DoF 2.4 - Paternity Test [T3] (Patreon)

Excerpt from the voluminous first draft sent to the latest editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 18a.

Sunday, August 19th

It was a day not many in the world of football saw coming. Tiny Chester FC had passed their first real test, had survived being battered and beaten, and had earned itself a sequel. Die Hard 2: Die Harder, this time made into a 15-chapter prestige TV show. Episode 1, beat Arsenal in the Community Shield. Episode 2, prepare for the arrival of Manchester United.

Manchester United. What a treat for the people of Chester! What better way to kick off the league season than against another of the 'red cartel' clubs? (The third was Liverpool, who we would play in October, after the first international break.) If we wanted to get a result against United, we would have to do it without Max; his paternity leave would be one of our biggest tests. Could we step up in his absence?

Tiggy was loading bread into the toaster. "Are you confident?"

"Yes," I replied. "About what?"

For some reason, she smiled. "You're in one of those moods, I see. Are you confident about the match?"

"Yes."

"Man U bought lots of players, didn't they?"

"Max sums them up in one phrase: great players, shit team."

Tiggy showed her surprise by turning away from the toaster. "I thought he was on paternity leave. You haven't mentioned him going to Bumpers."

"No," I said. "We have not seen him."

Tiggy gripped the handle; bread descended along with her hand. "The birth was Monday, wasn't it? He would have been in the hospital freaking out all day, knowing him, and all night, too, knowing him. Tuesday home, terrified bliss. By Wednesday he's running around his giant mansion shrieking, 'Where's the manual? Where's the manual?'"

I laughed - it felt accurate. "I do not know more than you, but we have been getting messages through Sandra. On Monday, she got the men together before training, held up her phone, and said, 'Message from the boss. If anyone asks what formation we're using on Sunday, get in their face and say are you an assassin? Lads, do me a favour this week. Get your heads down, work, leave the thinking to us, okay? Nice simple week of quiet, diligent training so that we don't tip Max all the way over into madness.'

"On Wednesday, Wesley Lippincott partook in training after his transfer, which all happened amazingly quickly but he had a release clause so there was no need to negotiate the fee. Apparently there was some negotiation, something to do with structuring the payments to minimise our tax exposure, and it suited Leeds, too. So Wesley joins, and there's a big buzz because he has incredible energy and he's a nightmare even in rondos. He's just relentless.

"We get into the drills, and it isn't long before Sandra calls us over and reads from her phone. 'Message from Max. Ask why Emiliano is cutting corners on laps.' We look at Emi, who thinks about what to say and decides to lie. 'I wasn't?' Oops! Up on the big screen we get replays of the lads jogging around the outside of the pitch, and sure enough, he cuts the corner. We go into a Harper Splat recreation of it, getting closer and closer to the touchline, spinning, zooming, as though there was maybe some doubt about whether he crossed the line. It's Max doing it, and he gets silly with that sort of thing. Emi gets abuse from the lads, not just for being lazy but for thinking he could get away with it. 

"Then Sandra goes, 'Max is wondering why Jimmy hasn't reported the discomfort he's feeling in his thigh.' We all look at Jimmy. He goes, 'It's nothing! I was just...' But there's no point arguing. He grabs his stuff and heads towards medical. Now, you have to wonder what Wesley Lippincott is making of all this. He turns to me and says, 'Is Best here?' I go, 'He doesn't have to be here to know what's going on.' That freaks him out, but then he sees the DOVE cameras and he relaxes enough to train."

Tiggy said, "So is Jimmy out?"

"No, he's all right. He's starting again today - it's almost the same team as against Arsenal.

"On Thursday, Sandra tells us to expect 4-1-4-1. We ask when we're getting the oppo analysis in detail and she says no need, it'll be... She gets her phone and reads... ‘Quote, a hippo sumo-wrestling a pot plant, brackets, we're the hippo.'

"Yesterday, she takes me aside and says that I'll be playing left wing. I say, 'When Max told you the lineup, did he use any colourful imagery when describing my role in the team?' She shakes her head. 'He sent the team, I gave him a thumbs up, then he described things the baby was doing asking if Jamie ever did that.'"

Tiggy said, "Do we even know the baby's name yet?"

"No. Also not for Henri and Luisa's son."

"And will Max be there today?"

"I don't think so. He didn't fly to Switzerland for the second leg of the Champions League Third Round and okay, Saltney had a big lead from the first leg, but there is a lot of money riding on those qualifiers. He is baby crazy but I expected him to go. If he doesn't go to that one, with millions of pounds on the line, why would he come to this match? It is Manchester United at home, it is a big day for the fans, but it is not actually very meaningful for someone who looks at the season in its totality, as Max does."

Tiggy thought about it. "Maybe Emma will kick him out. She might be glad of the break by now. And it will be good if he turns up - I don't think United will be as weak as he thinks. They have bought good players this summer."

"Tiggy has spoken," I said. A piece of dry toast struck me right between the eyes. "Good shot!"

***

We arrived at the Deva and almost at once, I felt disconcerted. The Main Stand was gone, replaced by a simply enormous hole. The club had put up a row of gigantic screens where the fans would normally have been - during the match, I expected to see video footage of their faces, like the photos of fans that some clubs erected during the pandemic. The temporary corners on that side of the stadium were gone. The Blues Bar was gone, the boardroom was gone, the old trophy cabinet was gone.

Nostalgia for the old stand struck me hard. The corridors, the cracked paint, the yellowing tiles, the split dugouts, these things had become familiar. Those things had been my home.

Now I felt like I was playing away at the Deva Stadium. Until the Main Stand was rebuilt, we would be based in the PetPride. Inside were four dressing rooms, a big space for referees, a chill room for the away team, and so on. The dugouts were on that side of the stadium, in Wales, and while everything was unquestionably better, while we absolutely had to make this change in order to grow the club, everything felt upside down, flipped, reversed, wrong.

I saw Sandra and I rushed to her, intending to say that I should not play, that my head was a scrambled egg, that I would be about as much use as a pot plant. When I approached, she looked around, wide-eyed, and said, "Fucking weird, this, innit?"

I got my head down, concentrated, returned to work.

Pascal Bochum, 24 years old, was a space invader, and he had been picked by a floating megabrain to play in the first match of the season against one of the most famous clubs in the world. Pascal Bochum would do his duty. Pascal Bochum would focus, focus, focus, and would allow absolutely nothing to distract him or disturb his preparations.

***

With twenty minutes to go, the squad was in the new dressing room, starting to feel more at ease. It was large but not cavernous, with luxurious cubicles for every player, a central island, tons of clever design features, quality-of-life upgrades, and in the corner where the co-managers would deliver their speeches... still the same old flipchart and tactics board. If it ain't broke...

There were four unoccupied cubicles. Max, of course, was on paternity leave. Jari, Dumi, and Nasa were over in Gibraltar, preparing for their Champions League qualifying playoff game. If they got through, they would be in line for a huge bonus. Ruud and Marek were here, in their civilian clothes. They were equally-well placed to progress in the Champions League, but today they were only thinking about Manchester United.

The Red Devils had spent big in the transfer window, and the consensus in the media was that they had filled important holes in the squad, and even if there were still glaring weaknesses, they would be well-positioned for a top-five finish. Chester, meanwhile, had been mocked. The food chain had reasserted itself. Spurs had taken Carvalho, Bayern had taken Cheb, gravity was inescapable.

To sell six good players and to only buy Emiliano and Wesley? People understood that we had to pay for the new Main Stand, but there was universal agreement: we had lost the transfer window. Max appeared to have timed the news of the departures of our players to cause maximum distress to our fans, and now he had picked me to start against United. Was he making a point to someone? But to whom?

Gloom and fear were rising in me, but I took strength from the faces of those around. William B. Roberts, Wibbers, had been sensational against Arsenal. In our training games this week, Peter Bauer had been more vocal, had given more instructions, had taken up some of Max's role, and more than that, he had played wonderfully in our training games. Smoother than ever, more powerful than I had seen him. Youngster? On the first day of pre-season, I thought he had shrunk, thought he had regressed, but I couldn't have been more wrong. He had snipped away a few loose threads of his playing style, eliminated things that were not essential, and played like a roaming scalpel, surgically cutting into our opponents, cleanly excising the ball, plopping it into a little dish.

"Okay," said Sandra, getting our attention. A hush fell on the room. "Great week of preparation, happy crowd, loads of anticipation. Home to Manchester United. This is what it's all about, isn't it?" Livia stepped forward and showed Sandra something on her phone. Sandra said, "Oh, shit." Then she looked towards the door.

Five seconds later, it burst open, and Max Best strode in, saying, "Max Best!"

He was in a shit hoodie and shorts and looked fit and strong while conveying absolute and utter exhaustion. Sandra said, "Boss! Have you slept?"

Max did a fake laugh. "Sleep? What's that? No, Sandra, I have evolved beyond the need for sleep. I exist in the strange twilight world between sleep and wakefulness. It's a life hack; in this state, I will not actually age." He looked around the room, eyeing the players. "Football," he muttered. "Need to discipline a player real quick."

Everyone looked at Emiliano, who couldn't believe it. "What did I do?"

Sandra said, "Never mind that! Tell us about the baby! How was it?"

Max lifted his right hand far above his head, pointed, and said, "It was a dark and stormy night. Sixteen hours of torment later, out clambered a creature, bright red, hellish. Someone screamed, 'It's an imp! It's an impling!' I took a lot of shit for that, let me tell you."

Sandra shook her head. "Come on, tell us what happened!"

"Yeah, it was fine, it was fine." Max stared straight ahead and his eyes unfocused. He put his palms on his forehead and dragged them down, slowly across his nose, cheeks, and chin. "It wasn't fine. It wasn't fine." He stared at nothing for a while longer. "Mother and baby are doing well. That's the main thing. Eighteen years from now, we'll all look back at this and laugh."

Sandra was chuckling away, enjoying Max's performance more than anyone, but was frustrated at the lack of specifics. "What's his name?"

"Named him after Emma's favourite shop. Spencer."

A confused silence filled the room, until Youngster said, "Max and Spencer. That is a new low. What is the name really?"

"I sold the naming rights to the highest bidder. My son is legally called TopBet."

"Max."

"Okay, fine, I wanted something a bit off the wall, a bit memorable, so he's called Dooya."

Another tiny pause, this one ended by Owen. "Dooya Best."

"Okay, it's not that," said Max, practically bouncing. "It's Maxx with two Xs. Okay fine it's not that, it's Nick. Short for Nickelodeon. Okay, it's not that, it's - "

Sandra laughed louder. "Max, I swear to God, I'm going to do something I regret! Hurry up and tell us!"

"Fine, fine," said Max, letting the tiredness take over his body. "We thought about it for ages and ages and then wondered what the fuck we were doing, because we already know the best name for a boy. We've called him Jamie. Jamie Best."

Max said this with so much pride, so much joy, that my heart actually soared. Edgar Wilde said, "Three cheers for Jamie! Hip-hip..."

Everyone said, "Hooray!"

It's customary in England to do this three times, but Edgar didn't get past the first hip-hip, because everyone was realising that Sandra Lane... was pissed. She was steaming. I had never seen her so utterly furious. She had been putting up with Max's non-stop attacks on Manchester City, a club she cared deeply about. She put up with his whims and his stupid jokes, but now he had gone too far. Copying her son's name? That was the final straw. That was beyond the pale.

Max said, weakly, "Hip-hip..." Then he turned to Sandra. "What?"

She paced towards him with murderous intent. She cocked her finger like it was a deadly weapon, and she was about to poke him with it. I had no doubt it would tear a gash in our player-manager the size of the Suez Canal. A soft voice came from the side of the room, from Livia Stranton. She simply said, in a very slightly disappointed tone, "Sandraaaa."

Sandra glared at Livia, glared at Max, fury, fury, fury, then all the fight left her. A beat and a half later, she whispered, "Oh, you bastard."

Max's face split into a massive grin. Physio Dean sniggered, then half the room erupted with laughter. Max held out his arm and Sandra went into the hugzone. "Mate," he said.

Sandra buried her face in his chest for a moment, then came back out and wiped tears of laughter from her cheeks. "I'm so embarrassed," she said.

Max was cackling. "Sandra, this is absurd. You don't own the name Jamie. You can't fly off the handle if one of us wants to use the name. It's a great name."

"I know. I don't know what came over me. I just had visions of decades of people saying, 'Where's Jamie?' and I'd say 'Right there' and they'd say 'No the real Jamie'. I just..."

Max squeezed her again. "Jamie's always gonna be the real Jamie, you melt."

"So what's the naaaaaame?" demanded Sandra.

Max fished in his pocket and swiped to a photo. Emma, Max, baby. Softly, sincerely, he said, "Archie. Archie Bernard Best."

"Short for Archibald?" asked Dean.

"What, so everyone can call him Archie the Bald Fraud? No way. He's Archie." Max smiled at his photo for a few seconds more, then glanced at the clock. "I'd better do some football before I have a microsleep that lasts three hours. Here, everyone, watch the new me, the mature me, the dad me."

"Uh-oh," muttered Owen, as he tried to hide behind the clothes that were hanging up behind him.

Max gave Sandra one last big squeeze, then shuffled away, to his left. He stopped in front of Thomazella, the Brazilian centre back who had impressed me in pre-season training. "Tomz, I heard you weren't happy about not featuring in the Community Shield."

Thomazella's eyes widened. Whatever he thought Max might complain about, it wasn't that. "Me?" Max stared at him, so Tomz thought, his mind whirring, trying to remember... "I told Brazilian TV I was disappointed, yes, but... I didn't say... I was not complaining."

Max leaned down. "Are you a baby?"

"No...?"

"Are you a fussy baby? Are you a big baby who screams and cries and makes everyone stressed?" Max stood a little taller, but clutched his forehead with one hand, and it seemed like he was genuinely on the verge of tears. "I brought you into this world, Tomz. I gave you life, shelter, warmth. I lifted you up, I cradled your head, I said 'who's a splendid little munchkin?' And what do I get in return? You go on Brazilian TV and scream in my face. I say, hush, hush, what's wrong? And I hold you close to me like this - "

(Max demonstrated holding a baby with maximum tenderness.)

"And you're screaming and I'm trying so hard to love you but you choose that exact moment to vomit all over my shoulder." At that point, no-one, especially Tomz, knew how much Max was talking about the English media inflating a story sourced from Brazilian TV and how much he was reliving his first days as a father. Thomazella was an unflappable player and an unflappable person, but he was very definitely flapping.

Max was still talking gibberish, though.

"I just want to feed you and keep you warm and safe and when you vom on my shoulder I'll go change into a new hoodie but then you vommed on that one, too. And Emma burst into tears because she didn't see it. And just when I calmed her down, she heard Africa by Toto on the radio and started sobbing."

Peter was frantically gesturing towards Tomz - get up, get up! - so Tomz rose from his seat and hugged Max. Max hugged him back. 

I glanced at Wesley Lippincott, whose eyebrows had gone as high up his face as they were able.

Max, after taking in some deep breaths, patted Tomz on the back, gripped his shoulder, and said, "I'll pick the team, yeah?"

"Yes, boss," said Tomz.

"Don't vom on the gaffer," said Helge, seriously, but I could tell he was cracking up inside.

Max moved away from Tomz, seemed to get dizzy, but locked onto Wesley. Max seemed startled, but then said, "New guy!" Wesley stood and offered a handshake. Max turned it into a fist bump, then said, "We don't do initiation thingies here, but I'm going to make an exception in your case."

"Oh, boy," said Wesley. "Do I need to get myself a spitup towel?"

That was far more incomprehensible to Max than what Max had been saying to Tomz. Max glanced at Livia, who shrugged. She didn't know what it meant, either, so Max decided to ignore it. "Okay," said the player-manager, "here's what I want you to do. Pretty simple. Just say three words."

What's he gonna make Wesley say? I love you? I hate Leeds?

Max stretched his fingers and moved his hands apart, in an arc, like he was conjuring a rainbow. "Forget about it."

"What, er..." said Wesley, because he wasn't sure if Max had just cancelled the initiation ceremony. Gamely, he took a risk. "Forget about it," he said.

"No," said Max. "Try again."

"Forget about it."

"Terrible."

Youngster was smiling. "Wesley, you are from New Jersey."

Cogs whirred, pistons pumped, and understanding was slowly lowered into place. "Oh!" He laughed, cleared his throat, and stretched his arms wide. "Fuhgeddaboudit!!!"

Max stepped back, nodding his head fast. "ID check confirmed," he said. "Good to go. Prepare to come on in the second half."

"What, for real?" said Wesley.

Max had turned away, but he paused. "Did you just vom on my shoulder?"

Wesley shook his head and sat down. "You pick the team, boss." He mimed zipping his mouth closed. Guy was a quick learner!

Max frowned and pointed both index fingers upwards. "Lot of weird stuff happening in here today. Okay, er... what was the third thing?" He walked around the island looking at everyone. When he came to me, he hesitated, and I was sure he would admit to making a mistake in naming me in the starting eleven, and could I fake an injury after twenty minutes so he could unfuck his fuck-up?

But he took a step back, and another, and pointed from Banksy to Youngster to Wibbers. "What?" said Wibbers.

Max spoke quietly but clearly. "I have just seen up close what damage giving birth will do to a woman. Guess who isn't going to play for England this year? Emma Weaver. If a doctor told me she would never be able to use a zipline again, I'd believe him. If a doctor told me my wife would never again be able to climb over a gate on a walking trail, I'd believe him. So listen to me, you two. You do not get Dani or Meghan or Sarah pergunant, do you hear me? They are going to be key parts of the 2031 World Cup winning team. Not squad, team. If you knock them up, I will consider it an act of treason. If you want kids, you can get started on that in 2032."

Sandra said, "Boss, you can't tell the lads not to have babies, even as a joke."

"I can because I'm not joking. I'm not joking!" Max's voice got shrill.

Wibbers, for one, found the conversation amusing. He locked eyes with his boss and said, "Why are you only telling us two?"

There was a big shift in the mood in the room - something was going on. Max, despite being sleep-deprived and in a manic phase, sensed it. "Oh, shit, there are more of you." He zipped around the room, then landed in front of Emiliano. The Italian shook his head. Max narrowed his eyes, thought about it, and stepped in front of Dan Badford. "Confess!"

Dan squirmed a fraction, but like Wibbers, he was also finding the discussion funny. "I have been seeing Angel and I will promise not to harm England's chances of winning the World Cup if you will go and take a nap. Boss," he added.

Max once again held his head, dramatically, as though if he didn't, it would simply fall off his neck. "Oh my God," he said, voice dripping with desperation. "Not this again."

Emiliano spoke up. "Boss, it's okay. We talked about it. Angel and Dan, they spoke to me. Very mature, it is all good, we are all adults."

Max sagged and almost wailed. "You're not! You're babies!" He pulled at his face. "Babies having babies! We could have won the World Cup - instead we get a tiny toddler love triangle."

Sandra grabbed him and pulled him towards the door. "I can take it from here."

Max slipped away and said, "Got to do my big motivational speech!" He went to his locker, opened it, and emerged with two white cake boxes. Very carefully, he took them to the island and set them down. He looked around. "In one of these boxes is a symbol that represents modern-day Manchester United. In the other... is some dogshit I picked up down the road."

This was by far the worst thing he had said or done. The group groaned and grumbled.

Wibbers had his hand up. Max pointed to him. Wibbers said, "They've both got dogshit in. Man U are dogshit."

Max stood, arms loose, then jerked one hand a few inches. "That. What he said. Er... Okay. Might go have forty winks."

Wibbers smiled but said, "What about tactics?"

Max flew into a faux rage as he stormed towards the whiteboard with the blue magnets. "Tactics? What do you mean?" He touched some of the magnets and moved them. "Helge tucks in and covers the back post from crosses, Rushy gets forward, Youngster goes to CM, Magnus goes right, Wibbers goes to CAM, it's remedial, we can do this in our sleep! Just," he said, making a punchy movement with both hands. "Just," he repeated, like it was a complete sentence.

With that, he did what you should do on paternity leave - he left.

Owen got to his feet, approached the nearest cake box, and before anyone could stop him, he slammed his fist into it. "Nothing," he said. He moved to the next one.

"Nooo!" cried half the room.

As Owen lifted his arm to smite the second box, we turned away, we covered our faces, we scrambled for cover.

What happened next does not fit the scope of this story.

***

To my surprise, Max hadn't gone home, but was in the new dugout, wearing a big coat with the hood pulled over his face. Trying to catch up on some sleep? Surely the match would be more interesting than that...

There was time for one more piece of insanity before kick-off. We went out, lined up, shook hands, heard our names being read out. The giant screens that spanned the Main Hole were being well used. They showed clips of last season, of our fans, Chester badges photographed all around the country and around the world.

Joe Anka's voice came over the public address system. "And now, please feast your eyes upon the FA Cup."

Nothing happened.

"The FA Cup," repeated Joe.

Still nothing.

We heard him pretend to cover the microphone and hiss, "Where's the cup? The FA will go mad if we've lost it."

A few hundred people roared, then a few hundred more. I looked left and right, desperately trying to find what they were looking at.

In the corner between the Main Stand and the Harry McNally Terrace, a gigantic FA Cup was being lifted into place. It looked to be 15 metres tall. Across the halfway line, Brito and Biyik were eyeing it, shaking their heads. This place is a madhouse, they were thinking. Not for the first time, I glanced towards our new player, Wesley Lippincott, to see what he was making of it. My guess was that he was thinking: big balloon, small club, why am I here?

The giant screens went blank, then as I had predicted, they showed how the Main Stand would look a year from now, with faces arrayed in rows, and I idly wondered if they were real or computer-generated. They seemed to be animated; one woman was blowing her nose.

Then it was time. The Premier League was back. The most-watched, most talked-about league in the world had returned.

One of its main attractions had been banished, one of its star players was asleep, one of the more interesting clubs in the bottom half of the table had weakened itself and had spent a good chunk of its transfer income not on new players, but on a 50-foot inflatable.

Peep peep peep!

Showtime.

***

On the advice of my editors, I have merged three elements to form what the professionals consider to be a more satisfying narrative. First, my personal experiences. Second, what I saw on my customary multiple rewatches. Third, what I heard from my peers, such as Livia, who was sitting next to Max.

***

We slipped into our 4-1-4-1 formation, and it was clear early on that many of our players would have a good game. Peter, Edgar, Youngster, Wibbers, all had neat early touches. I lost the ball twice in four minutes. Put me in a white cake box.

In the dugout, Max called Sandra over. He handed her a little tactics board with the magnets in such an unusual shape she initially turned it sideways to try to make sense of it.

Sandra came to the side of the pitch and barked out instructions. My new role was more advanced - I moved from left midfield to left wing, and was astonished to find myself playing next to Helge Hagen.

So who was playing left back?

No-one.

The fuck?

We were pinging the ball around the pitch, and on the far side to me, Wibbers, Rushy, and Magnus were rotating, moving into each other's zones, so much so that I wasn't totally sure where they were supposed to be playing.

The move continued. Edgar to Peter and through the midfield. Manchester United had bought three new midfielders, but you wouldn't have guessed it.

The ball went back to Peter, who hit a low, fizzing pass that curled into my path. I burst into the penalty area, saw Helge and Foquita making moves, shaped to pass with my left foot, waited for the United defenders to commit, cut onto my right, chipped the ball to the far post, watched as Wibbers smashed it hard past Zottegem.

One-nil. The home fans went wild - the real ones AND the ones on the giant screens. The FA Cup wobbled, regally. Max told Sandra to reset us.

We went back to our default 4-1-4-1 and dominated.

***

A quarter of an hour in, we were ordered into the strange formation again, and this time I was able to work out everyone's base role. Owen in goal. No left back. Peter, Edgar, Rushy. A midfield of Magnus, Jimmy, Youngster, no-one on the right. A front four of me, Helge, Foquita, and Wibbers. 3-3-4, asymmetrical. If it had been a tower, it would have toppled.

But once more, we picked up the pace. Our passes were crisp, we always had options, we chose the right option. We carved United apart, opened gigantic gaps, rushed into the gaps, formed overloads, looked for overlaps. Rushy and Wibbers combined, slapped into the side of the box, and Rushy had his pick - go low for Foquita or high for Helge. It was so easy that he hesitated and chose neither, hitting a nothingy sort of medium pass. United cleared, but only as far as Jimmy, who passed it to me.

I played a one-two with Helge, got into the box, and as I rushed past Mendes - still in the United team despite how much money they had spent - he fouled me.

Penalty!

Wibbers took the ball.

Wibbers scored.

Max via Sandra urged us to return to 4-1-4-1.

We played out the rest of the half in a sort of dream, the dream of a drowsy virtuoso, a musical dream in which we kept our tempo, hit the right notes, slowed it all down. Alla marcia, allargando, pianissimo.

A hush descended on the Deva. The ref blew once, softly. Joe Anka played his half-time hits at half volume. Dean swapped places with Livia and made sure Max didn't hurt his neck as he crashed out. 

Max was the baby; we smiled as he slept.

***

Inside the dressing room, things were different.

Noise, mayhem, delirium.

"See that?"

"Fuck me!"

"Chester! Chester!"

We settled, laughing, joking, high on our own supply. Wesley Lippincott sat leaning forward, hands on head. "Sorry fellas, but is this a clown car or ain't it?"

We jeered him, we cheered our jeers, we cried, "Fuhgeddaboudit!"

Sandra arrived, smiling, far more relaxed than before kick-off. Someone asked her to explain the strange formation, but then she was reminded that she had to do a half-time interview. Annoyance flashed over her face, but four seconds later, she was smiling, camera-ready, on her way out the door.

Tony Herbert said, "But what did I see?"

Vincent Addo said, "Beats me. We seemed to be playing 4-4-4."

I said, "It was 3-3-4, no left back, no right mid."

Vini said, "What?"

Everyone shouted, everyone cried out. We all had theories.

Dan Badford, languid, cool, stood and went to the front. "All right," he said, "shut the fuck up." We shut up, smiling. He said, "School is now in session." He went to the tactics board and recreated Max's 3-3-4. He took one red magnet and put it in our left back slot, which was vacant. "This is Biyik. Apart from Brito, who is having a mare, he's United's biggest threat. You'd think Max has to be zonked off his tits to give Biyik the freedom of Chester."

Dan picked up a marker pen, took a step towards us, threw the pen, caught it. We laughed in recognition. Pure Best.

Dan shook his head. "I've been playing under Max longer than most. I was at Das Tournament, watching, when he was knocking Wolves about, messing up Notts. You think he's a megabrain because he is, but his secret sauce is simplicity." Dan stepped back and pointed. "Like this, we outnumber United pretty much everywhere, especially in our attacking third. We cause them conniptions when we're doing this, and we've got bodies everywhere so they can't just cut through us with slick passing. Only weak spot is here, where Biyik's alone, but even if they hit a Hollywood pass and get the ball to him, what's gonna happen?" Dan slid one of our defensive magnets a little to the left. "The gaffer's made our entire defensive system a match-up between Biyik and Peter. Max is betting Peter will wrap him up."

I, for one, boggled at the board. It was so simple. It was so blindingly simple!

Emiliano leaned forward. He was impressed, but not completely sold on Dan's interpretation. "But why don't we stay like that if it's so good?"

Dan slicked his hair back. "Because if Mark Hardwick is still the manager next time we play, we can do this again, so long as we don't do it long enough for United's analysts to get their teeth into it."

I shot to my feet. "We'll do ten formations second half!"

Wibbers nodded. "Throw them off the scent."

Peter said, "All right, lads, settle down. Long way to go. Get your heads straight."

***

We emerged for the second half, no subs, and I instinctively ran the wrong way. There was that feeling again, that wrongness. I had entered the upside down! I was yet again freaked out and doubting myself.

I was on the left wing shooting towards the McNally, which meant the dugouts were close to me. Max was barely awake, Sandra was watching over us maternally, and things were going well.

Too well.

Helge, Rushy, and Wibbers got cocky, tried tricks and flicks and spins. They thought the game was won. Considering how much I was struggling, it was annoying. You can't play like that if you're only two goals ahead. Anything can happen, and in football, anything happens ten times a day.

Helge did a flurry of stepovers, tried to dribble past Biyik, who took the ball from him and blasted a shot a couple of feet over the bar.

A vengeful hell-demon appeared on the touchline, screaming its head off, curdling our blood.

It was Max Best, woken from his slumber by the shitty attitude of three of our players. I noted that every single one of our subs was warming up, mere minutes into the half. "Are you having fun?" Max screamed at Helge. "Are you having FUN?!"

Helge bucked his ideas up. Rushy got the message. Wibbers slapped himself on the face.

Max kicked water bottles. Max tore off his big coat and slammed it into the ground. Max screamed at me, "What are you looking at? Play the fucking match!"

I played.

***

In the 60th minute, a bright spell of attacking possession was disrupted by a foul. Vikki, our set pieces coach, strode forward and indicated what she wanted us to do. Rushy stood over the ball, threatening to whip it into the penalty area, where we had Helge and a variety of other beefy boys grappling with United's defenders.

But Rushy swept a low pass in my direction, and the United players realised they had been fooled. They ran at me - Brito lunged into a crazy, desperate challenge that could have hurt me... had I not simply stepped over the ball.

It ran through to Wibbers, who chipped the ball up. Helge headed sideways, and Edgar Wilde did a falling scissors-kick to smash the ball into the back of the net.

Three-nil, bedlam, mayhem, scenes, but Sandra took no part, because she was listening to Max.

He was ordering a drastic change.

I trudged towards the touchline, gutted, annoyed with myself. I had been given a chance to shine, and instead I had crapped in a cake box.

The numbers went up. Off were going Edgar - the latest goalscorer - Magnus, and Jimmy.

On were coming Tony Herbert, Dan Badford, and our new signing, Wesley Lippincott.

I was staying!

The signal was to play 4-2-2-2. Tony was a like-for-like change in the back four. The DMs would be Youngster and Dan. I was a CAM, alongside Wesley, behind Foquita and Wibbers.

Another signal went up.

Hybridism.

Shivers went up and down my spine.

Max had been preparing for this moment for years. Years!

Ever since he had come back from Brazil with his head full of stars, he had been cautiously experimenting with entirely new ways of playing the sport, and Hybridism was the fullest expression of this process. We would line up centrally and use Relationist techniques to progress the ball up the pitch, but to turbocharge that process there was one simple rule. When you passed the ball, you had to sprint forward.

So simple, so effective. The oppo had to respond or their defence would be outgunned, but if the oppo responded to every forward sprint, we would soon find ourselves camped outside their penalty area, with them forced into a low block, and Max Best teams had been dealing with low blocks since the National League North days.

We ate low blocks for breakfast.

***

We enjoyed seven minutes of carnage, of fantasy football.

In the previous season, before we had played Leeds United, Max had mocked Wesley Lippincott, had shown us his touch map, had shown us clips that displayed his indiscipline. This was the ultimate example of a headless chicken.

It's fair to say I was surprised that we signed him.

But here, he took the breath away. Once, I dribbled myself down a blind alley, got tangled up, lost the ball.

Wesley had been sprinting ahead of me but as soon as I messed up he turned, pumped his legs, got goal-side of one of United's new signings. I ran back, cutting off the passing lane to Brito, and then came Wibbers and Dan and Youngster appeared and stabbed the ball. In the blink of an eye, Wesley was twenty yards away, dribbling towards goal, but he didn't like his options so he turned and gave the ball to me.

I played a one-two with Foquita, looked for Wibbers, but found Rushy overlapping on the right, for the twentieth time in the game.

I gave it to him, he left the defender for dead, he shaped to shoot, decided he had better options, realised he didn't, cracked the ball hard, top left, holy shit what a finish, four-nil, what the hell is happening, bish bash bosh!

While we were dancing around, collapsing onto each other, picking each other up, the giant screens were saying GOAL! and whhhuuuuuut?! and RUSHYYYYYYYY.

The away end was emptying. The home ends were cycling through all the hits.

Sandra Lane and Max Best, Chester's mummy and daddy, wanted two more subs. I started towards the dugout, not quite so disappointed this time, but once again I had misjudged the situation. Wibbers and Foquita were being rested - against Manchester United! - and were replaced by Gabby and Emiliano Ferrari. We were back in 4-1-4-1 with me on the left, Wesley on the right. I expected him to go rogue, to maraud all over the pitch and leave Rushy exposed, but it didn't happen.

We saw out the match, conserving energy while one of the world's most famous teams curled up and died.

When I left the pitch, the giant screens were covered in statistics. One said that I had been credited with three assists. I had also been involved in the other goal, for it was my dummy that caused United's lines to sunder. That, to be fair, was a goal created entirely by Vikki's imagination. Three assists in the Premier League in a match in which I felt I was playing poorly? I would take that, as they said in England, all day long.

***

For the first time in history, Chester FC were top of the first division.

Max Best yawned.

(But happily.)

He left, paternally.

***

There was always a media frenzy after United lost a game, but given the nature of their opponent's wage budget (minimal) and the nature of their performance (inept), plus this being the first game of the season, things were always going to be spicy for Mark Hardwick, the United manager, but he didn't know just how spicy.

It started innocently enough.

Wibbers was named Player of the Match by DigiWorld - which was the kind of mistake I could get behind - and Wibbers poked a little fun. When asked if he was surprised by how poorly United played, he said, "If they looked poor it's because we made them look poor, but I'm just focused on the next game. Coventry will be a tough test."

The implication was that United had not been a tough test. Wibbers was turning into quite the little troublemaker!

But while his comments were picked up, they were mostly drowned out by what came next. 

Tiggy texted me to ask if I had seen ‘the mad outburst’. Others in the dressing room were getting similar messages, so we asked Tyson to get the clip and show it. We gathered around the big screen, jaws collectively dropping.

Brito, United's captain, playmaker, and talisman, had thrown Mark Hardwick under the bus so spectacularly my first thought was that the clip had to be a deepfake. "The tactics are bad, we don't press, we leave space, when you play like this the opponent gains in confidence."

When Brito had finished, Peter said, "Manchester United will be relegated."

Sandra Lane said, "That's a shame."

I don't think she meant it.

***

Tuesday, August 21st

With the first round of Premier League fixtures complete, Chester were still top of the league, and a certain P. Bochum was the top scorer in the official EPL Fantasy League standings. Three assists and a clean sheet as a midfielder, plus I played the entire match and didn't pick up a yellow or red card.

(My editors have suggested that it might 'humanise' me not to go into 'tedious detail' about how Fantasy Football points are awarded. They're probably right. All that matters is that I was number one. Which is to say, first. For the avoidance of doubt, I sat atop the entire Prem, even above Wibbers, who didn't finish the match and got a yellow card for 'gobbing off at the ref'.)

***

After training, after lunch, I went for a long walk around Bumpers Bank. In recent weeks, one of those woodchip jogging paths had been created around the perimeter. It was springy and natural and was just as much for the back office workers as for the players. I walked along its curved lines, passed a bench, passed a raised bed, passed a raised bed that doubled as a bench, waved at Sam Topps and Dan Badford as they strolled past, and was mildly surprised to find Ender's partner, Salome, staring pensively at some begonias.

"Hi," I said. "You okay?"

"Yes. No. Yes."

"You said no."

"Yes but I said yes. So it's yes."

With great tact and delicacy, I got her to fess up. She was worried about a meeting that would take place momentarily. A delegation from the fan group that owned the club wanted to know what Max was up to. They had signed NDAs, so what they were told would not leak, and if they were satisfied that things were broadly in order, they would feed that back to the wider fanbase. If they were not satisfied, they could demand more scrutiny, more input, or potentially block Max's schemes altogether, which knowing him would be terminal, the literal end of the Max Best era.

It's fair to say that Salome didn't want to fuck things up. "I wish Haley or Wibbers were here," she said, in the way of a joke.

I couldn't think what united that pair. "Why?"

"Max said to bring them to any difficult meetings and the attendees would be so starstruck they would forget what they came for."

"Take me. I'm top of the fantasy football scores. One guy in Vietnam had me as captain so he scored double points, and that guy is ahead by miles. The Sportsman are desperate to interview him. I'm massive in Vietnam, haha."

I was joking, but Salome treated it like I had thrown her a life jacket. "Perfect! Will you come? I shouldn't ask, it will be really boring for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"Big football star," she said, idly, as she retreated back into her worries.

"Not so big. More people had picked Ender for their team than had picked me."

Salome brightened up. "Really? That's surprising. He’ll enjoy hearing that." Her phone beeped. "Oh, shit." She grabbed my arm and pushed me back the way I had come. "We're doing this."

I started to get a bad feeling. "But what is my mission? What are my orders?"

"We make them think Sport City isn't a crazy vanity project."

"But it is."

"I know! But Max is only spending the money he has created, isn't he? We need to convince the fans that their football club is in the right hands. That's the mission."

***

We went into the former media centre, which surprised me. Someone had stuck an A4 piece of paper on a door. At the top were the words, 'The Situation Room'. This had been crossed out, replaced by COBRA. This had also been crossed out, replaced by the words: Meeting Room One.

Salome and I shook hands with three representatives from the fans. One was a middle-aged builder type, one was a woman in her mid-forties, I guessed, and there was a twenty-something man with terrible facial hair.

Salome did the introductions and some small talk, then got down to business.

The plans for Sport City had been tweaked, it seemed.

"Tweaked?" I said.

"Right," said Salome. I knew I should have kept quiet, knew that I wasn't helping her achieve her goal in this meeting, but I couldn't contain my surprise.

"But Max only just announced them."

"Someone pointed out the flaw in his plan so he has tweaked it."

"The flaw being that he's a crazy person," I said, which got a big laugh from the three fans.

Salome hit me with those dark, soulful eyes. "The flaw being that if he moves the buildings one a time, it's going to take decades to get anywhere, and there will always be one business that is homeless. So we're going to build this..."

She pulled out a large map and multiple architect sketches. They showed a business park, similar to ones you might find anywhere in the world, except these buildings alternated in blue and white.

"The colours are a nod to the football club, of course. We will build these on a site near the golf course. Once they are up, we can start moving our tenants into them. That will give us several empty buildings. And since those buildings will also need a new home." She got another map and showed another plot of land, with the transplanted buildings neatly laid out. It was fascinating but I was stuck on the Chester FC-themed site.

"What's this here?" I said, pointing to a sketch.

"That's an outdoor kitchen," she said. "If we're going to have those businesses closer together, there's a need to upgrade them. This will be the local canteen. Heated in the winter, and in the summer you roll up the walls and have outdoor seating. Good coffee, wraps, kebabs, salads, all in one place."

The female fan said, "We need to upgrade them? Says who?"

"Max. He says that everything we touch, we leave it better. Isn't the club's motto: Our City, Our Community, Our Club? The city built the club, now the club will rebuild the city." She smiled. "Of course, only to the extent that we can afford and to the extent that it dovetails with our sporting ambitions." Salome went into some of the financials, showing how the club could easily afford the capital cost of this project and that it would be profitable and great for local businesses.

Then she presented some numbers showing the amount of investment Max was thinking about making. 80 million pounds this year alone.

My head was spinning. "Is that just to build these buildings? That's four times what I would have guessed."

"No, no, no. That's the total, and some of that is government bonds, the safest, most boring investment going. Max wants to buy some to boost our financial data when it comes to UEFA."

I shook my head - Max had often mentioned this scam he had cooked up, and I thought I had dissuaded him from it. "But UEFA don't include that. He read the wrong part of the document! I told him!"

"He knows, Pascal, but he wants to try it. A small investment as a test case. We present our accounts, and if UEFA strike off that particular line item, so be it, at least we know. But if they accept it and we grow the number to a point that they have a problem with it, we can point to the previous six years - or whatever - of us declaring it and them accepting it. Also, we can make this investment and try to change the rules, perhaps an exemption for clubs that are majority fan-owned. Who could argue with that? Also, it's good to have the money. Whether we can declare it on some form or other is one thing, but we'll still have it. Worst case is that all of the investment income goes into the Foundation. If we can't spend it on football, we'll spend it on the community."

The fans liked that. I jabbed my finger into the river and said, "Are we getting a bridge?"

"We submitted the planning papers and put 15 million pounds into escrow the morning after the election, as promised."

"Cool. And we're being clever with how we're paying for players and how we're selling them, I heard that, but there's one thing that has been bugging me. Max should use the transfer income to pay off the BoshCard credit facility, but he doesn't seem to be doing that. It's not like him to take big risks."

"There's no risk. He planned to take 40 million from BoshCard to pay for the Main Stand redevelopment, but we're not doing that. We're very much on top of the numbers, Pascal. If paying down the debt is the right option, we'll do it, but Max is treating it like working capital. To be honest, it looks to me like we can get started on Sport City, explore the other expansions he wants, and pay back most of the credit facility."

I stared at the maps and the drawings. In pride of place on the sketches were energy efficiency ratings, which were going from Ds and Fs to As. Max's buildings would ace their tests. "So we can afford all this..."

Salome's lips curled just a fraction. "We can if you beat Coventry..."

That was the moment the fans melted. Salome had complete mastery over the topics and the numbers, but she was funny, too. Our third-choice goalie was Banksy, who was not ready to start Premier League matches, but if Salome was our third-choice CEO, this football club was in very good hands.

She spoke in a slightly wistful way. "This club is Max's baby. These investments are intended to make sure the baby can grow. It's the college fund, it's getting him onto the property ladder. When Manchester City return to the Premier League, we'll be ready. It can't be a risk... to build a foundation."

Boom. Nailed it. Stuck the landing. What a woman! The fans would remember that last line, and it would spread. The older man eyed me, and him changing the topic seemed to indicate he was satisfied with what he had heard. "Pascal, how's baby Archie, do you know?"

I said, "Crying, tantrums, unreasonable demands..."

That was the assist; Salome applied the finish. "He asked about Archie."

"From what I hear," I said, still with a twinkle in my eye, "Archie is doing to Max what Max has been doing to us."

The fans melted some more.

***

That evening, a bunch of players and our partners went down to The Racecourse to watch Saltney Town against Red Star Belgrade in the first leg of the Champions League Qualifying Playoff.

We were surprised to see Max Best in the starting lineup. We were surprised to see the Bordermen deploy 4-4-2 for the first time this season. But it was no surprise to see Max put in a ten out of ten performance.

He played in the heart of the midfield, one-third positional mastery like Martim Santana, one-third silky control like Dan Badford, one-third driving creativity, à la Ludo Peeters. Together with Toquinho and Li Anjie, who were the wide midfielders, Max created chances for the twin strikers, Colin and Ruud. 

I watched as Colin scored the opener, then saw something I had never seen in the flesh - Ruud Berkenbosch score a goal in a real match. That was his second of the qualifiers, and he was looking like his injury woes were well and truly behind him.

Max scored the third from a free kick, but then the Serbs did something clever: they turtled up.

They must have known that Max would not fly to Belgrade, even with eighteen million pounds on the line, so they kept the score down to 3-0. Max tried to tease them into a more attack-minded state by throwing on his young Dragonball players, but the Serbs didn't take the bait.

They thought that they could beat a Max-less Saltney Town in their home stadium. Thought they could overturn a three-goal deficit...

***

Over in Norway, Dumi, Jari, and Nasa helped College get a 0-0 draw.

The second leg in Gibraltar would be a nailbiter...

Could Max get two tiny teams into the Champions League? Surely not...

***

Saturday, August 26

Match 2 of 38: Newly-Promoted Coventry City vs Top-of-the-Table Chester

"Okay, listen up," said Sandra. This was our second match in Coventry's stadium in two weeks, and in a strange way it felt more familiar than the Deva had. "Max isn't coming, but I got a message from him." She held her phone up. "'Sandra, you're the daddy now. Pick whatever eleven you want in whatever system. Get weird with it if that's what you feel like. Go absolutely bonkers in any direction. Three left backs? Try it. Four goalies? I'm on board. Just tell me one thing - are elbows supposed to look like this?' And then there's a photo of a normal human baby elbow. Okay, so guess what crazy formation I've decided to go with?"

Peter said, "The one Max suggested, probably weeks ago."

Sandra shook her head and smiled, ruefully. "Exactly. 4-2-2-2 Hybrid and he named the team, too. I've tweaked it based on the signings we've made since then." She went to the board and slid magnets into place. "Owen Brownhands." Laughter. "Lewis, Peter, Tony, Magnus." Magnus at right back was mildly surprising, but not unprecedented. Sandra was probably looking out for Rushy's hamstrings while deciding that Roddy Jones needed to be eased into the season. "DMs are Youngster and Vini. CAMs, Pascal and Wesley. Strikers, Foquita and Gabby. That's it. Let's be professional."

Wesley said, "Let’s be what?"

To be fair, I thought it was funny, but Sandra went over to him and loomed. "Did you just vom on my shoulder?" Wes worried that he had gone too far, but Sandra couldn't commit to the bit the way Max could - she relaxed and laughed, but then pointed at the American. "Professionalism means doing what I tell you."

"Yes, ma'am. You got it."

***

My editors have complained about the next part of this narrative. Surely you can find a way to infuse it with some tension?

Sorry but no.

Ender Ciritoglu did his best, but from the first whistle, we outperformed Coventry in all aspects of the sport. We were faster, brighter, sharper. Our defensive shape - we fell into a 4-4-2 when pushed - was almost flawless. We weren't anywhere near as cohesive in attack as when we played Manchester United, and there was something very strange about that, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. But all in all, we crushed.

In one move, Wesley appeared on the left, hit a pass aiming for Foquita that hit Gabby by accident. The Brazilian barged deeper into the penalty area, took a shot, it was saved, and Foquita was on hand to stick in the rebound.

I had a hand in the second, when I made a run between Foquita and Gabby that created some space for the Brazilian. He took a pass, hit a snap shot, it was saved, and it fell into the path of Foquita, who scored. Almost the same goal!

Gabby mimed that he would strangle the Peruvian. Stop stealing my goals!

The home fans, who had been dreaming of a return to the Premier League for so long, fell silent.

Chester FC were getting in the habit of ruining parties.

***

I was subbed off at half time, along with Wes, and we sat together in the dugout as Wibbers and Emi took our places. My read was that the team improved massively in terms of power and technique, but lost even more cohesion. A few times, Wibbers lost his temper with Emiliano. Peter told Wibbers to cut it out.

Nothing major, but in some ways that moment summed us up. We were very good, better than Coventry, but worse than we had been the week before.

Wesley said, "Did we get taken off for playing crap? I thought you were good. Effective."

"It was a planned change to spread minutes around in the early season. Don't take it personally; this will happen very often. You will be thankful for it come February and March."

"And Helge. Keep thinking about him. Great first match, completely dropped for this one. That's because of those stupid stepovers he did?"

"Normal rotation. Lewis needs minutes and Coventry are not a huge threat from set pieces. Helge corrected himself quickly; it is no longer a factor."

Colin Beckton, who was still one of our senior coaches even if he played for a different team, came over with an iPad. He had Wesley's touch map from last week versus today, and it was stunning.

Last week: the perfect CAM in Hybridism. It was so beautiful I assumed that Leeds United had secretly been training that way.

This week: back to his old nonsense. Touches everywhere.

"But I made a goal," he said.

Colin said, "Your positional indiscipline led to a goal, yes, that time. But here..." Colin tapped on three of the dots. "These ones, the defence bailed you out. The fans don't notice, the media are oblivious, but Max sees this, DOVE sees this, even I see this."

Wesley gritted his teeth, but he hadn't reached the Premier League by ignoring feedback. "Show me Pascal's."

Colin hesitated, but agreed it was a good idea. Wes and I had been playing the same position against the same opponents, after all. He held it up. "Beautiful," he said. "It's like yours from last week. This is the test, mate. Playing for Max elevates everyone. See me on Tuesday night? Roll back the years, man!" Colin chuckled. "We want you to play Max Best football without Max. We're gonna push you."

Wes took the iPad, stared at it, nodded. Colin gave him an amiable pat on the upper arm, retrieved his tablet, then went back to his spot near Sandra. The American crushed his knuckles and they cracked, loud. "Don't you just want to be where the action is?"

"No. I want to be where the team needs me."

"Oof." He fell quiet, but not for long. He punched himself on the knee. "Reality check. Failed at the first hurdle. Shoot!"

It seemed to be my job to cheer him up, but I was busy being fascinated by our performance. At times, Tony Herbert did not look like a Premier League player. His passing would fail him, he would take heavy touches, but then he would crunch into a tackle or win a header and it would restore his belief. 

Lewis, Magnus, Youngster, Wibbers, Gabby, Foquita - that was a collection of very competent players who knew the expectations. Vini and Emiliano looked out of place. They didn't seem sure of themselves. Emiliano was in his head too much, while Vini was trying too hard not to give away free kicks.

Owen Elmham was a madman who had crushed two empty boxes in a horrific display of self-confidence... But as Livia had joked, better to let him get his craziness out of his system in the dressing room, not on the pitch. Yeah, Owen was a fine goalie. He would have more good games than bad.

Colin had a long chat with Sandra, then came back our way. "Pascal, we're doing Dan for Vini, straight swap, Tomz for Tony, Roddy for Magnus. What do you think?"

"Tomz? Today?"

"Max wanted him to get minutes if we were ahead."

"Okay." I checked the clock, then imagined I was in the hot seat. "Dan for Vini yes, but we should keep Magnus on. Go 5-3-2. Lewis, Peter, Tomz, Magnus, Roddy. Youngster, Emi, Dan. Wibbers and whichever striker you want to keep on."

"Back five?" said Colin, intrigued.

"Max likes inexperienced CBs to be eased into the team with two experienced guys either side. We're comfortable and the boys need minutes but there's no point being reckless."

Colin nodded a few times. "You're bang on. Top mint, mate."

He went over to Sandra. Wesley eyed me. "What was that? Some kind of tactics test? Bit of fun to keep the subs engaged?"

"What?" I said, confused. I pointed. Sandra was eyeing me, giving me a thumbs up.

"Wait, did you just... Did you just pick the team?"

A minute later, I stood and applauded as the whistle blew and Thomazella prepared to go onto the pitch. He had spent a lot of time out on loan, but he was finally back in the Chester first team squad, now making his debut as a Premier League player.

Big moment for him and his family. His mum would be in Chester in what Max called the Big Mama House, crying her eyes out.

Thirty seconds into his PL debut, Tomz misjudged the flight of the ball. It hit him at a weird angle, and bounced favourably for Cov player. He took the ball closer to our goal...

And Magnus took it off him.

He passed to Roddy, who had free rein to attack on the right. Lewis matched him on the left, and our 5-3-2 morphed into 3-5-2. We kept the ball in midfield, passing it around, taking time off the clock.

Very professional.

Dan drew a foul. Emi lifted him up. Tomz high-fived Magnus.

Livia checked her phone. She checked Sandra wasn't looking our way, then called out. "Sandra's first solo Prem win. She's making history. Be sure she gets her flowers."

We all nodded. We knew what to do. We would grab her and push her in front of the away fans, and we would all take a step back. She was a trailblazer; she had earned this.

Livia's phone buzzed again. She locked eyes on me. "Max says well done."

How did he know? My heart sang.

I felt eyes on me, and turned to see Wesley Lippincott boring holes into my skull. He softened his expression and said, "Do you take mentees?"

"Mentees?"

"You're the mentor, I'm the mentee. I learn from you."

"You're two years older than me!"

He shrugged. "I’d prefer someone older but Max Best is busy." A smile showed that he was not entirely joking, but wasn't being entirely serious, either. "I want to see the game like you do. Teach me. I mean, if you want. If you... You might find me a dull student."

This was a surprising turn of events. I could barely process it. "Student. You want to learn. You want to learn football. I'm the teacher. I'm the teacher?" Wibbers, Emi, Dan, and Youngster pinged the ball around in a whirr, before Wibbers leaned back and chipped a pass into the path of Roddy, who was fouled. Yellow card for the defender. That was classic Max Best football, powerful in its simplicity. I could teach that, surely? "I must warn you..."

I paused, because Roddy took the kick quickly. Dan deflected the ball into the path of Wibbers, who chipped it towards Gabby. He laid it off to Emiliano, who shot from distance. It went just wide, good effort, but the very fact that Emi would choose to shoot in that situation made Wibbers lose his shit. We were 2-0 up, about to make history, but Emi had made a poor choice and wasn't Wibbers letting him know it! Dan got between the pair, acting as peacemaker. There was something captivating about the scene. This was box-office, unmissable, a sequel that would surpass the original. We were in for a hell of a season!

"Yes? You must warn me what?"

I grinned. "I love ratings, I love feedback. In my classes, there are many, many tests."

...

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