DoF 2.3 - Community [T3] (Patreon)

3.

Wednesday, August 8 - Five Days Until the Expected Birth of Insert Name Here

"Come on, team," I said. "Big effort. Focus. Nearly there!" There wasn't much response, so I tried again. "The xB is off the scale! We can do this!"

Emma eyed me. "Max? Get fucked."

I flopped onto my back and faced the ceiling. Emma was to my right, buried inside an ornate temple of pillows, suffering. She was absolutely enormous, unthinkably massive. Every so often she would tell me where the baby was kicking by doubling up in pain and going 'right in the spine'. As tenderly as possible, I said, "Do you want a fried egg?"

"Yes."

"Hot or cold?" That got the first laugh of the morning. Result! Best husband ever! 

"What's xB?"

"Expected births."

"Awful. Bin that."

"Seriously, what can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Come onnnn," I said, sitting up, exuding way too much energy. "We're a team! There's no 'I' in uterus. Actually, wait, I've got a better one. It's uter-us, not uter-me."

Emma's gaze locked on, the eyes of a big cat watching a disrespectful intruder enter her jungle lair. "Be careful, Max Best."

"I won't be careful, because I could throw you up and spin you and catch you as easily as if I were making a pizza dough."

"Make me a pizza. Make me a pizza right now."

I nodded. "I remember this from what the midwife said. You're actually asking for yoghurt and banana."

"Fuck bananas! I want a Hobnob."

I counted on my fingers. "Yoghurt. Banana. Bath. I'll be the lifeguard."

On hearing the word 'bath', Emma's mood visibly improved. "Hmm. But you've got that meeting today. You keep putting it off."

"It's not important, babes. I want to be here."

She squirmed around, trying to find a position that wasn't utterly beastly. "Dad has been on cloud nine for days."

"Yeah? Did he finally meet Anna Kournikova?"

"No! Because of the Magpies. He keeps going, I can't believe it, I can't believe it."

Sebastian and Rachel Weaver owned a team in Gibraltar called Bruno's Magpies, which was one-third of The Conspiracy, my project to raise standards in Gibraltarian football while making millions in UEFA prize money. We had lost the Lions in the first round and seemed like we were sure to lose the Magpies in the second, since they had drawn the Greek giants Panathinaikos.

But they had won 3-1 in the first leg, and 2-0 in the second.

It was absolutely wild. Bonkers. Insane. One of the highest moments in the entire Max Best Universe. Such a pair of results should have been inconceivable, but the DOVE cameras rated Panathinaikos at a mere CA 90. In other words, one of the most storied names in football would struggle in League One. I had asked Spectrum and Pradeep to check the numbers and find out what had gone wrong, but what had gone wrong was years of mismanagement at the Greek club, and the hard-working starting eleven I had assembled had played their opponents, not the badge.

"Your dad has chipped in with baby stuff. I'm glad he's happy."

"But that's why you need to go to work. You make people smile."

"Don't care. I want to be your banana delivery service. Hey, how about I peel an apple and peel a banana and I wrap the banana in the apple peel and you eat that!"

She groaned, queasily. I had a panicky moment, but she said, "I'm all right. Help me up. I need to move around." I obeyed, and stayed close as we walked belly-first around The House of A Thousand Sharp Corners. Emma paused and leaned against a wall. I shifted my weight from foot to foot like a guy was trying to dribble past me. Whatever happened, I would be ready. Emma said, "What's the sitch with the UEFA stuff? Apart from you destroying the Swiss lot last night."

"Piece of piss, babes, it's all good."

"I saw Nasa was in Gibraltar. That confused the life out of me."

"Haha," I said, which was the only response I could muster to the horrific imagery she had conjured. She could have said confused the hell out of me. Confused the devil out of me.

"Nasa," she demanded.

"He's at College again, but just for the qualifiers, with Dumi and Jari. They were up against this team from the Faroe Islands. DOVE reckons they were CA 77 - just not a contest of any sort. 7-2 aggregate win, good minutes for Jari and Nasa, and Dumi's enjoying himself. Last night was the third round first leg, a win against a team from Slovenia, but I haven't watched it yet. College will be in the playoff, I'm pretty sure. God, it's going to be mental if Saltney and College both get into the actual Champions League! I didn't really expect it, but... It's 50-50."

"The College team is all kids from Gibraltar, is it?"

"No, those lads are the squad players. I stocked up on guys from the English leagues whose contracts were expiring. This guy Joaquim, CA 130, got 3 caps for the Netherlands, was released by Norwich. He had injury problems but his issue is that he was a wonderkid and he never fulfilled that promise. But so what? He's still mustard. I got guys from Cardiff, Swansea, Ipswich, and one from Stuttgart. For free! And I used the Emiliano money to go big on an Italian under 21 goalie. 4 million quid, CA 115, PA 150. It's a really good squad. Really good. There are plenty of teams we could beat in the Champions League playoff, and if we don't, we'll be in the Europa League and we'll actually get a few good results."

Ems was looking a little better so I took her arm and started to walk again. She said, "It got confusing with the Lions. Like, the Magpies can beat a big club from Greece, but the Lions can't beat a team from Luxembourg that my dad had never heard of."

"Well, that team he has never heard of are actually decent," I said. "It's just one of those things. Can't win 'em all."

I was very slightly lying to Emma, the way I had lied to everyone in the Conspiracy. They had asked me to go hard across all three clubs, but I hadn't been able to make it work - there was simply a limit to how many good, experienced players would want to move to The Rock. So I had quietly pivoted. The Lions had signed a bunch of Spanish and Italian youth players that I had seen at tournaments or that I had been introduced to by my agent friends. These were kids who would never play for Spain or Italy but could settle in Gibraltar and play international football for their adopted home. Kids with PA 120, 130, even 155 in the case of a 16-year-old Spanish centre back.

I had gently eased out the manager of the Lions and replaced him with the woman who had been working as his assistant. Celi Segarra was one of the many female Spanish megabrains who couldn't get onto a UEFA Pro course in Spain, so she had accepted my offer to move to Gib and take the course there.

Now she was running the third best team in the country and had a seriously talented squad. If she could train them up - and her curse profile said she could - the Lions would actually be able to compete in European tournaments, and maybe even push College for the title.

Yeah, it was all a bit sneaky of me, but it was the only way to do it.

We arrived at the top of the stairs and, appropriately enough, stared down. They seemed to stretch for miles. In retrospect, we should have bought a bungalow.

I did what I always did, which was to walk slowly in front of my wife while talking rapid-fire shit to distract from what I was doing (i.e. treating her like a toddler, being ready to catch her if she stumbled). "The MBU clubs are doing well, but what's really fun are the Nomads, AKA The Brig's Team. For a goalie, I sent them Sticky, as you know, and it's good for him to have regular football. They've got Exit Triallists and Brazilians from DOVE, and in the second round they got paired with a team from Moldova. That was winnable!

"So I sent Des Walker, Hamish Andrews, and Errol Obikwu, and suddenly the Brig had himself a tidy little team. They have quality but all they needed to do, really, was be solid and keep things tight until Djalminha did something amazing and that's what happened. The Brig's a little bit confused, I think, coz I told him not to expect much but they're already in the third round of qualifying."

"Max Best always overdelivers, but can he deliver a baby? No, he fucking can't."

I laughed. "Soon, babes! Any minute now!"

Rachel Weaver called out. "Emma? You up?"

Emma called back. Her mum came around the corner, carrying a couple of fancy paper bags. "Brought you a butty!"

"Amazing," I said.

"Not you, pet, I thought you'd be at work."

"Emma wants a banapple."

"Max was just about to get ready and go to work, mum. He's got two big meetings today."

"Two?" I said, trying to remember the second. "Oh. The election."

"The election," said Emma, with a hint of a sigh.

I gave Rachel a hug, and whispered in her ear, "It's a banana wrapped in apple peel. Two fruits in one bite. I think it's gonna be a winner."

Rachel nodded, sagely. "I'll keep it in mind." Louder, she said, "Have you decided if you'll play in the Community Shield?"

"Well, I can't play because I'm registered to Saltney for the mo."

"Are you going to manage?"

"No, it's the day before Emma's due. I need to be here."

"It's in Coventry, not Japan," said Emma. "The fans are hyped about it; he's going." She gave me a push. "Come back with the shield, or on it."

***

I checked Brick was happy in his man-cave, texted the Butterflies that I was on my way, then reluctantly drove to Bumpers.

Emma's agony was my agony, and the pressure of the situation was building and building and driving me actually crazy. I'd had to fly to fucking Kosovo to play in a Champions League qualifier. The oppo were CA 70 and I had played like I wanted the tie to be over within half an hour, just in case I needed to rush back. A six-nil away win killed the contest, and in the second leg, I had rotated heavily, and hadn't played a minute in a 3-2 win.

All very satisfying, and I had used 27 different players in the first four matches, which was actually remarkable. Dragonballs like Ludo Peeters, Bertie Kornek, and Ruud Berkenbosch had started at least once. Max Best loyalists Tom and Omari had got minutes. New signings like Derek Doonican, Li Anjie, Mikko Jaskari, and Ossie Tutu had played. And literally hundreds of tiny little Welsh people had got on as subs.

I was smashing it. The next match was a potentially tricky one, away to Thun in Switzerland, but I didn't think there was a serious prospect of them beating us over two legs.

I pulled into my parking space at Bumpers and had a brief moment of disorientation. Where was this meeting going to be held? For the last seven years, it would have taken place in the boardroom in the Main Stand. Now?

I headed towards reception. Jojo saw me and waved. I waved back. She waved more. I went inside. "Yo."

"Actually it's Jo," she said, with a smile. We didn't have this same conversation every day, but at least once per week. "Zach Green called to ask if he's allowed to show someone around Bumpers later. I said yes. Hope that's all right."

"Coach Zach? He's always welcome, Jojo. Course."

"I thought I'd check."

"He doesn't even have to ask. Typical Zach, isn't it? He's polite."

"Very well brought up."

"Have you seen The Butterflies?"

"Next door."

"Right," I said, remembering. I'd chosen the room closest to the car park so that I could shave a few seconds off my travel time if I got the call that Emma had gone into labour. (The process, not the political party.) It wasn't just me in this boat. Henri was in an even worse state - Luisa was overdue and was bursting.

I took a few strides back the way I had come, and entered a door on my right. This space had been the old media centre, before we had built a massive, shiny one as part of Phase Two.

The meeting room nearest to the door was occupied. I closed the door behind me and massaged Secretary Joe on his shoulders, karate-chop massaged Kian, poked Henri on the ear lobe, and chastely waved at Salome and Camila. (Camila, the Peruvian supermodel! Right there! As an employee! Bruno's Magpies beating Panathinaikos was not even the craziest thing that had happened in the last couple of weeks.)

"To business," I said, decisively. "Item one, banter Henri about his bone-idle lazy son who won't get out of bed."

"To business," said Henri, decisively. "Item one, complain to Max about his behaviour."

"What have I done now?"

"You've been calling this group The Butterflies. It is too strange. We cannot continue with this. We do not sound serious."

"Fine," I said, reasonably. "We can tweak it. From henceforth, you shall be known as the Dread Moths."

"No," said Henri. "We are The Specialists."

I made a counter-offer. "The Situation Room."

Kian said, "If we're sort of roving troubleshooters, what about COBRA, like when the government has a crisis?"

I said, "That is an extremely cool name but do you know why it's called that? They meet in Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. COBRA."

"No!" said Kian.

"I swear. So if we took that example, you'd be... The Shock Troopers. S for Salome, H for Henri, and so on."

"What's Joe?"

"He's the O."

Henri shook his head. "Terrible."

"Okay," I said, starting again. "We meet at Bumpers... You are The Bums."

Henri sighed. "From Entertaining to Irritating In Two Minutes Flat: The Max Best Story."

"From Fractious to Fabulous, How Fatherhood Made Me Grow Up: The Henri Lyons Story." We glared at each other for a while, then I gave him a big smile. "You know what this is? This is that TV show, Community. Bland main character who's not as charming or witty as he thinks." That was aimed at Henri. "Super intelligent woman who goes back to school." Camila. "Super intelligent overachiever." Salome. "Neurospicy." Kian.

Kian interrupted me. "I haven't been diagnosed as neurospicy, I think I should say, just in case that's going to keep coming up."

SecJoe said, "What am I?"

"You're either the problematic multi-millionaire who the rest of the cast don't want to work with, or the black American religious single mom who has rage issues."

"I'm probably more the second one," said SecJoe.

I shot to my feet and went to wheel a flipchart closer to the table. I picked up a black marker, then changed to blue because nobody could stop me. "We're not here to talk about the TV show Community, we're here to talk about a spectacular failure in planning and imagination and its effect on the community. Boom! Great line." I high-fived myself.

Henri groaned. "If this is about the giant rotating statue again... Air traffic control won't allow it!"

Salome and Camila eyed each other, then decided he had to be joking. They smiled.

I threw up the marker and caught it. "I've been doing this football thing for seven years. I've been pushing Chester for more than six years. The whole time I've had an inferiority complex, have been driving forward, relentlessly, ruthlessly, but..." I tapped the side of my forehead. "I grew up poor and whenever I got money I put some aside. When I started making footballer money, I was thrifty and tried to make my money make money because I never knew how long this ride would last."

"That's smart," said Salome. "Ender used to spend more than he earned."

"We can't do that because we're owned by the fans and they can't get us out of a jam, certainly not at this level, but I might have taken frugality a little too far..."

SecJoe said, "What would that even look like?"

On a fresh sheet of paper, I wrote: 20m.

"This is what I had in my war chest a few weeks ago, rounded down. This is what I had available to spend on transfers, new facilities, and my madcap schemes. This was after selling Cole Adams, buying Emiliano, getting the Man City money, paying out the bonuses from last season."

I wrote the number 72.

"Henri and I did a lot of forecasting and number juggling. With the PetPride sold out for the whole season, ticket income will be up, merch sales will be up, and the broadcasting revenue is massive. We estimated our costs for the season, including the academy, coaches, admin, marketing, absolutely everything. We subtracted the cost of the new CFC Stand and the men's first team. We arrived at this number, 72 million pounds. Remember, everything else in the club is paid for. This goes into my war chest."

"And that's after paying for the new Main Stand?" said SecJoe.

"Yep. Try to call it the CFC Stand, please. They're paying big money for that! Okay, but as I did more and more of the player contracts and sold more and more high earners, I realised Henri's numbers were all wrong."

Henri slumped. "I'm tired, my friend! I have tried my best!"

I went to hug him from behind, then lifted him into a sitting position. "The numbers were great, bubs." I thought about pushing my fingers into his cheeks to force him into a smile, but decided against it. Just seeing me thinking about mischief was enough to make him actually smile, though. I said, "You suggested a first team wage budget of 1.4 million, but we're just over a mill and that's locked in for the season."

I went back to the board, crossed out the number 72, and replaced it with 92, and after a gigantic internal struggle, added a little m afterwards.

"Oh, shit," said Henri, who was starting to realise where this was going. He had followed my every move, of course, and had approved every deal that I had made, but half of his brain was on high alert awaiting B-day and he hadn't stitched together all the various pieces of information. Henri's phone buzzed and he grabbed for it. He read the incoming text and untensed.

Kian said, "Wait, the first team squad is only on a million? The top teams do 8, 9, 10 mill a week."

I sniffed. "One of the top teams does one mill a week."

"Does that include..." Kian eyed Camila, then decided there was no way to avoid the question. "Does that include Foquita?"

"Yep. He's by far the top earner, but his wages don't destabilise the dressing room, do they, because he's not our player. All the Chester players are on wages they're happy with, and they all make sense relative to each other. Fun fact: only seven of our squad are earning more than 50 grand a week."

Kian's eyes bulged, "What?"

"I know. This is where we're getting into 'Max has made a mistake' territory. As I said, everyone's happy and no-one is earning so much more than the others that it will disrupt dressing room harmony. I thought we would be really struggling to retain Wibbers and Helge, but we're not. This season they're happy. Next season they'll be just as happy if I double their wages again."

Salome said, "So what's the problem?"

"You'll see in a second. This seems like a good point to remind everyone that this meeting is strictly confidential. Every player in that dressing room is happy and will stay happy if we don't say anything, so let's keep it that way. Some of the numbers you're about to hear are mental and would destabilise the club if they got out. We need to be very crafty in how we proceed from this point."

Kian muttered, "Whaaaat," but SecJoe was the only person other than Henri who knew the fees we had received for the players we had sold, and he was staring at the flipchart, unblinking.

I returned to it. "So I had twenty and I got another ninety-ish. In the past, we have always announced the exact transfer fees when buying and selling because we belong to the fans and they have a right to know, but this summer we have mostly been obscuring the numbers. We sold Carvalho for 'an undisclosed fee'. I have seen a lot of estimates circulating and they are all waaaaay off. The actual total income from the summer's transfers, minus Foquita's loan fee and the interest charge from BoshCard..."

I wrote 188m.

Kian said, "Fuck a duck."

Salome said, "So your war chest is almost 300 million pounds!"

I smiled. "Slightly over, in fact. 300.26 million." I laughed at how absurd it sounded when spoken out loud. "I'm going to buy one player for the women's team and a few young stars to fill out our PL2 squad - that's our new under-21 setup. I'm already spending some on Facilities upgrades like the smart urinals. But those don't even touch the sides so yeah, basically, I've got 300 million quid to play with."

Kian's jaw had dropped. "Mbappé."

"No," I said. "We don't need new signings. Forget transfers, mate. This is what I'm trying to tell you all. I've been so busy barreling forward that now that I've pushed this rock to the top of the hill, there's no gravity and we're just ascending into space. The squad almost can't be improved by spending money, because if we bought someone really good they would be on mega wages and they would explode our ecosystem. And I'm trying to tell you that I had no fucking clue we would have this much money right now. I thought it would be a hundred mill or something like that. This... This is really bad management by me."

SecJoe said, "We forgive you."

Henri was running his fingers through his hair like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. "Three. Hundred. Million. Max, you are simply incredible. This is a stupendous act of creation. You have created vast wealth from thin air. You have the Midas touch! But please reconsider - we must strengthen the first team."

"No. It is strong. I was already pumped for this season and that was before we added Camila to the team. I mean, before we added Foquita to the team. Forget the squads, everyone, seriously. I know what I'm doing."

Henri nodded, rapidly. "That much is clear. Fuck me! Think of the tax bill when we report this profit. Mon dieu."

"Let's get coffees, then we'll return to that very question."

***

"Okay, mega profit, mega tax, no bueno," I said, as we settled back into our positions. "There's a movie. Brewster's Millions. Brewster has got 30 days to spend 30 million dollars. We've got a year to spend 300 million quid. Like the guy in the movie, we're not allowed to tell anyone what we're doing. Like, the next five things I buy, I'm going to say it's the Man City money every single time. As long as no outsider attends every meeting, we will be able to continue to plead poverty. Sorry, we can't afford pay rises, we're knee deep in Sport City, the boss's insane vanity project. Do you get me? And when we're announcing the tenth property purchase of the year, we can hint that we're buying it on our credit card."

Camila said, "Why the secrecy? This would be good to know for the community, yes? Good news?"

Salome said, "And they will find out anyway."

I shook my head. "I have a two-year plan for this squad. We're going to win, win, win, peaking with something very special next season. I can keep the squad together and achieve my sporting goals easier if people think we're still plucky little Chester, povvy little Chester. When Wibbers is being crushed under the weight of his medals and our accounts for this season come out and people say hey wait, they had how much? He's not going to think I was a snake who lied to him. He's going to remember that I kept giving him mega pay rises and glory.

"Right now, Wibbers is happy but if he finds out I've got 300 mill in the bank, he's gonna get unhappy very quickly, isn't he? And I'm genuinely gonna double his money next season, right, so don't feel sorry for him. He's on enough, trust me. But if we invest all this and get a ten percent yield, we would bank 30 million in recurring income. We would overtake Fulham and Crystal Palace in the money leagues."

Henri said, "Is that what you want to do? Invest it all?"

"I don't totally know," I said. "We're running out of things to buy at the Deva and Bumpers. We're already at the smart urinals stage, do you know what I mean? We're adding a blood testing room and all sorts of things, so I was thinking, what would a big expansion look like? Then I thought, can't we combine chasing marginal gains with the whole idea of generating passive income?

"But we definitely need to diversify. Maybe we can invest in community projects? Your job will partly be to find some. I'll consider anything as long as there's a genuine return on investment. I was thinking, we've got all these Seal Pups and company cars and we're constantly zipping around picking people up and dropping them off. What if we expanded that and did a whole taxi service? We'll definitely buy some houses, some flats. We could lend money to football clubs, we've got so much, though if we do that, people might suspect we're loaded. And I want to buy some gilts."

"What's that?" said Camila.

"Those are British government bonds," I said. "The 30-year ones are paying over five percent. You get your 5 percent a year and at the end of the term you get your money back. If we buy 10 million quid of gilts, that's gonna add half a million per year to our bottom line, and investment income is included in the UEFA and Premier League squad cost calculations. I honestly don't know why other teams don't do it."

"They do transfers," said Kian.

I shrugged. "We don't need to. In future seasons we'll buy Ludo and Bertie and Djalminha and Charlie Cullen and so on. That's what I'm saying. I over-engineered this whole project and now I'm sort of going, oh." I laughed.

Henri said, "Ten million in gilts. Properties and land for Sport City. Ryan Jack's Liverpool sports centre. More rental pitches with DOVE camera setups. I can guess the approximate plot of Max's Millions."

"Max's Millions," I said, amused.

"But how does this movie end?"

"Erm..." I said, while I tried to see the future. "The final scene goes like this. A year from now, after you have all bust a gut trying to find enough decent stuff for the club to buy at the right price..." I gave them an apologetic smile. "I'll come back in here with a wheelbarrow full of cash and say, oops, I won the Europa League, here's another 40 million, and we finished top five, here's another 50."

Camila dropped her pen and sat back, eyeing me. "Max, I have a complaint."

"Yes?" I said, as neutrally as I could manage with an actual dagger in my heart.

"Football clubs fire their staff. Football clubs raise ticket prices and move loyal fans out of the way to make room for business customers. Football clubs are a financial dumpster fire. This," she said, as she tapped her notes. "This," she said, as she pointed to the flipchart. "Is not the preparation for life in the football industry I was promised."

Henri said, "It is if you work at one of Max's clubs."

Camila laughed and my heart-dagger dissolved, replaced by rainbows and harp-playing mermaids. "I suppose I need to know what Sport City is."

***

That evening, the gang came to watch me talk to the voters of Chester South and Eddisbury. Salome had been reading about Community and had come up with a nickname for the Dread Moths. They wanted to be called The Study Group, since they studied problems.

Chester South was just as it sounded - the part of Chester that extended over the river towards where Bonnie and Jasper lived, towards The Foundation. Eddisbury didn't exist, as far as I could tell, but was a catch-all name for a big blob of Cheshire that stretched towards Crewe.

My first speech was in the beer garden of a pub in Tarporley, and I was surprised by how popular I was out there. The second speech was in a school hall in Handbridge (Chester South, just across the river).

Both venues were absolutely packed - there was great interest in my latest hare-brained scheme. The pub one went well, with lots of good-natured banter from the locals and some perceptive questions, but the second started with a more serious vibe, probably because it was indoors, because it reminded everyone of their school days, and because there was no beer.

I had a big screen up, with a laptop attached to it. Nothing fancy.

"Hi everyone. I'm here on behalf of Jazzy Hannigan, the candidate for The Chester Party, who I would like you to vote for. My name is Max. You might remember me from such parades as the one in May, when I brought home the FA actual Cup."

Cheers.

"With the name of your city on it."

Cheers.

"You might know me as the man who put Manchester City in the bin."

Cheers.

"You might know me as the man who got a 34% uplift on his recent negotiation with Ganymede shampoo."

Cheers.

"Haha, they didn't applaud that in Tarporley. Not much call for niche hair products out there." I left a pause for some laughs, even though it was a nonsense of a joke. "Okay, but this is serious so let's get serious. I'm asking you for your vote and that's a precious thing; I don't take it lightly."

I took a few steps.

"Times are hard. Energy costs are wiping out our savings, AI is taking our jobs, climate criminals are cooking the planet. We're worried, we're anxious, we're on the verge of outright despair. Times like these are when we look to our leaders, because we need hope, we need optimism, we need to be offered a project we can believe in. So in these turbulent times of trouble, what is your local MP up to?"

I tapped my laptop to show a couple of moronic social media posts from a woman I was privately calling The Obstacle. I tapped again and the two posts became four. Then eight. And so on. The content was typical right-wing grifter fare, but with a heavy focus on attacking that pesky local character Max Best.

"Ever since I exercised my democratic right to free speech, she has been gunning for me hard. She's getting a six-figure salary for this, which is coming straight out of your taxes. Sitting on her sofa, shitposting, drinking G and Ts till the wee hours. I calculated that every one of these posts is costing you 400 quid." I tapped my laptop to show one that read: CHESTER LOSE AGAIN. STICK TO FOOTBALL! There was an angry stir in the audience. Quietly, I said, "I don't think you're getting value for money."

I paced around, then tapped my laptop to show a photo of the Deva in its original form.

"Hands up if you remember this?" Almost every hand went up. "That was seven years ago." I tapped the space bar and said, "Six." Another tap. "Five, four, three, two, one. This is now." I had given them a stop-motion progression fantasy with individual stands being knocked down and rebuilt much bigger. "This is next year." With the CFC Stand in place, the stadium looked absolutely brilliant. I tapped again. "This is Bumpers Bank seven years ago. Hands up if you ever drove past?" I repeated the process of showing the development. Year by year, more buildings sprouted, more pitches, more trees and paths, more of everything. Even I was impressed and I had put the slideshow together. "Sorry for the language but this is fucking awesome."

That got a crackle of applause.

I tapped to show a graph. It was a line going up, steadily. "Full-time jobs created by Chester FC and Saltney Town. Cooks, groundsmen, cleaners, admin, marketers, designers, mechanics, drivers, not to mention physios, coaches, teachers, players. How about part-time jobs?" I showed a graph next to the first one. The second rose faster, and I eyed the audience. "How many of you know someone whose first job was helping out on a match day?" Loads of hands went up. "Stewards, cooks, ushers, servers, ticket staff."

I clicked to show new graphs. Chester's name recognition (rapid increase), tourist numbers (slow increase), income tax paid by Chester FC employees (exponential). A final one showed ticket prices (dead flat).

"You know this is good for the city, for the community, and you know I'm not doing it by taking your money. I think of myself as a modern-day Robin Hood. I take from the rich and give to the poor. Do you remember when I stole a hundred million quid from Wrexham?" This was a reference to the playoff final, and earned me a cheer. "I stole a hundred million quid from Tottenham." Cheer. I pointed to the nearest window. "That money's out there, sloshing around, in this community. Some of it's in your pockets right now.

"But I'm not finished. This adventure is just getting started. What I have got planned for the future makes what I have done so far look like the tutorial level in a computer game."

I clicked to a new slide, which simply said: SPORT CITY.

I shook my head. "I hate to keep giving her the oxygen of publicity but your MP is in her chats and Facebook groups promising to stop me from expanding. She's vowing to fight me every step of the way on this. So this election is a choice between a troll and, ironically, someone who wants to build a bridge." I peered to the side. "Some of our wonderful foreign employees don't understand what I just said. In this country, trolls live under bridges. Eh, it was funny."

I laughed and brought up a map that had the Deva and Bumpers top right, Saltney Town's stadium and campus bottom left. I had a laser pointer and shone it while I talked.

"This is Sport City. If you vote for The Chester Party on Wednesday, on Thursday morning I will start investing money like it's going out of fashion.

"Step one, Border Bridge. It will go here, from the corner of Bumpers Bank across the river to this building. Guess who owns that building? Chester FC. That's right, this isn't some mad thing I thought of this summer when I was allowed a few glasses of wine. I have been planning this for a long time.

"This bridge will cost 15 million pounds and I will fund it. All your elected officials have to do is grant planning permission. If there are any, ahem, obstacles, then it won't happen and if there's no bridge, boom, the end, no more expansion, we'll just let Wrexham overtake us, crawl back to League One and I can be a stay-at-home dad. It's literally up to you.

"But let's assume you want more jobs, more money, more cups and more parades. Here's an instant 15 million quid to local companies. Nice. The bridge will turn this car park here into a vital part of the local sporting ecosystem. Instead of having 20,000 cars passing along Bumpers Lane at the same time, a big chunk can park here and simply walk to the match. Less congestion, better experience for everyone. Good, right? Not to mention that cyclists will love this.

"Then if we've got the bridge and the car park, it instantly makes this site here ideal for a small hotel. This will be where referees can stay, or staff from our next opponents, or UEFA delegates, or just fans who want to come to visit lovely Chester before and after a match. This will get used. And since we're going to have cleaners and a reception and whatnot, why don't we build short-stay accommodation all... along... here? When we sign players, they can stay here for a few weeks. When the academy is running courses, students and teachers can stay here. It'll be absolutely top.

"So far so good, but then it gets weird. See this building here? I'm going to lift it up and move it... here." I laughed. "Yes I just came from a pub but I'm quite sober. These buildings are like Lego. You can take them apart and put them back again. This one gets moved over here and as we're putting it up we'll insulate the hell out of it, air conditioning, solar panels, batteries. This business owner's energy bills are gonna be basically zero. His struggling business is now profitable. Boom, you're welcome.

"That move leaves me with space here, between Bumpers Bank and The Legends, between a Premier League club and a Champions League club, to finally put my MRI scanner. Yes, mate! I've been waiting years to be able to say that. Get in!"

I punched the air a few times, then clicked to the next slide to show an artist's rendition of what the new building would look like. It was crazily out of place, all sleek and modern in a sea of ugly light-industrial buildings.

"Next," I said, getting worked up, "We're gonna move this building - boom, insulated - and this one - boom, insulated - and we're gonna replace it with an Olympic-sized pool with a high-end hydrotherapy offering. We're gonna have a massive physio centre, altitude training space, hyperbaric chambers, cryotherapy, bone density scanners, blood testing clinics, and the nutritional offer will be stellar." I moved to the next slide, which showed a series of the sleek, modern buildings, still surrounded by ugliness. "In Soccer Supremo, clubs have a Facilities Score. Chester's is probably about 18 out of 20 right now. I'm going to take us to 21.

"That's amazing for the club, amazing for Saltney Town. Our players will develop faster, recover faster. We will win more matches and get higher transfer fees.

"But the level of investment I'm talking about doesn't entirely make sense if we do all this just to squeeze a few percent out of the players we've got, so it won't only be us using this stuff. We'll have priority, of course, but Sport City will be so incredible, will be so fully-equipped, that athletes from all disciplines and all parts of the country will come here to train, to learn, to recover. Olympic athletes will do interviews where they talk about their preparation and all they'll need to do is to say 'I'm going to Chester for a month' and that will be the signal that they are taking their preparation as seriously as it's possible to take it."

I left a pause.

"I'm not asking for money. If someone wants to chip in, great, but I can pay for all of this myself, by winning prize money and making transfer profits. This is a business. This will be profitable.

"For me, these are the tools I need to propel my football clubs even higher. It's an entirely selfish endeavour; I want to win everything it's possible to win. As a player, I want to push myself to the limit and these facilities will do that for me and my teammates. And, yes, along the way there will be hundreds of construction jobs and there will be long-term employment. Experts in every field, engineers, so many physios! We will need to train dozens of them... so it's good we already have an academy. Think of all the taxes these people will pay. Think of all the gold medals we'll help Team GB win."

I clicked to a new slide, which showed a futuristic, beautiful zone like something from a utopian sci-fi series, with the Deva Stadium in the background, just as beautiful as the rest.

I got quieter.

"As you can see, I've got big plans. I'm gonna take this football club to the moon, then past the moon into deep space. I'm going to build a facility that redefines the meaning of the phrase 'world-class', that looks like something they'd have in Star Trek.

"Sport City will be my legacy to this city, this region, and this country. My mate Henri told me that we'd have to win the Premier League to pay for it. I went, yeah, that's sort of the point..."

Big smiles all round the room.

"But I can't do this without the help of everyone in this room and every voter in this constituency. I'm not a bull that will fight with twenty daggers in my back. I'm asking you to give me another ally, someone who's motivated to make this a better place, someone who loves the outline of Sport City but will quite rightly push me hard on the detail.

"I want to wake up excited to come to work, excited to beat Barnsley on a cold Tuesday night, excited to use your passion and your energy as fuel to build this club, this community, this city, brick by brick, medal by medal.

"My name is Max Best. I work for Chester. If you want to watch as I create a one-billion-pound Sport City right here in Chester South and Deeside, vote for The Chester Party. Vote Jazzy Hannigan. She will represent you in Westminster; I will represent you on the pitch. It's the best deal you're ever going to get."

***

I answered a few questions, but then told the crowd that I had to rush to the Deva to watch the women play a friendly. It was true enough, but I didn't have to go. I was operating on the assumption that less is more, that the more I talked the more I was likely to say something that pissed someone off and lost us a vote. Our internal polling had Jazzy miles ahead of her Brexiteer gammon fascist opponent, but why take the risk?

Long ago, I had bought a perk that increased my XP gain from pre-season friendlies, and I was trying to stuff myself full of XP while I still had the chance. I'd been saving up since the end of the season, only buying the Secret Sandra Deluxe perk so that I could invest my XP in more than one player at a time.

XP balance: 9,016

Over a series of post-FA Cup, post-survival boozy, cheesy nights, I had peered into the future of Chester FC. What if next season was my last in the hot seat? How would I run things differently?

I wrote out the squad as it was and as it would look at the start of next season. Cole Adams looked miles out of place. Banksy would be approaching parity with Marek, who I assumed would decline between then and now. Pascal with PA boosts... still wouldn't get anywhere near the starting eleven.

So how did I make sure I was in the running to win the Prem and to win the Champions League?

The question had massive implications for how I would use God Save the King, and massive implications for how I would use my XP.

I didn't want to be rash, but I was pretty sure that I wouldn't buy any more perks and that I would invest all the XP I earned for the next two seasons into training players faster, but until my son was born and I knew he was okay and Emma was okay, I couldn't trust myself to properly think straight.

But the general idea was that the squad I had today was the squad that would compete for the top prizes in the sport. With the help of Secret Sandra, Roddy Jones had added 36 points of CA last season. If I continued to improve our Facilities Score - potentially to absurd heights for two football clubs - if I continued to ensure we had elite coaches doing elite things, and if I made sure my players were getting international and European football, multiple players could add 30 plus points this season and 30 the next. What would my squad look like in that case?

Fucking unstoppable, that's what.

"Here's the great man himself!"

I turned to see Zach Green approaching, with Brooke Star just behind. "Well, well, well, if it ain't Coach Zach, Premier League star! And his wife."

Brooke thought about showing me the middle finger, but didn't. "Hi, Max. How's the politics?"

"Politics? Here? You know me, Brooke. I stick to football."

"Uh-huh."

"It's possible a local politician will soon learn to regret making an enemy of the most popular man who ever walked this particular patch of Earth. On the other hand, she's deeply stupid so she might not notice she's lost." I looked behind me - I was alone in the sky box. "How did you get in here?"

"I've got a master key. Ain't no lock in this city I can't open."

"That's creepy, yet exciting." I faced the pitch. Our women's team were playing their second pre-season friendly in front of a crowd of about 400. The pace was slow, the oppo were glorified mannequins. "What the actual hell are you doing here? Please don't tell me you got a dogsitter for this."

Brooke glanced around. "Is this Puddington?"

We always played Puddington Pirates as the first game of our pre-season. "Nah, much more formidable. This is Little Neston."

Brooke smiled. "Luisa? Emma? Any new sprogs?"

"Not yet," I said, as Jenni Fairbrother played a pass to Kisi Yalley, slightly behind her. Annoying, but they were all rusty, and the ladies who had been at the Euros were on a break.

"Sprogs," laughed Zach. He sat on the seat diagonally behind me and gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. "I got you a present."

"Aw, thanks, you shouldn't have. Is it the gift of a broken arm before we play Middlesbrough?"

He grinned. "December 23rd, boss. Last game before Christmas, right here at the Deva. Zach, what's in your Christmas stocking? I don't know but I've got Max Best in my pocket!"

I scoffed. "Please pray we don't have any particular need to improve our goal difference by then." We both hushed while Jisook and Kit Hodges combined, but Kit's shot went wide. When my son was born and I trusted my decision-making, I would have to have a long think about how to use the God Save the Queen bonuses. If I really wanted England to win the World Cup in 2031, my perks could make a difference...

"The gift," said Zach, which was helpful because I had forgotten all about it.

"Go on," I said, turning away from the pitch to face the fucking legend that was Zach Green.

"I heard on the USMNT grapevine that you wanted to sign a player from the USWNT. Tough-tackling centre back, gorgeous, great abs. I had an epiphany. He's trying to replace the hole in his life caused by selling Zach Green!"

I tipped my head back and laughed so hard that Kisi Yalley looked up at me. I pointed to the space in front of her. She smiled and concentrated. "Zach, you maniac. Don't tell me you know Malibu Shaw."

He slapped me on the shoulder again. "I didn't, but I do now. And guess what?" He stood and waved. Malibu Shaw and her boyfriend were coming down the steps, slightly uncertain.

I shot to my feet. "Holy fucking shit. How have you done this?"

"Leave it to Zach."

I glanced at him. "Brooke did it."

He laughed. "Max! I can do things."

I took a couple of steps down the aisle and held out my hand. "Malibu, I'm Max. I literally can't believe you're here."

Malibu Shaw was a bright-eyed centre back at Washington Spirit, CA 147, PA 159, and was pretty much Chester's only realistic centre back option. The ballers, the ones with defensive skill and high technique, were at Barcelona and were currently unavailable. The second choices were at City and Chelsea. Malibu was by far the best of the rest. I could buy her for 600 thousand pounds - if she would agree to cross the Atlantic to live in a cold, damp, former Roman fort. She was tall, white, with long brown hair and actually looked quite like Beth. She even played like Beth, just ten thousand times better, but all the familiarity evaporated when she opened her mouth and spoke in a broad New Jersey accent. "I literally can't believe I'm here. I'm in Chester, the home of Chesterness, shakin' hands with the mastermind. This is Ryan."

"Former baseball player Ryan Delagne," I said, hoping to score brownie points, because Malibu was the one and only player I had left on my first-team shopping list. "Holy cow, you're tall. What are you, three metres?"

Ryan smiled, in good-natured fashion. "Six five."

"Six point five metres," I said, shaking my head. Ryan smiled wider. Good start!

Zach said, "I gave them the tour of Bumpers. Told them what it was like when I rolled up, how you made it better, made me better. Told them Chester's the place to be."

My phone buzzed and I'm sorry to say I freaked out. I just knew it was the news that Emma had gone into labour. I had to read the message four times to fully understand it.

Salome: Camila and I are debating the specifics of Sport City. We will buy lots of commercial property and use the rent to boost the club's income, yes? But it all falls under the umbrella of the Sport City project, so it should count as sporting revenue even if the building currently contains a company that sells AI solutions. We can't agree if you actually plan to build the swimming pool and the physiotherapy wonderland, or if you have announced this to rid yourself of a troublesome politician while tricking UEFA and the Premier League.

Me: If you're asking if I lied today, then yes I did. I won't invest a billion pounds into the local economy in the next fifteen years. It'll be more like three billion.

I rubbed my chin hard and watched wide-eyed as Dafina lofted an aimless pass in the vague direction of Saffron Walden. "Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered. I waved my arms until someone pointed Dani at me. I did huge gestures. She gave me a thumbs up. "Seriously," I said. Slowly, I turned to the right and saw one of the best defenders in the world and her lanky pitcher boyfriend eyeing me. "Oh, fuck. I'm really sorry, guys, but my wife's preggers and it could pop off at any second. I'm legit barely functional."

Malibu smiled, revealing two sets of perfect teeth. Or one set, depending on how you think about it. "Is she overdue?"

Insanely, I looked at my wrist even though I never wore a watch. "Monday. But she's massive. It's like, she got big, then bigger, then hit the maximum, and now she's so far beyond the maximum it literally hurts my eyeballs to look at it. Yeah, I might just rush off without saying goodbye, so soz about that, but I'm super serious about wanting to sign you. You're my only transfer target this summer. It's you... end of list. You're it."

She nodded towards Dani. "What did you say?"

"Er... Quit fucking about, underlap the full back twice in the next five minutes or I'll explode so hard it will knock out all the electronics for ten miles. Something like that. My sign language is so rusty, I might have been sending her dimensions for my new baby bed."

Malibu scanned my face to see clues that I was joking. She found none, then decided she was fine with that. She did some slight nods. "Okay. Wanna talk?"

I sat, and she settled in next to me. Brooke and Zach started to edge away. "No, wait, come and listen. I've thought about this conversation a lot and I need to be honest... but tell me if I go too far."

"Oh, shit," said Malibu. "That ain't good."

Brooke and Zach sat behind us and leaned in. Ryan sat beside Malibu, holding her hand. "I want you," I said, to Malibu, not her husband, in case that isn't obvious. "You're elite. I need a defender to complete my squad, and you're it. Anything bad I say, it's just room for improvement, do you know what I mean? I would sign you right now, as you are, because to me you're the missing piece, the last bit of the jigsaw, and you would help my young guns improve faster and that's worth the transfer fee alone. But I know you have room for improvement, so I want to lay it all out and give you my honest appraisal. Are you into it?"

She was 29. She had been around the block twice with a stack of Disco Fries, as they probably said in New Jersey. Cautiously, she said, "I'm all ears."

I composed myself, brought up her player profile, tried to get my thoughts organised. "You played striker as a kid, someone moved you to centre back. If you know me, I love a defender who can play striker, not just to chase hopeful long balls, the Alamo, but to give it a proper go. But that's by the by. Genuinely, the women's team almost never resort to such tactics. We're sophisticated." I hesitated - there wasn't much evidence of that tonight. "Don't look over there. That's not us. This is a play. They're actors."

Malibu grinned. "Gotcha."

"I'm signing you as a defender, a centre back, the lynchpin of our back line." I built blocks with my fists, one on top of the other, rising upwards. "It'll be Haley, you, VR, Macca, Elsa. That's a world-class spine. Nobody has anything better than that, anywhere in the world. So why you? You've got the height, you'll block a shot, your positioning is top, bravery's top, heading, determination, what I think's the perfect level of aggression."

She smiled. "We're getting to the bad parts, are we?"

I gave her my maximum attention. "You need to work on your technique, big time. Your passing is not Chester levels. Not yet. Your on-the-ball decision making isn't right. You're nearly 30 so I know this will be hard but we just opened our Academy and don't come here unless you're willing to go back to school. We're gonna let you defend how you defend because that's exemplary, but we're a ball-first team." As I said that, Kisi dribbled the ball out of play. I wagged my finger. "Wow. Pretend that didn't happen." I grunted and shook my head. I was botching this, wasn't I? I forced myself to relax. Malibu was a pro, she knew the score. "We're just back from the summer, but there are not many teams who can do what we do. Barcelona, Chester, Chelsea on a good day. That's it.

"Start of the season, we slip you into the team, you elevate us, no worries. The rest of the team has you covered. You'll be alongside either Poppy or Meghan and they're both great on the ball. You give it to them, bosh. Next option is Victoria Rose, VR, and she's like your dream DM partner. Roll it to her, easy, away we go. If they're covered, you go a bit longer, to Macca or Cheeky. Their technique is so ridiculous, they'll take those passes and make them look good. Okay? I'm not worried about the first six months. I'm thinking about the Champions League semi-finals, the final.

"If you work your arse off, you'll give us another passing outlet, like Zach was for our men's team. Six months of hard graft and then we're golden." I took my energy down a couple of levels. "But I don't know, maybe you're happy to coast at your current level. You're a pretty big deal. Maybe that's enough."

Malibu looked from me to Brooke and Zach. "Is he tryin'a get a rise out of me?"

"No," said Zach.

"I'm not trying to get a rise out of you. I'm 29 and I think I've got two more years of top intensity in me. After that, I don't know. I might coast, I might quit. I wouldn't judge you either way, I promise you that. I only know what I need from you."

Malibu watched the match for twenty seconds. "I'm better than this."

"I'm going easy on them because they've only just returned to training but if they played like this a month from now, they'd be out of the team for a month. This is garbage, yes, but when it matters, they'll make those passes." I nodded, remembering something I had planned to say when this meeting eventually happened. "If we sign you and we don't win all four trophies this season, then the signing was a waste. That's my attitude. That's how I feel about it."

"All four?"

"Cheshire Cup, FA Cup, WSL, Champions League."

Brooke groaned. "Max! You're not going to play her in the Cheshire Cup! She's a star!"

"The team's the star," I said, genuinely annoyed. As I continued to speak, I felt my tone get more intense, my eyes starting to blaze. "The next two seasons here will be amazing whatever I do in the transfer market, but there are levels. Win the WSL and FA Cup twice, that's cool. Good job, ladies. Win the quadruple back to back? Now you're talking. Now you're a dynasty. When it comes to women's football, I have infinite money, but money can't buy what I need. I need you, trained by me, optimised to play with them." I came to my senses. At some point, I had stood up. With as much dignity as poss, I sat back on my arse. "Soz."

Malibu Shaw eyed me. "You're blunt, you've got no filter. Sure you ain't from New Jersey?"

Ryan leaned forward. "Is it true you can put the ball on the centre spot and we can pick any seat in the stand and you'll hit it?"

I scratched an eyebrow. "I mean... yeah, but if you want me to prove I know how to play, that I know what I'm talking about... why not ask me to do something hard?"

He stood and walked away with his hands on his head. "No way! No way! This guy! This guy!"

I pushed Malibu in the arm. "You've got the talent. If you've got the willpower, I've got the coaches and the gear."

"I thought you might say something like, come and watch the Community Shield on Sunday, that'll show you we're a real force."

"Uh, nah, not really. It's a glorified friendly. I know it's theoretically a big moment for Chester FC but I'm building towards something astonishing, something almost beyond comprehension, and Sunday barely even counts as a stepping stone. I want to stay home with Emma, but even if I go, I'll just be thinking about her the whole time. I just... I mean, I'll get you tickets if you want, but I'm not sure it's gonna tell you much about this season."

***

Sunday, August 12 - One Day Before the Due Date

There were still no babies. Henri texted that he and Luisa were in a car doing laps around the nearest hospital, but I think he was joking. Ems was at home with one and a half baby squads, including some mates from Newcastle.

Sandra was in charge of Chester's first team. The squad had six players missing - three were on loan at Saltney, three at College. What remained was decent, though, and while we had been in the north-west playing increasingly difficult friendlies - the correct way to prepare for a season - Arsenal had been jetting around the world like a fucking exhibition team. Raking in cash while ruining their players. Absolutely moronic, but whatevs.

Briggy was my bodyguard slash driver for the day, so as we drove to Coventry I sat in the back and tried my best to think about the match for more than a minute at a time.

Our squad looked pretty good considering I had sold six first-team regulars. I ran the guys who remained through the old 'gold, silver, bronze' system. We actually had one platinum player - Foquita - who was CA 172. Gold was anything from 161 to 169 and we had three of those: Edgar, Youngster, Wibbers. Silvers were 150-160, and we had ten. Bronze was 141-150 and it was interesting how few of those we had left: Tony Herbert, Dan Badford, Pascal, and Ruud.

So we had eighteen players who could do a job in the Prem, especially if we used the bronze players in the right matches at the right time, which we would. And it left us with seven tins, seven players who were on the rise. Banksy, Thomazella, Roddy, Nasa, Vincent Addo, Emiliano, and Jari. Those were our weakest players? They would win most seven-a-side competitions they entered!

Bosh.

I got my phone out and fired off texts to the Baby Squads.

They didn't answer.

Why didn't they answer?

Sebastian: No news. Emma says to tell you she has a craving for banapples. It's good to see her laugh.

I relaxed for at least three minutes, then started to get itchy. What was happening now? Why weren't they keeping me informed?

***

The Football Association Community Shield (formerly the Charity Shield): Arsenal versus Chester

The league winners versus the cup winners. The traditional curtain-raiser to the season. 

The stakes were moderate. If we lost, we would shrug it off pretty much straight away. If we won, we would have a unique trophy to display in our museum, but I just couldn't bring myself to give a shit. Exhibit A: I was surprised to be offered Bench Boost and Triple Captain. This was basically a single-match tournament, so of course I would get those options, but it hadn't even occurred to me. I hadn't even thought about it.

I triggered the perks.

Sandra was highly motivated, as were the players, so I more or less stayed out of their way. My main contribution was to pick the formation and line-ups. This would be the season of 4-2-2-2, but it made sense to kick off with the usual 4-1-4-1. It was solid, so we were unlikely to get battered in such a way that it would destroy our Morale, and when we switched to the new tactics in the following game, the oppo wouldn't see it coming so it would be even more devastating.

Actually, I thought, as I settled into my spot in the dugout and covered my face with my hood, we would probably use 4-1-4-1 against Manchester United, too. But this was definitely the season of 4-2-2-2...

The lads came out onto the pitch and the stadium announcer read out the names. "Owen Elmham! Helge Hagen! Peter Bauer! Edgar Wilde! Matt Rush! Youngster! Lewis Lamarre! Magnus Evergreen! Jimmy McNeill! William B. Roberts! Foquita!"

CA 159.4. Arsenal had picked their best eleven, which was CA 171. A ten-point advantage for them, but they had one key disadvantage - they were a bunch of pricks.

***

Livia, the physio, sat next to me. "Have you got a baby name yet?"

"Yeah. I'm Max and the baby will exceed me in every way, so his name has to be more epic. We've narrowed it down to either Mega or Ultra."

"Mega Best. I know you're joking but that's unironically an amazing name."

I sighed. With the new rules in place, the match was flowing. Arsenal weren't wasting time from goal kicks and throw-ins. The ref was still letting them take fucking minutes to set up free kicks, but otherwise the game was moving along, and they were zipping the ball around with speed and purpose. "Uh-oh," I said. "Pepe Salazar is letting his players play. This isn't good."

"Handbrake off?" said Livia.

"Looks like it."

Arsenal had top players, and now that they were allowed to play football instead of rugby, they showed how brilliant they were. We couldn't get out of our half. And not only had they unleashed Dougal Boyle and Moses, but they had bought Mensah from Man City. The trio combined, their players rotated, it almost looked like they were having fun.

Mensah got on the end of one set of passes, exploded past Helge, and rammed the ball into the bottom left.

Goal on debut for a 68-million-pound player who was worth much more than that.

I turned to check that I could see Briggy. She was on the front row of seats with an earbud in, and she was checking two phones. She spotted me, pointed to her eyes, pointed to the pitch. I slammed my head against the headrest. Fuck this football shit!

***

Arsenal spent most of the rest of the half crushing us, suffocating us, and bursting out moves of genuine quality with startling regularity. I could just hear them up in the commentary box. 'An awesome display of firepower from the champions.' 'New-found attacking intent.' 'A stark warning to the rest of the league.'

Pepe Salazar spent 40 of the first 44 minutes out of his technical area, performatively waving his arms around, looking intense. "Got to earn that ten million quid pay rise," I muttered. "Ten million quid more for you, while 60 staff get potted. What a piece of shit he is."

Livia said, "Why didn't you say that to the media this week?"

"All friends, aren't we? Me and the Arsenal fans. I don't want to muddy the waters by going off on rants. Let's just enjoy the start of the season, at least. One big happy family." Arsenal put together yet another slick move, one that ended with a superstar midfielder having an open goal. Incredibly, he blazed his shot over the bar. "Christ," I muttered. "Livia, I order you to send me home on medical grounds."

"No. You sold Santi and Carvs after they shaved their heads for you. That's not Chesterness."

I groaned and eyed Briggy. Without even looking at me, she pointed to the pitch. I groaned again.

Owen took the goal kick short, choosing to roll the ball left to Helge. Helge passed to Peter. Peter lined himself up to play a square pass across the face of goal, pretty much the most stupid and dangerous thing a player could do because if he got it wrong, it would be an instant goal. Three Arsenal players surged in the direction Peter was going to pass the ball...

Even though I didn't much care about this game, my heart sank.

Peter clipped the ball at a mad angle, behind the three Arsenal pressers.

I launched out of the dugout and rushed past Sandra. We had players everywhere! Jimmy touched the ball to Magnus, who played it behind Arsenal's left back.

Wibbers ran onto it, drove towards the penalty area, cut the ball into the path of Foquita, who slapped it low and hard into the net.

One-all!

"Whoa!" I said, nodding my head as though Zach Green had taken control of my body. "Yeah!" I stomped away. The blood was suddenly pumping so hard and so fast that I was making myself dizzy. That goal looked simple but it was not. Peter's feint had been staggering, the midfielders had combined just as well as Arsenal's boys, and Wibbers had been cut-throat in his decision-making. For all Arsenal's dominance, they didn’t have the killer instinct, while we had scored with our only real chance. If we could do this to the best team in the country on the first day of the season...

Wibbers and Foquita were hugging each other. Owen Elmham was lifting Peter Bauer aloft, squeezing the life out of him.

The referee came over and told me to get back inside my technical area. Sandra said, "You have got to be joking."

***

The goal got me riled up enough to give one of my trademark half-time speeches. "All right, lads, listen up. My second-favourite TV show is called Community. It's about a group of weirdos and misfits who get together to have adventures and to make endless references to popular culture, which gets irritating quickly, now that I think about it - you wouldn't catch me doing that. And it's way too meta, with loads of inside jokes and fan service. Anyway, in the spirit of that show, here are the five weirdos and misfits who are going to come on in the second half.

"Tony and Roddy."

Tony Herbert was a big, powerful defender from Panama, strong in the tackle, utterly determined, bristling with mad aggression. After a very successful loan at Saltney, in which he played against Arsenal amongst other big teams, he was 142/150. An appearance today would help him cap out sooner. Roddy was the Welsh Wizard, 137/184, and these minutes would boost his growth while protecting Rushy's hamstrings.

"Dan and Pascal." 

Dan had eased to CA 146, and he had done it so smoothly I had to believe that his PA was sky-high. Pascal was stuck on CA 143, but with the Bench Boost he would play more like CA 157.

"Gabriel."

Gabby was 158/161. Him being so close to his cap was really interesting. Having a CA 161 striker lying around the place would obviously be all kinds of useful, but what if we used God Save the King on him? What if I blasted him with all four doses this season and next? We could get him to Foquita's current level...

Youngster said, "Mr. Best, do you actually like the TV programme Community?"

"Um, sure, I guess. I think I only watched a few episodes because the women in it are distractingly gorgeous. I mean, it's supposed to be a small, regional college thing, so why's everyone so good-looking? It's unrealistic."

"It is supposed to be a small regional college like Chester is a small, regional football club."

"Yes." James had finished talking, it seemed. I threw my hands up. "What's your point?"

"No point, Mr. Best," but a few of the lads around him sniggered and got silly energy.

Wibbers said, "Do we need to change tactics?"

"No," I said, giving Youngster one last, suspicious look. "We're mint. We're a tiny bit loose on the spacing and some of the passing isn't crisp but I'm happy with what I saw. I feel that after 90 minutes of sweating and grunting we could give birth to a big, healthy, bouncing win."

Sandra laughed, grabbed me, and pushed me away from the tactics board. "Thanks, boss, very inspirational." She eyed the men. "Big effort in the second half, lads. Let's win it for the fans. Let's win it for the community. Let's win it for little baby Jamie's Sidekick Best." I opened my mouth to complain, but Sandra clapped her hands, loud. "Class dismissed."

***

The second half was pretty entertaining. Arsenal had the better of it and retook the lead in the 59th minute. We stayed calm and were looking pretty good to get an equaliser, but it was time to start making our changes.

I knew they would weaken us overall, even with Bench Boost active, but it was important to give early-season boosts to five players.

We started with Tony and Roddy, which led to almost ten minutes of Arsenal battering us.

They didn't score, though, and Pepe Salazar started to make changes of his own, so we got Dan and Pascal onto the pitch, with us moving from 4-1-4-1 to 4-4-1-1 as the situation demanded. It looked pretty good, actually. In the last six months, I'd had a lot of practice of morphing from one to the other, and could do it in my sleep.

We had a long spell of possession in which I moved us between the two formations three times, as the guys moved forward and back, patiently letting it happen, throwing in some Relationist moments, some Hybridism. Just as the Arsenal fans were becoming vocal about how passive their team appeared to be, Peter passed to Dan, who evaded a lunging tackle from Dougal Boyle, turned, and slipped the ball to Wibbers, who had drifted to the right of the penalty box.

Wibbers' first touch bamboozled the left back and brought him into the penalty area. He shaped to pass to Foquita, as he had done for our goal, but while the defenders oriented them for another such move, Wibbers chopped the ball onto his left and rolled it into the corner.

Easy as you like.

Two-two.

Our fans went mental. Our players went bananas. I checked what Briggy was doing and was pissed to see her hugging some rando she was sitting next to.

I couldn't believe it. Do your job!

***

We swapped Foquita for Gabby, and the match entered a lull state.

It seemed to be heading for penalties, so I started to think about the order. Wibbers first. Peter. Pascal. Roddy Jones? Gabby or Magnus? It was pretty crazy that our striker wouldn't automatically be in my top five to take a penno...

There were just five minutes to go, and the teams were canceling each other out. Neither side really wanted to risk pushing for a goal if it meant conceding a late winner.

I pulled my lip while I thought about blasting Gabby with eight doses of God Save the King. The guy would never be a natural goalscorer. He had other qualities, but did I really want to put all my eggs in his basket?

Tony Herbert crunched into a tackle that left Arsenal's backup striker in a heap. The Arsenal players stopped, assuming they would get the free kick. Dougal Boyle, the clown, actually jogged towards the spot he thought the kick would be taken from, even as Dan Badford was gliding forward with the ball. When the Arsenal players realised there would be no free kick, they lost their minds.

Dan evaded one wild tackle, played a one-two with Pascal around another, and slipped the ball to Wibbers, again on the right.

Wibbers dallied on the ball in quite a frustrating way, but he was merely waiting for Roddy to overlap him.

Wibbers played the pass through the defender's legs - meg! - into Roddy's path.

Roddy took the ball one stride further, leaned away from his centre of gravity, and clipped a cross invitingly in front of Gabby...

Who powered a header downwards, past the keeper. It bounced up into the roof of the net, giving the goal even more visual heft.

Bosh! Have some of that!

Pepe Salazar was leading his coaching staff in a mad charge to complain to the ref, the linesman, the fourth official, to the FA, UEFA, FIFA, The Hague, anyone who would listen.

It kind of wound me up a little bit. I found that I had sprinted over into his face and was yelling, "Sack 60 more people, you fucking fraud. Sack 60 more."

He gave me some lip back, there was pushing and shoving, I got a yellow card, Sandra got a yellow card, and Kalvin Ward, our assistant goalkeeping coach, got a yellow card. What had he done?

"Max, come here!" Briggy was yelling at me.

I held up a hand. "Soz, I know. Soz. Got carried away. I'll be good."

"Maaaxxxx!" Briggy was still yelling.

And pointing to her phone.

And I was... standing still, like a deer in the headlights. The fourth official was next to me, crazily close. "If you go now, it's an automatic yellow card for leaving the field of play without permission."

"What?" I said, stupefied.

"Just joking," he said, push-pulling me towards Briggy. People opened the gate and I stepped through. The fourth official called out, "Good luck, mate!"

People in the crowd applauded. In the corridors that led through the stadium, old men in suits smiled at me. "Go on, son!"

I threw myself into the front seat and Briggy sped off, drove north-west. I lost connection to the Match Overview, and idly wondered whether the subs would still count as Bench Boosted if I wasn't there.

It didn't matter and I didn't care. In the intense silence of the car, my brain conjured up all the horrific images it had been repeating and riffing on for the past nine months. Hospital beds, Emmas, babies, worried-looking nurses, crying Rachels.

Henri phoned. "Are you all right?"

"Yep. Emma's gone into labour. It's happening."

"So has Luisa."

There was silence for about four seconds, then we both said, "It's not a race!"

We wished each other luck, I hung up, beamed, informed Briggy that I would win the race, then got a double dose of torment. This time the hospital wasn't just filled with poorly Emmas and worried-looking Rachels, but poorly Luisas and ashen-faced Henris. "Fuck," I said, as my eyes stung. I leaned forward as far as the seatbelt would allow me. 

Briggy said, "Distract yourself. Do some football."

"Don't have any."

"Check the final score."

"Don't care about the - " I didn't need to check. The squad page showed sky-high Morale. My Manager Achievements page listed the Community Shield as a trophy I'd won. I got my phone out and brought up a page. "3-2 final." I leaned forward again. "Bosh," I said, feeling sick.

I was starting to spiral, and I realised Briggy was right. I needed to do some football to distract myself. But what? Almost everything was done. The deal to sign Malibu Shaw was progressing smoothly. I was trying to sign a few under-21 boys for Chester, but if we didn't, so what?

"I've fucked up, Briggy. I got everything done so that I'd have a clean run at paternity leave. But, er..."

"Now you're staring into the abyss, and it's staring back at you."

"Yeah."

"I could stage a kidnapping of Youngster and Wibbers. That'd give you some excitement. Take your mind off things."

"Where would you store them?"

She scoffed. "I'm not gonna tell you that, am I? You'd get clues."

Briggy threatening to do a crime had distracted me for ten seconds, but there was still an hour of this drive to go. My insides were churning. Round and round and round they went, getting more and more twisted and sloshy.

My phone beeped.

Malibu: Hey, Max, good job on that win! I saw you rush off at the end. I hope that's what it looks like, which is good news! We're rooting for you! I just wanted to say that I've been meeting some of the ex-pat community you got here. Guess who I bumped into? Wesley!

Me: An ex-pat called Wesley? The only one I know is Wesley Burr, the Canadian academic who tried to elope with a chatbot called Sabrina 2.0.

Malibu: No, haha! Wesley Lippincott from Leeds United. He's a New Jersey boy! Whoop whoop! He says he's been hoping you'd sign him this summer but you never called!

I fumbled with my phone, closed my eyes, got a grip, tried again.

Me: I was extremely rude to him before we played Leeds. Took the piss, made fun of him for his tactical indiscipline. I compared his touch map to a chicken hunting for grain. No, I think he was just being polite with you. He definitely hates my guts, and he's probably justified. I went too far to get that particular win.

Malibu: No! He took the whole thing as a compliment. How often does Max Best go to town on a single player like that? Not often! If you call him, he'll pick up. But hurry - he's got offers.

I leaned back and stared ahead while I brought up Lippincott's player profile. He was a 26-year-old CA 145, PA -2, AM RLC. He was a crazy physical specimen with Work Rate 20 and Stamina 20. He just never stopped running, and that was the problem. He spent his energy everywhere and wanted to help the team so much he sometimes wasn't in the right place to do his job.

But as a CAM or MC in a 4-2-2-2, with the curse keeping him in place... I got excited. Think of that boundless energy but controlled, harnessed, shaped and sharpened to fit Hybridism. Christ, the guy was the most natural Hybridist player in the entire league!

What would our training methods do for him? We would elevate his game and in return he would give us mad energy. 

I brought up his Future tab.

25 million pound relegation release clause. Bids from the three promoted clubs, Coventry, Sheffield United, and Middlesbrough, plus plenty from Europe, and two offers from the MLS. No big clubs, because they all knew what I knew, that Lippincott was flawed in the extreme.

We could fix him.

And if we couldn't, if his cap proved to be low, so what? We could sell him next summer and get our money back.

"What's going on?" said Briggy.

"Potential new signing."

"I thought you were done."

"I was, but this guy's got a relegation clause that kicked in so he's cheap. I always look at the relegated teams to see which players I can poach but I didn't think he would even consider playing for me."

The more I dug into the details, the more I loved it. Lippincott could play wide, which would restore some of the flexibility we had lost, and he could be great at pressing and in transitions. If nothing else, he would help Malibu to settle.

"Sandra would love him," I said. A thought struck me, and I went to the BBC's sports page. Sandra Lane was front and centre, holding the Community Shield aloft while surrounded by our players and tons of blue-and-white confetti. Little Jamie Lane-Beeks would see that photo a million times during his lifetime, and quite right too. "Well done, Sandra Lane. Now to leak the story that she's got a clause in her contract that lets her manage England part-time. The FA could save 1.3 million a year. They can get revenge on me by making me pay for their manager. Haha."

"Focus, Max."

"Right, right. Listen, can you tell Emma I was stressed the whole way home?"

Briggy switched to a gobby Manc accent, which I think she learned from Beth. "Emmoh, I were so stressed on the way 'ome, I bought a playoh, just for summat to do!"

I laughed. "That's it, isn't it? That's the angle. She'll love it." I looked at the photo again. Sandra, beaming, proud. Peter, Pascal, Foquita, Wibbers, Tony Herbert, Livia, Vikki, supporting each other, lifting each other to new heights. "That's what I'll call my son. That's the name."

"What?"

"Community. Community Best."

Briggy shifted in her seat, tapped the steering wheel a few times, sighed, said, "Sign a player and choose a proper baby name; you have one hour." Then she pressed a button on her control panel and blasted gay bangers far too loud.

...

Thanks for your supppooooort!

[*] This XP balance is estimated - I didn't have time to count it up yet and will do it after dinner. I should just guess and save myself twenty minutes of eye-wateringly dull work but I CAN'T. I'm too STUPID to do take a shortcut no-one would even notice. The number WILL be accurate to the benefit of NOBODY. (Edit: 9,016 !! I guessed 7,000, so not miles away.)

Next chapter prediction market: Monday 75%, Tuesday 25%.