DoF 1.9 - Silver Where [T1] (Patreon)

9.

Sunday, March 18

"There you are!"

Emma grunted. She was lying on her side in one of the spare bedrooms, facing the wall. No music, no TV, no book. What a nice house we had, where one could choose one's own prison cell. She said, by way of explanation, "I'm beditating."

"Yes, of course," I said, soothingly, even though my insides had started doing somersaults. I sat on the edge of the bed and gently rubbed her back. "Um... would you like to hear about my symptoms?"

"Your symptoms?" she said, with a hint of menace that I chose to ignore.

"I'm feeling very sensitive to smells, which is a problem because the entire house reeks of victory. It's what they don't tell you on the UEFA Pro course. Glory comes with a stench. Smells exactly like cheeseburgers."

The pause that followed lasted well over five seconds. Emma shifted. Her voice cracked as she said, "What?"

"Worst acting ever. Babes, I found your secret bin."

She had been going through half a dozen McDonald's cheeseburgers a day, it seemed like, and I didn't know why she was being so underhand about it. Probably because if I had known, I would have hired a special burger chef so that she wouldn't be eating what was essentially cardboard. She left another pause, then said, "Oh."

"If you need things, please tell me. I promise to minimise the joking... within reason. Okay, back to talking about both our favourite subjects... me. My other symptoms that match up with the week 19 checklist. Headaches? Mild one last night. Sore breasts. Yeah I saw breasts, hurr. Feeling hot?" I rubbed my stubbly head. "Absolutely I am."

"Hubba hubba."

"Bloated. Bloated sense of my own importance. Swelling. Swelling points totals. Chloasma. I think I'm ranked in the top 20 for that."

Emma rolled onto her back and smiled. "The internet has a lot to answer for." I gave her a light forehead massage; she got bliss face. She said, softly, "Henri and Luisa find out this week, don't they? Do you know what he wants? Are they going to tell anyone?"

"Yeah it's Tuesday or Wednesday. Awfully nice of the baby to schedule its ultrasound for the international break. Professionalism 20 on that kid. I think Henri has a preference but won't say it."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, at least five arms."

"Max."

"I don't want to be overly formulaic about it but if I could choose, I'd go full spellsword. Magic user who can hold his own in combat, right? You need two skills because of boss fights where they're immune to one damage type."

Emma said, "You want a girl."

"I've thought of a name. Nepo. Our little spellsword is gonna run into accusations that she's only taking over my empire because he or she is my daughter, right? So let's lean into it."

"Little baby Nepo. It's your best idea yet." She closed her eyes. "Where is the final?"

"Pride Park. Derby. Just over an hour. They've got good chefs in the VIP boxes. Do you want me to call ahead and get them to make a pile of cheeseburgers? Served on a silver platter. Thematic."

"No. I think I might..." Her face scrunched up like she was feeling queasy. "I think I might stay here if that's all right. I know it's the cup final but..."

"You can do whatevs you want, babes," I said. With my right hand I continued to give her a lovely fuss, and with my left I brought up the maps app on my phone. "There's a McDonald's right next to the stadium."

She smiled ever so slightly. "Are we going to win?"

"Of course we are. We will pile the cheeseburger wrappers three feet high! Sealbiscuit will forever smell of glory."

"You can't celebrate winning the Nando's Cup by going to Maccy D's."

"You're right, that would be tasteless. Rather like..." I shut my gob. If products that couldn't be legally described as food were making Ems happy, great. I changed to a more epic voice and growled, "Your body is craving iron. Mine's craving silver." She didn't react. "You know, like a trophy. Silverware."

Emma patted me on the cheek. "Good try, babes. Good try."

***

Nando's Cup Final: Chester Women versus West Ham Women

It was the day of the League Cup finals. In the men's version it was Wolves against Aston Villa at Wembley, which was both an interesting match and one about which I gave not the slightest shit. I was riding high after the City win and saw today as a chance to get my grubby hands on some polished silverware. With one trophy in the bag, we could attack everything else with more freedom.

I parked at Bumpers Bank, wondering whether I should use my 'Emma's craving iron' line for real, when in amongst the women I saw the back of a man's head. My first thought was that it was Pascal. He had managed this team in the past, so it wasn't crazy that he would be chatting to the ladies on the morning of a big cup final, but there was something strange about the way the others were looking at him, and this guy was taller than Pascal. Carvalho? But why would he be here? I paced in his direction, praying we didn't have another Emiliano-style love triangle about to erupt!

As I got closer, the guy turned. It wasn't Pascal or Carvalho, but Angel. She had shaved her head! She eyed me with huge defiance but her Morale was fluctuating wildly. My reaction could make or break her mood. "Gaffer."

This was a headscratcher - literally. Why had she done it? "Good morning, generic footballing unit number 29. I trust you are well."

"I'm available for selection."

"I thought we agreed," I said, slowly, "that you would stop copying my hairstyles."

"This one isn't yours," she said. "It's mine."

Kisi said, "Do you like it, boss?"

I was over the initial shock, and while my first reaction probably included a fair amount of dismay, Angel actually looked amazing. It was always hard to talk about the women's looks without being creepy, but I didn't want to go straight to 'what about your sponsors?' "I reckon this is what Ronaldo used to feel like when he scored twice on the Saturday and Messi scored a hat trick on the Sunday." Angel's Morale shot up. I gave her a little shove. "Your trim's a winner. Are you?"

"Put me on the pitch and I'll prove I am."

I glared at her; she glared back. I was enjoying the battle until Kisi said, "Like watching two bald men fight over a comb." Angel laughed and gave Kisi a high-five. The ladies moved back into the main group and mingled, but I felt Angel's gaze was on me as I moved away to talk to Jay about our starting eleven.

***

Jay was incredibly relaxed for a man who was about to manage his first major cup final. I took his wrist and pretended to be taking his pulse. "Have you been beditating?"

He smiled. "Just confident. Have you seen Angel's trim?"

"She's very symmetrical."

"So does she get in the team now?"

"Course she does."

Jay smiled, opened his notebook, and took out a pen. He pretended to scribble. "Copy Max's hair... get in team..." He stopped mucking about and tapped the paper. "Only injury worry is Jenni Fairbrother, but I'm guessing she wouldn't have got on the pitch today anyway." I shook my head. Jay said, "Oppo analysis. We beat West Ham 1-0 early in the season, and lost to them in the Nando's group stage when we were resting our key players. Both times they looked average, and they didn't do anything interesting in the January window. Nothing special to worry about, right?"

"Right," I said. West Ham were about CA 109. Solid, organised, willing, but they didn't have much star power. They didn't have gamechangers or match winners. We had them in every position.

Jay nodded. "So the only question is the CAMs. Meredith, Jisook, Saffron."

"We split the minutes between Meredith and Jisook to keep them fresh for the final. It's the final; they both start."

"Okay. So it's Haley in goal. Poppy Lampard, Victoria Rose, Meghan. Dani, Macca, Cheeky, Sarah Greene. Meredith and Jisook behind Elsa Lund." He closed his notebook and put his pen away. "Best team in England."

"Close." We were CA 136.9. Chelsea were 144. Arsenal could put out an eleven with 137 but injuries had ravaged their season. "We should be able to batter West Ham. Get far enough ahead to make whatever subs we want. On my old Soccer Supremo, players only got medals if they got on the pitch in the final so I used to load medals into the young players or club legends who I was about to bin off."

"What about young club legends you're about to bin off?"

The ladies were loading their stuff into Sealbiscuit and slowly starting to board. Someone with a shaven head went up the steps. A year ago, Angel had disrupted our preparations for an FA Cup quarter final on the morning of the game. Now, it seemed, she had gone to the other extreme, showing her dedication to the cause. "If we don't get any injuries and if she laughs at my jokes, she might get ten minutes."

***

Pride Park held 34,000 people, and it was about half full, which was decent given the semi had only been played a week before and we didn't have much time to promote the final. Brooke had made it easy for our fans to travel south, but we couldn't do anything about the high ticket prices. Still, there was a good atmosphere in the stadium, lots of families, lots of girls. I almost felt bad for the neutrals - this match was going to be seriously one-sided.

I briefly got nervous in the ten seconds before kick-off. What had I missed? What tactic should I have used, what formation was more optimal, what hidden dangers lurked in the West Ham team?

The referee blew, I hit Seal It Up, then sat back and let Jay work the touchline.

After the high-octane, heart-thumping City match, this was serene. We took control of the ball, Victoria Rose moved up to the DM slot, and we hit 300 passes before West Ham had their first shot.

But it had the potential to be one of those matches where one team is clearly better but fails to make their superiority count. With half-time approaching, our dugout was getting tetchy. Nerves weren't fraying, exactly, but the ladies were starting to mutter darkly. West Ham to score from a deflected shot in the 70th minute and hold out for a win? We had all seen matches like that.

In the 44th minute, Macca, Cheeky, and Jisook combined. Elsa made a great run across the penalty area which opened space for Meredith Ann to run into. The pass came and the ball was in the net before I had even started to get excited.

One-nil! Just before half time!

West Ham's Morale collapsed. They knew what awaited them in the second half.

***

49'

Dani rolls the ball to Victoria Rose.

VR gives it to Cheeky.

She hits it first-time over the defence!

West Ham were caught flat-footed by that.

Elsa Lund runs onto it...

And scores!

The Chester players celebrate with wild abandon. They have one hand on the trophy!

63'

West Ham are camped around their penalty area.

Chester are passing from side to side, probing for an opening.

Victoria Rose passes to Dani, then jogs forward.

Dani tries to dribble past her marker, but is rebuffed.

Dani slides the ball to Macca.

Macca. Cheeky. Sarah Greene.

Sarah hits an ambitious diagonal pass through the West Ham lines.

Elsa holds off a defender and cushions the ball into the path of Victoria Rose.

VR shoots...

And scores!

Her first goal of the season.

What a time to get it!

The Chester fans are bouncing.

65'

Here comes the first change from Chester. Kisi Yalley replaces Sarah Greene.

Huge ovations for both players!

71'

Kisi crosses. Lund jumps for the header, but she can't direct it.

The ball breaks to Dani. She slips it to Meredith Ann.

The Colombian tries to chip the keeper!

The ball sails over the goalie... but lands on the top of the net!

75'

It will be a triple change from Chester. Charlotte, Saffron Walden, and Kit Hodges replace Meredith Ann, Jisook Kim, and Cheeky Rabanne.

80'

It looks like Chester are preparing their final substitution.

***

I stood on the touchline and waved Angel over. I put my arm around her and said, "You're subbing for Elsa. You and Kit will play ahead of Saffron. Run hard, yeah? Keep the defenders worried. Okay, now listen. Pregnant women crave iron. Elite footballers crave silver."

Angel turned those dark eyes on me. "Are you trying to put me off?"

I had to laugh at that. "What are you talking about? That's an epic line. That's motivational."

"It's not. Stick to being the strong, silent type."

"When have I ever been that? Okay, new speech. We're three-nil up in the final and there's ten minutes to go. I never say to a player, just go out and enjoy yourself, but... just go out and enjoy yourself." I stepped away, clapped a few times, and shouted, "Come on, 29, let's see what you got!"

The mention of her shirt number drew a thin smile, but as she gave Elsa a high-ten and jogged onto the pitch, Angel was all business.

***

82'

West Ham are building up a head of steam...

The ball is worked nicely to the edge of the area. Shot comes in...

Saved by Haley Goodhew!

It goes out for a corner.

Haley is shouting at her teammates to wake up!

83'

The corner comes in. A West Ham head is first to the ball...

But it hits the side netting!

Did the ball clip the post? It was agonisingly close!

Chester FC have stopped playing!

They think it's all over!

84'

Dani collects a pass, but the ball bounces off her shins.

West Ham look to break, but Dani makes a foul to stop the attack.

Yellow card for Dani, but the West Ham players are still unhappy.

They are pushing and shoving Dani.

More Chester players arrive to defend their teammate.

Angel leads Dani away. She speaks in sign language. 'Leave this to me.'

85'

West Ham float a cross into Chester's penalty area.

Meghan wins the header. 

Charlotte hacks clear.

Angel chases the ball, gets there first, dribbles to the side of the pitch and signals for everyone to slow down.

Then she bursts past a defender and sprints into West Ham's half!

She is fouled.

Yellow card!

Angel celebrates like she has scored a goal! She gestures to the crowd; they respond with a mighty roar.

Chester are agonisingly close!

***

90+3'

All the Chester subs and staff are on the touchline, quivering with anticipation.

Poppy Lampard boots the ball out of touch, the referee blows her whistle, and Chester FC are the Nando's Cup winners!

A dozen players and a dozen support staff run onto the pitch.

Meghan, Dani, Kisi, Charlotte, and Angel form a circle and jump around.

Macca Serra has been named Player of the Match.

Jay Cope has won his first major cup.

Max Best rushes down the tunnel. Where's he going?

***

[Video clip: The Chester players are three-deep. Macca Serra is front and centre, holding a large, shiny piece of silverware. As she lifts it, flame cannons fire, blue and white confetti rains down, and a lot of very happy women leap, holding their medals. Jay Cope stands to the side, looking awkward but happy. Beside him, Max Best is eating a Quarter Pounder.]

[Video clip: Max Best is standing with his arm around Kisi Yalley, telling her how proud he is of her. Meghan and Haley sneak up behind, carrying the large, silver trophy. They have filled it with champagne, which they dump all over him. 'Fuck!' he complains. 'Not on my hair!' 'You haven't got any!' laughs Haley. Max pushes his palms into his temples and wails. 'Can everyone stop outsmarting me for ONE MINUTE?!']

[Video clip: The Chester women are in the dressing room, singing and going bonkers. Cut to the same scene but on Sealbiscuit. Cut to the same scene but in a Nando's. Cut to a young waiter looking for space on a table to put down some dishes. He nudges the Nando's Cup to the side. Meghan calls out, 'Oi! What team do you support?' 'West Brom.' 'Then hands off!' Meghan lifts the cup out of the way, sets it down, and fist bumps the waiter. It's not his first day, which means he has been given grief by loud-mouthed women before. Cut to a while later. Max lifts and admires the trophy, then looks inside and frowns as he discovers a McDonald's cheeseburger wrapper. 'Babes!' he wails. 'It's a prestigious trophy, not your car!']

***

International Break Week One

We were so busy celebrating our win that I almost forgot to check the AOK Cup, in which Aston Villa beat Wolves. I sent Michael Ning a message of condolence, then got back to the karaoke.

On Monday, with my head still ringing, I sat with Peter Schnakenberg, the Australian goalkeeper who had gone from Bayern Munich's reserves to Saltney Town. It had been fun for him, playing in the Champions League, but the Welsh league was way too easy and he wanted to be stretched. He had a one-million-pound release clause, and since he was CA 128, that price was a snip. I asked him what he thought about going to an ambitious Championship side. There was one I knew of that if he signed right away, he would be their first choice, but I knew they were looking at other goalies so he could end up being the number two. Snakey said he would think about it but that it sounded tempting, especially the part about him doubling his basic salary.

Then he asked me what a 'silver surfer' was. Not the comic book character, but something else. I said it was an old person who used the internet. "Today that's everyone but not that long ago it was quite rare. Why are you asking?"

"Just someone described themselves like that and I couldn't get my head around the meaning. Nah, it makes sense. Silver hair, is it? Like a silver fox? Older gent with grey hair?"

"Exactly. Women, too. My mum's silver these days. Brooke's always telling me we need to think about the silver economy. At the Deva, the Harry McNally is basically set up for young people. Cheap, simple, fast service, noisy. The PetPride is geared towards women, families, and the silver economy. Oldies with a bit of cash who want to go to the football but maybe want a bit more padding under their arse. And two types of ham." Snakey was incredibly fascinated so I said, "Look, when the academy opens we're gonna be going hard on courses for footballers. The business of football, marketing, all the behind-the-scenes stuff. Plus the usual coaching badges, referee training, all sorts. Have a think about what you're interested in and we'll get you in the first intake. You can train for Stoke and be in time for lessons."

He smiled. "Stoke, is it?"

"It was just an example! Just an example!"

"Boss, I love you but you'd make a shit spy. Stoke City? That's really interesting..."

On Tuesday, Luisa went for her ultrasound. Both she and Henri refused to tell me anything other than the baby appeared healthy. 'Tell me the gender or you're fired' didn't work on either of them! People are so stubborn. But Luisa let slip that it wasn't twins, so unless she was pranking me with a triplet surprise, I would have the chance to one-up Henri next week when I had my own scan. You know, via Emma.

Talking of Emma, on Wednesday I brought a cheeseburger home and she started crying.

On Thursday, Peter Bauer got his first cap for Germany and his grandfather started crying. Also on Thursday, Wales lost 5-0 in a friendly and Dylan started crying. (There's some artistic license here. I don't specifically know how Dylan reacted; I was in Scotland watching Magnus and Jimmy boss the midfield, earning 666 XP. I had thought about watching Wales from the stands (and letting the TV companies know I would be there) to pile pressure on the Welsh FA, but decided not to be a complete dick about the situation. Well In had said he wasn't available to manage that Wales match, which must have been tough for him because he was very patriotic. He was showing support for me while subtly making his political views known.

(Well In had actually told the press that he had a family engagement, which is football manager code for 'I know we're going to get absolutely mullered in the next match and want no part of it'. Several key players developed mysterious injuries, too. God, I loved that squad! Needless to say, every phone-in for days had a string of Welshmen saying 'I don't care if Max Best is the founder of the My Little Pony Fan Club Party, he wins matches, get him back!')

On Friday, I gave myself some time to think about my personal finances. The prize money from this year's Conspiracy had left me with 7.2 million pounds in Gibraltar, so I used that to pay for my stake in Stoke. I worked through various scenarios involving Saltney Town and ended up committing to leaving 8 million of my prize money in the club. That, plus the million we got from selling Snakey and the funds from any other transfers we did, would be more than enough to have a serious run at the Champions League again.

That meant I could pay myself 3.59 million, a tiny fraction more than I had 'paid' MD. Emma accused me of being 'such a boy' which was totes unfair. "I'm not trying to big dog him, babes! That's just how much was left in the kitty!" She didn't seem to believe me, but she agreed it was a good decision to send that 3.59 million to LIT, my tech company, which was starting to burn cash in a serious and seriously worrying way. This latest influx of cash brought LIT's balance to over 6 million quid, but that had to finance the ongoing development of DOVE, Harper Splats, and Income Tax FC.

I had cash coming at me from all angles, so I wasn't overly worried, but it was painful to entrust millions of my pounds to people who seemed to enjoy spending my money. My pain was eased when I had a video call with Ganymede, the shampoo company who sponsored me. They were only paying 50 grand a year, which was feeble, but I expected they would be calling to complain about my hair-shaving stunt. How could I promote their shampoo if I didn't have fucking hair?

As happened so often, I couldn't have been more wrong. They loved the exposure they were getting and they were all-in on my reasons for cutting off my hair. They wanted to remind me that they had premium scalp care products and maybe I could mention those. "I mean, I'd be happy to," I said. "But I'm pretty busy these days so I think I might allow the deal to lapse when it expires."

"Hmm," they said. "Would lots more money help this discussion go better?"

I told them to talk to Ruth to hash out the details, but basically if we stayed in the Premier League, my yearly fee would go from 50 grand to 150. "And it's fine if you want to shave your head again!"

***

Saturday, March 24

XP balance: 5,810

I was within 200 XP of being able to afford the final God Save the Queen perk, after which I could relax and buy whichever perks in whichever order without driving myself crazy about it. But while it was tempting to attend a match somewhere, I had more important things to do.

This international break had the potential to be huge in terms of talent ID.

Why had I been so sanguine about sending tons of money to LIT for such an uncertain payoff? Because I had already seen it in action when my agent friend Chelli had brought a bunch of Brazilians over from Sao Paulo based on the software's recommendations. Not every prospect had paid off, but even just one star player had the potential to be worth millions of quid to me, personally.

DOVE had been running in the background in Brazil for a while now, and Chelli was bringing over two batches of players, one this weekend, another one next weekend. DOVE Dublin had also sent up flares more than a few times, and Briggy had been making arrangements for some of the top prospects from Ireland to come over.

And in addition to that, the Dragonball/Northern Powerhouse project had sourced a fresh batch of prospects for me to scout. Ten coachloads of Welsh kids over the course of the two weekends, and if our record-keeping was on point, I had never seen a single one of them.

And still there was more! Ages ago, Youngster had told me about a project in Ghana called Silver Stars. It was a series of training camps and scouts backed by money from former Ghanaian international players that had the aim of creating a pathway from the side streets of Ghana to professional clubs. The Silver Stars came to the UK once or twice a year and their teams - made up of 17- and 18-year olds - routinely smashed the under 19s of English clubs, and even gave under 21 sides a good workout. Was I keen to see them in the flesh? Er... is that a trick question? I'll pay for their food and accommodation for a week!

Mate, that first weekend I GORGED on new players.

Shotze Sherif, 17, Goalkeeper, Ghanaian.

Handling 11, Agility 15, Reflexes 14, Influence 17.

CA 34, PA -1.

This guy was a skull with frizzy hair coming out the top like a troll. If you saw him in a graphic novel alongside the word 'necromancer' you wouldn't have batted an eyelid, but holy shit he was a great goalie and after asking around about his high Influence score, I realised he was the mature one. Here were twenty-one young men full of testosterone, roaming the UK in a group, smashing teams from professional clubs, and can you blame them if they got rowdy and cocky from time to time?

But when they did, along came the Sherif to calm them the fuck down, to nudge them back towards the straight and narrow, to remind them they were playing for their futures and that they were representing the Silver Stars organisation.

"I love him," I said, with my head spinning. There were guys who were more obviously going to add to my vast stock of wealth, but Sherif was my number one target. Had other scouts discounted him because he looked weird?

Sonny Goku, 17, Striker, Ghanaian.

Off the Ball 12, Finishing 13, Heading 12.

CA 30, PA 140.

Sonny was a good all-round striker. He was very modern in that he was technical yet was excellent at pressing opponents. He also had a good base in the Attributes that were most important for his position. Everything I didn't like about him could be fixed easily. Absolute no-brainer.

Adamu Adams, 17, Centre Back, Ghanaian.

Determination 20, Heading 20, Influence 15.

CA 29, PA 135.

Excuse me, Max, would you like a free Christian Fierce clone? 6 foot 3, plays every minute like it's his last, would improve almost any team in the Max Best Universe and never give you a minute's trouble? Yes, kind stranger, I would like such a player!

Three Championship-level talents. Three guys of the level of Zach Green and Dazza Smith, and all it had cost me was a few grand in expenses. These dudes would need ESC slots to work in the UK but I controlled dozens of those! If I didn't want to clog up slots in Saltney or Stoke, I could send them to the Brig's team, to West Didsbury, even to Gibraltar. Three good players who would have good careers and would send some of their new-found riches home to their families. It was like founding three little charities. Let's do this!

I walked to the next training pitch and after pretending to think about it, added four high-quality Welsh lads to the Saltney Town youth system. The first three were unattached to any major clubs, but there was one kid who had snuck in even though he was on the books at Wrexham! He had just flat-out lied to everyone because he wanted to get spotted by me.

I set him straight. "Bro," I said. "Ryan Reynolds is a close personal friend of mine. I rent Wrexham's stadium and a Wrexham fan went from being my bodyguard to being head of security at Chester FC. I can't go round pissing them off, stealing their players. But check this out. In May, when they give you the good news that you can go to the next age group, tell them thanks but no thanks. Boom! You're not a Wrexham player. And then we can talk. By which I mean I'll move you to your correct position and train the living shit out of you."

"But I'm a striker."

"Life pro tip, David. Any club that thinks you're a striker is not a club you want to play for. Max Best has spoken. Boom!"

David Oldfield, 13, Attacking Midfielder (Central), Welsh.

Flair 14, Passing 14, Off the Ball 13.

PA 131.

I hopped in my car and drove back to Bumpers, where Chelli's Brazilians were training with Briggy's Irishmen. I'm sorry to say there was an unseemly amount of cackling on my part.

Most of that was owing to the stand-out discovery of the entire international break, a player I might never have found without DOVE. He was exactly as talented as Matt Rush, but almost 100 points of CA behind at the same age. He had never played for his country at any level and presumably every training session he'd ever received had been dogshit.

Derek Doonican, 20, Midfielder, Attacking Midfielder (Left), Irish.

Stamina 18, Crossing 18, Tackling 17.

CA 55, PA 180.

Derek was the level 9000 version of my mate Aff. He was a real old-school player, bombing up and down the left wing, endlessly, relentlessly. There was nothing flash about him, nothing ornate. I watched him for a while and he seemed to have one trick that he repeated again and again. Would an English Premier League defender wrap him up? Maybe, but by the time Doonican got there, we would have taught him a second trick.

Derek was playing for Waterford FC, and even though they were one of the worst teams in the Irish Premier Division, there would be a transfer fee involved. But so what?! Saltney could buy him for 500 grand, sell him for 5 million. And the best thing was, he didn't even have an agent. 

Well, he did now. Her name was Briggy. I whispered in her ear, "Ka-ching."

The Brazilians had some misses, but enough hits to make the trip worthwhile. Literally the only problem with this bunch were the player names. It felt like Brazil's random name generator had been replaced with names from a British building site.

Gazza was a PA 151 MC/AMC.

Steev was a PA 154 goalkeeper.

Fredd was a PA 142 DM/MC.

Where to put them? They had low CAs so it would take years for them to build a profile. Flint Town and Connah's Quay would have the requisite patience for the job, and we had a little cluster of Paulistas in the area who would help the lads settle. Chelli and Briggy had also been building a relationship with Santa Clara, a Portuguese club that played in the Azores, some islands in the Atlantic Ocean. We were already sending Breno there, a gobby, talented little flair player, and it would be good to give him a friend.

When I was done mentally counting how much money this morning was going to make me, I went over to Chelli. "Bro, this is sensational. I'm really happy. But one question. I was expecting half the players to be called Silva. Silva where, Chelli? Silva where?"

***

While I was making amazing jokes, the women played West Ham again, this time in the league, this time in London. It's fair to say our women weren't motivated, relatively speaking, so I told Jay to mix up the starting lineup, to give squad players the chance to impress. Femi started, as did Charlotte, Kisi, and Angel.

They squeaked a 1-0 win in the end, and it seemed to be a very professional performance.

***

International Break Week Two

Most of the time, I felt almost supernaturally calm - unless I was thinking about Emma. The win over Man City had gone deep into my bones. Yes, Chester Men still had a job to do. But now when I looked at the schedule, I did so with less fear. 

Bournemouth were dangerous, but so were we. Anything could happen there. Then came Fulham in the cup. I felt that we would edge that. Everton would be extremely hard to break down, but we had weapons. Our Morale was trending down from its unnatural high, but it would still be decent by then. If we got two points from the Bournemouth and Everton games and progressed in the cup, I would be delighted. FA Cup semi final! We would be so, so close...

Progress in the cup came with a downside, though. The West Ham match would be postponed, creating a cluster of matches. I wrote out the fixtures we would have if we got to the FA Cup final. 4 intense games in 12 days: West Ham away, Fulham (again), Newcastle and Man United at home. Individually, they didn't look like a big deal. Collectively? In such a short space of time? Not good.

To make matters worse, the Man United match would be just before the FA Cup final.

I shook my head. We would have to bomb that one. What choice would I have? Winning the FA Cup would take Chester into Europe. It would help me keep the players I wanted to keep. Yeah, there was more money in the Premier League, but my theory was we could win the cup and still have enough capacity to stay in the Prem.

If we rested key players against Man United, that meant we would go hard in the previous match. Which was against Newcastle United. Heh, sorry Sebastian Weaver. I'm gonna need another three points from your boys.

So that run of games would be: go hard against West Ham, tank against Fulham, hard against Newcastle, tank against Man U, win the cup final.

Four to six points from four matches? It was cutting it fine, wasn't it?

Easy solution: we had to beat Bournemouth in the first game after the international break. I had assumed we would play counter-attacking, that I would pick a fast team with high Decisions to overwhelm their fast team with low Decisions. But maybe if I watched enough video, I would see something that would give us more control.

I loaded my iPad with footage, hopped on a treadmill, and studied.

***

Emma was 20 weeks pergunent, which meant it was time to get the mid-pregnancy ultrasound and - if we wanted - to find out whether our child would be rogue, wizard, or warrior.

Waiting for the scan was hell. This next half hour could change both our lives forever.

Watching the scan actually happen was like being on the touchline for a penalty shoot out. The woman told us this was the best moment in the pregnancy and we should enjoy it. I resolved to never again tell a player to go out into a competitive match and 'just enjoy it'. What was there to like? The sonographer was scanning for 11 known conditions, one for every position in a football team. A goalie's inability to assess personal risk, a centre back's clumsiness, or even a top midfielder's ability to see behind them. Could a baby be born literally with eyes in the back of its head?

And what if my child inherited the curse? It would be great for the continuation story but horrible for his or her happiness. I was scanning the face of the sonographer every bit as hard as she was scanning Emma's belly bulge. As I focused on her jaw, I could have sworn she said, "Your first child will be a masculine child."

That bewildering thought was banished when I realised Emmas was crying. Tears of happiness, this time. "Babes, look."

"What?"

"There he is."

"Where?" The scan was, in my opinion, inconclusive. Black background, silver dots. Typical that we get the sonographer who was into pointillism. "Blobs within blobs. The world's first Relationist baby."

The medical professional eyed me, worried. Emma said, "Nothing weird. It's a football thing."

"Wait," I said, leaning forward. "I see a shape. A tiny hand! He's sticking two fingers up at us. Babes, who taught him that?" I blinked. "Wait... him? He?"

Emma wiped the tears away, laughed, cried some more.

A boy. The boy Best. I was overcome with joy and dread so I retreated into jokes. "So that's why you're called a sonographer! I'm guessing there must be an equal number of daughtographers." I pointed to the screen. "Does it say if he's a midfielder or what?" The woman smiled, but continued to fuss with her machine, which looked like a small cockpit. "Do we know his mana? Hit points? Can you please count the babies? Like, really make sure."

"There's definitely one, I can tell you that. Okay, I think we're all done."

"All done?" I said, amazed. We had only just started.

"Do you want a picture of your baby?"

"What, like for our fridge? That's reserved for my artwork and poetry, isn't it, babes? Ow! I mean, yes. Yes, please. So, like, everything's good? Everything's good and it's a boy and everything's going to be good?"

"At the moment, everything looks good."

The relief was all-consuming; it felt like slipping into a warm bath.

I became aware that Emma was asking a question. "Do you have any advice for us?"

The sonographer was still clicking on her little trackpad thing. "Yes. Stop assuming right backs can play wing back or right midfield. It's three completely different skill sets."

I wasn't really listening, because I was a couple of years in the future. The wildflower meadow was in full bloom, and the boy Best and I were running around, learning about nature, collaborating on poems, doing tekkers on the lawn. What would he be? A mystery winger like his old man? Kids didn't get a profile or appear in the curse database until they were 5 years old, in most cases.

What if my son was PA 1 but really, desperately wanted to be a footballer? He would have some half-decent Attributes, right? Over the course of two decades I could use God Save the King to increase four of them to 20 and beyond. How long would it take to get him to PA 200 doing that? I would have to do the maths but let's say he would be PA 200 aged 24, at which point I would make him take a six-month break from football. As those Attributes wasted away there would be spare capacity to let the others grow, and he would turn into a good player by the age of 26 and a great one by 30. Just like his pops!

Which was me!

"I have one question."

The sonographer eyed me. "Yes?"

"I know it's a fancy clinic and all that, but am I allowed to run down the corridor and do a knee slide?"

***

With our Morale at infinity, Emma and I flew to The Rock to have a mini break and to watch Gibraltar's latest match. That squad was really improving! 

It had been a long old slog but the average age was a couple of years younger than when I became the shadowy power behind the throne, and the average CA had risen by about 5 points. Down at the bottom of the European national league table, that sort of improvement was meaningful.

Over dinner, Emma talked with Mateo and Rachel, and over breakfast she talked to Emiliano, Nasa, Tomzilla, Rainman, Glenn Ryder, and all our friends who were in Gib. Emma chatted while I mentally reassigned everyone to new clubs and asked to hold the ultrasound picture again.

And at long last, I bought the final GSTQ perk.

XP balance: 476

This final iteration of the perk was perfect for a striker like Kit Hodges. It was subtitled 'Going for Goal' and allowed me to increase one of the following Attributes: Anticipation; Crossing; Decisions; Long Shots; Off the Ball; Set Pieces; Teamwork.

There were interesting use cases for most of those, but for Kit there was a clear winner: Off the Ball. By increasing that, Kit would be better able to find space in the opposition penalty area, would be in the right place to get shots away, and would generally be a better spearhead, especially for a team that had such a creative midfield as ours.

I sent Kit the boost; her PA rose by 2.

She had come to pre-season as CA 112, PA 123.

Now after receiving four boosts in one season she was 130/130 and was a proper, high-quality backup striker to a team with aspirations to dominate Europe.

Yeah, every single minute of grinding had been worth it. I smiled, quietly satisfied, and returned to the question of how to turn my useless hack of a son into the best player in the world.

"Babes?"

I looked up. Ten people were looking at me like I was crazy. "What?" I said. For some reason, nine footballers and my gorgeous wife burst out laughing. "What?" I demanded.

"Nothing," said Ems. "You weren't talking to yourself. Don't worry about it."

"What did I say?"

Tomzilla took pity on me. "You said, 'it would be easier if he was a goalkeeper'."

I half-laughed at myself, but only half. "Well... it would."

***

The international break ended, and it could not have gone any better. Peter Bauer had picked up two caps - Klopp loved him! - as had Helge, Cole, Lewis, Magnus and Jimmy. Guys who were established as first-choice players (Youngster, Leo, Foquita) continued to be first-choice.

Roddy had played one match for the Regress-approved managerial non-entity the Welsh FA had rustled up, and as the Welsh trudged off the pitch with their second heavy defeat in two games, I realised that I had once again been too harsh on an older, wiser person. Gwen from the FAW was on my side! She had chosen a rando expecting - maybe even hoping - to lose these meaningless matches so that she could reinstate me with no pushback! 

I had to give her props - she had played the shitty hand I had dealt her very well. I resolved to be kinder to her, to never again put her under any stress. Or failing that, I would just make Wales win loads of matches and have a proper tilt at the World Cup. Nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ better than a quarter-final penalty shoot-out win over Belgium.

***

Over the Easter weekend, more truckloads of footballers arrived in Chester. More Welsh kids, more Brazilian men. Chelli made me laugh by bringing a crappy player that DOVE had never even seen.

"The hell is this?" I said. "Have you gone rogue, mate?"

Chelli pretended to be puzzled. "You told me you wanted a Silva! So here one is!" When he saw my exasperated reaction, he laughed himself into hiccups.

"Mate," I complained. "Plane tickets, hotel rooms, food. This is a very expensive joke."

He shrugged. "He's a family friend of my girlfriend so I get good credit for giving him a holiday, and as you always say, one good joke is worth a plane ticket."

"I've never said that."

"You have. I remember very well."

***

Doing all that scouting meant missing another of the women's matches. They were down in London again, this time playing Spurs. It turned out to be a wild game, a thriller. 3-3, with Kit Hodges scoring a late equaliser. I couldn't remember the God Save the Whomever perks having such an immediate payoff before, but I was grateful for this one. We had slipped to third in the table but our remaining fixtures were pretty easy. Champions League football next season was not quite in the bag, but we were like a snooker ball blocking the mouth of a pocket. All it needed was one tiny little nudge...

I was starting to think that maybe I could prise myself even further away from the women's team. Of course I would still do the squad building and monitor the training, and if they were playing at home I might as well pop to Bumpers and inject all the free XP into my veins, but going up and down the country every Sunday to hit a few perk buttons at the right time? Ain't nobody got time for that.

***

Easter Monday, April 2

English Premier League Match 31 of 38: Chester vs Bournemouth

From the ABOB chat server.

BrokenGround

Lads, get your trigger fingers warmed up. Max Best is on the prowl! I think something big's gonna go down today. He's going round the Deva laughing and joking. I don't know the right word to describe his vibe. Swaggerful.

I asked him what he was so upbeat about. He said, 'The sun's shining, Dylan!'

'It's overcast and miserable.'

'Hahaha, silly Dylan. They say April is the cruelest month. You know who says that? Spurs fans. West Ham fans.'

'Is it April already? Jesus.'

'March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, mate. Listen, hear that?' (There's just the normal background noise of thousands of people coming into the stadium.) 'That's the sound of Little Baby Bob Dylan approaching. Any minute now!'

'It's the best part of a month.'

'I have a little countdown clock in my head that says 2.4 weeks.'

By the end of the month I'll be a dad; I still can't get my head around it and time is running out. 'Don't you need to bother the referees or some poor English lad that's annoyed you in some way?'

'Hahaha! Not today, mate. The ref's class, Bournemouth are class. No rancour, no bitterness. It's gonna be a hell of a game. Pure thrill ride. Strap in your seatbelts! Actually, that's a good gimmick, isn't it? We should do a video about us installing seatbelts next time it's gonna be an exciting game like this one. And then, haha, we'll make a big deal of removing the belts because we're playing Arsenal next and that match will be a pure snoozefest. Dylan, you're really good at this marketing stuff! You should come to our brainstorming sessions to help out.' He gives me a friendly tap. 'Hey, did Angel ever tell you why she shaved her head?'

'I don't think there was a reason, Max. She saw you melts and just did it. I don't think she gave it a great deal of thought, to be honest. Maybe she wanted to be part of something. I should get back to work; my boss is a terror.'

'Work? Security? It's Bournemouth! They've got the friendliest fans in the Prem. They're as good as gold. I was thinking about going to chat with some of them.'

Panic stations! 'Er, no. No no no. That's a bad idea. Go to the PetPride, talk to the new staff. Or check your tactics maybe. You don't want to be doing your 4-1-4-1 every week or you'll lose your rep as an innovator.'

'We're doing something we almost never do, Dyl. Gonna form my players into a fist and shove it down their gobs. Come on! Hey? Let's have it! Hahaha yeah, doesn't count as megabrain, I don't think, but whatevs. Bournemouth's manager is playing checkers, people think I'm playing chess, but I'm actually playing hopscotch. It's just that I'm doing it so well that even the gods are trembling in their mountains.'

I had to laugh. 'You talk such a stream of shite! You're gonna win and score loads of goals today. I get it. Can you clear off?'

DubaiGuy

Both teams to score. Max Best to score. More than 2.5 goals in the game. This feels very exciting!

BrokenGround

You should feel what it's like in the stadium! It's absolutely buzzing. Optimism is through the roof!

***

I took Dylan's advice and popped into the PetPride to give a boost to our workers and the early bird fans.

Work had been continuing at a frantic pace and now two-thirds of the hospitality boxes were open and thousands more seats had been added. Today's attendance would be 17,400, and every one of those ticket holders was in for a treat. I hoped there would be some kids attending for the first time because I could easily imagine this turning into a 4-2 or a 6-3 or any scoreline you care to mention.

I warmed up with the lads, noting that Bournemouth had an average CA of 156, optimised for speed and goals. They were a team that pressed you into mistakes and hit you on the counter.

They were really good at it and had swatted us aside earlier in the season. That 2-0 defeat came in December, but this time, we were more prepared in every way. First, we were just better. Our players had added CA, and our January signings had moved the needle far more than Bournemouth's had. To be fair they were always recruiting a couple of years in advance, getting new blood in the door long before they were forced to sell their star men.

We also had home advantage, and with 16,200 pumped-up fans cheering us on, home advantage meant more than ever. Our Facilities Score was higher, if that had any bearing on matches. And I had a perk that only activated in April. It was called April Fuels and it added up to two points of Condition per player during a match. All my guys had to do was take on some water or paste. That happened naturally at half time and several other times during the match, like during injury breaks, so I didn't even need to think about making sure it triggered. 2 bonus points of Condition didn't make a huge difference but it meant players could last just a little bit longer, which was valuable against a hard-running team like Bournemouth.

There was another major difference between today's match and the one in December: our Morale. It had decayed over the international break as the euphoria of the City win faded away. But it had settled at a huge number for a team that was in the bottom three: 4.8.

The number was boosted by the sky-high Morale of certain players. Peter Bauer was still buzzing from being selected for his country. Youngster was thrilled that I had plucked some Ghanaian lads out of obscurity. And Magnus Evergreen was on Cloud Nine about something.

Maybe he knew, somehow, that his ceiling wasn't CA 154.

Maybe he knew that he had gone green and was now CA 155.

Helge was 150, Wibbers 160. The squad was fucking lit!

Everyone was in a great mood, the tactics were bold, and we had advantages we had never had before.

"Someone's gonna get smashed," I proclaimed, out of nowhere, which made the lads nearest me yell and whoop.

***

From The Pascal Bochum Story.

"Lads, shut the fuck up!" Max was grinning, prowling. I hadn't seen him like this for a very long time. The Man City win had rekindled his fire, and the Nando's Cup victory and our gleaming trophy had turned the fire into a furnace. "My second-favourite movie is Titanic, because I'm on top of the world!" He spread his arms and said, "Whoo!"

Youngster said, "Mr. Best, that is not the line. You are the king of the world."

"What? No, I'm pretty sure I'm right. We talking about the same movie? Titanic. It's about ships, not kings. I worry about you sometimes, bro. All right, here's the deal. We're gonna counter Bournemouth's counters by being something they've never encountered before. God, that was good. I could bang a French woman in a car!"

"Mr. Best, that is not how the scene goes!"

Max had gone to the tactics board. "4-3-3, baby! Whoo! Not just any old bog-standard modern crap with wide forwards. No, sir. We've got three strikers. Three fucking strikers, boys. Central. Deadly. Foquita, Gabby, Jari. We're gonna fucking bully the centre backs. They will be scrambling to deal with you, lads, and we'll get free kicks by the bucketload. That's when we load the box with our Helges, our Edgars, our German national team centre backs. Max smash! Max smash!" 

He thumped himself on the chest a dozen times, then laughed.

"So we're gonna take them to Poundland, which by the way is where they bought most of their haircuts. What about their threat on transitions? We've got Youngster and Santi patrolling midfield, and I'm gonna sit behind them. Sort of a midfield sweeper, lads. Absolutely no fucker is gonna outpace me or outsmart me. I'm gonna mop up better than the poor sod who has to clean the dressing room after Pascal's youth teamers have fucked it up."

I winced, but the lads to my side nudged me good-naturedly.

"But just remember," said Max, lifting one finger.

At that moment, both Dylan and Brick burst into the dressing room. "Max!" called Dylan, urgently. Max went to the door and they had a whispered, urgent conversation.

It seemed to me that all the life drained out of the gaffer. Certainly the colour drained from his face. I hadn't heard any of what was discussed, but I heard Brick say, "I'll bring the car to the side." He rushed out.

Max stepped towards the door, but Dylan stopped him. "Your boots, mate."

The ghost of Max looked down and seemed surprised to find he was wearing a full football kit. He went to his spot on the bench, slipped off this boots, and eased into his sneakers. He grabbed his jacket and his kit bag. Finally, Sandra voiced the question we all wanted to ask. "Boss, what's happening?"

He put a hand on his forehead, took a couple of seconds to compose himself, then said, "I'm sorry, everyone, but I have to go. My mum has gone missing."

...

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