Magnus.

I rubbed my scalp. I'd never had a shaven head before and it felt amazing and weird and amazingly weird. I checked myself out in the mirror and was startled - I looked fucking terrifying.

Individually, we all looked tough, hard, aggressive.

Collectively?

"What do you think, Sandra?"

27 shaven heads faced her. Even Ruud Berkenbosch had done it. Whoever had this idea had been completely on the money. Whenever I looked at one of these guys I wouldn't be thinking about Saltney or Stoke or West or Tempsford or even my child. I would be thinking about this team and this season and this hour of need.

Sandra made eye contact with one man after another. "I've been backstage with the cast of Mamma Mia in the West End. I've rocked out in the Green Room with The Warning. And I can say without hesitation that you are the hottest, most intimidating collection of badarses I've ever seen in my life." Her gaze swept the room one last time. "Man City are gonna cack themselves when they see this."

"Men," I said. Everyone turned to me. I rubbed my scalp. It felt amazing. There was something primal about it, something powerful and masculine. I had a premonition that I was gonna get detention for this stunt... Or maybe it was time to turn the tables on Miss Thirst. I grinned madly.

Before I took Emma to school, there was the small matter of the Evil Empire. I didn't want to give City's pampered princes ten minutes to deal with the shock of seeing a team so insanely united that we would all shave our heads regardless of whether or not we had sponsorship deals with shampoo companies. "Hats." 27 men pulled on blue-and-white beanies. I checked our average Morale: 6.4 out of 7. Impossible. Unprecedented. Unrepeatable. "First one to kick a City prick wins a prize. Let's go FUCK things up. COME OOOOOON!"

...

Thanks for your support!

So annoying this is coming out after Haaland got a buzz cut. He copied me! He copied me!

Mega apologies to Brian J. Nordon. I had the idea and couldn't stop myself from using it. Soz! First pint is on me when we meet.