DoF 2.2 - The Seven Year Sitch [T3] (Patreon)

2.

Thursday, July 19, 2029

Consciousness bubbled like a lava lamp, up and down, weaker and stronger.

Memories slid past like a slideshow.

Which images were dreams, which were reality? Kicking a ball good? Reality. Flirting with a super cute Lithuanian flight attendant? One million percent dream.

I opened my eyes, took in my surroundings, felt safe. My back was warm and healed after taking a minor battering in Lithuania. The tiredness in my legs had abated. The drool around my chin was contentment in liquid form.

Emma was already up. Where was she? Was she okay? I activated a new module I had unlocked called Dad Mode. Among other functions, such as becoming inordinately interested in plumbing, using spirit levels, and rolling under cars while holding a wrench, it allowed me to get out of bed even though I was tired.

It had cost me zero experience points and apparently came free with the ultrasound photo of my unborn baby. They don't put that detail on the National Health Service website.

I stumbled downstairs, towards the kitchen, where I heard quiet voices.

I blinked. Emma was there. She was with another man! Not only another man, but one of my former employees! Emma smiled at me. "Babes, do you want to put some clothes on?"

"Max Best is always exactly as dressed as Max Best wishes to be," I proclaimed.

"We've got company."

I squinted. The interloper was all too familiar. He had been at Chester Football Club the morning I had rocked up as its new Director of Football. In those days, he had been the assistant manager and genetically, he was half-dinosaur. I said, "It's nothing Vimsy has never seen before."

Vimsy, now the manager at ninth-tier Tempsford FC, was a guy filling his trophy cabinet almost as fast as early stage Max Best. He looked me up and down. "Can't say I've ever seen abs like that before. You been working out, gaffer? Are you taller?"

This summer, after a couple of weeks of very minor drinking and eating deliciously empty calories, my fitness had returned faster than at any time since my murder. After just a few days of training, I had felt strong, fast, and springy, and every day the process seemed to accelerate. I stretched my arms wide and curled my biceps. "Is this the perfect specimen of a man?"

Emma said, "Does the specimen want a cup of tea?"

I rushed to her side and guided her to a stool. "Vimsy will brew up, babes. Why are you on your feeeeet? Do you remember when you went full purple? Never go full purple." I looked at Vimsy. "She's nesting. Keeps cleaning everything, keeps over-exerting herself. What's the point being rich and having help if you're married to an actual nutjob? I'm trying to get military-grade drones to follow her around because she has absolutely lost the plot. Total head loss."

Vimsy was smiling at us. Now that he was the main man at his football club, now that he had got the hang of it, he was relaxed, loose-limbed, less frantic, less itchy. I reckoned he would still be happy to scream at his players when needed, but these days such interventions would be much more targeted, much more planned. "Which kettle should I use, Max? There are so many."

I laughed, walked round the island, and embraced him. After slapping him on the back seven times, I said, "You don't make the teas around here, gaffer. You're a guest." I paused. "I forgot what's going on."

Emma said, "We're having a lovely breakfast with Vimsy after which we're going to talk about what he needs for Tempsford in a higher division."

Vimsy nodded. "Bit of planning, Max, but to be honest, there's nothing much to say. We can go as we are, if you ask me. We've organised the ground upgrades we need for the higher league and the squad is sound. We can go again with what we've got."

"Er, yeah," I said. "Fuck that. I'm going Full Max. Soz not soz."

Vimsy smiled and shook his head. "I had a hunch you'd say something like that."

I noted that the island was strewn with breakfasty stuff. Croissants, hams, hummuses. There was a cheddar bomb, which is a cheese shaped like a grenade. "Ems," I complained. "Have you been out this morning? Squirreling?"

Her phone pinged. "Get dressed, babes. The surprise is nearly here."

I nodded, sagely. "Yeah. The surprise. The surprise that I know about."

Emma smiled. "Shower, check for drool, get dressed." She popped a piece of a cheddar-flavoured hand grenade into her mouth. "You've got a big day ahead of you."

***

In the shower, clarity returned. Today would be a big day indeed. England's women would play the Netherlands in the Euro 2029 quarter-final. Transfers and new contracts would be arranged. Chester's men's squad would be ravaged, but some of the remaining players would get massive pay rises. I would reinforce the foundation of the Chester FC project, the course of multiple football clubs would be inexorably set, not only for the next two years, but the next seven.

I sat on the bed and pulled my socks on - yes, generational talents do that too - and spotted a random Post-It note I had stuck on the wall. I went to it and plucked it down. On it, I had simply written the number 7.

Today was the seventh anniversary of the day I got the curse. 2,557 days carrying this particular baby.

As I pulled on a nice hoodie, I paused and looked in the mirror. I saw Max Best, 29, very close to being regarded as a top-ten football manager in the English leagues. My hair was back to its beautiful best and the slight sunken quality my eyes had developed during our relegation battle was a thing of the past. I was not taller, though I understood why Vimsy might have thought that. I'd had a physio session with Nicole Gimenez and her latest apprentice, and together they had loosened my joints, relaxed my muscles, got rid of some of my tension. My body was organised and coherent and every part preened on top of the one below it, while supporting and working with the one above. I was lithe, powerful, fast, dynamic. No more need to choose between skill builds and stamina builds. Max 7.0 had it all.

Meanwhile, poor Emma's body was falling apart. She had swollen feet, back pain, hip and groin pain, bumpache. She kept rubbing her belly saying, "Please hurry up. Please please please." She got colds, she got emotional, she got fractious. The thought that she might go overdue caused her to burst into tears, and me being sexier than ever was perhaps not helping...

I scrunched up the sticky note and threw it unerringly into a bin. "Good day for a mid-life crisis," I said to the mirror. The manager of everyone's second-favourite team stared back, and you'll never guess what the cheeky little weirdo did.

He winked.

***

I floated downstairs and hugged Vimsy again, saying, "Vimseeehhhhhh!" Then I went to my wife and wrapped my arms around her, quietly enjoying the moment.

Emma leaned into me, feeling the contact, until her phone pinged. "You've got... two minutes, babes."

"Shit!" I said, getting into action mode. How long had I been in the stupid shower? "Er... okay. Vimsy, are you ready for some serious talk? Big chats? Decisiveness on a scale you've never before experienced?"

He was spreading jam on some artisanal bread. "Yep," he said, with slightly less energy than I thought the situation warranted.

"Here's the deal, yo," I said, as I mentally pulled up the Tempsford FC squad list. "You were in tier 10, where your promotion rivals had an average Current Ability of about 10. I was sending just over two grand a week to help make sure you crushed, and that money meant you had an average CA of 20."

"Double what was needed," said Emma.

"That's right," I said. "Six of the first-team squad were good, five were total randos. You made it work. This season you're in tier 9. Some teams will have a CA of 15. Suddenly, 20 doesn't look quite so dominant, and those five randos are going to be a nightmare. So guess what? No more randos. You're gonna have a starting eleven of proper players."

"Oh!" said Vimsy, eyes widening. He gave that some thought. "Max, honestly, we don't need to go mad. We played some of the teams we will face and we were already better than them. One extra player is enough - we don't need four."

"Bzzz," I said, harshly. "That's why you're just a football manager and I'm a megabrain. This is the last season that Tempsford will be eligible to play in the FA Vase trophy. It's tier nine and lower. The final's at Wembley, unless there's a Dua Lipa concert. They do a double-header with the FA Trophy, the one Henri won. I want to win the Vase, because that's new for me, I want to win the league, and I'm not sending money to West Didsbury this season and I've got nothing better to do with it."

Vimsy looked surprised. "Why not? I thought that was your baby."

"Baby's my baby! But West gets TV money now. I had a decision to make. Do I take that money and spend it all on wages? I decided not to. We're in the league, we get a vote, we're not getting relegated. So why stress? West can go back to being a fun club where the fans have a laugh and there isn't this constant stress of going up up up. It's Vibes FC again, but still with a social mission. Eleven of the first team squad are Exit Triallists, Vimsy. Eleven!"

Vimsy said, "Did you go again this year or have you got enough of them sloshing around?"

"I'll go every year that I'm able," I said, seriously. "I got nine lads this time round, nine good ones, that I distributed across a bunch of clubs. I sent the best two to West, because I'll get money when we sell them. Cynical I know, but if there's a profit we can keep doing it. That pair are really good. Championship mid-table goalie, Championship mid-table striker. That's ten million quid there. I'd go to the Trials even if I didn't get anything out of it, but I kind of love the idea that we could have a League Two team that plays beautiful football that is made up entirely of lads other clubs binned off, and I will put the profits to good use. For three days' work, it's a great return on investment."

"Three days for you," said Emma, "three years for some coaches."

"Boo hoo!" I said, wringing my eyes. "Max made me train a good player! Boo hoo!"

"Can you punch my husband in the dick, please?"

"And we've got two promising lads from Ghana on the minimum we're allowed to pay to get a work permit. The wage to talent ratio at West Didsbury is beyond belief! The only big earner is Marcus Wainwright. I tried to get him to go to Alty to fuck up Man City but he doesn't want another slog, which is fair enough. So yeah, no, West are the Poundland Chester and they don't need more money from me. What would they do with it, buy more bats? Nah, I've got money for Tempsford, don't worry."

Emma glanced at her phone, eased off the bar stool with a grunt, and shuffled towards the front entrance. "Want to do it like you said, babes?"

"Yes, please."

"Kay."

I locked eyes with Vimsy, who was getting nervous. He gave me a wobbly smile. "What have you done?"

"What haven't I done? I've already done twenty interviews; got grilled like a vegan hotdog. I've spent weeks doing transfer prep, handing out pay rises, talking to Henri about the budget. I've drowned in spreadsheets, mate. I've had dreams about sexy Lithuanian spreadsheet experts. I've had nightmares about moving a column only for it to disappear forever, with my old Maths teacher looming over me tutting and going, 'typical!'"

Vimsy said, casually, "Are you still doing your therapy?" There was a knock on the wall behind us. Vimsy sat up, wondering who had arrived.

I leaned back, smiling complacently. "I decided Tempsford needed a serious goalkeeper upgrade." In strode Tony Hetherington, a striker. "Jesus Christ," I muttered.

"Tony!" cried Vimsy, and they did hugs and backslaps and stuff.

Journeyman striker Tony Hetherington had been in the squad I had inherited at Chester and he had done a solid job for the team. These days he was 32, and was maxed out on his PA of 44. He had never been a top talent, but in tier nine he would be the devil himself. He came around the island to give me some fuss, too.

"Yeah yeah yeah," I said, pushing him away like you might do with an overexcited puppy. "Vimsy?" I said, leaning back, smiling complacently. "In addition to getting you the best striker in any tier nine anywhere in the world, I decided you needed a serious goalkeeper upgrade." I sat up and crossed my fingers, hoping Emma would send the right person this time.

She did. In came Ben Cavanagh, 32 years old, another former Chester starter. Ben was also capped, but his PA was 67. He was so amazingly overpowered for the level that it bordered on vandalism. There was a chance, a vanishingly small chance but not zero, that Tempsford would concede zero goals across their 46-match season.

Hugs, laughs, jokes, manly backslaps. Vimsy was in ecstasy. The old gang, back together!

"Yeah yeah yeah," I said, as I pushed the newest overexcited puppy away. "You ain't seen nothing yet." I leaned back, complacently. "Vimsy? I decided that you need tactical support. Not for this season, but for the future. So I've got you someone to be your assistant manager. He can still play a bit and he's doing his badges. Someone for you to bounce ideas off, to be a second pair of eyes."

Chester FC's legendary former captain Glenn Ryder, CA 54, strode into the room, tall, smiling. "Someone to be your Vimsy, in fact."

While the guys were slapping each other on the back, Emma slipped into the room and refilled two of the kettles. I went to the Tempsford tactics screen and assembled their best possible starting eleven, featuring Vimsy's beloved 4-4-2. With the former Chester guys and a few other new bodies, Tempsford would start the season with an average CA of 38.3. Their closest rivals would be 16 or 17, tops.

Ben Cavanagh eyed me. "You didn't tell me they were coming, too, boss. You're not fucking around, are you?"

I eyed him, then moved onto the others. They felt my intensity brewing and settled. I said, "Lads, do what I say and Tempsford FC will overtake Manchester City within the next five years."

Vimsy, Ben, Glenn, and Tony tried to work out if I was joking. Vimsy said, "Emma, has he been talking like this to you?"

"About Tempsford? No. I just saw him on the sofa sending out texts and cackling. What, is it not possible to overtake City? Chester did it."

Vimsy got a pleading look about him. "City have a 60,000-seater stadium! Tempsford? This summer we've got to put a fence around the pitch, give fans a hard place to stand on at least three sides of the ground, and buy a lock for the gate. A lock for the gate, Emma! We can't overtake City."

She sniffed. "Not with that attitude!"

I laughed and went to give her a megacuddle. Then I turned towards the doubters, rose to my full height, to my full magnificence, and said, "I have been in the football industry for seven years. I have achieved great things, amazing things. I've rewritten the history books." I sent out a menacing blast of ice-cold terror. "That was nothing." My tone and my delivery worked on Ben, at least - he froze. In a soft voice dripping with eldritch energy, I added, "The next seven years will be the most extraordinary of all. The past was dazzling, the future will stupefy." I stabbed my finger down onto the kitchen island. "I run this country now."

For three seconds, the footballers had maximum Morale; I could have asked them to run through a wall. Emma wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled her head into my side. "I'd be more likely to believe you, babes, if you were able to fry an egg."

Tony snorted. "What?"

Emma looked up at me with saucer eyes. "Tuesday night, he's off in Lithuania breaking hearts, flirting with stewardesses."

"Whoa," I said. "That's not accurate. They like to be called flight attendants."

Ems bumped me with her hips, winced, and continued her tale. Bear in mind the phrase 'unreliable narrator'. "So he's out there smashing up the Lithuanian champions - I won't even try to pronounce the name of the club - then I get a text. He's on the plane, home at whatever o'clock. I go to bed, try to get some sleep. The unpregnant are always telling me to sleep now while I still can."

"Emma has thoughts about the unpregnant."

"I wake up, hear some noise. It's Max in the kitchen. He's cooking, is he? I'm suddenly insanely peckish, so I float down the stairs, serenely, like a princess on her wedding day, not gripping the bannister for dear life."

"Course not," smiled Glenn, chivalrous as ever.

"I sneak in, because contrary to what some might say, I do not lumber around like a wounded hippopotamus. And I see Max, the man who would be king, holding a pan. There's an egg in it."

"Not cracked!" said Tony. "He's just put an egg in the pan, a whole egg!"

"He cracked the egg," said Emma. "Cracked it, he's jiggling it about, got a dozy look on his face, jiggle jiggle jiggle, he's so dog tired he hasn't even turned the heat on."

Four of the most disloyal people I'd ever met snorted and laughed and jeered. "Excuse me," I said, regally. "Sometimes a man just wants a cold egg."

Emma squeezed me, then said, "I'm brewing up. Who wants a cuppa?"

***

The lads tucked into the breakfast spread. Last season, I had been sending just over two grand a week to Tempsford to guarantee promotion. This season would cost over six grand a week. I had committed to sending just over three hundred and twenty thousand pounds in the next twelve months, which was quite a beefy amount, but I had given Youngster such a massive pay rise that my slice of his income was more than I was sending down south.

And above all, the investment was worth it, because when it was in League Two, Tempsford FC would be worth ten to twenty million quid, and running it was keeping me in contact with Tony Long, the owner of Temps Perdu, the medical company I was hoping would save my mother. And nought point three million was a drop in the ocean compared to what I would get if Saltney Town made it into the Champions League again.

Vimsy plopped a grape in his mouth and said, "So boss, how did you choose your Saltney lineup this time? I mean, the players you sent on loan from Chester. They weren't the names I expected."

"We can send three players across," I said, "starting with me. Some people were surprised, like they thought I would put Chester first this time. Er, no. I can earn more in a few weeks at Saltney than in years and years of toiling for Chester."

Emma said, "This toiling you speak of. Didn't you give yourself a pay rise at Chester and then decided it wasn't enough so you gave yourself another one?"

I bit into an apple slice. "That doesn't ring a bell. Proportionately, I got one of the lowest rises in the entire squad. Okay, so I loaned myself to Saltney for the Champions League qualifiers. We've done the first round, babes, so there's three more rounds."

"I know! You keep telling me."

"You keep forgetting and you keep asking! Lads, not sure if you were keeping abreast of every little transfer, but last season I loaned four top Northern Powerhouse prospects from Saltney to Chester. They won the Youth Cup, bosh, send them back home. So Charlie Cullen and Cody Williams, to name but two, are in the Saltney squad. Cody's turning into a really good keeper but he's nowhere near the levels needed, not yet, so I brought Marek over to play in goal."

Ben said, "He's staying, then, is he? I heard talk he might move to the Championship."

"I had a big chat with him, talked it over, and yeah, he's happy to stay at Chester another year. Owen will be first choice but with these eight games for Saltney Marek's season's off to a great start, then he'll get a handful of matches for Chester in the Prem, and probably a few in the Europa League and the cups. He's more than good enough for the Europa League. And he loves the vibe at Chester, loves being part of it, loves the training."

Ben knew all about goalie training at Chester. "It's so good, Max. It's so good."

"Third of the three loanees: Ruud Berkenbosch. Out injured all last season, raring to go. I gave him the first 45 minutes in the first two games and he was in heaven. The first two minutes of the first leg, he was just running around with a big grin on his face. He's getting minutes to build his fitness and confidence. These qualifiers are not that tough for him, to be honest, so it's really the perfect start. Otherwise he would be playing in friendlies like the other lads, and it's not the same.

"The three of us will miss the Community Shield, Man U, and Coventry, and we'll all be back for Spurs, babies permitting. Ruud will be sharp by that Spurs game. We're going to lose players in the transfer window so he's gonna be key to how we get on this season. And hey, when you're playing high-stakes Champions League qualifiers, it's always good to have a goalscorer in your team. Colin Beckton's still sharp but he's an old man. If I didn't keep him busy, he'd be on his sofa watching AI slop Bruce Lee videos all day."

Vimsy frowned. "Wait... Those are AI?"

Ben said, "Mate..." But then he cracked up; Vimsy was joshing. "Ah, you got me! Fair play."

I closed one eye while I tried to remember the other decisions I had made when it came to Saltney Town. "Not sure if you remember Ash, the left winger who used to get injured all the time? That's behind him, thanks to me, and he's gone to Alty to help them humiliate City. Lucas Hussein? Left back? He's gone to the Nomads."

"The Brig's team," said Emma, because nobody remembered 'Nomads' and everyone remembered 'The Brig's Team'.

Tony said, "Saltney got two guys from Stoke, too. Seemed to cause a bit of a fuss."

"Right," I said. "I had the idea that Charlie Dugdale would be a good fit for us. Attacking midfielder who can play left or central, who has good technique, passing, crossing, and knows Max Best football? Great for us, and for him it's a chance to play in the Champions League. Only the qualifiers, but still. Ditto with Bobby Ross. He's a Welsh centre back, and he'll be helping a Welsh team. They'll only miss the very start of Stoke's season, and Stoke have a fairly big squad, so it's not controversial at all, but their manager turned it into a big drama. Well, you know I don't like drama, and fortunately the drama came to an abrupt halt when he was sacked."

Emma said, "Max Best disavows all knowledge of how that happened."

"All I know is that someone brought a huge bin to Stoke's training ground and the manager hopped right in."

Ben said, "Sandra Lane to Stoke?"

"Nah," I said. "She's on big money now. They would have to pay, like, five million quid in compensation. I call it the anti-Man City clause. City won't be able to poach her away, I don't think. They need the transfer fees that they're getting to pay the fines they're getting. Did you know Chester got five million quid out of it? God, it's amazing. City have exploded and there are banknotes showering down all over football. Back to Saltney. We had a good right back on loan from Wrexham last season, and he has joined permanently on a free transfer. I decided to leave Toquinho there one more season. I wanted to move Tom Westwood and Omari Naysmith out, but they love it so much they wanted to stay another year. I said fine, one more year. Who have I forgotten?"

"Adam," said Emma.

"Right, yes! Adam Summerhays and Alfie Clitheroe had good loans at Tranmere, but they wouldn't have developed much more by staying in League One, so I sold both of those from Chester to Saltney. A million for the pair." I wiped my palms against each other to indicate that a business deal had been concluded. "Job's a good 'un. Two lads saved from the Exit Trials, lots of patient coaching, very careful loans, now they're gonna play Champions League football. I am buzzing about it."

Glenn said, "So how's the team? Can you go all the way through qualifying again?"

"On Tuesday night, DOVE rated our strength at 128.5. We need to be 130 to stand a chance, so we're basically there. It depends who we draw in the final round, but I'm not scared of anyone and we still have time to add a player or two. When we actually hit the league phase it will be easier to sign top players who want to put themselves in the shop window. An Italian or French goalie will come if he's guaranteed eight Champions League games, right? But yeah, I'm confident we will get through. We're defensively solid and with our firepower we can absolutely blow teams away." My phone pinged. "Lads, sorry but I have to run off. Unconventional hosting, I know."

"It's fine, boss," said Glenn. "What have you got going on?"

"Emergency Premier League meeting, sell some star players, glare at some builders, fly off to Germany to sell even more players."

"Sell?" said Ben, his face falling. "Not..." The cogs in his head clicked around. "Cheb. Bayern Munich. They want him back."

I shrugged. "We'll see. That's what I'm expecting to happen, yeah. And Spurs will be there. They want Carvalho. Dortmund want Ender Ciritoglu. Loads of clubs are flush with Club World Cup money and they're gonna flash their cash around. Tonight's match has turned into an unofficial Transfer Room; I think a lot will happen."

Emma's eyes were filling up; she didn't like it when players left the nest, and her hormones were making that instinct much worse. I didn't want to leave but if I packed enough big transfers into one day, I would be able to stay in Chester almost straight through until the baby was born. "Okay, men, here's the sitch. Eat scran, drink tea, try a couple of different seating areas, make yourselves at home, but you are my Tempsford Baby Squad, all right? Stay until lunch. Your mission is to distract Emma. Don't let her sneak off to clean a toilet or rearrange a cupboard. I don't mind indulging her manias if it's you doing the spadework, do you know what I mean?"

I wrapped my wife up, kissed her, and mumbled that I would be back late.

***

I grabbed my go-bag, hopped into my Mini, and drove to Bumpers.

Tempsford FC were set for the season. They would 100% win the league and it would take a miracle for anyone to stop them going all the way to Wembley in the FA Vase.

Saltney Town were in good shape. While the loans from Chester and Stoke had caught the most attention, the squad was quite nicely fleshed out. We would be able to compete on all fronts while giving serious minutes to the young Welsh lads. A lot of them had PAs in the 120-130 range, so if we gave them minutes now, in a couple of seasons the backbone of the team would be Welsh.

West Didsbury felt like a kindergarten. Three senior players, then a whole load of 20-year-olds. The starting eleven was only just breaking CA 75, the level needed to compete in League Two, but I wasn't worried about it; those magnificent misfits would get stronger through the year. Marcus Wainwright, John Windmill, and Aff would keep them positive and working hard. Aff had told me that this would be his final season as a player. On the West squad page, the letters 'Ret' sat next to his name, in a red box.

***

At Bumpers, I pulled into my parking space. Sandra hadn't upgraded her car, I noticed, despite her mega new contract. 

Last season, she had been getting five grand a week, which by most standards was sweet, sweet money, but in the Prem was peanuts. In my first draft of this season's wages, I had simply doubled everyone's pay, and in most cases that was a good rule of thumb. But Henri had specifically asked me what I was planning with Sandra. When I told him she would get 10k, he had become concerned. "Is she not one of the three most famous female coaches in the world? Should her pay not reflect that? Emma Hayes of the US Women's National Team, and Sabrina Wigwoman, the England manager, are earning 1.3 million pounds a year."

Henri was proposing we quintuple Sandra's wages to 25 grand a week.

It was obviously a surprise that Henri was suggesting I should go much bigger on a specific cost, but he was worried about what would happen if Sandra left. She did most of the work for the first team and if she bounced, things could go to shit very quickly. When I was presented with that perspective, I agreed that she needed to be much better paid than I was proposing.

So what does someone who's suddenly, unexpectedly earning shitloads do with their money? Normally they buy a new car, right? Not Sandra. Did that mean... she didn't think she would be here for very long?

Life without Sandra Lane - what a dreary prospect. I knew I should stop tormenting her favourite football club, but I also knew that I would never stop. Comic-book stormclouds gathered over my head and the air became windy and charged with static... I could just hear her. Max, I'm leaving, I'm the new Man City manager. I shall have my revenge! Max, you dick. Max, you knob.

"Max, you're here, great!" Sandra was hurrying towards me with a big smile on her face. She beeped her car and opened the boot. She rummaged in a bag and brought out a couple of small, shiny objects. "New whistle! New stopwatch! Chester branded, look! I'm stupidly excited. Look how cute they are! Had to hide them from Jamie. He's a terror!" She closed the hatch and hovered her thumb over one of the buttons on the stopwatch. "Let's play a game! Time how long it is until you say something stupid."

"Are you happy working here?"

She clicked the stopwatch, and grinned. "Five seconds! Amazing." She put her new swag away and sighed. "Sorry to be a downer but Ender's off the pace today."

I nodded. "He's coming to Germany with me later. Gonna talk to Dortmund and some other clubs. Could be his last day at the club; it's normal he'd be distracted. Go easy on him."

She said, "I'll treat the situation with Max Best levels of tact and delicacy, yeah? Good call." She mimed lobbing a grenade somewhere over her right shoulder. She covered her ears, going 'kee-hee-hee', then she strode off, humming 'Hands Off Of My Ender, He's My Defender'.

A few seconds later, I followed and got confused about why she had turned right instead of left. Of course: the new pitches! The ultra-premium pitches in Bumpers Phase Two were now totally online and the men's and women's teams would train there from now on. I was in normal trainers, not boots, so I took a shortcut through the zen garden and emerged with a view of the men.

There were so many of them! They'd had to split into two groups, which wasn't sustainable. Sandra had complained, but reluctantly. It was her job to complain, but she also didn't want to lose any of the lads.

Banksy was back in the squad as our third-choice goalie, replacing Sticky, who had gone to the Brig's team to help them progress in the UEFA qualifiers. I'd retained Dumi for another season, Tony Herbert and Tomzilla were back, as were Nasa and Vini Addo. Dan Badford was strolling around, chatting to Emiliano Ferrari, a five-million pound signing from College 1975.

There was something overly chaotic about the session. We had so many players that they were getting in each other's way, and CA growth was slow. That was unacceptable, of course, but soon that situation would ease and our bank balance would swell. More importantly, the mood was still top, despite how manic training felt. This season would be incredible and everyone knew it.

I went back through the zen garden and entered the canteen. Half the space was covered in white tarpaulin and there were a dozen guys with drills and saws and spanners expanding and upgrading the kitchen. It all seemed to be going smoothly, but I frowned as I walked off. I wanted to give the impression that I had seen something I didn't like. Was I going to complain to their boss about something? About what? The lads would work harder, would make sure the finish was top-spec.

In the medical block, I popped my head into a men's toilet, where more work was being carried out. We were installing the latest must-have gadget in the world of men's football: urinals that analysed your pee. Creepy, sinister, and worst of all, incredibly useful. When a player relieved himself, a display would show whether he was properly hydrated, and under its cutesy facade, a bunch of hard data would get sent to the medical team, which would help them to manage a player's workload, his recovery, his rehabilitation. Y'all got any more of them marginal gains?

I went up to my office and fired up my big computer and webcam.

The executives of the Premier League were about to have a little chat with DigiWorld, who had paid billions for the rights to broadcast our matches only to find that one of the league's 'big clubs' - their phrase, not mine - were not in it. DigiWorld spoke about being concerned about viewing figures in the coming season, that actually there could be more interest in the National League. They were starting to hint that since they weren't getting what they paid for, they might look for a rebate. I didn't think they actually wanted money back, but were laying the groundwork for more access to players, to managers, to behind-the-scenes content.

I asked if I could hop on for a minute. "Yeah, thanks, sorry for interrupting the shakedown." This got a hugely positive reaction from some of my peers, especially the Greek guy at Nottingham Forest. "I personally don't give a shit if the TV deal gives Chester a hundred mill or ninety mill. I'll just work around it. But I'm high on the Premier League project right now so I'm going to stick up for them.

"This season is going to be the best one in twenty years. The last two decades have had at least 38 matches per season that didn't count. Didn't matter. To all intents and purposes, they didn't even happen. This coming season, every match will count, and will matter. There won't be any clubs or matches with an asterix next to them."

"Asterisk," said the guy from DigiWorld.

"That's what I said! Okay, viewing numbers might be down in the Middle East, I can't predict that, but they will go up everywhere else because we are back to proper sport. Fair play, integrity, authenticity. That's what the Premier League is supposed to be about. Now you can actually market it that way with a straight face. I know you won't actually mention City's rampant cheating because you don't want to piss off certain people, so I will do it for you. Every time we lose, I will go on camera with a big smile on my face and say it feels wonderful to lose to a real football team! Or Arsenal." Two of the people on the call hadn't put themselves on mute; they did so now. "But even that's another reason to be excited. The rule changes this season are awesome.

"No time-wasting. When you're subbed off, you run off the pitch or your team plays with one less player for a minute. Great change! If a goalie hangs onto the ball too long, the ref gives the oppo a corner. Amazing! Matches will flow. And wrestling at corner kicks, they're dealing with that. In the test games, there were still fancy moves, intricate blocking patterns, but it wasn't just a fucking WWE contest in the six-yard box. The sport will be a better spectacle this season. Fans who had been falling out of love with footy will come right back in.

"And I know you wanted Wrexham up to replace City, and Boro don't have the same kind of worldwide appeal, but don't worry about the league generating narratives this season. I can promise you that Chester FC are going to do things the world has never seen. Our season is going to be absolutely insane and the only place most people will be able to watch it is on DigiWorld. You will get your money's worth, mate, I guaran-fucking-tee it.

"But if you try to stick a cameraman in our dressing room, if you try to demand more interviews, if you ask for more crap that gets in the way of me focusing on what happens on the pitch, tomorrow I will start talking to these handsome gentlemen about PremFlix."

That was the nickname for a streaming service that the Premier League could theoretically offer. Take the broadcasting into our own hands and we could make even more money.

"I would be in favour of that because I fucking hate that you plaster gambling ads all over my face for 90 minutes. We don't need you, you need us. You've got the golden goose, so let it lay eggs, because in this story, the goose knows how to launch a supermarket." That felt weird, so I added, "From which it could sell its own eggs. Direct to customer, if you get me. Yeah, you get me. It landed the first time, didn't it?

"Okay, I need to go and generate some transfer content for your presenters to talk about. Let's all get back to doing what we're good at without causing anyone to, like, throw a tantrum. Kay thanks bye."

I logged off, then wrote the number 9 on a sticky note. I crossed out the 9 and went higher.

"Ten out of ten, Max." I stuck the note onto my chest. "Employee of the Day."

***

I checked the time and walked around Bumpers. The summer months got busy; we were hosting more and more youth tournaments: boys, girls, local, regional, and international. It put strain on the admin team, the Bumpers site manager, and Jonny Planter and his team, but it allowed me to see loads of top talents at once.

As I walked along the path towards the car park, I saw yet more evidence of progress. On the main all-weather pitch, the first one we had installed, the two tiny stands were gone, and had been replaced by two more substantial ones. Two hundred capacity per side, with full-length electronic advertising boards! This one little corner of our training ground was ten times more serious than the actual 'stadium' Tempsford FC played at. This new setup was perfect for the cup finals of our little competitions. It had enough space for players from the other teams, for parents, and scouts from any club I wasn't presently mad at.

The 27-seaters had been transplanted to the second pitch, along with the old, smaller electronic advertising boards, so for the locals who rented it to play after work or on a Sunday, playing there got a lot more fun. Much more like being a real player!

I passed another important upgrade. Next to the topiary T-rex, we had installed... a topiary Henri. Well, sort of. It was officially called 'Le Coq Gaulois', and was the French cockerel in a wire mesh. The hedge hadn't yet filled out enough to hide the mesh, but it still looked pretty good. There was a sign in front of it. 'This chicken symbolises Henri Lyons: it is beautiful, feathery, and you don't want to hear it in the morning'.

A thought struck me and I glanced to my right. The tree line, that had started as a few saplings in the far corner, was spreading. We had planted a few different varieties of tree, as native as possible, as drought-resistant as possible. The aim was to eventually have a dense boundary that would make us feel snug, but in the meantime our players would sense it growing, a metaphor for their own growth. What would we do ten years from now to get the same sense of progression?

I'd think of something.

I went to the pavement of Bumpers Lane to take a lingering look at the Deva Stadium. The last vestiges of its old self were gone, battered into smithereens by my insatiable appetite for growth and change. Ahead and to the left, three new stands. On the right, the best hole in the ground since the last one.

As I stared, a gleaming white coach drove past. It beeped at me. I waved at the driver. That was Sealbiscuit 3, the latest and greatest in our range. It was the brand-new men's team bus, enhanced in every way, and it was heading to the Double Charge car park where it would gorge on cheap energy in its special berth next to Seal 2, now the women's bus, and Seal 1, now used by our youth teams and to transport fans to Wembley Stadium, our second home.

Seal 3 would have driven around Fountains Roundabout, past our oldest billboard. We'd bought another couple of sites, bringing our total to three. If I stayed in the job long enough, 100% of all advertising boards in Chester would constantly be promoting the local football club. That... that was probably too much coverage.

I went to my car, confirmed with AS Roma, the Italian club, that I would be in Munich that evening, and drove away.

***

I went east, then south, along the A483, to the outskirts of Chester, and pulled into a business park not all that far from the North Wales Expressway. It was a great location, close to two major roads. Someone like Dylan, who lived in Saltney and worked in Wrexham, would use the A483 daily. Tourists wanting to miss the Chester traffic on their way to Anglesey or Snowdonia would take the Expressway. 

I had driven past this plot of land a billion times and had never given it a second thought, but now it was on the market, available to buy, and its name spoke to me. The land and the building it contained was known as The Foundation.

Instead of parking close to the main building, I chose a spot as far away as possible so that I could get a feel for the space. The noise of the motorway wasn't too bad - it was just a low hum with the occasional thrum. I ambled around, noting that the markings had been repainted relatively recently and that EV charging stations had started to sprout. This site had not been neglected by its current owners.

Satisfied that the place wasn't drenched in evil spirits or bad juju, I picked up the pace as I walked towards the main building. It had the size and general shape of an aircraft hangar, but inside was a modern commercial site. Maybe not ultra-modern, not Premier League, but Championship. Good enough!

A couple of Chester employees were outside the main building, waiting for me. One was Kian, who had been Brooke's intern for a while. He had gone off to finish his studies, and was now back full-time. He was exceptional at filling out grant forms and thus was worth millions a year, but we tried really hard to make sure he wasn't locked in 'the begging room' all day long. His boss was a certain Henri Lyons, who, to the best of my knowledge, was the first Frenchman ever to be in the middle of the Venn diagram of scoring for Chester, winning a Wembley cup final for a different club (Newport), and had read a book about a vacuum cleaner that earns experience points.

Despite being French, he was wearing zero scarves.

As I neared, he held aloft a glossy brochure. "Four point five five million pounds, nearly six hundred thousand a year in rental income. Net initial yield, twelve percent. Headquarters of a Footsie 250 international AI company. Close to thirty thousand square feet. 2 point 7 acre site, with ample parking and a solar array that produces additional income." He handed the brochure to Kian, then said, "Why are we here?"

I swept my arms across the building and its environs. "The Foundation," I said. "When Ryan Reynolds drives up to see what a real Premier League team looks like, he passes by. Baby Jasper will grow up just across the road there. A short walk beyond is the mighty Saltney Town, the scourge of Lithuania. A little further is the Deva Stadium and Bumpers Bank. This," I said, grandly, "is the gateway to Chester."

Henri pulled a face. "So?"

"200 parking spaces. We'll use this as a Park and Ride. 200 carloads of fans will park here on a Saturday, five quid each, and we'll shuttle them to the stadium in our Pups. Saltney or Chester, doesn't matter. This place will be busy. See those painted lines? That's not a parking space, that's a cash machine. Ka-ching, ka-ching."

"Max! It's office space! It is rented to real, actual companies. Are you proposing to kick them out?"

"Of course not. These guys work nine to five, Monday to Friday, right? We play matches in the evening and at the weekend. This is an advanced business technique I have invented called sweating the asset. Let's schedule a meeting in which I explain it to you." He didn't like that. I pointed to the main reception doors. "They can stay as long as they pay rent. As I have so elegantly explained, I want the parking spaces."

Henri looked fit to burst. "One does not pay four point five five million pounds for 200 parking spaces that are not actually all that close to the stadium!"

I slapped him on the chest. "One does if one is a megabrain. This is also the gateway to Sport City."

Henri's demeanour changed completely. "Ah."

I slapped him again. "Ah."

Kian said, "What's Sport City?"

I bent and glowered at him. "Minions are not supposed to look me in the eye. You are a dogsbody and I am Max Best." He looked me in the eye. "Why aren't you intimidated?"

"Brooke told me not to be."

I tutted. "And I suppose you're more scared of her than you are of me?"

Kian nodded hard. "Yup."

I laughed and wrapped my arms around him. "Someone's got his head screwed on. You'll find out about Sport City soon enough. All you need to know right now is that Manchester City got a hundred million pound fine from the Premier League, which will be distributed to the other nineteen clubs. We get one-nineteenth of that."

"Five point two million," said Kian.

"Yup. That's free money. City are also being privately sued by about 90 other football clubs and 200 players who lost out on medals and bonuses, which is fun, but what should I do with our five mill?" I answered the question by admiring The Foundation.

"You're thinking this deal makes sense because you got the money unexpectedly," he said. "That is not logical. Let's schedule a meeting where I explain a term that I recently invented called opportunity cost."

I let go of Kian and sighed. He had disappointed me. "When we buy this, we get nought point six million a year that we will try to argue counts as football income because we're sweating the car park on match days, right? And we'll put up a Chester sign and shove some computer servers in a cupboard and the cleaners will be employed directly by Chester. Do you get me? If we can get this income included in our calculations, I can spend more money on player wages than I would otherwise be allowed.

"But even if that particular micro-scam doesn't work, we still get the money. Six hundred thousand is half the youth academy, half the women's team. Forever. Do you know what I mean? The car park is genuinely useful. And if these companies do fuck off in the next five or ten years, we can move in. We need office space. And if the main one leaves, the AI company, then we've got an amazing plot of land. I'm thinking that this would be a fucking sensational site for a hotel. UEFA guys, referees, people attending courses at Saltney, Chester, or Sport City, they can all stay here. Scouts, agents, parents, partners. There will be plenty of demand. This is a great location, just off the motorway. Why the fuck wouldn't we want to own this?"

Kian, intelligent as he was, was pretty fucking stupid sometimes. "Because we're a football club?"

I leaned towards him as though I would give him the hairdryer. "We're not a football club; we're a football empire."

Henri eyed me. "How serious are you about this?"

"One hundred and two percent, mate." I wagged my finger at the building. "This is just the fucking start."

Henri nodded. "You gave me budget to increase our headcount, but how big will this empire be? We should develop a rule of thumb. For every, say, million you spend on buildings, we need to add one more person to help manage it."

I thought about it. Kian frowned and said, "That is very logical, Max. What is your concern?"

"Imagine tomorrow I wake up and I'm shit at football. The club goes into a tailspin. I think I've already done enough to make sure we can survive in League One, so I'm pleased with that, but while I fucking love creating jobs, I really don't like adding headcount. Players can be sold, equipment can be sold, brilliantly-located buildings can be sold. We can get smaller easily. I invented a concept that I like to call 'rightsizing'. The size of the admin staff, the coaching staff, should expand and contract to match the current health of the men's first team. 

"Football players get binned off all the time. It's not nice but you kind of signed up to that when you told your parents you wanted to be a footballer. What I hate more than anything is firing normal people. Someone sees an ad for a position in our ticket office, chooses us instead of something that pays better because she loves Chester and because she wants to meet Martim Santana. You can imagine that, right? Now imagine I fuck things up, she gets sacked, and I sell Santana before the season even starts. That's horrible, Kian. I want to make sure the jobs I create can survive one relegation at least, do you get me?"

He showed that he was a football fan at heart by not reacting to my impassioned plea and focusing on one minor detail. "We're selling Santi?"

"Christ," I muttered.

Henri smiled. "Kian understands your position, Max. Kian loves to work in a lean organisation. But we don't want our staff to be burned out, either."

"If you propose a two-hour lunch slot again, I'm going to go mental. This isn't France, mate."

Henri cackled. "Kian, don't listen to him. Why would I propose a two-hour lunch in a country with such poor cooking?" Henri scanned the building and gently turned, taking in the grounds and the car park. "We should convert some areas into coach parking, p'raps? And do some test runs on match days. We will need more Pups."

"Once we buy them, they're practically free to run. Buy ten. Twenty. Whatevs."

"Good," said Henri. "Should I negotiate the price on this, this Foundation?"

"No. Get it done fast. Get copies of the contracts with the tenants and send them to Gemma or Seb. Check that the output on the solar panels matches what's claimed. Check the structural soundness and all that. If it checks out, quick deal, please. I want this on the books fast so I can mentally add it to my budget for the season."

Kian's head was exploding. "Wait, what? You want to reduce your budget by over four million so you can urgently add nought point six million to the budget?"

"Yep. Glad you understand."

"I don't understand. What about transfers?"

"What is transfers?"

Kian looked genuinely annoyed. "We narrowly avoided relegation! We have to strengthen."

"I have invented a concept I call strengthening by weakening. It's next-level; I'm very proud of it."

Henri said, "We have to get weaker? Well, that explains why you signed Emiliano Ferrari."

"Miaow!" I said, laughing.

Kian looked at his boss, surprised. "Do you not like him?"

"I do; it was just an easy joke. 5 million pounds was a lot. Max didn't negotiate very hard."

"I did, but on the other side of the deal."

A couple of guys left the building just as Henri was just saying something like, "I need more support. Executive-level support. I can't be everywhere, and do not wish to be." But I was only partially listening. The sales people recognised me, and in their amazement at seeing me outside their humble office, they nearly tripped over. So cruel that I wasn't allowed to laugh at the slapstick I had inspired! I nodded at them; they went about their day.

"Kian, Henri, there will be a lot more deals like this, so get your processes in order, think about a staffing model that makes sense that doesn't involve a hiring spree. I'll be buying five-a-side centres and pitches and that sort of thing, but that probably should be its own division. Think about what we've already got, imagine it ten times bigger. Organise the hierarchy accordingly." I let my eyes unfocus and imagined I was looking down on Chester from above, like I was playing Sim City or another God game. "We're going to buy this city, chunks at a time. The rent we get will feed into the football club, and the football club will pump it back into the community. We'll support each other, grow together. And in the middle..."

Kian got back in my good books. "Sport City," he said.

I held out my fist. He bumped it. I mimed it exploding. "Forget transfers. Next time you watch training," I said, with the utmost seriousness, "know that you're watching a squad that will be the best in Europe at the start of next season."

"At the start?" said Henri.

I gave him my most charming smile. So often, he picked up on exactly the right detail. "Yep."

He closed his eyes as though he had just bitten into a delicious chilled plum. "And at the end?"

I shrugged. "Very possibly the best all-round team the world has ever seen. But," I said, raising a finger. "To reach such levels, we will need to sign one player, and it's not going to be easy. If we can get him..." I made an impressed face.

"And if we don't?" said Kian.

"Then we will only win three-quarters of the competitions we enter. But that's next season. This one will be an ordeal, a struggle, a battle against the odds." Kian's face fell. I said, "We'll only win half of what's going." Kian's smile returned. I made shooing motions towards him and Henri. "Would you mind awfully getting to work?"

***

I drove to Saltney to check on the Lit boys and the Harper Splat girls. The employees who were there were having fun, while many others were out spending my money.

I went to Bumpers, parked, and got in a minivan with Ender Ciritoglu, the Turkish defender, CA 160, PA 171, and his lovely wife, Salome. She was downcast.

I gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder. "Remember what I said when you turned up that first day?"

"When you used baby buggies as a flat back four?"

"What? That doesn't sound like me. Have you been seeing other football managers behind my back? What I definitely remember saying is that you only cry twice in Chester. Once when you arrive..."

She nodded. "And once when you leave."

I put one hand on her shoulder and one hand on Ender's. "This is a great moment in your career. You've ascended. You are one of the hottest defenders in Europe, mate. You worked your fucking arse off and now you're going to get paid. It's bittersweet when good players, good people leave, but you have earned this. Okay? This is a good thing. You have your choice of about seven big clubs."

"Dortmund," said Salome. "Flush with cash from the FIFA Club World Cup."

"Leverkusen," said Ender. "They are top mint." I always loved it when foreigners made cute mistakes like this. No-one had ever said 'top mint' but Ender had heard everyone say top and mint and had simply merged them.

Salome said, "Inter Milan and Fiorentina did well. Even Club Bruges made 16 million Euros in prize money."

"Did they?" I said, amazed. I had barely followed the Club World Cup. It was an abomination run by FIFA to strengthen their position by handing out bribes. It had nothing to do with sport.

Salome nodded. "I made a spreadsheet and calculated the prize money from every team. The top five were Barcelona, PSG, Chelsea, Bayern Munich, and Arsenal. Fluminense placed the highest of the non-European clubs. They earned 33 million Euros."

"Not bad for a few weeks' work," I said. If Chester ever qualified for the stupid bloody thing, I would either send a team of under eighteens or I would try to win it. That money could do a lot of good in our community. A thought struck me. "Hey, how much did Roma get?"

Salome knew the whole sheet by heart, it seemed. "Sixteen million Euros."

That number made me laugh. It was exactly what they had offered for Leo Los, the Slovakian Messi. "That's really helpful, Salome. Great job!"

***

We chilled in the airport lounge, where I asked Salome about her experiences of working behind the scenes at Chester. While we had been making her husband train with an elastic band tied from him to the nearest defender, while we had been pushing him in the gym and in the weird flexibility sessions put on by Magnus Evergreen, she had not been idle. She had been sitting in on meetings, shadowing employees, learning the jobs, helping out in various ways. She had worked at a major consultancy firm before Ender's career took her away from her homeland.

I was deep in thought as we boarded the flight from Manchester to Munich.

***

The three of us were in business class, the best available on that particular plane, sitting close to each other. I leaned towards them and said, "I've just had a brainwave." 

Their eyes boggled. Ender said, "Will I ask if there's a doctor?"

"Er, no. Brainwaves are good. It means a great idea."

"Oh! It sounds bad. Like you cooked your head in a microwave."

I considered it. "Brain... wave. Huh. Okay, so here's my brainwave, which, remember is a great idea. Remember all those clubs who want to buy you? Those giants, those titans of European football?" I paused. "I think you should go to Coventry City."

They looked at each other. Salome said, "Haha?"

"I'm mega serious," I said, mega seriously. "If you want to choose Dortmund or Inter Milan, I'm okay with that. I'm genuinely cool with whatever you choose."

I had more to say, but Salome interrupted. "Can we choose to stay in Chester?"

"I would happily keep Ender for another season; he has more growth in him and I'd love to unlock it and get 60 mill instead of 30. But if I push for that, I'll lose my rep with agents as someone who can flip players in a short time. I love you guys but over the next twenty years, those deals will generate a shitload of money for Chester and my other clubs. There absolutely has to be a transfer for you, Carvalho, and Martim Santana this summer. There has to be. And again, if you choose one of the European clubs, I'm on board. If you're happy, I'm happy."

Salome's eyebrows rose. "You would be happy to sell to an English club? I understood you didn't want to do that."

"Well, generally speaking, I don't. Why make Coventry stronger? That's not in my interest. But it's actually a good move for Ender. Newly promoted club. They have made a big bid and will pay the most wages out of any club your agents are talking to. This season will be a struggle for them and they will probably go down, which your agents aren't keen on because in the Championship you'll take a massive pay cut. But you won't be expected to stay if they get relegated.

"What will happen is that you will be a key player for Cov in all 38 matches. You'll hit your ceiling and even if they don't stay up, you'll enhance your rep. Then you will get the move to whatever club you want, Dortmund, say, but with a year of top wages in your bank and higher wages at the new place. Plus," I said, leaning even closer, talking even more quietly, "if you're in Coventry, Salome can work for Chester."

"For Chester?" said Ender.

I nodded. "That's the brainwave. Henri was begging for help, but he did it so subtly I barely heard him. It just about seeped in and I realised how perfect your wife is. Which, let's face it, you already knew."

He smiled and kissed her hand. That was cute; I resolved to do more of that.

"One of the problems a club like Chester has is that when it expands it hires a lot of staff but when things turn to shit there are many staff to fire. I hate firing people, unless they're dicks. Good, normal people? I don't want them to suffer because I'm a shit manager, do you know what I mean? My brainwave is to give Henri a squad. Sort of, Henri and the butterflies."

"I'd pay to see that band," said Ender.

I fistbumped him. "The butterflies would flit from department to department, helping out, offering wisdom, keeping things running. Does that image make sense? And that squad, why don't we fill it with footballers' wives? So many of them are talented, like Salome or Foquita's partner."

"Caramel," said Ender.

"Camila," said Salome.

"Was that her name?" I said. "I'm not sure I ever caught it. But I know she's doing sports management at uni. If she worked for Chester, she would stay a year or two and then move on, as a natural consequence of her husband's nomadic lifestyle. I would feel good about expanding the team by, like, half a dozen footballers’ wives, right? Or hubbies. Elsa Lund's boyfriend seemed interesting. I know he's not in England full-time and I don't even know what he does, but I liked him and I would be cool about giving him a position because Elsa's only going to stay a few more years, tops. It's kind of an in-built redundancy failsafe, isn't it? The squad would come with its own ejector seat, and I wouldn't ever have to pull the cord."

Salome was listening carefully, but with a slight flush on her cheeks. "I would be a butterfly? What exactly does it mean?"

"You would do whatever Henri needs. He needs support, and he needs people to offload tasks to. There are lots of realms in which you have more experience than him. You were a consultant, right? You'd do that, but your client would be Henri. Sometimes you wouldn't have much to do, in which case I'd want you shadowing random people, learning more, maybe having a think about what we could do better. Sometimes you'd be super busy. I don't know. It would be an experiment but I can imagine it would be a fun one." I leaned back in my seat. "Listen to the offers your agent has put together, then ask what he thinks about Coventry."

Salome eyed her husband, then gave me a thin smile. Weird reaction, actually. Maybe she was neurospicy, like my new friends from The Assembly? "So... Coventry's offer was higher?"

I smiled and shook my head. "Okay, I see where this is going. Evil Max is trying to squeeze every last penny out of the impending transfer. What I'll do is I'll tell Coventry to lower their offer to match Dortmund's. Then you'll really believe that I want you at the club." I scoffed. "Salome," I said, leaning forward again. "You're top mint. Everyone says you're really smart and you learn fast and you're super conscientious and detail-oriented. You're great with people but you don't take any shit.

"And you know more about running a football club than most people already, and Henri and I are going to have paternity leave at the same time. I'm not saying I'd leave you in charge of the whole football club as pretty much your first act, but..." I pinched my nose. "I think that is what I'm saying."

"In charge?" said Ender. "Of Chester?"

"Who better?"

Salome said, "Max, that's scary."

"Yeah," I said, "for the rest of the league! The dream team assembles! Let's go!"

With a slight smile, Salome shook her head. "Scary for me. What if I make a big mistake?"

"What mistake? You're not going to accidentally buy a thirty-million-pound left back, are you?" I gave her a warm smile to melt away her doubts. "I would promise to answer your calls. Unless I'm changing a nappy or something, in which case I'd call you back. You wouldn't have to do anything! Just monitor our socials and the media sentiment and attend meetings. You can bring Wibbers and Haley Goodhew and the participants will be so busy being starstruck they will forget what they came for. If there's something that seems important, you just say this is interesting, let me think about it overnight. It'd be a piece of piss!" I shook my head. "You're perfect and I want you."

"What if we decide to go to a German club?"

"Then I'll buy a thirty-million-pound left back just to spite you."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I know!" I said, in a pleading voice. "This is why I need great people around me! I need help. Help... me..."

She glanced at her husband, then said, "Would it be a good idea to run this by Henri?"

I sat up straight. She meant that I should talk to him, but that was inefficient. "Yes, perfect! You should call him after we land, before you speak to the agent."

"Have you discussed this with him at all?"

"No, but you'll see how enthusiastic Henri gets. Yes, this is great. Henri will provide the charm that I so desperately lack. Winner. Bosh. We ascend!"

"We're descending," said Ender, pointing to the display.

"Thanks, bro. Elite contribution."

***

At the airport, we split up. Ender and Salome were going to stay overnight, so they checked into a hotel. I intended to return to England after the match, which meant I could go straight to the Allianz Arena. That was the enormous and splendid home of Bayern Munich, one of a select group of clubs that could boast I had managed them. Chester, College, Saltney Town, Grimsby, Bayern Munich.

Quite the list.

The staff were very friendly, although Diane Berger asked if I would go to the pitch to do an interview for Bayern's in-house TV company. I declined, saying that tonight was not about me, it was about England versus the Netherlands, so maybe she should talk to someone involved in that match. She said, "I can't tell if you're being noble to be difficult or if being difficult is a bonus of you being noble." She often said things like that. Strange woman.

In one of the endless VIP boxes, I found Ruth and the Brig. "How's it going?" I asked, as I closed the door behind me.

"Great," said Ruth. "My agency represents quite a few Premier League footballers, and their dim-witted manager refuses to pay them what they deserve, so I'm going to hawk them around the elite clubs of Europe, many of whom are here tonight. I've got a date with Paul Braun from Bayern. Do you think Wibbers would do well here? Leverkusen want to talk about Pascal Bochum. I've been on the phone to Middlesbrough and Coventry all day. They simply adore Lewis Lamarre!"

I blew air from my lips. Ruth was not serious about trying to engineer moves for those players - she was just trying to squeeze me for everything she could get. "It would be great to sell two of those, or all three," I said, playing along. "We've got bills coming out of our arse. The main stand. That's half my war chest wiped out! I met Henri today and he was talking about buying more office space. 5 million quid gone, just like that. It's a crazy business, running a football club. There's some money, poof, it's gone. Where did it go this time? Oh, that's right: bonuses. One of my lads got half a mill because we stayed up. Hang on, it's all coming back to me. That lad was Wibbers, your client. Half a mill bonus for doing his job. Nice work if you can get it."

"It's nicer here in Bavaria, Max. Four times nicer."

"Two hundred million."

"Pardon me?"

"Tell Paul Braun he can have Wibbers for two hundred million. Good? Now, did you have any actual proposals? Bearing in mind that with Man City out of the league, there's a good chance our TV payments will be cut. All the English clubs will suffer."

"All the more reason to send our players to Germany," said Ruth, with just a hint of triumph. She handed over a sheet of paper with the initials of players (e.g. WBR), how much they were currently earning, and how much she wanted their weekly wage to rise to.

We had gone through the low end of the Chester squad very easily. Banksy had gone from 2,100 a week to 5,000. Roddy Jones went from 6k to 15. Now we were inching towards agreement on the top end of the scale. "Can I borrow a pen?" The Brig produced one. I crossed out all Ruth's numbers and wrote ones that were slightly more reasonable. "Lewis from 19 last season... to 28. Generous given he appears to have hit his cap. Three year deal? Yeah, three. Wibbers from 30.5 to..."

I clicked my tongue a few times. This was a genuinely hard number to decide on. Most players had more or less doubled their wages, but in William's case his income was getting to dangerous amounts. He was still only 22. Yes, he had his head screwed on and we had indoctrinated him with the importance of not living beyond his means and investing for his future. But still...

The Brig said, "He can handle it, sir."

I nodded and wrote, 66,000 next to WBR. "Before you haggle," I told Ruth, "that's already the second-highest after me. Tell him you made sure he was getting more than Youngster." James Yalley was getting 65K a week these days. He would have been happy with much less, but I had to be fair with him and pay what he was worth. "Okay, so Dan and Pascal. Your numbers are waaaay off." I scribbled new ones while Ruth scowled at me. I slid the paper across.

"Oh! You've gone higher."

Pascal was currently on 10k a week, but he had capped out. He rarely started a Premier League match, and while it was obvious that he was a useful squad player, even Ruth had only asked for his wage to rise to 15. I had written 20. "Look, this is a holistic number for everything that Pascal brings to the club. He's a useful player who could still improve."

But only if I used God Save the King to increase his PA, which I was starting to realise I wouldn't actually be able to justify.

"He'll play in Europe and the cups and he'll fit our new system. Top. He helps by managing youth teams sometimes. He helps with his tactical insights. We always say he's like an extra brain. His brain is worth a couple of points a season just from his ideas, and he's also cover for Sandra Lane and Jay Cope if they suddenly decide to leave. Realistically, I don't think he'll ever get another big raise like this one, but I hope this shows how much we value him and how much we want him to stay long-term. My dream is that he takes over from me as director of football. If that pans out, we will have had twenty years of success and with him in charge, we'll have twenty more."

Ruth eyed me. "Did you just imply that if Sandra leaves, Pascal would be your new co-manager?"

"I'd probably do a triumvirate with him and Peter. Maybe get John Liner, too, to handle the media duties."

"Quadmanagers," said the Brig. "Innovative as always."

"Okay, and Dan," I said. I was proposing a crazy pay rise, from 4k to 20. "It's a big jump but this should be a breakout season for him. Our new system plus his silky skills, he's going to explode. He said he never wants to play anywhere else but if Liverpool offer three hundred grand a week, he might change his mind. I think 20's a fair reflection of his current ability plus his potential."

"And his marketability," said Ruth, which was her way of saying that Dan was hot-but-safe.

"Okay, can we agree to these numbers? This isn't the only rinsing I'm due tonight; I don't want to be late for the next one."

Ruth eyed the paper. Her eyes rested on the Wibbers number. She could press for more... "Done." She folded the paper in half and slid it into a binder with great care, like it was a legally binding contract. "What about the rest of the squad? Who have you got left?"

"Everyone is done except Peter Bauer and the players on whom serious bids have arrived. I'm hoping Peter will agree a number this evening, but maybe tonight's when he tells me that he wants to move here." I nodded towards the pitch. 75,000 fans, sold out every home game, deafening. "Maybe he wants to come home."

The Brig shook his head. "This is not his home. You are."

I felt myself starting to get emotional, so I knocked on the desk and stood. Ruth said, "Wait, what about a release clause for Wibbers?"

"Two hundred and thirty million," I said.

"That would smash the world record."

"I know. Kay bye."

***

They were always strange, these contract negotiations with Ruth. For the duration of the meetings, I convinced myself that I worked for Chester and had no financial interest in Ruth's players earning more money. And I had to sink all the way into the mindset that Chester were mired in eternal poverty.

So far, the world of football hadn't caught onto the fact that our financial position was improving rapidly. Even Henri hadn't quite grasped what was about to happen...

But yeah. It was easy to act like I was running one of the poorest clubs in the country - I'd had seven years' practice.

***

I changed rooms, going to the one occupied by AS Roma, and thanks to Salome, I knew exactly why they had bid 16 million Euro for Leo Los. "Mate," I said to their sporting director. "Compagno. You want to use your Club World Cup money to buy a player. He's basically free, I get it. But Leo is a quality guy and I don't want to sell him. If I did sell, the absolute floor would be 16 million pounds. That's 19.1 million Euro. That's your dirty FIFA money plus a little bit from your own pocket. Look, if I have to sell, and I do because we're deep in debt, I'd love him to go to a club like yours. Champions League, great history, great city, and the sporting director smells fucking amazing."

One big laugh led to one big handshake.

Leo had come from Feyenoord in the Dutch league for 6 million quid when he was CA 142. A season of targeted training later he was CA 160. Sadly for him, his cap was 161. It was the right time to sell, yes, but if I was being honest with myself, the sale had been decided when Leo had lost confidence in me during our early-season struggles.

10 million quid profit and over thirty grand a week taken off the wage bill?

That'll do nicely.

***

Next I went into the Bayern box, where I would be watching the match. Dieter Bauer was there with his grandson, Peter. Paul Braun and Karl Lippstadt were chatting seriously. They stood when they saw me, which made me 98% sure they were talking about me.

"Max," said Paul. "Welcome home."

"Ew," I said, which was not very diplomatic of me.

"Can we discuss business? We have rather a lot to talk about."

"Er..." I said, looking from Paul to Peter Bauer as we all settled around the table. "Soz but I'm stressed wondering when Peter's gonna discuss his new contract with me. I can't really concentrate on other topics until I've had that conversation." If Peter was going to leave, I would want Ender to stay, so the conversation was well overdue.

"What is happening?" said Karl. "I can tell there is an undertone."

Peter said, "He's worried I want to leave Chester and join Bayern."

Paul's face lit up. "Is that an option?"

"No," said Peter, simply.

His grandfather said, "He wants us to act as his agents for this negotiation."

Paul shrugged off his disappointment and said, "I get to compete against Max? What a wonderful surprise!"

"I thought German contract negotiations were civilised. Two parties working together to find a number that suits both. Compromise and mutual respect, that sort of thing."

The four Germans stared at me. Karl said, "I think he's thinking about Switzerland."

"Yeah, well," I said. "It's actually really hard to know what a fair wage for Peter is. He's vital to the team but we are dirt poor. I want to show him love by paying him loads but he's 29 and has no resale value."

Paul said, "Not so! We would buy him."

"I mean that if he signs a three-year deal, he won't have resale value at the end of it."

Karl said, "Dieter played until late in his thirties. Peter will be the same."

Dieter said, "What are your top earners being paid, Max? Let's talk about automatic matching rights."

I held my hands up, laughing. "No way am I going to be bullied by loads of German legends."

"Would you rather be bullied by a Polish legend? An Austrian? We have plenty in the building."

"Yeah yeah," I said, batting away the idea. I slipped my hand into my pocket and brought out three slips of paper that I had cut to be the approximate size of a playing card. "This is the kind of decision that can only be left to fate. On these cards are three numbers. Peter will pick one card and that will be my offer. All these cards represent massive pay increases. Let fate decide. Peter," I said, nodding to the pieces of paper as I spread them between my thumb and fingers.

Peter was on 18,000 a week, a feeble amount by PL terms, which had made sense at the start of the previous season, but looked increasingly absurd as he had added CA. He was 155 out of 166, and if he signed a new deal I would base my entire team around him for the next two years. On the slips I had written 40,000, 45,000, and 50,000.

Before I knew what was happening, Karl Lippstadt took one paper. Paul took another. Dieter took the last one. "Hey, wait," I said, genuinely surprised.

They showed the numbers to Peter. He took the one from Karl and handed it back to me. It read: 50,000. "I want this one."

"Er..." I said. I had been planning a whole mini-game where if he got the 40k card I would let him gamble and swap, hoping the next one would be bigger. In the end, of course, I would make sure he got the max. But he already had the max, and he seemed happy with what it said. So... this was good? This was great? I reached out my hand. Peter shook it. "Bosh?" I said, uncertain.

"Bosh," said Peter, certain. He hugged me and slapped my back.

Paul Braun shook his head. "Do you think we can try this method with Adam Adebayo's agent? It would shave a few months off the process, wouldn't it?"

***

The stadium was filling up. To my right, England fans in white. To the left, the Dutch in vivid orange.

Angel had been hanging out with the England players all summer, ostensibly helping their goalies to train, but my true intention was for her to gain CA so she could catch up to the rest of the women's squad. It had gone well from that point of view, but now that she knew all the players this match meant even more to her. She had come up to our box to watch the game with me.

"Angel, listen, I'm doing a lot of transfer deals now. I need everyone to think they are pulling my pants down, so when I come back from a chat and pretend to tell you what happened, I need you to look sad and vaguely angry."

"Pretend to tell me what happened? Why don't you just tell me what happened?"

"Because you'll freak out."

"Max! What have you done?"

"Nothing! Christ. But take that energy and use it. That reaction was spot on. Imagine the entire Chester project is falling apart because we can't keep our squad together and we're gonna start this season looking even weaker than the team that nearly got relegated."

"What the fuck!"

"Yes, perfect! Keep that face on."

***

The two teams were doing their warm-ups, which meant time was running out to get the rest of the meetings done. I left Angel with the Bayern executives and rushed to find the guy from Inter Milan, who was with Martim Santana's agent.

This deal was easy, even though I had clashed with Inter over the Angel situation. You could say I humiliated them by crashing into one of their training sessions and rescuing my player, but they just didn't give much of a shit about their women's team, and they really wanted Santana. It was like the Angel sitch had never even happened, or it had happened to someone else.

That feeling was disorientating, but the numbers were good. Inter had Club World Cup money and they needed a defensive midfielder. I had paid 30 million to get Santi, plus 1.5 mill in agent's fees. I would get 50 mill for him now, and Inter would pay the agent. Pretty much a 20 million quid profit in six months.

Not bad, but Santi had fitted into my team even better than I had hoped, and he still had another dozen points of CA improvement in his locker. All things considered it was a fair price, but Beth Alban wouldn't be the only person who would sometimes think about Santi and let out a long, wistful sigh.

Okay, then. What had I done so far this summer? Adam and Alfie to Saltney Town for half a million each. Lucas Cook (a striker from the Exit Trials) and Cole Adams (another Exit Triallist) to Stoke City for 3 million and 4.7 million, respectively. Leo Los to Roma for 16 million. Ender's fee would be high 20s if he went to the continent or 33 million if he went to Coventry. Cheb Alloula had a 30 million quid release clause that I strongly suspected Bayern would trigger, probably at half time. Santi was going to Inter for 50 mill.

Carvalho would go for even more.

Brooke Star and I had joked about which of us could raise the most money for Chester. For years, she had kept pace with me by ensuring every match was a sell-out, by raising our commercial revenues, and by keeping our costs down, but she had left at the right time, because I was about to jump about 200 million quid ahead in that particular race.

"Mr. Max," said a uniformed server in the corridor. "Welcome back! Can I get you anything?"

"Sackcloth and ashes, please."

The guy's expression wobbled. "Is that a drink?"

"It's the clothes you wear when you are dismayed. When you are very sad and the world is collapsing around you, when you have reached your lowest point."

"I can offer a Swiss wine - it might have the same effect."

"Oh, mate!" I said, offering a high five. "Love a sassy Bavarian. It almost beats a flirty Lithuanian. Yeah, no, I'm okay for drinks and everything. Just tell me one thing." I tried to make myself feel sad by imagining Alan Turner lifting the World Cup. "Do I look depressed?"

"No. You look like my colleague after he spent two hours showing Caramel around the arena."

"Who's that?"

"The partner of Foquita, the Peruvian striker who joined us this summer. I thought you would know her?"

"I might have seen her around. Listen, I need to look upset for my next meeting. Subdued, yeah?" I jabbed my index fingers into my temples while I thought about how to get into the right headspace. "Punch me in the dick."

He laughed. "I'm sorry, I cannot punch you in the dick."

"Wow. After everything I did for this club..."

***

I found the Tottenham group easily enough. They were the ones who carried around a perpetual air of confusion, like they could never quite orient themselves in time or space, yet knew with complete certainty that they were special and deserving. (Also, I knew it was them because the curse told me. I found myself negotiating with TWO sporting directors, a board member, and a 52-year-old man who was part of the family that owned Spurs.)

"We know you're busy, Max, said Sporting Director Number One. So we'll keep it simple. Our offer for Carvalho is fifty million pounds."

"Oh, great," I laughed. "What a relief. For a minute I was worried you would take this seriously."

Four men looked around, confused, as though they had just been teleported into this room and into this conversation. "That is a serious offer. It's double what you paid for him."

"Hmm, yeah, but I've trained him up, haven't I? I've shown that used well, he can be an elite goals and assists generator. My DOVE software absolutely loves him, says he's already one of the best in the Prem. If I sell Carvalho to Tottenham, you will finish above us in the league. Think about that. He guarantees that you'll survive. Need I remind you that you literally got relegated and it was only my courageous intervention that bailed you out? If we swap places and you finish above us, that's an instant three million quid in your pocket, isn't it?"

Sporting Director Two explained this to the billionaire boy. "For every place you finish higher in the Prem, you get an extra three million."

"Right, so whatever you offer for Carvs, I'm mentally deducting that amount. Then we have to consider the risk of relegation. I'm drowning in debt from all these signings and the new main stand and paying bonuses and handing out new contracts." I pointed down the corridor. "I literally just got my pants pulled down for five million quid in there and I'm about to lose one of my most flexible players."

"Cheb Alloula," said SD One.

"Yeah. If I sell Carvs, I've got no wingers left. How am I supposed to generate goal threat? Relegation will cost us a hundred million, lads, and leave me with a big stadium that will never get filled, so I'm not really interested in accepting low-ball bids for players who offer guaranteed output. We're small and we're poor but we have some dignity. I'll wait for Arsenal to bid. They won't use Carvs properly but they'll pay top dollar because they understand that if you've got a four-billion-pound business, you don't let it get relegated and lose 70 percent of the asset value overnight.

"Actually, if you're planning to drag this out in proper Tottenham style, I'll just sell him to Arsenal and I'll tell your fans you botched the negotiations and you're still acting like a small-time club. Okay, cool. Enjoy the match, yeah?"

"Max, wait," said SD Two. "While we're all here, let's try to make some progress on the deal, yes?"

I tutted. "There's no deal to talk about! What are you even saying? You know my squad, don't you? Leo's going. Cheb's going. Without Carvalho I'm fucked. I'll just pay his agents half a mill to keep them happy so I can retain him for another season. It's obvious your manager - who said he was staying even when I relegated you, so fair play to him - it's obvious he wants Carvs and I understand why because he's perfect. He's dreamy. So here's what I'll say: imagine that you're in a blind auction and you need to write a number down on a piece of paper and hand it in. I will look at that number and make a decision but that moment will be the last stage of this negotiation. I swear on my daughter's life, I will not come back to the table after that.

"So what's that number for you? How much do you want him? I'll give you a clue: 50 mill is nowhere near. Nowhere close. I don't want to have to do all the creative work for our team again this season. I've got a baby on the way, so when I'm on paternity leave, who's gonna assist? Who's gonna score?" I clicked my fingers. "You know what? I'll keep Carvalho until the winter window and sell him then. His value will be pushing nine figures by January, and he'll take the pressure off me in the meantime. I think I can get his agent on board with that..." I moved away, and this time ignored their entreaties. As I departed, I softly sang, "Best... Best will relegate Spurs... again."

***

I sat with Angel, behind the Bayern triumvirate. Peter sat to the left of those guys, next to his gramps. "If you want to celebrate," I called down, "you can have one glass of champagne."

"What's he celebrating?" said Angel.

"New contract. You'll read all about it in Let's Stick It To Max Quarterly."

"I got a new contract. Am I allowed champagne?"

"You can have a Swiss wine."

Paul and Karl roared at that. "Poor Angel," said Dieter.

The match kicked off. I didn't have any players on the pitch, though Haley Goodhew was on the bench. A good showing from England would help boost attendances in the women's game, and they had the edge over the Netherlands in terms of CA.

I gathered experience points and noted the way England weren't working hard, weren't being disciplined out of possession, noted the way they looked short on ideas when they got the ball. But I can't say I gave much of a shit. At half-time, I would sell Cheb, and then I knew I would start to feel itchy, would want to get to the airport well in time to make the last flight home.

Home. Emma. Little baby something.

"Come on, Leah! Why are they playing shit? What the hell!" Angel punched me. "Max! Do something!"

"I am doing something. In two years, the World Cup in the USA, the England team will be unreal. Haley, Poppy, Meghan, VR, Dani, Kisi, Sarah Greene, Saffron... you. That manager will have the easiest job of all time. Put nine Chester players in the starting eleven, sit back and think how you'll spend your bonus." I sat up. "Oh, shit."

The legends turned, worried. Peter said, "What? What?"

"I just realised something. Seven years ago, Chloe Kelly scored a goal for England in the Euros and went bananas. The nation fell in love with women's football, put afterburners under its development. That was an important moment in my journey. The rise in women's football made everything possible for me, and twice as fast. Without it, I'd still be years away from the top. I'd be growing slightly faster than a normo. That win for the Lionesses..." I shot to my feet, remembering. "It inspired me to get serious with the Beth Heads! To get them to beat Man City. Meghan and Sarah Greene were the big baddies in those days. Sandra Lane was the final boss of my first adventure! So that's where the story will end. The Lionesses at the 2031 World Cup. They helped me, I'll help them. Pay it back times a million."

"With Sandra Lane as the England manager?" said Paul.

I sank to my seat. Yes... It had to be. "Oh," I said, sadly. "Oh." My head dipped. "But she got a Chester-branded stopwatch..."

After wallowing in self-pity for a few seconds, I realised that the Bayern legends were quietly sniggering. Making fun of me!

After everything I had done for this football club...

Well, I would get my own back at half time.

***

When the whistle blew, we retreated through the glass doors into the luxury suite. The triumvirate and I went to a corner. Somehow, the rest of the guests knew to leave us alone.

Paul Braun started. "We have good news and bad news and good news."

"News sandwich," I said.

Karl said, "You forgot the bad news."

Paul said, "That is correct, I did."

I said, "Wait, what?"

Dieter said, "The order is not ideal. Start with the bad news, I think."

"Which one?" said Paul.

"The one he's expecting."

Paul nodded. "The first item to discuss," he said, "is that we wish to buy Cheb back. We will pay his release clause of 30 million pounds. That is good news, in fact, no?"

"Not really," I said, but Dieter was right - I had been expecting this pretty much since we signed Cheb. He had done us a favour in joining, had helped us to achieve huge success, and I would be genuinely interested and excited to see how Bayern's manager, Basti, used him this time around. I mentally updated my transfers tracker. After selling Cheb, my all-time net spend as a Chester manager would go from about 120 million pounds (as of a couple of hours ago) to just 22 million. In other words, I would have taken Chester from the sixth tier of English football all the way to the Premier League, with an FA Cup thrown in, for less than the price of one Ender Ciritoglu.

Paul moved on to what, in his mind, was good news. "Item two. We did well at the Club World Cup and are looking to add quality. As such, we have examined our squad and we want to offload some players. Do you remember Li Anjie?"

"Of course."

"He loved playing for you. He felt you understood him."

I nodded. "Yeah, he's really good but you can't expect leadership from him and you can't get on his case. He's sort of quietly determined but if his own team give him shit, he wilts. He needs to feel you've got his back, and if you do then he'll work and work and he's actually a good winger. Wait, you're not proposing a swap for him and Cheb? That's not - "

Paul held up a hand. "Of course not. We thought you might want Li for Saltney Town."

Karl, who was a bit of a shit-stirrer sometimes, said, "Or Stoke City."

"Stoke? What's that? Some new drug I haven't heard about?" While Karl gave me an ironic look, I brought up Saltney Town's squad list. Li Anjie would be a stellar addition. He was CA 148, maxed out, but way above the levels I was hoping for. He would provide assists and goals and would massively help us to reach the Champions League proper, and when we got there he would turn one defeat into a draw and one draw into a win. I, Max Best, would make MILLIONS out of this. I tried to sound unbothered. "And you'd let me have him for free, yeah?"

Paul laughed at my cheek. "Practically free. We need 1.3 million pounds for accountancy reasons."

My eyes bulged. That WAS practically free. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Please look after him. We really like him but the only time he has ever been truly happy since leaving Singapore was playing for you."

"I will look after him! He's a good lad. He's top mint!" The triumvirate eyed each other, smiling. A few years back, they had signed a young player who had bags of potential. Time had proved he wasn't quite good enough for Bayern Munich, but they were delighted to be able to add to his store of happiness.

The walls closed in on me suddenly. In the movie version of my life, the director chose this moment to do a push pull camera move. Subtexts were writ large in my brain. Ulterior motives went exterior.

"Oh my GOD!" I said, slamming the table. The entire VIP suite fell silent and looked in our direction. Angel was the first to resume her chats. I pounded myself in the face. "You're doing this because you're gonna spend the Club World Cup money buying Man City players. You're trying to give me Li Anjie so I won't FREAK OUT!!!!"

Karl said, "I don't like this about him. He's paranoid, but he's right. That's hard to work with."

Paul said, "Max! What do you expect? They have twenty of the best players in Europe and we can buy them at a discount."

I slammed myself in the face a few more times. "If you just fucking leave them there, the prices will go down and down! There would be a fire sale! It's too early to buy. You can really fuck them up if you wait!"

Paul shook his head. "If we don't make a move, PSG will. Or Madrid. Or Chelsea. The current prices are already low enough to be very attractive."

I stood up and walked away, so pissed off I couldn't even think straight. Just fucking wait! Every week that went by, City were having to pay astronomical sums in wages. Every week, the asking price of their players was plummeting. I couldn't understand why rival clubs didn't let the situation play out to the end. The results would have been the same, but would have paralysed Man City forever. This way, the big clubs were making it possible for City to pay their fines, to pay their outstanding transfer fees, and to wriggle their way back up the leagues to infect elite football all over again. Jesus actual CHRIST!!!!

Seeing that I wasn't just pretending to be angry, both Peter and Angel moved towards me. I held up a hand, nodded in thanks, and composed myself. "Fuck," I spat, quietly. "The fuck." I forced myself to retake my seat at the table and tried to listen to Paul over the sounds of my sighs and grunts and groans.

"Don't shoot the messenger, Max, but City's players have been divvied up across Europe's big dogs. Lazaar is going to PSG. Koffi Bamba will head to Liverpool. Viviani and Luiz to Madrid are done deals. Spurs are buying Ustinov. That one surprises you! It shouldn't - Spurs are being very serious about their transfers this summer. Big money, big numbers, they do not want to be humiliated again. Mensah will join Arsenal."

"What about Rod Valentine?" I said, trying to make a joke about a player I had tried to buy on transfer deadline day. The joke, such as it was, came out utterly flat. These fucking clubs, man. Shameless and beyond stupid. They would drag us all down into the gutter.

"No takers," said Paul. "Clint Fogerty is going to Aston Villa. That... is a shame. We were hoping no-one would bid and we could sneak in. We like him very much."

"He's top mint," I said. I leaned back and looked directly up at the ceiling, awash in misery. Slowly, I brought myself up into an upright position. "You... You didn't mention yourselves. Who...?" I went to the player database and filtered for Man City. Who were the City players that had not been mentioned that would suit the German megaclub? There were none. The only star was... But that made no sense. I shook my head in disbelief. "El Kass?" Their faces told the story. "You're buying El Kass? That's stupid. You wouldn't do that."

"Why not?" said Karl.

"Because you've got Zoran Bratko, and you've just bought Foquita."

"Who's better?" said Dieter. "Zoran or El Kass?"

"I mean..." I said, and gave it a little bit more thought. "I suppose in your system, in most games... El Kass. But..."

"But what?" said Paul.

"It's so marginal. And you're talking about a hundred-million-pound player."

"That we're getting for 70 million."

I slumped, head-first, and used the hard wooden table as a pillow. Even if City would lose the 70 mill in court cases and legal costs and fines and paying down transfer obligations, it was painful to hear that they were getting such riches for just one player. "70 million..." I said, covering my head with my arms. "What the fuuuuu." After a minute, I added, "Guyyysssssss." I sat up and looked from Dieter to Paul to Karl with puppy dog eyes. "What's the official process for taking back the du?" I was telling them I didn't want to be on first-name terms any more. Telling them they had disappointed me.

Amazingly, Dieter smiled. "That was the second piece of bad news. We knew you would be like this. But you haven't considered the ramifications."

"Er... You win the Bundesliga and get knocked out in the Champions League semi-finals instead of the quarters?" I shrugged.

Dieter was awfully fond of me, I later realised, to put up with my petulance. "Bayern Munich do not carry three elite strikers in our squad. We have one, who we do not rotate. El Kass will be our starting striker. Zoran Bratko will be his deputy. That is enough."

They were giving me such significant looks I knew there was some leap of logic for me to manage. Ever so slowly, the dots joined. El Kass number one. Zoran Bratko number two. There was no number three. Foquita was number three. There was no number three. "But what about Caramel?" I wailed, suddenly.

Paul laughed, delighted to watch the cogs in my brain turn and spit out almost the right answer. "Foquita is available, Max, that's right."

"Forty million," I said. "Take it or leave it."

Three German superstars laughed. "So funny," said Karl.

Paul said, "He's not for sale. But you can loan him. You have first choice. I know you do not like loan signings but perhaps you will make an exception, as you have done approximately twenty times since you first insisted you would never loan a player."

"I can loan Foquita?" I said, stupidly.

"There's a fee," said Paul. "A significant one. He's worth much more than this, but we will loan him to you for the cut-price fee of fifteen million pounds."

"Are you fucking joking?" I said, which made the three men laugh again.

"I am not joking," insisted Paul. "He's a 70-million-pound player at least. If you bought him, it would cost more than 15 million per year. It is a fair price, and if you don't pay it, any other club in Europe would do so."

"And his wages?"

"You pay them."

I flew to my feet again and stomped around. I could not believe my ears. That was another five mill. Twenty million pounds to get Foquita for just one season! They were rinsing me and were having far too much fun in doing it. I stormed back to the table, ready to give them a piece of my mind. Jumped up little German pensioners! Didn't they know who they were talking to?

"I accept," I said.

***

We watched the second half together in good spirits, though I had to try to hide how much fun I was having in case I got shown on TV back home. England were crap. A better opponent would have been three-nil up by now.

I texted Sandra.

Me: As per your request, I have successfully reduced the size of the squad.

Sandra: Very funny. I've just clicked my stopwatch. Timing how long it is until they show you hanging out with the bold and the beautiful again.

There was a break in play, an injury, and I heard a roar from the crowd. I looked up and saw that I was on the big screen next to Angel. I waved at where I guessed the camera was, and then all kinds of pink hearts filled the edges of the screen and the words KISS CAM appeared.

I gave the camera a thumbs up, eyed a slightly panicky Angel, then I practically lunged forward. I wrapped my arms around Paul Braun and kissed him on the cheek.

That got huge cheers. Paul had been on his phone, but he laughed, looked up, realised what was happening, and returned my cheek kiss. That got the biggest roar yet. We eyed the camera together, cheek to cheek, all smiles.

Sandra: Five seconds. You are SHAMELESS.

***

Near the end of the 90 minutes, I checked what was happening elsewhere in the world of football. Four of 'my' clubs were playing in the UEFA Conference League second legs. In Wales, Flint Town United were crashing out, but The Brig's Team were on the verge of going through.

In Gibraltar, the Magpies were through, but the Lions were toast.

Angel saw the live scores page on my phone. "Is that good or bad?"

"Par," I said.

***

The quarter-final went into extra-time, which was agony for me, because it meant I couldn't leave early or the Daily Mail would catch wind of it and call me a traitor. I called Emma and said I would have to stay overnight, but that I'd be back in the morning, was that okay?

It was okay, but could I bring back a giant bretzel? And every single Chester player?

England belatedly pushed for a winner, finally started to play with more intensity. The crowd were loving it. Angel was a wreck, shredded from watching her new mates struggle so unexpectedly.

With a couple of minutes to go before the end, the Netherlands made a sub. They switched goalies, bringing on one who was better at saving penalties.

For the first time, I got animated, and of course it just happened to be broadcast in England. I waved my arms towards the England dugout and cried "Sub for Haley! Sub for Haley!" while Dieter, Paul, and Karl nodded along, agreeing with the young megabrain.

Sabrina didn't sub for Haley.

The Netherlands took an early lead in the penalty shoot-out. Angel could scarcely bear to watch. A server brought me an envelope. A couple more penalties were scored and missed, still advantage Netherlands. My phone buzzed, noisily, which meant someone I knew had texted.

The Netherlands scored the decisive penno. They were through, England were out.

Bad, bad result for Sabrina Wigwoman. It looked to me like her long run as England manager was over. This match, this tournament, had what people in Manchester would call a fin de siècle feel about it. The end of an era. Or as Henri would say, 'this story be played out, yo'.

While Angel sat with her hands covering her face - she couldn't believe what she had just witnessed - I thought about what this early exit might mean for Sandra Lane and my England starlets. It felt like it could be a good bad bad good news kinda scenario.

I got my phone out.

Salome: It has been decided. Coventry City is our choice. They say you only cry twice when you appoint a Turkish noob to run your football club. Once when you go on paternity leave, and once when you return to find it is on fire. (I will do my best not to break it, Max. I promise.)

I tried not to smile, because it was a sombre time for English women's football.

I remembered the envelope that had arrived. I opened it just enough to see what was inside. I pulled out a sheet of expensive, cream paper. It was from Spurs and it was about Carvalho. It wasn't very long, but it was incredibly consequential. It proved that this was a new era for Tottenham. No more low-balling, no more squeezing every penny.

Our offer is: £75 million.

I leaned forward and covered my head as though I was distraught, but inwardly, I was cock-a-hoop. I'd made 182.7 million in player sales, and I had got Emiliano (long-term) and Foquita (one more season) for a total of 25 mill.

This had already been the greatest transfer window of all time, but I was going to have to act like it had been an unmitigated disaster! I laughed, which made my back quiver, which made Angel feel even more sorry for me. She placed her hand on my back. "Aww, Max, come on."

I sat up and put my arms over my head. "Thanks, Angel. I'll be all right, I think." 

I closed my eyes and thought about what I would do now that I had ALL THE MONEY. It had taken seven years to get the flywheel turning, but all of a sudden the flywheel was literally battering me with cash. My net spend was negative 53 million! I had achieved everything I had achieved while making a transfer profit of 53 mill! Don't laugh, Max. Don't smile. Don't let the happiness out. Not here, not now. 

"It's just tough, Angel. Life's so hard." 

My lips twitched. Millions and millions and millions and millions. 

"I'll get over this disappointment." 

Out of nowhere came a vision, crystal clear, and it was nothing to do with transfers or money. It was this: one year after using Wales to dump England's men out of the World Cup, I would be the assistant manager to Sandra Lane as we WON the World Cup with England's women. My women, my squad, doing things my way. Yes, mate! The tricky thing would be getting Sandra into the England job, ideally with her still working for Chester, followed by her doing a last-minute rug pull to get me involved.

If we could pull it off, my legacy was going to confuse the hell out of future generations...

...

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