4.

  Football glossary: Transfer kitty. Also known as a 'war chest'. The amount of money a club has available to buy new players.

  ***

  Monday, January 5

  I knocked on the door of the Sin Bin. "Come in!" came the reply.

  "Sorry," I said. Lee Contreras was in there talking to Alex Short, our sports psychologist. I pointed at the big screen. "I need the telly for ten minutes."

  "Yeah, no, that's fine, boss," gushed Lee as he scrambled to his feet. "We can go."

  "I'm under time pressure is all," I said. "Busy day today."

  "Yeah!" said Lee, as though he knew my schedule. I got the strong impression he had been complaining about me just as I had knocked.

  I smiled - that's what the sessions were for, after all. "Your therapy is serious, Lee. But I'm planning for the United game and need to decide on this week's training."

  "We can do it outside," said Lee. "Walk around and that."

  "Can you?" That was surprising. "I thought you needed to lie down."

  Alex said, "You're the only one who lies down, Max. But Lee is right. Sometimes it's nice to walk and talk."

  I clicked my fingers. "The West Wing. Every dramatic conversation they're walking down a corridor and when someone says something awesome they're always going round a corner." I turned to Peter Bauer. "Remind me to put in more corners. A hedge maze, maybe."

  "Yes, Max." He took a seat.

  Lee and Alex left. I plugged my laptop in. "Won't take long, Peter."

  "Max," said the best defender I'd ever seen drunkenly throwing shapes at a Christmas party held in an art gallery. "Some clubs have benches and quiet areas around the training ground where players can sit with the psychologist. I read about one SP who brings his dog to work. All the players love to rub his belly. The dog's, I mean."

  "Interesting. We can include some benches in our plans and I'm going to inherit a dog one day. He'd love hanging around here. He's a complete attention seeker. Shameless. He lied about being psychic."

  Peter's eyes dropped. Solly's sole failure to detect a traitor had happened in the case of R. Brown. "Do you want to talk about your former player?"

  "No," I said. "That topic is more closed than Woolworth's and Blockbuster put together. Today's about the future. Every day is about the future but especially today. A lot of good things could happen today, Peter."

  "Good."

  I hesitated. There was one thing I wanted to get off my chest before we got to the fun stuff. "When I got home from the clinic I had a look on social media hoping for a bit of, you know, adoration. To ease the blow, kind of thing." Six weeks, the doctor had said. I would be able to walk, drive, and keep relatively fit, but I wouldn't be able to train flat-out for six weeks. Even with super healing I wouldn't play for the best part of a month, and in that time my CA would decay. I was really looking forward to an ego boost. "First comment I saw goes, 'should of won by more'."

  Peter inhaled slowly and kept his breath there. He let it out quickly. "I do not understand the English approach to English. Do you not learn your own grammar?"

  "No. And if you want a laugh, ask ten people to spell grammar. Okay, whinge complete, let's get planning. The next few days I'll be doing some business and transfers and whatnot. Want to come with?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Sorted. Quick oppo analysis." I pulled my laptop closer and I tapped the space bar. We watched a few clips of Manchester United. They all showed similar scenes - goalkeepers and defenders passing the ball to each other while United's forwards chased them.

  "Pressing," he said.

  "Right." I closed my laptop for a moment and rubbed my temples. "I'm very interested in risk versus reward and have been trying to develop a kind of innate sense of what that means on a football pitch." I fell silent for way too long considering we were under time pressure. "The way I see it, in the 80s, English teams played long ball because it was the least risky proposition. If the ball's near the other team's goal, there is less risk. What's risky if you're a long ball team? Weirdly, it's crossing and shooting. If you score, great, but if you don't, the other team will get the ball and hoof it to your penalty box. 4 seconds after your shot, you're defending for your life. Over time, the pitches got better, the coaching got better, and now every player in the league has a decent first touch and can play a pass. Teams like Man City control the ball, move it around, get overloads, get one v ones against weak opponents, get to the byline, cut back, very high chance of a goal."

  "The Art of Slapping," he said.

  I smiled. "I didn't invent it. I just made it cool. The answer to City is a low block. Two banks of five. Pass your way through that, you cheating pricks. The answer to the low block is for your centre back to put his foot on the ball and stay motionless until someone comes to get him. The strikers press, you retreat, the midfield pushes up, bosh - the oppo is spread out and you cut through them like butter. That works great. How about you take it to the nth degree? From goal kicks, your keeper plays a six-inch-long pass to tempt the oppo to press you in your penalty box. They take the bait because if they get the ball it's a virtually certain goal. Plus they are pressing the weakest technicians on your team - goalies and centre backs. Are you bored?"

  "Not in the slightest." He pawed at his face. "Do I look bored?"

  "No but I'm explaining football to an expert. I lost confidence for a second."

  "Please continue."

  "The point is the modern elite manager takes bigger risks in his own penalty area than in the opposition's."

  "The reward is the chance to play against a spread defence."

  I nodded, rubbed my temples some more, and opened my laptop. I played one of the scenes again and paused it.

  The goalie was to the left of his left-hand post. He had played a pass to a centre back who had taken a touch and passed it to the left back. The left back was under pressure so he had touched it back to the centre back but now there were three United players rushing at the three opponents. The whole scene screamed 'danger!'

  "These defenders are so one-footed they are easy to press. You know which way they want to turn, which side they're comfortable passing to, and they have got themselves tied up in knots and now all their choices are the absolute worst. Seeing this stresses me out. We associate passing football with good football but this isn't good football. This is dumb."

  Peter tilted his head. "This is from last season, isn't it? Since then, this head coach has moved to a bigger club. They liked how he had set his team up and they liked his commitment to modern methods."

  "Yeah, it's good for the manager's career," I said. "Not so good for the team, though, is it?"

  "What would you do? Hoof it?" Peter had enjoyed learning the word 'hoof'. He pronounced it like it had three Os.

  "Yes," I said. "We play the best football we can and nothing more. But look." I went to the screen and pointed. "There are unmarked midfielders here and here. Can we get the ball to them? If we can, we destroy the tactical plan of every elite team."

  Peter smiled. "Yes. If."

  I didn't smile. "Just bear with me. If we could get the ball through this first line on a safe, repeatable basis, then we would slap every top six team again and again. If we can do it with virtually zero risk, the reward is massive."

  "Yes."

  I rubbed my chin. "United's press is shambolic, still. They aren't coordinated. Their forwards don't want to do it. They do it six times out of ten, which defeats the whole point because if they don't do it together there is always a way through. They will get better but they are near the bottom of the Premier League in terms of effectiveness. Would you agree?"

  "Yes."

  "They also telegraph who they are targeting. I suspect they will go for Christian, but we will test that near the start. I saw this thing once where a team cycled five players into position to get the ball from a goal kick. Ring a Ring o' Roses. I think it was to see which player triggered the press. We will practise that. We'll practise what to do when it's Christian but it boils down to - don't pass to him."

  Peter laughed. "United won't adapt, you don't think?"

  I shrugged. "Not quickly. The manager is a megabrain but the strikers in particular are quite stupid. When they eventually adapt, so will we, but faster. Yeah, this week we will get Pascal, Wibbers, and Tom to charge at our back four. We'll do mini-games. Tell the pressers to target one guy in particular, teach our defenders how to respond. Then instead of the trigger being a person, it will be a space. Our defenders have to work out what it is."

  "The trigger for the press is when we move into zone 14, for example. And then the task is to avoid zone 14."

  "Yes. I've got ideas of how to build on those kinds of drills but let's keep it simple this week."

  "I agree."

  I closed my eyes and imagined United's first-choice players swarming at us. There wasn't currently a whole lot I could do about it. "Okay but Peter, I'm not really thinking about United. I'm thinking into the Championship and the Prem."

  He got a strange look about him. "With Chester?"

  "Yes with Chester," I snapped. "Sorry. My foot's hurting. Magnus said not to take painkillers."

  "It is all right. Your faith is... I don't know what to say."

  "Yeah. We just thrashed the league leaders, though, didn't we? We're on the march to League One and we're going straight through. Championship in eighteen months and then we'll start hitting teams who are doing these pressing schemes. I want a solution in place."

  "Okay."

  I inhaled. This could be a mistake. "I couldn't sleep because of the pain so I was thinking all night. I don't want to play 5D chess, Peter. I want to be straight with you."

  "Oh," he said, shifting on his chair. The vibe in the room had shifted.

  "Okay, look, it's one in a million but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't try. Now, don't freak out..."

  "Oh, shit."

  I smiled. "Just imagine if you quit your job at Bayern today and registered with us tomorrow."

  "As...?"

  "As player-coach."

  "Player?" he said. "I'm injured. I'm retired."

  "Yeah," I said, looking away. I didn't want to make a big deal of him faking his injury - I more than understood why he would want to step out of the spotlight. "I'm a bit of a savant when it comes to injuries - not on myself, sadly - and I think you've given your body years of rest and rejuvenation and you're all fine. We could do millions of tests on you if you wanted but don't worry about that now. I want to talk about last night."

  "Not the first time I've heard those words..."

  I laughed. "You dog. But listen, you know the way you're in bed and your mind is racing and you're sure you didn't sleep but Emma says you were snoring loads?"

  "Um..."

  "I can't tell what was daydreaming and what was actual dreams but I was thinking about these United players running at us. Two guys pressing, one big hole where the third was dozing off. Move into that hole, the next set of three are activated but again there are only two doing it right. I was thinking, what would I do in that space? Answer - I'd fucking slap. Against Newcastle I was in the DM slot being attacked on all sides and I'm not used to that level of intensity. I struggled. Give me three months in the Prem and I'll get accustomed but as a one-off, that was hard. But if I'm in my own penalty box and I take a tiny little pass from the goalie, there's no-one behind me. I've got a little bit of time and perfect awareness of what's in front of me. I could glide away from United's forwards, pass sideways, chip over them, do all sorts of cute diagonals, or even fucking leather the ball fifty yards into Pascal's stride."

  "I can imagine that."

  "Yes. I played as a sweeper once. Did you know that?"

  "I heard about it. My grandfather heard someone was playing his old position and sought out the footage."

  "It's not really my idea of fun because I'd rather be taking my risks in the final third. Crosses, shots, through balls, dribbles. That's my role in life."

  "Agreed."

  "Then I thought... huh."

  "Here we go."

  I smiled and tapped the centre back on the screen. "We're going to play five at the back, yes?"

  "That would be wise."

  "I was thinking about a midfielder dropping in to be this centre back. Someone press-resistant. Someone who can get through the lines with a safe dribble or a clever pass. If we had that player we would have a sniff of a chance to cause a surprise." I paused. "The best I could come up with was Ryan Jack."

  Peter pulled a face. "Max..."

  "Yes, I know. He doesn't have the mobility. But then I thought about your profile and I was struck by what people used to say about you. You're a throwback defender from the time of sweepers. Your skillset doesn't fit the modern game. You're too slow to play a high line, don't win headers, you'd be better as a midfielder."

  "They tried to use me as a DM. It didn't work so well."

  I shook my head. "You're not a throwback. A two-footed cultured centre back with flawless positioning, passing, technique, and decision-making?" I slapped the TV. "You're cutting-edge! This play it out from the back while hundred-million pound strikers press you shit is 90% of modern football and you're so perfectly designed to counter that, you'll take three oppo players out of the picture every time we build from the back! You know that thing where Charlie Brown goes to kick the ball but Lucy always snatches it away? That will be us. You'll dangle the ball in front of these forwards but you'll snatch it away, every single time." Peter wanted to speak but I gestured. "I was getting myself more and more hyped all night. I've been thinking so small, like oh here's a really good defender who isn't registered as a player, he's a guy who can help me win League One at the first go, who can help raise our technical level, that kind of thing. So small-minded! It took me watching hundreds of these pressing clips to make me understand what you are. I know I can turn you into one of the most valuable players in Europe. When they realise how I'm using you and how there are precisely zero other centre backs with your skills, every elite team will want you. I mean every single one. You - " I smiled, and the smile only got bigger. I'd been doing a good job of containing my excitement but now it was bursting out. Disappointment was sure to follow but I was learning to enjoy the good moments as they came. "You are a unicorn, Peter!"

  "I am not a unicorn."

  I grinned. "You are! You know what I predict? Oppo managers will get so sick of being humiliated that they'll stop even trying to press you. You will get the ball and walk to the halfway line and opponents will back away like you've got a force field around you."

  "You ate too much cheese last night."

  "No," I said, eyes shining. "Remember we talked about Pedro Porto and how he builds systems that loads of players can fit into? That's what I wanted to do. If I'm going to sell six players every year I need a system where the new guys can just slot in. But last night I changed my mind. You're going to be so overpowered when I'm finished with you it's going to be a joke. My entire Premier League strategy will be built around you. Managers will be sacked for trying to press you." I slapped the screen again. "You're a hundred-million pound player. I'll sell you back to Bayern and you'll win awards. I'm going to put a clause in your contract saying you can't play against Wales."

  He was smiling, but with some level of impatience. "As a one-hundred-million-pound player, Max, what is to be my starting salary?"

  "As player-coach, one thousand pounds per week."

  "Ah."

  "But I'll give you a hundred thousand pound bonus when we get promoted. That will bring you to something like three grand a week. That's what I get, Peter. No-one can earn more than me. We're trying to sign players from Reading and they want crazy money. I'm like, sure, that's the market, but get fucking serious." I waved my impatience away and nodded at Peter. "I'm giving myself a raise in the summer and you'll get one too. Your salary next season won't be far off what you're getting now and Ruth will help you get sponsorships to top it off. You'll make way more money in the next five years here than in Germany, but I know it's not about the money with you."

  "What is it about?"

  I tutted and looked around, but decided to try being honest. I eyed him and said, "Respect. Respect for who you are and not who you're related to. There's still time to have a glorious playing career, Peter. With your style you'll be able to go deep into your 30s. But we will start small. You'll get the same treatment as my Exit Triallists. Ten minutes here, twenty there. Build up to it. And I'll use you in a back three so you'll always have people to do the crap bits. Okay there will be some media attention in the beginning but I'll make your career so boring they will all fuck off soon enough. Peter Bauer? Yeah he's just helping that weirdo in England because the team has no money. No, it's nothing serious. Do you get me? When you start bossing games, sometime next year maybe, it'll have happened so gradually people won't even notice. Then it'll be, oh, it's the English third tier. What do you expect? Then it'll be, oh, it's the English second tier. What do you expect? And so on. You will be able to tune it all out and focus on your game."

  That was it. My plain-talking pitch. I had one more thing to say.

  "The best thing is... I've got the poster planned already. On the giant billboard it'll be your face on the left, some graphic effects, and text: The Bauer of Love. And that'll finally be my Back to the Future team talk."

  "It should be you on the left shouting, I've Got The Bauer. It could be a German Eurodance theme tied in with He-Man."

  "Fuck me that's it! Yes!" I did a happy little dance that didn't put any strain on my left heel.

  But Peter was shaking his head. "I am sorry, Max. I cannot." He checked for my disappointment and saw that I was taking it like a champ. He shook his head once more. "I am very sorry. And... I thank you for thinking of me in such a way. Truly, it means a lot to me." He looked down and I gave him time to process what had happened. He looked up again. "I will do the pressing drills you asked for. Can you please show me the circle routine you mentioned? I am not sure I understood it."

  "Yeah, course," I said. I gestured to my laptop. "Let me finish up here. Why don't you get them going?" Most of the squad had played the day before so it wouldn't be an intense sesh.

  "Yes, Max."

  He moved at half speed, weighed down by his thoughts.

  I watched him go. As he turned back with his hand on the door, he saw that I was not exactly downcast but perhaps in the direction of regretful.

  When he closed the door behind him I unplugged my laptop, sat down on the edge of the table, and kicked my feet happily (the right more than the left).

  The thing about 5D chess is that it is played across many dimensions. Some of the moves you make are only visible later in the timeline.

  ***

  The first half of training was quite placid - it was a recovery session for everyone who had played against Bradford. Morale had bumped up a notch and the lads would have liked to run harder, especially as for once there was no midweek game. The second half was more intense and featured the lads who hadn't, er, featured.

  "Cole," I said, jerking my head to bring him off to the side, away from the other guys who were watching from the touchline. "Enjoy yesterday?"

  He beamed. "Yes, boss! It was amazing. Just incredible. What a rush! Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, it was pretty sweet. Listen, quick thing. I've been pimping you out - " His face fell. "To the Irish national team." The beam was back with a few extra lumens. "They like what they're seeing and more than likely you'll be called up to the under twenty squad in March."

  He was vibrating with joy. "You serious? Really?"

  I gripped his shoulder. "There's a way between now and then, Cole, so it's not a done deal. But if you don't make this squad you'll make the next, or the next. You're close. Do you get me?"

  "Yes, boss!"

  "You keep working, keep doing what you're doing."

  "I will!"

  "Just, er... don't freak out if I sign another left back this week, okay?"

  His smile froze. "You're signing another left back?"

  "I'm talking to one. Another Exit Trial lad."

  "The Exit Trials aren't till the end of the season."

  "I'm getting a sneak preview, sort of thing. He's getting cut from Man United and if we can agree terms, he'll join us. It gives me six months to build him up but you and Josh are my first choices, okay?"

  "Er... yes. Okay."

  "I might loan him out straight away, not sure. If you're off with Ireland in March it might be handy to have him around as a backup. I'd prefer a right back, to be honest, in terms of how the squad is but he's got a lot of talent and he doesn't deserve to be thrown on the scrapheap just because United are moving in a different tactical direction. I know it's a mind fuck - especially after you've just seen off Eddie Moore - but we're giving him the same chance you got - the chance to have a proper career. You might have to fight even harder but you don't mind that, do you?"

  His eyes widened. "No, boss! I mean, I'll make him welcome and I'll show him the ropes and all that but I want to be the first-choice left back for Chester Football Club." He glanced around, then back at me. The big smile returned. "And for Ireland!"

  "Yeah, well," I said. "One of those is going to be a lot fucking easier than the other." I did a cheeky smile, slapped him on the shoulder, and went to get a cuppa while Peter finished up.

  ***

  Peter's dip in mood had been cured by training - that was his happy place, same as mine was managing kids. We didn't mention my offer as we headed to the car park. The Brig was there, waiting by the door of his car.

  We got in and I took the Brig's phone - he had told me the password so I could choose the tunes on long drives - and got ready to blast The Power by SNAP!

  "Sir," said my former assistant manager as my current assistant manager clipped his seatbelt into place. "I owe you an apology."

  "Oh?" I said. I hadn't been expecting the Brig to say anything interesting but an apology felt pretty tectonic.

  He put his hand out to request his phone back. I obliged. He looked at what I was lining up and just for a second, amusement and utter delight flickered across his mien, which is a word used by writers who have run out of ways to say 'face'. He tapped and swiped in his own sweet time before clearing his throat. "You suspected Folke Wester was playing 3 or 4 or 5D chess. I confess I dismissed the idea partly because you kept changing the number." He frowned. "I don't know why I doubted you; this is your world."

  Peter helped out. "Maybe it is because we won four-nil and everything Max did was of the highest order and everything Wester did was utter folly."

  "Yes," said the Brig, unconvinced. "If I may say, Mr. Bauer, I have known Mr. Best longer than you and he is right far more often than he is wrong." His eyes twinkled as though he was asking a bored housewife if he could borrow a cup of sugar. "About football, anyway."

  "That I agree with," said Peter, whose reward was a big toothy smile from me.

  The Brig tapped his screen to stop it from going idle. "I was made aware of this story, sir."

  I took his phone. It was showing an article from a newspaper based in Yorkshire. I read it aloud for the benefit of Peter.

  Wester Given Massive War Chest

  Folke Wester has been handed an astonishing 1.5 million pound January transfer kitty by Chip Star with the aim of ensuring promotion. 'Getting this club back where it belongs is our only goal,' said Star earlier. 'I'm over the moon,' said Wester. 'This money will improve the first team and give us the squad depth needed to cope with fixture congestion. The Stars are amazing owners and I couldn't be happier to work with them.'

  "Fuck," said Peter.

  "Quite," said the Brig.

  "I have to say," I said, thoughtfully. "Wester took a hell of a swing there. If I was Chip I would have sacked him. Binned him right off. Turns out Wester played it perfectly..." I tapped the window a few times. "He must have been softening the fans up over weeks so that when we thrashed them all the ire was aimed at Chip."

  "I spotted something," said Peter. "I did some extra reading and there were a few times Steve Weller was described by Wester as a 'club signing'."

  "Ouch," I said.

  "Sorry, sir," said the Brig. "What does it mean? Why is it bad?"

  I tried to find a way to explain it to an outsider. "Um... So it can't happen at Chester because everyone knows I scout players, choose players. But imagine MD just bought a player on his own and said 'here, Max, do something with this guy'. Can you imagine how I would react?"

  The Brig's tongue got stuck in the side of his mouth for a while. Finally, he got control. "Honestly, sir, I think you would do your best to use the player."

  "I don't know," I said. "I know what you mean. You're saying I'm basically a decent person so I wouldn't ruin the guy's life but I think I'd have to completely nuke the guy not because I'm a prick but to stop it from ever happening again. Go chimp on one player to stop MD signing thirty randos and killing the club. It's not nice to think about but... Anyway, that's a club signing. If a manager uses those words it means he doesn't like the player and don't blame him if the guy plays shit, blame the idiot who wanted him."

  The Brig nodded. "I do understand, sir." He tapped his screen again. "May I clarify? Wester has sacrificed Steve Weller and the Exit Trial boys..."

  "And Tom Hickman," I added.

  "And Hickman... in order to gain control of the club's transfer dealings? And Chip is going along with it... why?"

  "He wants to be popular. Bradford City might have been a money play at the start but that's the thing about football. It sucks you in. Everyone watching Chesterness wants those women on that screen to win and to be happy - and that's just what it feels like when you watch it from your sofa. I can only imagine what it's like owning Bradford and being in the executive suite having 18,000 people chant your name. You bring a date to the match and she hears the adulation, you're the big hero. Wow."

  Peter used another of his favourite new words. "Soz, Max, but you own two football clubs. What do you mean you can only imagine?"

  "I own one club with no fans," I said. "No-one ever chants my name."

  "Except the two thousand singing Best Will Tear You Apart Again yesterday?"

  "Peter, you're very scatter-brained today. We're trying to have a conversation about how I was right. You all laughed at me but I was right." I formed a fist and bashed it into my forehead. "Hang on, though. If what I was feeling yesterday was the battle between Chip and Wester, who was the megabrain the first time we played? Erm..."

  "May I ask a question?" said the Brig, saving me from going down that rabbit hole for the hundredth time.

  "Shoot."

  "Does Wester like Aff and Carl and R. Brown?"

  "Yes," I said, without hesitation. "First of all, they are players that beat Wester in the National League North. As a manager, you like that. Is that weird? That's how I felt with Christian, anyway. I was like, fuck me, what a player. I don't doubt Wester likes those three, but also they were signed before he was. He has to accept them if he accepts the job otherwise he's a dick. It's the new ones he's unhappy about. The whole match was a power move. He can say: With my best team we were only losing one-nil at half-time and with Max Best off the pitch we would have bossed the second half... if the squad wasn't so thin. The Stars have launched a few million into Bradford; Wester was using the sunk cost fallacy to get another million or so. If they want promotion the owners have to dig deep and - this is the clever bit - let Wester decide who to buy. Yeah, it's clever and ballsy. The only bad part..."

  I was quiet for so long that Peter shuffled nearly level with me. "Yes?"

  "He must have judged that they are so far ahead of us we can't possibly catch them. Which we will, easily. Unless he signs really, really well." I pulled at my lip.

  The Brig cleared his throat. "Apparently there is talk of Chipper getting a four-match ban for his dangerous tackle. I suspect Wester will buy a striker."

  I nodded. "That could tip them over the edge. Um..."

  "Yes?" said Peter. He was on absolute tenterhooks.

  "One point five million war chest," I said.

  "Yes?"

  "That's Foquita's release clause."

  The three of us sat back and let our heads crash against the headrests. After a minute, the Brig started the engine and pressed play on 'The Power'. I slammed pause.

  Absolute fucking banger but I wasn't in the mood.

  If someone paid one point five million for Foquita I wouldn't be able to do a fucking thing to stop him leaving. I did not have the power.

  ***

  Another reason not to play the song was that our journey time - the first leg, anyway - was approximately twenty seconds.

  We pulled into the Deva.

  "Sir," said the Brig. "What makes Foquita so special? I don't see any particular difference between him and, say, Henri."

  "Yeah he's just a perfect striker, basically. He's almost as good in the air as Dazza with the movement of Henri. His finishing will improve quickly, I think, as he gets match experience. He has the relentlessness of Tom Westwood but Tom wastes loads of energy chasing full backs and shit like that. Foquita stays in front of goal because everything he does is about how quickly he can score a goal. He's a single-minded machine, a terminator. He's got loads to learn and he can get way, way deadlier - which is scary - but the thing with him is he'll always score goals along the way. Remember Dazza had that barren spell? That won't happen to Foquita. He'll score even when he's playing shit. So when Adrian goes to Benfica and says 'take this guy to the next level for me' they will because they'll get a profit... and twenty goals along the way."

  "I see. So if he went to Bradford..."

  "They would - Wait, let me say this as we turn that corner." We got to the corridor that led to the boardroom. I strode around it then stopped suddenly. In a dramatic growl I said, "They would win the league by 30 points. Music sting, cut to commercial."

  "Hang on," said Peter. "He has played for Lima and Chester. He can't play for a third club this season. He can register but he can't play."

  "He can," I said. "Because Peru's season overlaps ours, the rules are more flexible. If someone tried to stop him, Sebastian Weaver would take his case for free and even I would want him to win. It would be totes unfair to stop Foquita if that's what he wanted."

  "He doesn't, though," said Peter, but not with complete confidence. "It's great here."

  I nodded. "Maybe I won't shout at him for not passing... until the transfer window is closed."

  We went through into the boardroom, where Brooke, MD, and Secretary Joe were chatting away. We said our greetings while I went to get the flipchart from the corner. I opened it to the latest page and discovered it was the same one where I'd totted up my transfer kitty. I had circled the number 1.63 million.

  "That's convenient," I said, wheeling the board into place.

  "We're a lean organisation," said Brooke. "Not many meetings."

  "That's not professional," I said. "We should have more meetings. Someone write that down. Why is no-one writing that down? Weird. Okay, 1.63 was the projection. What's, er, what's the latest number? Way higher, right? What's in the kitty?"

  "One point six three million," said MD.

  "Mate," I said, slumping in fake exasperation. "We're flying. Numbers go up."

  MD got a slightly Bestian grin on his face. "When I calculate a number, they stay calculated."

  I laughed. "That's like the accountancy version of 'attack till we drop', is it?" I sighed. "Okay, one point six three. Curiously close to what Wester will have to work with. We know he will spaff it on one to three players. He's a prune juice manager."

  Secretary Joe was a Chester fan first and foremost and he shared the same disease as the rest of them. "Are we going to do some transfers, Max?"

  I gave him an affectionate smile. "Yes. By Friday we might have done five."

  "Five!" he said, delighted.

  "Yeah. It has actually been hard to spend this money. There's a movie called Brewster's Millions where he has to spend thirty million dollars in thirty days and have nothing left at the end. His rich uncle wants him to find money repulsive or something like that. I'm looking at players for seven hundred thousand, eight hundred thousand, and I'm getting that revulsion."

  "Good," mumbled MD.

  I smiled. "It's coming, Mike. Big fees are coming and when we're dealing in eight-figure transfers you'll be sentimental for these kinder, gentler times. It just feels wrong to go so big so soon. It feels right to progress step by step. Dazza was 250. I'm looking at one for 400. In summer we pay 500 for Foquita. That's satisfying. We'll break our transfer record every summer with some fun splurges in the January windows."

  MD winced. "I don't like the word splurge, Max."

  I popped the lid off a marker. "Ryan and Ruth have negotiated with two players from Reading who are open to joining us. It's 400K for one and 200 for the other." I scribbled the numbers I was saying. "The lads don't want to leave but they haven't been paid, so... Peter and I are going to meet them later today and ideally we'll get a final agreement and we can get the deals wrapped up tomorrow so I can have them on the bench for United. Wages will be 3K and 2K. If they come," I added, darkly. I hadn't been in the room when the negotiations were happening so I wasn't sure how close we really were. "We're popping to Manchester, first. I'm going to see my mum, walk the dog, and meet two lads who are being released from Man United's academy. They're releasing six but only two are even interested enough to get to this point. I tried to offer them the standard 500 a week but that's a definite no-go. They're Man United players, right? It'll take them being out on their arses watching Antiques Roadshow for two months straight before they commit to poverty wages. I'll talk to them but I'm willing to go as high as 700 each because having them here for an extra six months will be really helpful in getting them match ready faster. The two lads are Championship quality so..."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "What positions are the lads from Reading?" said MD.

  "Goalie and a left-sided attacking midfielder. We need a centre back and I would like to budget a thousand a week for that guy." I exchanged a glance with Peter. The twitch of his eyebrow was pretty funny. "Of course," I added, "It might end up being some chump on loan. I'll pay a grand a week that has come from the pockets of the hard-working people of Chester and use that money to develop someone's else's player."

  "Right," said MD, frowning. He had an awesome ability to frown and do maths. "That would bring the weekly wage budget to 38,090. That's 3,790 over budget. We times that by 18 months..."

  "Why?" said Peter.

  "Anything over budget has to come out of the transfer kitty." MD saw Peter's dismayed reaction and tried to mollify him. "I can't risk bankrupting the club with these player salaries. If Max wants to go over budget, the salary has to be ring... fenced."

  He said the last word slowly, wide-eyed, because I had let out a huge groan. I went to the nearest chair and flopped into it, feeling that the blood had drained from my face yet I was blushing. I put my head on the table and covered it with my arms.

  I had just done something incredibly stupid. We wouldn't loan a player and develop him? We would! That's what we were doing... with Foquita!

  Technically, he was on loan to Chester. We had an option to buy him in the summer, an option that we were 100% certain to trigger. He wasn't currently our player, though, so the 1.5 million release clause wasn't in place.

  Bradford City could not buy him. I had panicked, plain and simple. Embarrassing, but the relief was liberating. I sat up, ready to explain myself, to let everyone have a good old laugh about it.

  But wait... could this be used to play a little 5D chess? Peter Bauer had reacted just the same as I had. What could Chester offer that Bayern couldn't? How about fear? Anxiety? That feeling fans of small teams got when big teams were sniffing around their star players? Supporting Bayern had to be boring as shit. Where was the jeopardy? The fear? The sense of injustice?

  'Peter,' I thought to myself. 'Come join Chester and spend every waking moment afraid that Wibbers will ask for a move to Liverpool.' Not the greatest sales pitch of all time, but surely feeling something was better than being numb?

  I rubbed my eyes and decided not to clarify the Foquita situation just yet.

  "Soz about that. Just remembering the time I called my Spanish teacher 'mum'. Ring-fencing the salaries? It's fine, Peter. But MD, only 18 months? Not the full length of the contracts?"

  MD squirmed and exchanged a look with Brooke. He inhaled. "If everything goes to pot in the next 18 months I think it's obvious we will be able to stay solvent given the talent we have and the offers that are coming in. While William and Youngster are under contract I am willing to be slightly more flexible."

  "Oh, top. That's progress. And it's fair. I'm happy with that. So what am I looking at from the kitty?"

  "300,000," said MD.

  "600 in transfer fees plus 300 in wages, to sign four Championship-level players? That's a bargain. Okay, done. And let's take another 70,000 off this number."

  "What's that for?" said MD.

  I smiled. "Content for the documentary." They all looked at each other, worried. I pressed on. "Brooke, let's do the shower block."

  "Which version? Normal or two-story?"

  I shook my head. "Can you please say, 'Do you want to super-size that?'"

  She just about contained a chuckle. With her b-girl face back on she said, "Which size do you want? Max Best's ambition or Max Best's Ego?"

  "Those are both normal-sized so neither. Beautiful big building, please. You said 600K for that one." I looked at the numbers and tried to do the mental maths. I hadn't helped myself by writing everything in different ways. "600 in transfer fees, 300 in future wages, 600 for the changing room and shower block, 70 for my secret project... Help. What's left?"

  "About 64,000 pounds," said MD.

  "What will you do with it?" said Secretary Joe with a curious grin. "That's the 64,000 dollar question."

  It was a dad joke; I gave it a pity chuckle. "Not sure that's the current exchange rate, to be honest. I think the real question is am I spending my money better than Folke Wester will spend his?"

  "Yes," said Brooke. It struck me that in a way, Wester would be spending her money. Her potential future inheritance would be shoved into the pockets of some shitty footballers and their agents.

  Would Wester make shitty signings though? His Judging Player Ability score was decent and his signings for Darlington had massively improved the team. I felt a twinge of fear. Chester were prey. I leaned into it for the benefit of Peter. "Or would it be the best signing any football club in the world could make? A one point five million pound future superstar, for example. We don't know what he's up to," I mused, as the fog of war closed in. I snapped out of it. I had sixty-odd thousand pounds sloshing around. "Where's the next best option for a 3G pitch?"

  Brooke's eyebrows moved together a microscopic amount. "Ellesmere Port is the next best. Upton comes after. Then Buckley, Deeside, Warrington. Quite variable returns financially, but Ryan moved some higher on the list because he said you'd want to cover the catchment areas of local players."

  "Right now I'm thinking about the money more than the scouting." I spun the marker around my fingers. "MD, would you allow us to get some sort of financing to build a third pitch?"

  "I thought you wanted to get rich through player trading? That we were going to buy premium players?"

  "I mean, we are," I said, flapping my hand at the board. "But the squad is going to be absolutely bursting - in a bad way - and the players I'm looking at are the limit of what we can do with our current wage structure... unless I pay someone more than I'm getting." I closed my eyes. "That has to be a line we don't cross. Doesn't it? I mean, I'd pay Messi more than me but come on. Some squad player from a team at the bottom of League One? No way." I clicked my neck around. "Bumpers and Hoole are raking in cash. We need to balance what we spend on players, facilities, and investments that let us increase the wage bill. Blowing my war chest puts me just ahead of Accrington Stanley in the League Two wage table. We need to raise the levels every year."

  "I... would consider looking into it but on the whole I'd rather pay for things when we have the money."

  "What if Henri's syndicate loaned us some? Let's say putting a pitch down in Ellesmere cost three hundred grand after subsidies."

  "More like three-fifty," said Brooke. "We might be able to get one-fifty in grants. Might."

  "Okay, call it three-sixty," I said. "To make the sums easier for me. We have sixty. We borrow three hundred from Henri, give him back... three twenty in the summer when we get the TV money. We'll have an extra couple of grand for wages next season, there will be another fantastic place to play football up the road. Bosh. Win-win-win."

  MD thought about it. "I like the idea of having six thousand pounds a week of reliable income from these pitches. I'm not so keen to get out over my skis. Can I think about it? And discuss it with Henri? He might want a lot more risk premium than you have suggested."

  "Yeah, it's not urgent. If you don't think it makes sense I'm not going to throw a tantrum."

  "Character growth," mumbled Brooke as she pretended to scribble a note.

  "I'm just thinking if we're going to do it, let's get on it so the pitch company can blast it out asap." My heel panged; I ambled around to keep the blood flowing. "I think that's it. Joe, I'm hoping to keep you busy this week."

  "Looking forward to it!"

  "Before you go," said Brooke. "Grindhog are reporting spikes in demand for merch coming from the States. We think Anglophiles are watching Chesterness on VPNs and getting interested in us. Sales of the women's fit shirt are way, way up. That'll sell out soon."

  "You want to put the price up next time? I don't mind it. Five quid a shirt, something like that. It's an amazing product. Do the men's, too. Five quid profit isn't a scandal, is it?"

  Her eyes widened. "That will help us boost retail sales to a million a year, as you, ah, suggested. But I was more thinking about the marketing synergies that will be possible when you're in the U.S. in the summer. Can we get together and talk about our options?"

  "Er, yeah, but for Canada."

  Her expression tightened. "Canada?"

  "Yeah. I'm going there."

  "I see."

  There was a pause while Brooke and I left a lot of things unsaid. Secretary Joe said, "I hear it's lovely."

  "Beautiful," I said. "And, of course, it's much easier for me to get a work visa."

  "I can help you with that kind of thing, Max."

  "I wouldn't dream of troubling you," I said. "Also, I've got a lead on a hot player."

  "Really?" said Brooke, as though she didn't believe me. "What's his name?"

  "Wayne Moose," I said. I clapped to signal the meeting was over. "Peter, you good? Brig? Let's go sign some players!"

  "And see your mother," said Peter.

  "Right, right."

  ***

  We drove to Chorlton. Peter and I discussed the United game. Possible line-ups, possible strategies. I said that even if I had a crystal-clear plan, which I didn't, I would probably not name the team until the day before the match at the earliest.

  "I want to let everyone think it might be them," I said. "They know I want to play because United is my club, but everyone feels more or less the same, right? Even if you grew up a Liverpool fan it's still amazing to play at Old Trafford. And as a player you want to play on the big stage. So my idea is: let everyone dream. That might make the disappointment bigger when they're not picked, but they got a great week, didn't they?"

  Peter and the Brig discussed if that was the right way to manage the situation or not and it was quite interesting to hear them debate it. There wasn't a conclusive reason not to do it my way and I decided the players had enough brutal honesty. A little hope never hurt anyone.

  Once at the bungalow, Angela asked the Brig if he could fix a shelf. "I'm right here," I said. Angela pretended she hadn't heard. Imagine thinking John Smith was better with a screwdriver than me. What a world.

  Mum was happily playing solitaire so after a nice cup of tea - with Irish biscuits - I went out the back with Anna and Peter. "Aren't you cold?" I said.

  "I am Polish," she said, as though that was an answer. Peter threw Solly his Kong toy.

  I checked Anna out. She was standing taller and her skin was clearer. "You look much better."

  "Just what a lady wants to hear. Last we met, you were hideous."

  "Not hideous," I said, like a true English gentleman.

  "I feel better. The change to the bungalow was hard but now I feel much improved. I am very, very grateful." She glanced behind in a way that made me suspect she was checking for Angela.

  "Is... everything okay? Everyone?"

  "Yes," whispered Anna, bringing me further away from the house. "Angela is excellent with your mother. You made a very wise choice. There are two small issues. One," she glanced towards the back porch again. "Angela is frugal. She is spending your money as though it were her own. Of course I approve whole-heartedly except in the case of the toiletries." I laughed because it was so unexpected but Anna remained stern. "Max I am very, very old and close to death. I do not wish to spend my remaining weeks or months using two-ply toilet rolls and store-brand shower gel. I would like to go out on a high."

  "I'll make it happen," I said, "if you promise to stop talking about dying."

  "Oh, do not be so Victorian. Death comes to us all."

  "Not to you, so shut it. So what brands would - You know what? Rachel would love this conversation. I'll give her the rundown and she'll call you and find your dream shower gel and whatnot. Andrew will drop off a massive box of all your faves. Consider it done. What's the second thing?"

  "The second thing is even more presumptuous. A cat has been coming to the garden."

  "A cat? Isn't it afraid of Solly?"

  "This cat isn't afraid of anything. It follows me around the garden as I take my constitutionals. It jumps up onto the table and demands food."

  I glanced at the simple outdoor table set. Three chairs were covered with plastic but one was in regular use. "Cheeky fuck."

  "She is a cheeky fuck, yes," smiled Anna. "I have been requesting chicken meals from Angela. She slices a couple of pieces off, boils them, and I feed them to the cat on the table. We call it the chicken dance. The cat rises to pluck strips of chicken from my hand, or must sit still to get portions delivered low. It has become quite a ritual. She is extremely vocal and demanding but is willing to become obedient for the chicken. Angela pretends to disapprove but I think she has grown fond of the little creature. She certainly disapproves of my plan to ask what I'm about to ask."

  "Hit me."

  Anna took a breath, smiled as Solly pushed himself flat against the earth, tail wagging, not flinching as Peter faked to throw the toy. Anticipation 20. Good boy! "The cat is fat and needs exercise. I said this to Angela and she heartily agreed. She showed me a video of an assault course designed for squirrels. They must overcome a variety of challenges in order to collect nuts; it is most engaging and they are wonderful animals. I would love to see such a course here, for my fat cat. Squirrels could use it, too, one supposes."

  I was smiling. "You want me to build an obstacle course for cats and squirrels?"

  "I know it is ridiculous. The request of a spoiled child."

  Pets, missions, daily interest, something to do, something to talk about. Ingredients for a long and healthy life. "I'm happy to spoil you. Kinda feels more like I'm spoiling some neighbour's cat... What can it cost, anyway? Fifty pounds?"

  "Rather a lot more, according to Angela. Her son does work of this nature."

  "Aff does construction? That's cool." I had been trying to get my young players to think about careers they might have after football - getting them to even consider the idea they might ever not be a player was like talking to a cactus about the Cambrian Era.

  Peter's watch beeped. "Max, we have to go."

  I hugged Anna, asked Angela to ask Aff to give me a price on some kind of adventure playground for small mammals, squeezed my mum's hand, and skipped out to snap up a pair of gobby Manc twats.

  ***

  Adam Summerhays was Manc but he wasn't gobby. He was the left back I'd seen when I'd visited Carrington, Man United's training complex. He had short, fuzzy black hair, and a low centre of gravity. He was 17 years old, short, very fast, very technical. Very left-footed but he got himself out of trouble with his agility and like all United players he had been coached to get forward and join attacks. With Anna's request fresh in my mind I wondered if Adam would be able to catch a cat and decided probably yes.

  He would be a good option instead of Cole Adams for matches where the oppo winger was speedy or we needed more quality going forward. He was CA 32, PA 137. I'd have loved him in my Youth Cup team but he was cup tied. Whether he joined Chester or not, his Youth Cup days were over.

  Alfie Clitheroe was Manc and by God, he was gobby. Not today so much - he was still reeling from being told he didn't have a future at his boyhood club. He was also 17, also cup tied, but he played in central midfield. He was a far more mobile version of Ryan Jack - a wily craftsman with an edge. He was a master of angled passes and clever fouls and had Pascal's knack for popping up in unexpected spaces. In fact, he played more like Charlotte than Ryan Jack, but either way I was more than happy to have him. He was CA 31, PA 133 and seemed a perfect fit for Relationism - if I got that working as intended. After the United game and once the season's transfers were wrapped up, I would focus on the new module.

  The lads and their dads toured the Recreation Ground, home to West Didsbury and Chorlton. We had picked West as the venue because it was the most convenient for me but it turned out to be a great place to give them a sense of who I was. Who we were - the dads took turns mirin' Peter Bauer, while the Brig worked his particular brand of magic on the young men. That felt like an inversion of how it should have gone but I wasn't complaining.

  Over a tea by the corner flag near the pavilion, I told them about Wes Hayward, the last player I'd brought to the Rec, whose career had been all but over. Now he was in League One earning as much as me.

  We talked about Vivek, who was enjoying his football while learning his position, about Jay Cope, who was trying to break a record for consecutive home wins and looked a decent bet to succeed. We talked about the fan culture and the way attendances had been rising even before West turned into a winning machine. I said keeping the culture at West was paramount and new players needed to want to be part of it but if they bought in they would have the time of their lives.

  Alfie's dad chuckled. "You're not really talking about West, are you?"

  I bent to feel the pitch near the corner flag. It was in decent condition. I stood and slapped flecks of soil from my palms. "Everyone in football says the same thing - the Man United lads are good lads. You're polite and you're nice to the dinner ladies and that sort of thing. I know you'll fit in, on and off the pitch. So the question is can you do better than Chester? I don't think so. We're amazing." I smiled. "You can get more money, but you can't buy a career. If you come you'll be the... I think it's the twentieth and twenty-first teenagers getting first team minutes this season. We're eighteen months from the Championship. You're joining a Championship club but I don't want you to think I'm doing you a favour. I'd be excited if you signed. I'd be absolutely made up because you'd give us even more quality and you're types of players we don't have. Put it this way, I have a huge transfer kitty and you're my first stop."

  The dads loved this - they were pretty much convinced - but Alfie had one vital question. One detail from our tour was giving him second thoughts. "Do we 'ave to eat 'ummus and celery?"

  ***

  We agreed terms. I said I didn't want to cause friction with the other Exit Triallists so I would pay 500 a week but with 200 in add-ons. If the lads would kindly say they were on '500 basic' that would help with morale and wouldn't be a lie. They would get new deals in the summer, I said, depending on how they kicked on in the coming months.

  "Oh, and one last thing. Let's please get this done in the next couple of days because I'm going to rinse United in the post-match interview this Sunday."

  "What?" said Peter. "You're not going to make me do it?"

  "No," I said. "I wrote the whole speech the night the draw was made. I think it's hilarious. United's owners won't. If you don't come this week, the deal is not going to happen. They will force you to stay until the summer."

  "Or sir could keep his gob shut," suggested the Brig.

  "Come on," I said. "I'm only human." I grinned so mischievously the United lads joined in.

  With the deals agreed, the Brig drove Peter and I to Stoke for the next meetings. Stoke was a compromise location - an hour from Chester, two from Reading.

  We pulled into a golf club to meet my big-money signings. In true progression fantasy style, we were doing things in ascending order of transfer fee.

  Ian Swan and his agent were there talking to Sticky and Ryan Jack, and the seven of us had a late lunch together.

  Swanny was tall and thin and had a hard-to-place accent - one of London's suburbs maybe. He came across as reserved but it was hard to be sure if that was an accurate read. A lot of footballers could only be themselves in a football setting and he had been under a lot of stress recently. Swanny was the backup goalie at Reading and that club's plight was the topic for the first part of the meal. Reading hadn't paid its backroom staff for months and only paid its players enough to stop them being allowed to declare their contracts null and void. The club had been given a ten-point penalty which made them favourites for relegation. The penalty had been met with jubilation from my mate TJ, the manager of Crawley. They had been in trouble but Reading's shitty owner had given everyone in the bottom half of League One a huge lift.

  Peter, the Brig, and Ryan helped keep the chat flowing while I chowed down on a panini. Sticky didn't say much but it was clear Swanny already respected the guy everyone at the table hoped would be his next coach.

  Swanny was 24 and had a very, very attractive CA 85 allied with PA 127. When I'd finished eating, his agent asked me how I planned to use his client.

  "Okay, great question," I said. "Apart from getting a good deal because Reading are, you know, what I'm excited about with Swanny is his ability to use his feet. We're in League Two, going into League One, and every oppo is wildly different. Some are beefy boys and it's all about set pieces, corners, long throws. Some try to do high pressing like the Prem teams and you're supposed to play out from the back against them. At the moment we don't get involved with all that because, well, our goalies haven't had the appropriate profile and their skills would point the team in a different direction."

  "He's saying I'm shit at passing," said Sticky, as he mopped up some sauce with a wedge of bread.

  "He's not shit but I wouldn't ask him to play like Manuel Neuer. That's fair enough, isn't it? I don't ask players to do what they can't do. But you can do it so that starts to give us that option. Add Zach Green and, I don't know, some kind of unicorn superweapon..." Peter didn't react. "And we can coax teams to press us high and we'll play through them."

  The agent said, "So Ian would be your first choice goalkeeper."

  "No such thing at Chester," I said. "He would get shirt number 1 but for the rest of the season it would be horses for courses. Sticky against your cavemen teams, Swanny against your Man City-wannabes. There are plenty of minutes to go round. Oh, our pitch is struggling so that would make me lean towards Sticky but we're getting it redone in the summer along with one of the stands. Next season it will be a wonderland."

  I was starting to dislike the agent. He reminded me of James Pond, the toad who had tried to sell Chester to the Star family. "I presume on that basis that Ian would start against Manchester United this Sunday."

  I felt my jaw tensing. "Are you asking me to tell you my team? My tactics? Do you work for United?"

  Ryan Jack said, "Max." He looked at the agent. "We can't answer questions like that, as you know, but it would partly depend on how Ian was training. What I hear is he's a top pro and he understands the team comes first. Isn't that right, Ian?"

  That was an invitation for Swanny to undo the mess his idiot agent was causing. "Course, yeah. That's life as a keeper, isn't it? You have to bide your time, keep sweating, be ready when you're needed. I want to play, Max, I want to be first choice but I won't rock the boat. Oh," he added, in a tone that brought the tension all the way back up.

  "What is it, la?" said Ryan.

  "Just, talking about the United match. I'd love to feature, I would, course I would. But I promised the gaffer I'd try and stay around for a couple more weeks."

  "Ian," said his agent. "What are you doing?"

  I narrowed my eyes. Was this prick pretending to be surprised? Was this Jack Litherland all over again? In my early days in charge of Chester, Litherland had come in, lifted the team, and then fucked off minutes before the transfer deadline leaving us staring relegation in the face. That scheme had been designed and carried out by football agents. Why couldn't this one be in on it? "What date would you be willing to join?"

  "I - " started Swanny. "I'm willing to join now, Max. It's just... Reading have a Vans Trophy match on the 29th and the gaffer asked if I'd stick around till then. I'm eligible, right, and my replacement might be cup tied."

  "The 29th," I said, flatly. "Meaning you'd join on the 30th. Doesn't leave me a lot of wiggle room if this deal suddenly falls through."

  Swanny frowned like he didn't understand why it would fall through, but Litherland had acted like he loved everything about Chester. Bradley Rymarquis and Richard Carling, my former enemies, could be back up to their old tricks. Ten grand in Swanny's pocket to string me along... It was a lot of money for a lad who wasn't getting paid. Swanny continued. "I don't... It's just... The gaffer asked." I think I was giving him the evil eye because he stammered and had to force the words out until he got into his stride. "Look, it's shit at Reading. We don't get paid and all that. It's always crazy stuff going on and it's mad in the papers and there's always nearly a new owner but the deal falls through. The fans are quality but for me it's all about the gaffer. He's been putting decent sides out and getting results and keeping the whole place going. I owe him, Max. He's... He's the gaffer. I don't know how to explain it. He's just been dead good to me. I feel shit leaving. Everyone says I have to for me and the club but it's like I'm letting my mates down. They're... We're... I like what you're doing there and you're dead funny and if I have to go okay let it be Chester but the gaffer said he wouldn't stand in my way but if I could stay for the Vans that'd be solid because he thinks they can have a proper go and maybe win it. It's the quarters and we can beat anyone on our day so why not, like?" He looked wretchedly down at his hands. They were smaller than Sticky's but had the tell-tale markings of being a goalie - bruises, random bits of tape, surgical scars.

  I no longer thought he was trying another Litherland but I had to be professional, which in this case meant being paranoid. "Okay, mate. Thing is, I got dicked at the end of a transfer window before and we had to go months without a left back. I can't have Banksy as our backup goalie for the rest of the season. He's mint but he's not ready to play. So if you want to join on the 30th, I'm going to have to call six clubs and get six keepers on standby to come in on loan on the 31st. And I know if I start making those calls, some manager is going to say 'You want Scott McGoalkeeper on loan? Why not buy him? I could use the money for a new striker.' Do you get me?"

  He remained wretched for a while before briefly nodding. "I'll... Yeah. Whenever you want. Fill in the date and I'll sign."

  Swanny's misery was so complete I nearly laughed. All paranoia left me. "Here's what we'll do. You'll help your boss who's been good to you and you'll come on the 30th. We want players like you. Players who give a shit. I'll have a couple of options just in case but I want you, Swanny. You're the right character, the right profile, and you're going to help us evolve. One thing, though. When Hull or Portsmouth are trying to buy you for a million quid you're gonna get packed and ready to go even if I ask you to stay on for a cup match, all right? Your career is short and you need to get paid."

  Swanny did a thin smile while his agent mentally spent the hundred thousand pounds I had just summoned into his imagination. 4D shopping.

  Peter tapped the table in front of him. "Don't listen to him, Ian. They say you only cry twice at Chester. Once when you arrive and once when you leave."

  Swanny looked at Peter as though seeing him for the first time. "You work for Bayern, right? You don't have any skin in this game. Some of my mates say I shouldn't drop a division. What would you do if you were me?"

  "In your position I would join Chester with no hesitation. In Max's position I would insist you sign right away. He will play one cup match and three league games with a seventeen-year-old keeper on the bench. That is no kind of risk reward."

  "The reward," I said, "is that Swanny gets to leave on his own terms and we get a happy player who knows his new club is just like his old club. And he won't cry when he leaves Chester because his new club will be paying him five figures a week." I rubbed my hair while I thought about Banksy being on the bench against United, Chesterfield, Barrow, and Gillingham. A match we were going to lose anyway plus three low-to-mid table League Two teams. It would be fine. If Sticky got injured I would get a goalie on loan just for January. "Swanny, the numbers are right for me, I like your loyalty and the way you play. I'm in if you are."

  He reached out a hand. I shook it and emitted a series of whelps that conveyed how buzzed I was. An 85 CA goalie! One who wouldn't give you a heart attack if someone played a difficult pass to him.

  My reaction should have been seen as stupid and mental but I wasn't alone. Sticky hugged Swanny from behind while Peter banged the table.

  I slapped Ryan Jack on the back before bringing him in for a hug. He'd cut out the stage where I had to negotiate the numbers and had also helped when the agent had threatened to piss me off. The new system was frustrating in some ways, but seemed worth sticking with.

  Three deals done. Three Championship-calibre players in the bag.

  Boshhhhhhhh!

  ***

  I went for a walk to calm myself down but didn't go so far that it would wreck my foot. I daydreamed about having a proper League Two goalie for the second half of the season. He'd be League One quality long before we got to League One. Having money made this management lark a piece of cake.

  The Brig came to get me. My final transfer target had arrived with his agent and wife.

  We sat in some comfy chairs on the second floor of the golf club. The space had amazing views stretching for miles over this green and pleasant land.

  The men's boot room was getting pretty crowded. For example, if Ian arrived, which seemed 99% certain, we would have four goalkeepers, one more than we really needed. Of the 25 in the first team squad, three would be out on loan and Tom Westwood would join them soon, but I also wanted to add Peter and had verbally committed to signing the two lads from United. We were bloated but we also desperately needed a left-sided midfielder if we could get one, and if he could play CAM, so much the better.

  Charlie Dugdale fit the bill so perfectly I wondered what other teams were not seeing in him. Reading's financial distress had been a long time coming but instead of there being a queue to take Dugdale, Ryan Jack had reported that our approach had been met with surprise.

  It made no sense.

  Okay he was 24 and had that vibe of being a player who would never fulfil his early promise. The lowest salary he was willing to countenance - and that only because Reading weren't actually paying him his four-and-a-half grand wages - was three thousand a week, which would put off some League Two clubs.

  He had been out for part of the season with a hip injury which had also cost him his place in the Reading side. The combination had allowed his CA to decay to 87. Ruth and Ryan had told me his agent was difficult and his wife was a pain.

  But still.

  The guy was beautiful. He ran upright, head level because he knew where the ball was, effortlessly gliding, all willowy lines and fast feet. He dribbled, nutmegged, passed, jinked, dinked, tricked. There was one move he'd done when I'd spied on him at Reading's training that absolutely bamboozled me. One second the ball was there and the defender was there, the next Dugdale was five yards away and onto his next victim.

  No-one even reacted. It was just what he did, all day, every day. He also took free kicks and corners.

  He was PA 143, same as Kisi Yalley, but she was two-footed. All Charlie's talent had been stuffed into his left boot.

  I didn't mind. Don't tell Emma but I was besotted. More than ready to fangirl over him and his fluffy light-brown hair.

  Thanks to Ruth and Ryan, Reading had agreed a fee - 400K was serious money to Chester but surely only half what Dugdale was worth - and a wage. The thought of paying someone 3 grand a week was literally painful but Charlie would bring balance to our squad and I was sure he would become an assist machine with our fleet of strikers to aim for.

  Everyone shook hands and made small talk. The Brig had known a Dugdale in the army and after some probing it was decided there was little likelihood that Charlie was related to that chap.

  The agent was a small being with tiny eyes too close together. I'll call him Weasel, which is in no way doomshadowing.

  "Max," said Weasel. "What role do you see Charlie having in your team?"

  I noted he said team instead of squad, but ignored that and used a ketchup bottle and some sachets of mustard to illustrate how Charlie would fit into my preferred 4-1-4-1 and 4-2-3-1 systems. I explained that I was overstocked with striking talent so there would be a decent amount of 4-3-3, 3-5-2, and 3-4-3, but Charlie could play in all of those.

  "In fact," I joked, "it's hard to imagine a formation he couldn't play in."

  "Seven-oh-three," suggested Weasel, a snide reference to my desperate tactics against Newcastle. Why would you snipe at someone who's about to give you loads of money?

  "Nope, he'd play on the left of the three. He'd be fucking mint at that."

  Charlie was from the Dan Badford school of being too cool for life, but like all the players I'd seen that day he had been given an almighty reality check - in his case when his most recent paycheque hadn't cleared. He smiled at my compliment and his wife hugged his arm. She was a blonde bombshell, but one of those that didn't explode on impact. She had a smug, superior air that wound me up. I'd like to say that I rose above it but it might be more accurate to say I rose to the same level as it. Can I get a 'you tried' sticker?

  There followed a brief burst of chat between Ryan Jack and Peter about how amazing the Newcastle match was and how they were expecting big things against Man United. This good-natured conversation was met with deathly silence from the outsiders. I took that to be a red flag - why wouldn't you say something nice? - but I thought up a few excuses for why they would react like that. For example, maybe Dugdale's father was a massive Newcastle fan. Doubtful - the guy was from Staffordshire.

  While my mood was sinking, the Brig stretched his phone out in front of me. It was a message from one of the many ex-military dudes now working in the world of football that he had befriended. That was a cool resource, by the way. Almost like a spy network that only we had access to. The message was in all caps and as befits a message from a spy, some rudimentary encoding had taken place.

  HEARING BRADFORD R PUSHING HARD 2 SIGN A BIG NAME STRIKER

  Well, that didn't put a smile on my face.

  Foquita wasn't an option but there were other million-pound goalsmen who might see an upwardly-mobile Bradford as a good move. Could Wester get someone with CA 120 for a million? Someone who would do to League Two what Marcus Wainwright had done to the National League?

  I tuned out for a while before realising someone was talking to me. "Soz, what?"

  Ryan was used to me spacing out and quickly filled me in. "Weasel was asking why you want Charlie and not lots of similar players."

  "Erm," I said, from miles away. What had actually happened at half time in our match against Bradford and was it related to these projected transfers? "Obviously, Reading's situation brings the asking price down so that's a big deal. But I just love the way he plays. He's completely effective as a player, has room to grow, fills out our squad, gives us a lot of tactical freedom. But more than that," I said, warming to the topic, "he's aesthetic. Modern owners have turned this into a world of data and metrics and algorithms but I'm asking thousands of people to spend twenty quid a week to watch us and some of what we serve up is thin gruel. I owe our fans beauty and imagination and Charlie's the kind of player you mention to old men and they close their eyes and say 'now he was a player'. He was a player. That's what football is. It's memories in the making and if we're not making enough memories we're not doing it right. I'm thinking about the United match this weekend and I'm planning a social media campaign where I talk about an old Man United team with their current Chester equivalents. Do you know United fans still sing two songs about George Best? Sixty years have been and gone! I doubt anyone in the stadium ever saw him in the flesh. Not many, anyway, but they sing it loud. Fans don't want to watch midfielders turn around and pass the ball back to the goalie. They'll tolerate it if you tell them that's the best way to win, but no-one likes it. How can you like it? Fans want dribblers. They want fantasy. John O'Shea was a competent centre back for United but one time he nutmegged Luis Figo and became an all-time legend. Charlie could make sure we get promoted this year but next season he'll have one of the most outrageous years any player has ever had in League One. We are going to rampage through the league but I don't want to just steamroller it. I want to do it in such style little kids will watch us on TV and go in the garden and try to do skillz like Charlie and tekkers like Tockers."

  I stopped only because I was having visions of Charlie jinking past two defenders before snapping a shot from the edge of the box into the bottom-right corner. Charlie's technique was so repeatable he could score the same goal again and again. A signature move. The Dugdale Driller.

  The name wouldn't catch on, though, would it?

  The Panenka? Yes.

  The Cruyff Turn? Yes.

  The Dugdale?

  My eyes widened. That was why Charlie's career wasn't rocketing ever upwards. His name!

  Joy and beauty didn't come from a name like Dugdale. I had noticed the same thing with players the curse rated highly with names like Billings, Brownhill, and Nethercott. They were chronically undervalued by the market.

  Ryan was nudging me. I had missed something. "Say that again, Weasel," said Ryan. "Max was away with the footballing angels."

  Not for a few hours yet, I thought, but Weasel didn't seem to mind repeating himself. I thought I detected a stiffening of the Chester family to my right. "It's good you think so highly of Charlie," said Weasel. "That makes this easier. You see, he hasn't been paid by Reading and it will cost a lot to move to Chester. I am proposing a relocation bonus. You know, to help him get settled into his new home. Standard practice, of course."

  "Standard practice," I repeated, eyeing Charlie and his wife. "Ryan, did this come up when you and Ruth were negotiating?"

  "No, boss."

  I leaned back and looked up. I was thinking back to the last time something like this had happened. Then, I had walked out on Andrew and Gemma and caused some consternation. I had been very lucky that a resolution was found. Charlie wasn't my player, though, was he? It wasn't exactly comparable. I decided to show growth by talking about leaving before leaving. "Ryan, am I allowed to get up and walk out?"

  "Yes, boss. But if you want Charlie, you have to deal with his agent."

  We weren't making any attempt to speak softly, by the way. Charlie's eyes were darting between two points while his wife was looking defiant. "We can't let them change the deal at the last minute, right? That's all kinds of rude."

  Ryan didn't look happy but I'd asked him to be my diplomat and he was trying. "It's not how I'd like to do business but I don't think we should give up on the deal yet. You could give them an ultimatum. The deal we all agreed, take it or leave it."

  "Yeah but then I have to deal with this guy every time I renew Charlie's deal. I don't want anything to do with him and I don't want him loitering around Bumpers. Can I sign the player but ban his agent from coming to Chester?"

  "That would be pretty strange, boss."

  I scratched my head. Weasel looked slightly panicked - his brinksmanship hadn't gone as planned. "You can't afford another player of Charlie's quality."

  "Maybe not," I said, standing. "But I can train one up. Thanks for your time."

  "Wait, hold on," said Weasel. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm leaving. You wouldn't try that shit with Ian Evans so why should I accept it?"

  "Wait," said the wife. "It's true what Weasel said. Reading didn't pay us. If we join can't you forward some wages or whatever they call it?"

  "That's not what he asked," I said. "Weasel wants some money on top of what we already agreed. You get why that's a shitty thing to do, right?"

  She was heating up. "He's negotiating. He's trying to get the best deal for us."

  "Okay." I nodded at Peter and Sticky - they got up and shuffled a few yards towards the stairs. I followed.

  This enraged the wife even more. "So you made the whole thing up. You don't think Charlie's all the things you said."

  She was genuinely exhausting. "What?"

  "If he was a player you'd sing songs about like you said, you'd give us a bit of help so we could move house. We have no money. Don't you get that? We can't even afford to go to Chester. We only need twenty or thirty thousand."

  I very nearly laughed. You could slap all your stuff in a rental van and move cross-country for five hundred quid. What was the other twenty-odd grand for? A brand consultant to advise on which emotional music to use on your 'Goodbye Reading FC' Instagram story? I moved a pace back in Charlie's direction. "I am paid three thousand pounds a week. You can check on Chester's accounts. Player wages aren't itemised but mine's on there because it's a fan-owned club and they have a right to know. I think I'm pretty good value for that. The fans get the best player in the league - over 20 goals and 10 assists already this season - they get the best scout, a juggernaut of a women's team, an amazing youth programme. I've brought the club from the bottom of tier six to within touching distance of the Championship and I've raised five million pounds to get the stadium back and to rebuild one stand. I've built a training complex and assembled the best coaching team outside the Championship. I've offered Charlie the exact same wages as me because if that's what it takes to move the club forward, okay. But if you want to be paid more than me you need to do more than me. If you want money for nothing, call Dire Straits." I paused. "Or Bradford. I hear they need a left-mid."

  ***

  I fumed in the car, but scrolling through my database of AMLCs was very therapeutic. There were other options out there. Okay some of the players weren't very aesthetic but they were effective and that's all that mattered, really.

  I thought about one player in my database who very much passed the eye test.

  "What are you smiling at?" asked Peter.

  "Nothing. Hey, who wants a Kit Kat? Brig, pull in at the next shop."

  ***

  Chesterness Series 2: The Relentlessness

  Episode 4: Here, Kitty Kitty. Final Scene.

  On-screen text:

  Chester's comfortable win against Chester-le-Street puts the women six points clear at the top of the table.

  Jackie Reaper gathers the players before training to remind them of the need to avoid complacency.

  [They gather around Jackie on the 3G pitch at Bumpers Bank. Unusually, they are squashed onto one half of the pitch while some randos mill about on the other half. The randos are mostly wearing dark clothes and shoes. Some are carrying cameras. Jackie struggles to keep everyone's attention.]

  Jackie: All right, listen up. Quick chat, yeah? Amazing performance on Sunday, loved it. Next up is the FA Cup Fourth Round against Lincoln and we're favourites to win that. The way we're playing we have a chance against anyone, yeah, so we have to keep the intensity up and that starts here in training. The Relentlessness, isn't it? [He sighs.] What are yers doing?

  Bonnie: Why are we on half the pitch?

  Ridley T: Who are they?

  Jackie: I'm not sure, to be honest. Some PR thing. Announcing the bonds have sold out is my guess. Max said since you'd played yesterday I wouldn't need the whole pitch and you know what he's like.

  Bea Pea: You should stand up to him, Jackie.

  Jackie: Thanks for the advice, Bea Pea.

  Bea Pea: I'm just saying that'll be good for the documentary. Us winning every week is boring, innit? We need drama. I heard you and Max used to butt heads in front of everyone and it was dead sexy.

  Meghan: Yeah, Jackie. Think of the demographics we could reach if you and Max got hot and heavy every episode.

  Jackie: I'm happy with my demographics. I'm massive in Northern Ireland, I'm told. Can we talk about Lincoln City now?

  Angel: Max would never, ever give up half our pitch for a PR event. He's all about the football and he'd put the King in a shed before he'd take our pitch from us.

  Pippa: That's right.

  Angel: It's happening here because he wants us to see.

  [Jackie turns and checks out the sitch. Nothing much is happening.]

  Jackie: Well...

  [People emerge from the bar and stride towards the pitch.]

  Angel: What the fuck.

  Cut to: Alex, the host of much of the BBC's women's football coverage. She's in her kitchen clutching a cup of tea.

  Alex: I remember the day really clearly. I was nine years old and had been super into football for a couple of years. I was an Arsenal girl, of course, but Manchester United were the top dogs and Newcastle were second and trying to catch them. We were in school one day - no social media in those days! - and this rumour spread around that Man United had bought Andy Cole from Newcastle for 7 million pounds. No-one could believe their ears. The fee was just mad and Cole had scored 41 goals the season before. Why would you sell your best player to your biggest rivals even for that amount of money? It was unbelievable. We were all in shock. I'll never forget that day. It was exciting and strange and nothing like that will ever happen again because, you know, deals take so long to arrange and everyone leaks the story ahead of time. [She sips her tea.] Andy Cole to United. That was absolutely wild. [She takes another sip and looks into the camera.] Why are you asking me about that?

  Cut to: The women rushing forward and Jackie admitting defeat and catching up.

  Cut to: Max Best in a brand new Boateng Boateng suit next to a woman in full Chester kit. She's doing kick-ups and half a dozen photographers are going fucking insane. Reporters are recording everything on their phones.

  Max: Thanks for coming to this Kit launch... [Chuckles from two of the reporters.] Chester FC are delighted to announce the signing of Kit Hodges from Bristol City for a club record fee. Kit is 22 (which is also her squad number), and is a fast, technical, and absolutely deadly striker who will fit perfectly with our plans here. She has signed a three-and-a-half year contract.

  [Kit turns around, and double-thumbs her name and number: KIT 22.]

  ---

  Charlotte: Max finally got his redhead.

  Maddy: Yeah he did...

  Meghan: Talk about the cat who got the cream. He didn't smile that much when he thrashed Bradford.

  ---

  Reporter: What's the fee?

  Max: 70,000 pounds.

  ---

  Maddy: Holy shit!

  Bonnie: No way.

  Queenie: Did I hear that right?

  ---

  Reporter: That's a lot of money for a fourth-tier fan-owned women's team.

  Max: We're not in the money business, we're in the glory business. You're going to ask if it was hard to persuade Kit to drop two divisions. No, it wasn't. She's ambitious. She's relentless. Bristol City are a fantastic club and were really easy to deal with but they are caught between two worlds. Chester are going to smash through the Championship into the WSL. Kit wants to help us tell that story.

  Reporter: Kit, why did you come here really?

  Kit: I'm here because Chester absolutely battered us in the FA Cup and I thought, I wish we played like that. I went home that night, binged the documentary, and when Max called he talked about how it wouldn't be boring coming down a level because we were going to challenge for the cups and we were building something really special and I was like yes, this is what I need. It's a special group, the results speak for themselves, Jackie Reaper's a top coach, and Max is so driven and that's what I want. He said - oh, maybe I shouldn't...

  Reporter: What did he say?

  Max: It's fine, Kit.

  Kit: He said if you stand still you get left behind and if I don't train hard and I don't perform he'll bin me off.

  ---

  Jackie: Fucking hell, Max. Such a charmer.

  Sarah Greene: It worked on me.

  ---

  Reporter: But you came anyway?

  Kit: Hell, yeah! I don't want to be in the team because a guy in a great suit spent too much money on me. I want to be in because I deserve to be in. [She looks towards the Chester players.]

  Max: Want to join training? It's gonna be a light sesh.

  Kit: Can I?

  Max: Yeah, why not?

  [Kit walks over to the waiting throng. There is big first day at school energy all round.]

  [The second camera follows Bea Pea and Angel, who trudge behind. They have both been knocked one rung down the pecking order. It’s not Bea Pea’s first rodeo.]

  Bea Pea: There's your mid-season twist, Angel.

  Angel: [Distracted.] What?

  Bea Pea: Max bringing the fresh narratives like he always does.

  Angel: That's me cooked.

  Bea Pea: No.

  Angel: I'm out of the team.

  Bea Pea: Kit's cup tied. She can't play next week so you'll start, won't you? If you play your best you'll keep her out of the team. I was teasing Jackie before but he's not going to put her in the team just because of her price tag.

  [Kit waits on the edge of the penalty box. Sarah rolls a ball to her. Kit smashes it first time into the top left corner. Scottie Love doesn't even raise her gloves. Kit smiles. Sarah rolls another ball. Kit smashes it into the exact same place.]

  Bea Pea: Okay he might put her in the team because of that.

  Angel: [Sets her jaw, frowns, eyes blaze.] That? I can do that. [She strides forward.] Hey! My turn.

  [Cut to: Max Best. He's standing on the pitch a slight distance from the reporters, watching the women get to know their new teammate. He's rubbing his mouth, quite pleased with himself.]

  ***

  Tuesday, January 6

  I was in the Sin Bin watching footage of Man United looking for ways to get at them. There were many - if I had a Premier League squad to pick from. Give me twenty guys with triple-digit CA and I’ll give you cupset after cupset.

  I didn’t have a high-CA squad.

  There was no point beating myself up over the fact and looking on the bright side was easy; my collection of players was getting absolutely insane in the talent department. Pascal and Youngster had been my first triple-digit-PA players. I suppose Ryan Jack counted. He had tried to apologise for his role in the botched transfer of Charlie Dugdale but I wouldn't hear of it.

  Other managers, agents, and players were always going to try to rip me off. Partly because I often seemed like a noob who didn't know what he was doing (fair comment, a lot of the time), and partly because I was young and therefore a fucking idiot by default.

  Yeah, snakes gonna snake and I didn't blame Ryan one little bit and, in fact, the whole debacle had made me feel better. Now MD, Brooke, and the others would know that it wasn't just me sabotaging deals, it was the guys who most stood to benefit!

  Looking up at the screen, I worried that I might struggle to put together a Premier League quality side if I couldn't find enough decent agents to deal with.

  The Championship? That was a piece of piss. When Ian Swan joined, my first team squad would contain 17 guys with PAs over 100. Nineteen if I included the new lads coming from United. Nineteen! And what about Magnus and Dan? They showed no sign of slowing. If I was willing to be patient and if I kept reinvesting in Exit Triallists and other team's cast-offs, we could get to mid-table in the Championship and stay there.

  Could I cut myself out of the transfer loop altogether? No, because players wanted to meet me before deciding if they wanted to come or not. According to the curse, my reputation in England was still Poor. When I was in the Championship, the kinds of players I was looking at now would be willing to come to Chester without meeting me first but by then I would be shopping in an even more exclusive bracket and dealing with ever more entitled and self-absorbed players.

  I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  There was a knock on the door and Jojo opened it. "There's someone to see you, Max. Says he knows you and only wants a quick word. Can I send him in?"

  "Does he look like he could beat me in a fight?"

  "No. You'd batter him."

  I beamed. "Jojo, you're such a sweet-talker. You're my absolute favourite. Go on, then."

  I tapped the table and wondered how I was doing as a soccer supremo. Quite well, I thought, though there were two enormous holes in the squad. One was shaped exactly like Peter Bauer and the other looked a lot like -

  "Hi, Max."

  "Fuck me," I said, as someone completely unexpected shuffled in. "Hello, Charlie Dugdale. What brings you here?"