12.

  Wednesday, December 10

  I spent a restless night with my brain randomly spinning up like a disc drive. I had three main problems and I blamed Sebastian Weaver for all of them.

  First, Angel. It felt like 50-50 if I would handle the situation well. My record when dealing with troublemakers was spotty, to be generous, and I had far more power than she did, which usually led to quick, decisive, one-sided outcomes. Angel had played a weak hand incredibly poorly but I had no appetite to throw down five aces and scoop up all the chips. Unless I could prove she had faked her injury, taking a hard line wouldn't benefit the squad in any way. Going nuclear on Pascal, Chipper, and Andrew had spread healthy fear amongst the other players. Taking Angel down from the top of the Christmas tree and throwing her into the box with the torn tinsel and broken baubles would only cause puzzlement. What's got into Max? She's just a kid. Also, she was a client of my agency and I would personally benefit from her becoming rich and famous.

  Second, Peter Bauer. He was my dream centre back and he was uninjured - physically, at least. I wanted to sign him as a player-coach and I wanted it badly, but he had demons for days and if I went full Max I would scare him away. I needed to be tactful and sensitive but I also needed to move fast.

  If I couldn't sign him before the end of the January transfer window it would delay his growth by another six months and it would realistically be too late for him to reach his potential in time to enjoy it. I'd checked his profile and he had played six times for Bayern, so he must once have been CA 100 at least.

  I knew it was easy getting players back to their former levels, but it wasn't necessarily quick. If I got Peter in January I could bring him to, say, CA 75 by the end of this season and CA 100 next Jan. Even faster, maybe! I'd always thought that players with coaching badges improved faster. And once I had finished my experiment with Cole Adams, I could use Secret Sandra to boost Peter's growth. So a whole year just to get to the bottom of the mountain...

  The biggest hurdle was that signing him in January actually meant agreeing the deal in December, and that was related to my third problem - how to spend my one point six million pounds of transfer funds and my three thousand seven hundred and ninety pounds of wages.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realised I wasn't going to spend the whole one point six million on transfers and that wasn't by choice. A million-pound player would want million-pound player wages, and I couldn't offer that. No-one at Chester was earning Gemma money. If I fenced off some of the transfer funds, I could redirect them into wages. If I set aside two hundred thousand, MD would allow me to sign a guy on 2,000 a week on a two plus one contract. Two thousand a week would match what Sticky, Zach, Dazza, and Foquita were on. Not Gemma money, maybe not even lobster money, but for League One and Two players who were desperate for first-team football like Zach had been, it might be enough.

  I could certainly sign three players who would walk into the first eleven while having decent resale value, and I would still have enough to do the showers. I was 98% sure I would upgrade the showers - the thought of having our facilities score decline next season was stressing me out - and it made absolute sense to build the second floor.

  Do the showers and buy three players, then. And when those deals were complete, what would I do when Peter told me he wanted to play for Chester? MD might agree to let the club go overdrawn to pay Peter's wages. The chances were similar to the odds that Angel would come to me before getting on the bus for tonight's Welsh Cup quarter final and apologise for what she had done.

  Yeah.

  Emma was frying eggs and the smell drove me crazy. I pushed myself out of bed and went to the kitchen. "That smells good," I said, in a whiny voice.

  She smiled. "Want some?"

  "Don't go to any trouble over little old me," I said. "I'll just watch you eat."

  The toaster popped. She buttered the bread, plopped the fried egg on top, and slid the plate towards me. "Pepper's there if you want."

  "Oh my God, you're the best."

  "I know."

  She popped another couple of slices of bread in the toaster. She didn't adjust the dial from 4 to 3 because she had absolute faith that the toaster 'knew' it had recently made some toast and 'knew' that its elements were hot. I believed the dial was simply a timer and you had to adjust the setting manually to get the right amount of toasting done. Like Emma's bread, the arguments got overheated sometimes, but it wasn't worth breaking up over. She saw me staring at the dial and gave me an affectionate, exasperated smile, before taking two eggs out of the carton.

  I said, "I didn't sleep well."

  "I know."

  I must have been tossing and turning. "Soz."

  "S'okay. It's not easy."

  "It's your dad's fault," I said, munching away. Any bite now and the delicious eggy goo would be released. Nom nom nom.

  "How's that?"

  I talked while Emma worked the pan. "He's fixed the mum situation as best as it can be fixed. If she reacts badly to the bungalow, that's it. Care home forever. If she loves it, great. Yeah, it's nagging away at me but we'll know on Friday, won't we? So that's that. Now things that used to be C-level problems are B-level and the old B is the new A. I read about this guy once who was annoyed by his noisy neighbours so he moved to the countryside. Then he was annoyed by planes so he got special windows so he couldn't hear them. Then his fridge started winding him up so he got a quiet fridge. Every time he solved his noise problem he'd find something else was suddenly super loud. The story ended with him furiously angry at the sound of the water rushing through his radiators."

  Emma scoffed, amused. "Can I make one request?"

  "Yeff," I said, crunching deeper into the butty. I'd hit the goo!

  "It's not my dad. It's my mum and dad. It's her money, too."

  I nodded a few times while I pointed to my full mouth. Emma's toast popped - they had come out all right, despite her best efforts - and she gave them a quick wipe of butter. When I swallowed, I said, "You're right. You're a billion percent right. And she's incredible, finding all this old stuff. I just think of it as his money because he's the big lawyer man."

  "She was a big lawyer woman until she had me. She always planned to go back but found she didn't have anything to prove and she liked the quiet life. That's what you're always talking about doing. Win the Premier League, retire. Just because you're pottering around the garden while Ruth and I make you rich doesn't mean people should dismiss what you did."

  "Yep. Got it. Have I said it wrong in front of her?"

  "I don't think so but..."

  I tutted and squashed my eyes closed. "I'll do better. Should I say something?"

  "Don't beat yourself up, babes. It's just an area of improvement. And no, don't say anything. Acta non verba."

  "Soz, what?"

  "Acta non verba."

  I made a face like I was trying to solve a quadratic equation while examining a crime scene. "Er... actors are not worms."

  "Actions speak louder than words. Show, don't tell. For example, if you want to show someone you like them, give them your fried egg butty."

  That brought an early-morning twinkle to the eye. "Do you want me to pick you up and spin you around?"

  She laid her fried egg onto the toast and took a bite. "Yeff. But not now. Busy."

  While I let her eat in peace for a minute, I put the kettle on and took two cups from the cupboard. I started our teas brewing and leaned against the fridge. "The Angel sitch," I said. "I've got some actions that speak louder than words. Yeah, she'll understand what I'm not saying, all right. There's a risk she'll take it badly and leave the club but if she does that she's never getting to the top."

  "Leave the club?" said Emma. "You didn't say it was so bad."

  "It's not but you know me, I always think what's the worst that could happen. I think my solution is pretty amazing, to be honest, but who knows how she'll react? She's had a sheltered life and now she's on the verge of big fame. I'm going to acta non verba but it would be good if you, Ruth, maybe Brooke, could be there for her. Nudge her back to the path of righteousness."

  Emma was giving me an unblinking stare. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to give her what she wants. I'm going to treat her like she's the most important player on the team. I'm going to treat her like she's irreplaceable."

  "Why are you smirking?"

  "I'm not. This is a very serious and delicate topic."

  "Your smugness is off the charts. Oh my God, this is the worst I've seen you since we went to that pub quiz and you knew all the literature questions."

  "You're still mad there were no questions about Latin. You and your dad are such snobs. Okay so I think it will go well but if there's ever a chance for you to tell her that what I want and what she wants is one hundred percent the same, that would be great."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want her to be world famous for scoring hundreds of goals and for winning trophies. I want her to score a hat trick for England in the World Cup final." I looked away. "I want her to be so rich she can look after her whole family, forever. Ideally she'd do it without doing that whole raunchy pop star phase but that's nothing to do with me, really."

  "It better not be."

  I laughed. "I just think she'll get way more famous and stay famous longer the classier she keeps it. She can be sexy but she should go for a thingy vibe. Who's that actress from the olden days?"

  "Mary Pickford."

  "Married the same Welshman six times. Er... Not the one from Gone With the Wind. Cleopatra."

  "Elizabeth Taylor."

  "Yesssss!"

  "I think Vivien Leigh is a better comp."

  "Well, anyway, something like that. Angel could position herself as an unearthly, unattainable beauty and do high-end perfume and watch ads, but all she knows is Love Island. That kind of advice might be better coming from a woman."

  "You want me to talk to her?"

  "Yes but it might be better to wait for the right moment. Discuss this with Ruth, too, because it's possible by this evening she'll be mad at me and by extension, you."

  "You mean Angel, not Ruth, right?"

  "Right. Why would Ruth be mad at me? I'm the best thing that ever happened to her. Because of me she gets to take the piss out of loads of over-promoted, under-prepared men. Just be ready to plant some seeds with Angel. Do you want to be the biggest star in the world or the hottest girl on season 12 of One Night Bang?"

  "Interesting." Ems sipped her tea. "I don't suppose you have a detailed outline of how Angel's career in advertisements should go over the next ten years, along with outfit suggestions?"

  "Of course I do not," I said, with one hundred percent sincerity. "More like twenty years."

  That got a laugh. "I don't even want to know."

  "She's like me. She's not a bad person but when life gets too easy she goes looking for trouble. We're crushing the league and even when she plays shit she gets a goal. When a teammate really needs her, she's there." I remembered the way Old Nick had intervened to make my life much harder by selling R. Brown to the Saudi league. It got my attention all right, and came with long-term benefits. While Emma got on with her fried egg butty, I texted Sophie, asking her to bring the camera crew to Bumpers later. "Yeah, good, that's sorted. Okay and then there's Peter. I think if he came to Chester I could get him playing to a high standard but as soon as he sees Dieter's shadow he's going to curl back into his shell. My only idea is to trick him into coming and then frog him."

  "Frog him?"

  "You know, that thing. What is it? You put a frog in some water and heat it up and the frog doesn't notice. But if you put him straight in hot water he jumps out."

  "You want to boil Peter Bauer?"

  "Yes I want to boil Peter Bauer, is that okay?"

  Emma booped me so she could open the fridge and put some things away. "I don't know, babes. I don't see it."

  "You don't see him at Chester?"

  "Oh, I see that. I just don't see it working. Any day he might wake up and think, why am I here? No, that won't fly."

  "Yeah. You're right. I just don't know how to even approach it."

  "With honesty, for a start. But take it slow. Instead of being - what did you call him? - an elegant defender from a more civilised age, treat him like he's a Geordie megababe."

  "You mean ignore him for six months until he jumps me in Darlington?"

  She twisted her lips. "I mean give him the big speech about why you like football."

  "You said acta non verba."

  "I did, didn't I? Okay just show him your passion."

  "Show him my what?"

  Emma smiled but she was starting to get into work mode. She pulled her jacket on and closed her eyes. "How big is Bayern Munich?"

  "Quite big," I said.

  "One of the biggest clubs in Europe, right?"

  I scoffed. "It's not bigger than Chester."

  "Babes, be serious. I'm trying to help."

  "Fine," I said, throwing my arms up. "It's about as big as Chester."

  Emma rolled her eyes. "They've got that huge stadium where you did commentary that time."

  "It's beyond belief."

  "And he's paid Gemma money and he gets to coach elite players. And if he wants to start playing again he can do it there. You need to offer him something he can't get anywhere else."

  "Henri's Christmas happening."

  "Yeah," said Emma, giving me a kiss on the lips. "Maybe get him signed up before he goes to that." She waited for me to stop laughing, then said, "Any news from Sandra?"

  "No," I said, narrowing my eyes.

  "No news is good news."

  "Actions speak louder than words," I said. "Here's what I want. Sandra comes to training this morning, firm handshakes all round, zooms off with a big smile on her face."

  "Yes, please. Or she could just send everyone photos of little baby Emma."

  ***

  I drove to Bumpers, gifted 50 XP to Cole Adams, and watched as Peter did an intense session with some very welcome pops. With twenty minutes to go I interrupted and said I wanted to do a low-stakes match along Relationist principles.

  "Basically a big rondo," I said. "Sunday, you played last night. Can you step out, please?"

  "We'll be a man short," he said, hoping I would let him stay.

  "Well, shit," I said. "I suppose we can do ten v eleven. Wasn't really what I wanted, though."

  "I'll play," said Peter.

  I tried to play it cool. "Top. Bosh. Thanks." No biggie. Lol.

  I allowed the game to flow, but paused a couple of times to give some tips. After a while I changed the teams so that the guys with the most experience of Relationism were on the same side. Dan, Wibbers, Pascal, Zach, and Henri. I put Peter in that group.

  With all the knowledge tied up on one team, the other reverted to normal positional play. Fascinating. I didn't mind it in theory - my instinct was to let it happen, let the bonds break and reattach as they wanted. The point of the session, though, was getting Peter to play. He was curious about Relationism and I was following Emma's advice by giving him something he couldn't get anywhere else.

  "From now on," I called out. "You can only score if you've played at least one one-two and done at least one river."

  The reaction to that instruction was thrilling. The team that had slipped into its old habits went hard at Relationism. The session went from being a strange variant on a normal match, the usual daily business, to madness and mayhem. Players moved out of their zones more freely, mini-blobs formed spontaneously, quickly followed by counter-blobs. The pitch took on the aspect of a lava lamp. Big blobs formed and melted away, always at least one small blob somewhere. Getting a one-two was pretty easy - that happened reliably with positional play. But forcing the river to happen was difficult.

  I noticed Peter getting into the flow state. He didn't play long passes but apart from that, you wouldn't have known he hadn't played a professional match in over two years.

  When his CA turned green I ended the session. Always leave them wanting more.

  I walked over to him and smiled. "Fun?"

  He was flushed, excited, happy. "Yes, Max!"

  "Top." Should I talk to him now? No. Actions, not words. "I've got us two tickets to see Man United tomorrow night. You in?"

  "Of course!"

  "Mint."

  ***

  Chesterness

  Series 2 Episode 4: The Actas of the Apostles

  Wide shot: Angel and Jackie Reaper walking towards and entering the Sin Bin.

  Screen text: Six hours before the Welsh Cup quarter final. An emergency meeting has been called by director of football Max Best.

  Medium shot: A plain white table. Jackie sits on the left, Angel in the middle, Max on the right.

  Max: [Warmly] Thanks for coming to the Your Company Name Here meeting room.

  Jackie: The what?

  Max: I didn't ask you here to talk about the many and varied sponsorship opportunities that are available to bright, nimble companies who align with our values of delighting our stakeholders in an ever-changing world.

  Jackie: If you ask me to do an ad read, I'm leaving.

  Angel: I'll do it.

  Max: Okay, what it is, right, is I couldn't sleep last night even though I have a sponsor me premium bed that normally guarantees the eight hours I need to deliver non-stop excellence. My mind kept going back to that image of Angel collapsing to the turf with no-one anywhere near her. I'm worried, Jackie.

  Angel: I'm fine now. It was a phantom injury.

  Max: I don't believe in phantom injuries. I think your body is trying to tell you something. Jackie knows my biggest nightmare is a player getting an ACL injury and I'll go to mad lengths to avoid that.

  Angel: Mad lengths?

  Max: Jackie, I'm stressed ay eff. Even a bar of slash glass of slash unit of the consumable product I will one day soon personally endorse couldn't help me. I know you've got Aberystwyth Town tonight and you've done your plans and everything but the idea of Angel being in the team and doing her ACL is really freaking me out.

  Jackie: You want me to leave her out? The physios couldn't find anything wrong with her.

  Max: She wouldn't be carried off the pitch in a vital cup match for no reason, would she? Look, you're the manager. It's your call.

  Jackie: It's not though, is it? Because if I pick her and she gets injured you'll go ballistic.

  Max: I won't go ballistic, no. I'll be diplomatic. I hope we'll still be friends and stay in touch.

  Jackie: [scoffs] Great. Can you find a thinner veil for that threat? [He's angry, but not for long.] Not going to risk it. You know I trust your instincts. I wish you'd been my manager back in the day. Might still have knees. Would you like me to pick Bea Pea or Julie?

  Angel: Wait, hang on.

  Max: You're the manager. Pick whatever team you want but just for funsies, let's talk about false nines.

  Jackie: [Interested and happy.] Oh!

  Max: What I'd love to see tonight is Maddy starting in the striker slot and dropping to CAM alongside Sarah and Dani.

  Angel: Maddy replacing me? Are you - ? [Her eyes dart towards the nearest camera; she goes quiet.]

  Max: Maddy has a good shout for being one of the best eleven players at the club and I think she's earned a chance to shine. If it works, which it will, we can give Angel the whole rest of December off. Jackie, your next tough match is January 11.

  Jackie: Can't believe we have to play the same day as you're going to Old Trafford. You'll either beat them, which will be funny as fuck, or you'll get your arse handed to you, which ditto.

  Max: Focus, mate. With this restriction, the next few weeks will be artificially harder than they needed to be and we'll need to try radical solutions like false nines but I think we can just, juuuuuuust scrape by without Angel for a few matches. Use Bea Pea and Julie in the second half to give Sarah and Dani some rest.

  Jackie: I was going to use the Welsh girls tonight, since it's the Welsh cup.

  Max: Bosh! Amazing. But start strong, please. I want to get through to the last four. Imagine if we play Wrexham in the semis or the final! Think of the publicity. Their documentary crew will be there, so will ours. They'll be beefing with each other, getting in each other's way. Christ, imagine if Ryan Reynolds turns up and says he'll talk to our crew if me, Peter, and Sarah Greene agree to go on Welcome to Wrexham.

  Angel: Why Sarah?

  Max: The semi-final's in March so who knows what the team will look like then? Well, I know one thing - unless her leg falls off, Sarah Greene will be playing. She defines the word relentless. Such sporting charisma! I've seen the latest demo episodes and she pops off the screen. An absolute breakout star if I've ever seen one. If series 2 is going to be called The Relentlessness, it's about Sarah, isn't it? She's the one who's always on the pitch, always driving the team forward, always leading by example. Wrexham's documentary crew will know she's the star player.

  Jackie: I think they'd want Sandra, too.

  Max: Yeah. It's good here, isn't it? We've got loads of people with exploding careers and that's causing synergy and emergent events so there's always something mad happening but it's so wholesome and uplifting. An upmarket watch company could sponsor me just in time for my handshake with Ryan Reynolds. Close-up on the hands. Bosh! There's the name of the brand, seen by millions in America and the UK. Next I'm at Old Trafford pointedly checking how long's left in the style of Alex Ferguson, next I'm talking to the England under 19s manager explaining how to use Kisi and Dani.

  Angel: What about me?

  Max: You're injured. Then I'll be chatting to some Royal about the new stand. Is there a Duke of Chester? [He calls out to the crew.] Someone find out, please. [Normal voice.] He'll be like, gosh, what's the time, I don't want to miss Eastenders. And I'll get my luxury watch out and say 'it's two o'clock, your majesty.' He'll go, 'nice piece'. I'll go, 'time is a luxury few can afford'. Bosh! Invented a new slogan on the spot. Wow. I'm going to make so much money from that deal.

  Jackie: You don't even wear watches.

  Angel: Didn't you kick a football at someone's head?

  Max: I've just daydreamed a whole entire advertisement. Check it out. I'm playing a match and I take a shot. We follow the ball, spinning, it turns into the moon. Now I'm in space surrounded by planets and comets and shit. I grab one of the planets and put it on my wrist and when I take my hand away, it's a watch from whatever brand pays me. I say: time is the heartbeat of the cosmos. Boom! Four percent increase in year on year sales. Oh, got one. Dress me up real nice topped off with a long Dr. Who scarf. I pop out of a phone box, see there's loads of dinosaurs. Get back in, open the door again, now I'm on a planet with hundreds of sexy people and they're all wearing my watch. Slogan: travel through time in style. Fuck! Just thought of another one. There's loads of fog and there's me and a hot redhead and she's wearing like, just ribbons and the camera's all sweeping around us capturing our stolen glances. I say: Time... is of the essence. Yeah, amazing. [He looks at the camera.] Two million quid and it's yours.

  [Silence.]

  Jackie: So in summary, you don't want me to use Angel tonight.

  ***

  Aberystwyth Town 1 Chester 4

  Seasiders Slayed by Super Sarah

  An inspired performance from Chester's dynamic young team left Aberystwyth Greene with envy.

  Under the watchful eye of director of football Max Best and caretaker assistant manager Peter Bauer, Jackie Reaper's side tore the Welsh team to shreds with insightful movement and clever passing. The team shrugged off the recent injury to star striker Angel. Playing without a focal point meant attacks came from all directions. Dani Smith-Smithe had a free role, Kisi Yalley rampaged down the wings, while captain Bonnie organised the defence masterfully. But it was the England under 19 midfielder Sarah Greene who caught the eye by marrying her sensational range of passing to an elusive dribbling style. She was unstoppable.

  It was only in the second half as Chester's young Welsh talents flooded onto the pitch that the home team were able to muster any threat, but by then the Seals were out of sight.

  The first goal came after just seven minutes, when... [continued on page 37.]

  ***

  Thursday, December 11

  I hadn't planned to go to watch United but a few things changed my mind.

  First, I absolutely had to unlock Relationism before December 16 when the kids would be playing West Ham United, for my mental health as much as any footballing reason. I would get at least 630 XP from watching United in the Europa League, which would propel me towards my target.

  Second, it was an excuse to spend time with Peter.

  Third, watching our opposition was always a good idea.

  Last but not least, the bungalow was ready, Aff's mum (Angela) was available, and we had the chance to do a test run. I could stay overnight in Manchester, spend some of the morning with my mum, find out what else we needed to do to get the house feeling like home. Peter wouldn't be interested in that, of course, but he could have a day off in the big city while Well In took first team training.

  The match kicked off and Peter and I spent the first twenty minutes watching the patterns of play and discussing the tactics and personnel.

  United were playing FK Bod? Glimt, a team from the far north of Norway. So far north, in fact, that the teams in the south refused to let them into the top tier until the 1970s. In recent times they had improved year on year, gaining qualification into European competitions, progressing further and further, reinvesting the prize money wisely.

  United, of course, had been in decline ever since Sir Alex Ferguson retired. They had blown well over a billion pounds on mostly crap players to go with the billion pounds in interest paid on the debt created when a random American family were allowed to use the club's money to buy itself. United's new Portuguese manager, Pedro Porto, was a rising star of the game. But all of United's managers were rising stars until the pressure of the job crushed them.

  Peter said, "Should I present my analysis of 3-4-2-1 now?"

  I looked around. We were in the VIP section along with bigwigs from United and other clubs. My profile might have been high enough to get a seat just by asking, and Peter's certainly was, but United had given us the seats so we could scout them, as was the custom in England. The director of football from Stockport County was nearby, but he was the only guy from any club we were likely to play in the next eighteen months. "Yes, please."

  "In possession the wing backs push forward to join the top line. This creates an instant 3-2-5."

  "Yes," I said. Most big teams ended up with five front players when attacking. United's front five featured two international superstars who had progressed through United's youth system, an insanely expensive striker, an insanely expensive creative midfielder, and one cheap guy. He only cost enough for Chester to build an entire stadium. The weekly wage bill for those five players was close to one point six million pounds - the amount it had taken me three years of grafting to acquire. "They're quite shit considering what they're paid. Their decision-making is honestly scandalous." An old guy nearby turned to look at me; I glared at him until he fucked off.

  Peter said, "They are fast so we need to take care on counters. And while they are careless with the ball, they do have the capacity to create something out of nothing."

  "I'd say they have the chance to create nothing out of something. How many times do they have a great opening and they just blast a shot into some defender? They have five players who only want to shoot. It's complete fucking garbage."

  Peter lowered his voice in a futile attempt to get me to do the same. "The two central midfielders sit most of the time. The Uruguayan will hold back and protect the back three. The other does the same but is allowed to dribble forward. This gives the system variety and makes it harder to set up against them."

  "Yeah, or you can just do nothing and let them make mistakes. What a joke."

  "In defence, the wing backs drop to create a back five. That makes Pedro Porto almost unique among Europe's elite coaches. Most like a 4-4-2 when defending. Porto's teams do 5-4-1."

  That didn't seem like a big deal to me, but Peter was a lot more interested in the defensive side of the game than I was; his opinions would be a lot more valid than mine. "Hmm. Why do we want 4-4-2?"

  "It is simply the most efficient defensive setup."

  "So why does Porto do it like this?"

  "I think because he has previously worked with limited resources. It was quite interesting to watch him over the last few years."

  "Oh, Bayern were watching him?"

  "Of course. We track the progress of all the top coaches. We may want to hire one, and we will certainly have to play against them."

  "That's smart."

  "Porto's system is interesting in that it is easy for the players. They are asked to do things they can do. The CMs play as CMs, the CAMs play as CAMs. Only the wing backs change from wingers to defenders. What it means is that when the player is sold, it is easy to find a replacement. Other head coaches develop intricate systems based on the characteristics of key players. Example. At Bayern, Pep asked Philip Lahm to drift from right back into central midfield. The results were spectacular but if Lahm was injured or suspended, who could step into the role? It is not so easy; he had an extremely specific skill set. Do you see?"

  "Okay so it's like if I had you as my starting centre back I could do all kinds of amazing tactics but when I sold you for thirty million pounds, I would have to drop that particular plan because only you could do such wonderful things."

  "Er, yes. Something like that. One way Porto makes it easier for himself is by using asymmetrical pairs. We already talked about the differing roles of the central midfielders. If the left wing back is adventurous, like today, the right-sided one is more defensive. The two CAMs often have different profiles. The dribbler versus the passer, for example."

  That made sense in terms of tactics - he had a little bit of everything on the pitch. And it made sense in terms of squad-building. It was easy to find a midfielder who could dribble and a midfielder who could pass. It was harder to find one who could do both. "Right. But he doesn't need to sell his best players every year now he's at Man United."

  "Indeed. It will be fascinating to watch how he develops and if he adds complexity to his approach."

  "This is fun. I like this conversation. It's like talking to a Jackie Reaper who isn't constantly scanning everything I say for subtext and subterfuge."

  Peter didn't know how to reply to that. "Are you excited to play here?"

  I looked around at the massive stands. "Scoring to shut up 70,000 gobby Manc twats in the stadium I grew up dreaming of playing in? Haven't given it a second's thought, mate."

  "How do you plan to approach the United match?"

  "It depends what sort of team he picks. Okay he's not going to use loads of squad players like Newcastle did, but I'd be amazed if Garnacho started." Garnacho was one of the first players I had scouted after I got the curse. He had just broken into the United team and now he was a full international and most of United's moves went through him. "There are international matches in the week before we play, so he'll be in South America. No way he's playing against Chester after two internationals and a long-haul flight. I'm not sure what the new ownership think about the FA Cup. Not much, probably."

  United's ownership, like everything else about the club, was a mess. Most of the shares were still owned by the vampiric American family, but a chemicals company called BigTox had bought a minority stake. That stake allowed them to make all the footballing decisions. I wasn't particularly confident a chemicals company knew how to run a football club, but these days my only real interest in United was the million pounds they were about to give me.

  "I reckon United will pick up two injuries in the international break, they'll give their backup goalie a go, and they'll maybe start with one young guy. We'll get Pascal fit and he'll operate on whichever flank United's wing back is attacking."

  "You like to attack the side that's attacking you?"

  "Yes. It's by definition weaker defensively and sometimes you'll flat out stop their attacks."

  "Attack is the best form of defence."

  "A lot of the time, yes it is."

  Peter hesitated. "I have been watching past Chester matches, talking to Henri, Pascal, the other coaches, the youth team players, and I couldn't say what your style is. Do you have a preferred formation? You often talk about attacking but you can be quite defensive. You talk about playing with wingers but in more than half of the matches this season, there were no wingers. The only thing I can find which is consistent is that you try to always have a defensive midfielder."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "I have the smallest budget in the league and a complete mishmash of players. I cook with what I've got."

  "Yes, good, but if you had unlimited resources, what would your preferred formation be?"

  "Depends on the players."

  "If you managed Manchester United. This squad."

  I thought about it. "Difficult. Each of the previous four managers signed six players so you've got half of a counter-attacking team, half of a keep-ball team, half of a vibes team, and half of a buy-all-the-Dutch-players team." I tried to imagine a day in the future when I would have all the formations and complete flexibility. "United's midfield has been a joke for a long time so the temptation is to overload it. Got to avoid that. And you have to be honest about the capabilities of some of these players. There are huge names who aren't producing." I kept thinking about the wide players. "This is Man United. I want to see flying wingers. I want fantasy and I'm not going to get it from this lot. You know what I'm thinking? 4-5-1. Solid, don't let teams at you. The potential is there for fast breaks. Any player shooting at random gets hauled off. They get to the byline and cut the ball back for the striker or they move to another club. We get solid in midfield and when that's achieved, the full-backs can attack. That said, the ones here are shit so there's an instant flaw with the plan. Yeah, anything with a back four is going to get found out. Back three is better but you're always going to get killed down the flanks because the wide guys aren't team players. Low Team Work, low Decisions. It's a nightmare."

  "Sounds like Chester should beat them," said Peter.

  "They still have incredible quality. Explosive firepower. They'll beat us with two moments of individual quality but as a manager that's frustrating. The system should generate threat and on top of that comes the individual quality. Pedro Porto needs four transfer windows to get rid of the deadwood here and get players who can do what he wants. Will he get that much time?"

  "What would you do at a better-functioning club like Bayern?"

  "I would forfeit the first 17 matches in a desperate attempt to make the second half of the season interesting."

  Peter tutted. "Why do you say that? The Bundesliga is excellent."

  "No, it's tedious."

  "The football is excellent. The skills are top. Fans own the clubs."

  "And Bayern will win 27 of the next 30 leagues. That's not sport, Peter. That's ossification. Sport is expertise, athleticism, moments of surprise. The only surprise in Germany is when someone beats Bayern, do you buy their best player or their two best players? If I was born in, I don't know, Stuttgart, I'm sure I'd find it interesting and that's right and proper but it's not for me."

  "It is barely more diverse in England."

  "I agree, and that's what I'm working to stop. It's funny, there's so much attention paid to the superclubs but everything they do is so predictable it's really fucking tedious. Here's a really interesting football club. Bodo Glimt from the far reaches of Norway, cleverly building a team, husbanding their resources, being smart, smarter than their rivals, playing the best football it's possible to play on their budget, reinvesting, still making a profit, competing against much bigger clubs. This is one of the greatest stories in European football and I'd rather be in that dugout than the one in Munich, no matter how cool the stadium is."

  "Why do I feel reprimanded?" He chuckled. "What did you mean about predictability?"

  "Well, take the format of this competition. In the old days, European tournaments were like the FA Cup. Draw 32 teams from a hat, bosh, knockout, get on with it. Every match was of the utmost importance, the drama was sensational. We built this sport on those nights, didn't we? But the bosses of the big clubs didn't like being knocked out by Anderlecht or Split or Bodo Glimt. Why are these tiny teams allowed to beat us? So they spent the last thirty years throwing their weight around, bullying the cowards at UEFA into changing the format. First a league and a knockout. Then a league followed by a league. Now this joke of a tournament. Eighty-seven clubs play one hundred and eleven matches to determine the coefficients for the top-ranked sixty teams to go through while the other forty-nine play a Swiss-model playoff elimination league spanning three months to decide which three teams will drop out of the competition." I did an excited face. "Then the fun begins!"

  "Come on," laughed Peter. "It's not that bad."

  "It is. It's boring. Think about it - the draw is literally too complicated for a human being to do it. If your football tournament can only be programmed by a computer, you've fucked up. It's soooooo boring, mate. I'd honestly rather watch TikTokers box each other. And you're trying to make football more boring! Every year there's a new backdoor rule that guarantees Madrid, Barcelona, and Munich are allowed in even if they didn't get there on sporting merit. Sporting merit are two words you cannot fuck with because if it's not a meritocracy, it's not sport. I don't watch European football until the final, and even then it's only if I've got nothing better to do. You've killed German football and you've moved on to bigger fish."

  "I?"

  "Bayern Munich."

  "That is harsh."

  "Nope. You're one of the prime movers. Actions speak louder than words and your actions show that you think football exists to make the rich teams richer. Every year you push for changes that make you richer still. The cost? Fun. Competition. Entertainment. The health of the sport itself. No, Peter, don't ask me to name a Bayern Munich eleven because I would rather become a jellyfish trainer in Australia than work for one of the clubs that is killing this game I love."

  He didn't reply.

  In fact, he didn't reply for so long I assumed he had taken my rant personally. "Are we still friends?" I said.

  "Yes. It is unusual for someone to speak like that to me. You know my grandfather is responsible for much of what the club did in the time you describe?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. It's disappointing. It's hard to come to terms with it because I really like him and it's possible to say that overall he has been a force for good in the game. No, it's obviously completely true that he has done more good than harm on a personal level. I tell myself I should blame his entire generation. There's no ancient grove they wouldn't cut down so they could sell the wood for fifty quid. His peers at other clubs are less sympathetic on a personal level but it doesn't matter who wrecked the planet, who wrecked football. It happened and it's not going to get better. What they didn't count on was a new superclub being born. I'm going to smash the door down, win their fucking tedious competitions, hoover up all the prize money and talent, and then - " I laughed, because I had just come up with a radical idea. It popped into my head, fully formed. "When I've rubbed their noses into their own mess for a few years, I'm going to give them a choice."

  "A choice?"

  "Yeah. Roll back the worst of this monopoly crap and I'll ride off into the sunset."

  "You'll quit?"

  "Yeah. Five European Cups in my pocket. First you have to show me a proper plan to distribute wealth and ensure there is healthy competition. A club from Poland or Scotland should be able to win a European trophy. Bodo Glimt should be able to win the Europa League. If not, I'm staying. I'll win again and again and again and show you what it feels like. Haha, oh my God, that's perfect. I might actually do that."

  Peter shook his head. "I think I would be more inspired by the image if Chester's budget could afford any of the players on the pitch right now."

  I side-eyed him. "The player I would most want to buy is earning five thousand pounds a week. I'll be able to afford that soon enough."

  "Who?" he said, scanning the pitch. "Who's your favourite?"

  "You'll know when I sign him. Acta non verba, baby."

  ***

  At half time the VIPs went inside and I went straight up to Tony, the Stockport guy. Tony looked quite a lot like Ken from Grindhog, but with less charisma and intelligence. He knew me, but I introduced my companion only as Peter.

  "You work for Stockport, right? How come you're here?"

  Tony said, "Used to play for United, Max. The youth team, anyway. Got on the bench for the seniors a couple of times but never quite made it."

  "Still pretty good, though," I said. "You got closer than 99% of United fans."

  "99.9999 percent," said Peter.

  "It was hard being released, Max. I heard about what you're doing with the Exit Trial lads. That's amazing. I'm rooting for you."

  "You'll be rooting against me - " I started. I was going to brag about thrashing Stockport next season when we played them in League One. Just in time, I realised that was dumb because I wanted him to sell me a player. "You won't be rooting for me on January 11th when I'm doing my George Best impression."

  "Ah, well," he smiled. "I'd love to see that. I'd fucking love it. 4-3 United with a swaggering Max Best hat trick. Who wouldn't want to see that?"

  The Sentinel, I thought. "Listen, I don't want to be rude and ignore the other VIPs. I'm sure they're dead keen to meet me. I noticed your lad Weller hasn't been in the team much and we're gasping for a left-mid. Any chance of anything happening there?"

  He gave me a strange smile. "Steve Weller? Are you serious?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "I thought you were skint."

  "I am skint. I can be skint and have some cash, though. That's modern finance. Look, obviously the stadium's eating all the money but we need a left mid so what do you think?"

  He rubbed his chin. "He fell out with the manager. Good lad. Headstrong. I like him, to be honest, Max. I'd hate to sell Steve in January and in Feb we end up replacing the manager and appoint someone who would use him."

  Weller was an Aff-style left mid. Quite fast, good dribbler, good crossing, high team work. Not as technical as I would like but with all the skills sessions we did, we'd get him into double figures for Technique soon enough. He was 23 and when I'd seen him, his CA had been 87. That had been a while ago so his CA could have been higher because Stockport had settled in League One, or lower because he hadn't played much. I had no doubt he'd do well for Chester, and his PA of 120 meant he could help us out in the short term and I'd double my money on him. It was basically the same as buying Andrew Harrison much further in his development.

  "Can you hint at a price?"

  Peter said, "Max, you should make the first offer. The first number mentioned anchors the conversation towards that number."

  I shook my head. "That's not how I do it. There's a range where the numbers are fair and I'm happy to deal in that range. If they try to burn me they'll regret it when they want to buy a player in future."

  "Max," insisted Peter. "You are skint. You need to push hard for every dollar in savings."

  The Stockport guy and I looked at each other. We spoke simultaneously.

  "Hundred K," I said.

  "Million," he said.

  After the unpleasant silence that followed, I said, "Nice meeting you" and turned away. "I need a beer."

  "Max, wait. I was joking."

  "Sure. Big joke. Very funny. Bye."

  "No, come on. Let me talk to the manager and I'll see what he says."

  The old 'I need to talk to the boss' trick. Please. "Yeah. Tell him you had the chance to shift an unwanted player out of his squad, a guy he hates but has to look at every day, at a price that's more than what you paid, but that you decided to take the piss out of the new kid instead."

  "Fucking hell, Max," said Tony. "I was only joking."

  "Yeah, tell Weller you turned his career into a joke, Tony. Good. We're done here."

  "Urgh!" he said. "Do you want a price on him or not?"

  I tried to unclench my jaw. I was half-pretending to be angry but I had tipped over from pretending, I think. Gemma had accused me of not caring that Andrew Harrison had suffered when he was frozen out. I did care. Steve Weller was suffering and so was his manager. Tony should have been desperately working towards a solution. "Yeah, send me an offer," I said.

  Peter and I walked over to the bar. I had parked at our hotel and we'd taken a taxi to the stadium, so I felt free to have a couple of beers. "Max," said Peter. "Has anyone ever said you should allow someone else to do your transfer negotiations for you?"

  "No."

  "Don't you think that might be a good idea?"

  "No."

  "And why is that?"

  "I know the values of the players."

  "Yes, but, how can I say this? You are combustible."

  "Think you can do better?"

  "It is not a competition," he said. "Your style is more like a hostage negotiator."

  I smiled. "I would be terrible at that. Give me the hostage or it's sniper time." I thought about what he had said. No-one had explicitly told me I shouldn't do the negotiations myself but there had been a few raised eyebrows amongst people watching me, and MD had quietly told me off a couple of times. With non-league clubs, MD had been able to smooth things out, but we didn't know many people in the football league. If I kept going the way I was, I would run out of clubs who would deal with me. Could I build a team of European Champions entirely from free transfers? Yes, but it would take ten times as long as if I could buy ready-made solutions. "Let's do it like this. Peter, you're charming as fuck. You've got that diplomat vibe. How about you join Chester as player-coach-head-of-transfers?"

  "Join Chester?" he said. "I know your plan to conquer European football. If I help you, I would be culpable."

  "True," I said. I raised my beer, he did the same, and I looked him in the eye while we clinked them together. "It pisses me off that these pricks are shit at their jobs, though. I can get that player for free if I wait 18 months. Stockport are rich but they're not so rich they can chuck two hundred grand down the drain. It's fucking mental what just happened. I know it looks bad on me and I have to do better, I really do know that, but that was fucking abysmal. I don't have perfect knowledge of the market but I've got something pretty fucking close to it. I don't dick about with these deals but almost everyone else does. It winds me up. Soz not soz."

  "Excuse me." It was the guy who had turned his head when I'd been bad-mouthing United during the match. Old, white, loads of money, got enthusiastic about new sports, had gradually been increasing the font size on his phone until now the screen showed one app at a time.

  I tensed, ready for yet more needless conflict. "Yes?"

  "You're Max Best."

  "Yes."

  "I didn't mean to eavesdrop but you weren't exactly discreet. I heard your conversation with the chap from Stockport. He said something about you helping the Exit Triallists?"

  "May I know your name?"

  He smiled. "Name's Andy. I work for BigTox. We dump billions of tons of poisons and greenhouse gases into the atmosphere killing countless animals and making millions of humans sick but we also bought a few sports teams to ensure no-one will look too closely at our core activities." I think that's what he said, anyway. "Our founder is from Manchester and not the middle-east, so that keeps the British press off our case." I think that's what he said, anyway. "I have been tasked with modernising United's youth system and we've got a plan to radically overhaul it in the next few weeks."

  "Sorry," I said. "Can you explain that to me? You're working for United but you don't work for United?"

  My question came because he didn't have any kind of curse profile over his head. With every summer update, the curse expanded its understanding of modern football. At first it had only told me about core roles like managers, coaches, scouts, physios, and owners, but these days if a guy worked for a football club in almost any kind of meaningful role, his name and job title floated above his head. For most of the new roles like 'Head of Cradle Snatching' there were no attributes, but it was still useful because it showed me who I might want to talk to, and me knowing their name was always flattering.

  This guy had nothing.

  He explained that he didn't work for United. He was more like a consultant, but he was well-connected with the leadership of BigTox.

  "So it's like... if you were the brother of the owner and he sent you to revamp the youth system, you wouldn't be able to say you worked for United, but you're doing the job of someone who worked there."

  "I suppose you could put it like that."

  "Okay." With all the mixed ownerships and multi-club models, this sort of thing could get complicated and potentially lead me to make fatal mistakes. What if a scout from a multi-club organisation went from New York to be a physio in Manchester for six months? Would the curse be able to get its head around that? I doubted it. Dismissing someone because he didn't have a business card floating over his head was a bad idea. I needed to be careful.

  Andy said, "I checked you out just now. You've got, what, five Exit Triallists in your first team squad?"

  "Seven," I said.

  "Incredible. And you are on a nine-match unbeaten run?"

  "Nineteen."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Newcastle didn't beat us. Blackpool didn't beat us. We played two games in the Cheshire Cup. That makes nineteen games since we last lost."

  "Okay, nineteen."

  "You don't have to smile at me like you're indulging a child."

  "Max," said Peter, as a warning.

  "What?" I snapped. "It's a fucking fact! If we beat Crewe this weekend, which we will, and then smash Swindon, who are shit, we'll be in the playoffs for Christmas. We're going up, we have potentially the single best youth team in the country, and we did it without burning down any forests. I didn't come here to be patronised by anyone."

  The Andy guy put his hand up. "I didn't mean to come across that way, Max. I was admiring your passion. Our company invests in sports because it's a symbolic arena in which excellence is rewarded and because passion is intoxicating. The corollary to excellence, though, is the brutality of cutting teammates who don't quite make it. We're pushing for higher standards here at United, and that includes the youth teams. It's in our nature to be ruthless, to drive forward, to take the tough decisions, but we're human beings, too. Most of us are fathers. I look at what you are doing and I see a chance - I'll admit it - to wash some of the guilt off our hands. If we can send some of the young men to you, it will be much less painful."

  "Sorry, what are you talking about?" I said.

  He nodded; he had been unclear. "We plan to sign several top young talents in January, Max. They will go into our academy system and some will be cut to make way. In the normal run of affairs they will appear in Exit Trials in May, or be released early and bounce around from trial to trial until they land somewhere. Many will leave the sport forever. I heard you talking, looked you up, and thought of a better idea. Why don't they join you this January? That's quite the safety net, isn't it? Sorry, Johnny, we have to let you go. But look, here's an option! You can join high-flying Chester FC who are unbeaten in nineteen matches... if you squint."

  He was rinsing me, but he was also offering me something. "What exactly...?"

  "Come to watch our training sessions, or we can send the players to you for a trial. Whatever you want. If there are one or two you like, and they are minded to join you, perfect. Our academy staff are excellent, Max, but their high empathy means pain when players leave. To see them join a good club is not painful but a source of pride."

  "Right," I said. "I come to one of your sessions. You point to a few players and I can take my pick of those?"

  "Yes. If they want to join you. Some will want to stay and try to prove themselves. Who knows? Perhaps they will. Elite sport is cut-throat but unpredictable."

  "Okay so it's January 12th and we're supposed to meet to sign the docs but I've spent the last 24 hours slagging you off because your club's a joke and you only beat us 4-3. I've absolutely laid into you, it's savage, it's hilarious. You're getting non-stop texts from your mates going 'wow that kid absolutely did you'. You'll swear right now that you'll sign the papers to release the lads?"

  He rocked his head back and laughed loud. "I can't promise that, no. I do have feelings. But I promise you, hand on heart, I want what's best for these young men." He gave me a level look and calculated. "If there's any business to do, maybe we ought to do it before our encounter. Eh? Then we can all stay friends. I promise, if you do right by our young men, I'll do right by you. You don't need to worry about my friends teasing me; I don't have any."

  He was joking but my disc drive was spinning again. If I had the chance to sign some of the best prospects in the country I needed to go for it. There was no way an eighteen-year-old Man United player had poor technique. "Fine," I said. "We'll be there tomorrow."

  Peter looked panicked. "Max! We need to prepare for Crewe!"

  "Do we fuck," I said. "It's Crewe. We'll score and they'll crawl back down the little crack in the road where they live." A thought came to me. If I picked up one or two of the United players who were going to get cut, the Brig would be happy and I wouldn't need to go to the next Exit Trials. There was little incentive for me to go to the next ones anyway, since some prick was telling Chip Star every player I was interested in. Maybe Ryan Jack could set up visits where I could scout the players other big clubs wanted to cut. It was in an academy's interest to see its alumni do well. "Andy, I'll be there. Bosh."

  ***

  Friday, December 12

  The final score at the United match was somewhere between five-nil to the home side and four-nil to the away side. I mean, seriously, who gives a fuck?

  All that mattered was that I got my XP, set up a chance to scout some talented kids before anyone else got a look, registered interest in the new Aff, and spent some time with Peter.

  Not sure the last part was an unmitigated success - I had spent a lot of that time shitting on his club and low-key slagging off his grandfather, but nobody's perfect.

  Peter surprised me by saying he wanted to come and help with my mother - Anna would need assistance getting into a van, for a start - and if I took him to lunch we could role play the kinds of conversations I would have at United's Carrington training complex. He said he would teach me 'an alternate approach to negotiating that didn't end with its participants rushing to the medical cabinet to treat the burns'.

  We had a quick brek in the hotel and we drove down to Chorlton. I wanted to check the bungalow was ready before picking mum up. Our route took us past Gemma's mansion and we talked about the whole Andrew Harrison situation as an example of how my negotiating style was actually supremely effective. Peter sighed.

  I parked and we got out of the car. "This is nice," said Peter. "I like the trees. It's peaceful here."

  "Oh shit," I said, as we pottered along the drive.

  "What?" said Peter.

  "It looks like they did all the things. You don't have a before and after picture but this path was all paving stones and they were disjointed or whatever the word is. Now it's all smooth and it has been pressure washed. No trip hazard!"

  "They did a good job."

  "The fence has been painted. The garden's different. Not sure exactly... It's less soggy? Oh, there's a kennel!"

  Peter frowned. "Your mother has a dog?"

  "No, her friend. Solly, the psychic dog. I told you about him."

  "You certainly did not."

  "He's not quite as good at his job as he thinks, the little shit. Pure babe magnet, though. When you get bored of flirting with everyone at Chester, you can come and take him for walks."

  Peter shook his head. "I do not flirt. Women flirt with me."

  I lunged at him and grabbed his arm, eyes bulging. "That's one of my lines!"

  "I said it first," he said.

  "No way. I invented that."

  "Tsch," he said, which is German for 'yes, busted, I'm wrong, soz.'

  We went in and Aff's mum, Angela, appeared as if summoned by a genie. She looked from me to Peter, up and down, all business, and nodded. "She just got here."

  "What?" I hissed, pissed. That wasn't the plan. I hated it when the care home changed the plans.

  "There was an issue with the minivan so it was now or never. But Max, it's all good. We've had a cup of tea and they're in the living room watching TV. So far so good."

  "Really?" I said, my energy changing instantly. Pathetic. Desperate.

  Angela nodded and whispered. "The layout works and the sofa is perfect. Your ma went straight to her spot, no hesitation. The coffee table isn't quite right but I can't tell why. The remote control is the one she's used to; she's using it like a wizard's wand. It's those little things, Max. You've done well."

  I didn't want Peter to see me cry, and for a flash of a second I was angry that he was even there. I closed my eyes and flicked my wrists, fingers loose, to try to calm down. I nodded in an increasingly vigorous series. Max Best, son, enters stage right. Or does he? "Maybe just the house is a good start? I can come back."

  Angela pulled me towards the living room. I sat in my usual spot - with 'usual' being a strange word to describe the seating layout from, what, ten, fifteen years ago?

  Anna was there, looking very tired but slightly better than the last time I had seen her. Solly was in a corner feeling sorry for himself. In the care home he was a big star and got all kinds of fusses and attention. He was fretting that this bleak, quiet dump was exactly what it looked like - his new home. He was a star of the Man United youth teams who had just been told he was moving to Chester.

  Anna and I made some awkward small talk while mum stared at the TV with a blank look on her face. One of those days. Okay, but that didn't mean anything. The bungalow only needed to be one percent better than the care home for everything to have been worth it.

  We were there for fifteen minutes with not much happening and okay I know this isn't a lot of fun to hear but I got depressed. There was just too much going on that was making my mental disc drive spin wildly and there was something about being there in the quiet tedium of the bungalow that made it all feel ten times as vivid. Angel and Bonnie's complicated relationship made ever more complicated by me and my demands. Sandra and Aiden and the health of little baby Max. Peter and his legacy and my self-destructive need to shoot my mouth off about the one thing in football Peter loved, his club. My inability to handle the simplest negotiation in the history of football, a basic left mid option from Stockport County. Most of all, my pathetic, childish hope that buying a squeaky leather sofa might cure my mother of her incurable disease.

  Yeah, it got me down.

  Angela put a cup of tea in my hand and offered me a biscuit. I frowned, vaguely angry, until I realised the tin was exactly the one we'd had when I was young. About as wide as a football, round, metal, and when you opened it, it smelled of custard creams and bourbon biscuits. The smell hit me so powerfully that in some alternate universes I spent the next 13 years writing 1.5 million words about all the memories it stirred.

  I put my tea down and took the lid all the way off. "You've got the pink ones," I said, amazed. I hadn't seen the light, fluffy pink biscuits for so long. I reckoned the chance they were still mass produced was zero. How were they here? "And the horrible ones with jam in."

  "Which ones do you like?" said Angela. She would store the information away and remember it forever. She was amazing.

  "None, they are all horrible," I said. "The pink ones are - Oh! There used to be another one. I remember. It was like a biscuit rectangle with six... I think it was six... sort of blobs of creamy sugar stuff. They were the best ones. Fuck! What were they called?"

  "Jam mallows," said Angela. "You liked those?"

  "They were legit nice, not just best-in-the-tin nice. There's no way they still make them."

  "They do," said Angela. "They're Irish. I can get some."

  I smiled, handing her back the tin. "Is Ireland like England from twenty years ago or something?"

  She was torn between being annoyed and agreeing, and took the tin to the kitchen.

  It went quiet again, and my burst of optimism started to fade. Anna wanted to lift the mood, but couldn't. I waved a hand. Please don't exhaust yourself.

  I was thinking about how quickly we should go because there always came a point where mum radiated anxiety and the only cure was for everyone except Anna to leave. I was trying to work out if this move out of the care home was even a good idea when Peter's phone rang. He mumbled an apology but picked up and spoke a few sentences in German. He hung up. "Work, sorry," he said to the room.

  But mum had locked onto him as soon as he spoke German. She peered at him. "Wer bist du?" she said, and might have well zapped me with a taser. Mum spoke German? Ah... no. No way.

  "Peter," said Peter.

  "Peter," said my mum. "You look like Dieter Bauer."

  Another zap, bigger than ever. What the fuck was happening? For the first time since I'd met him, the mention of his legendary relative didn't provoke a negative reaction. "He's my grandfather."

  "Oh, yes," said mum. "Yes, that would explain it." She looked down and around, confused, and all my dread came flooding back. I didn't want the moment of lucidity to end. She said, "Where are my photos?"

  "They're here, dear," said Angela, moving quickly but calmly.

  "Why aren't they under the table?" said mum.

  "It's my fault," said Angela. "I was cleaning up. I'll put them back soon."

  Angela and I exchanged a glance; we needed a shelf under the coffee table! We'd seen the glass top and the general shape of it from the photos I'd found in my cousin's attic, but we hadn't known about the shelf. This was incredible. This was better than scoring any goal. My heart was racing. With my eyes, I begged Peter to continue.

  He said, "Here come your albums, Mrs. Best. What did you want to show us?"

  "Not this one!" said mum, sharply. She got annoyed with Angela as the Irishwoman offered three albums, none of which fit the bill. "The scrapbook."

  "It's here," said Angela. She rushed to some cupboard and came back with a smaller, red-covered album. I moved from my spot to sit next to mum, and Peter knelt by her on the other side.

  We had front row seats, therefore, as mum opened the so-called scrapbook, which was just the same as the other photo albums but smaller. She turned a few pages. Each turn made a horrible squelching sound because the photos were kept protected behind a layer of sticky plastic. Squelch! Squellllch! There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to what was contained within the scrapbook. It certainly wasn't a record of my achievements - most of it was stuff from before I was born. A newspaper clipping about a restaurant that was opening. Was mum involved? Someone she knew? A flyer from a women's choir. A torn train ticket. Suddenly, mum turned to the back, squelched a few times, and alighted on a page with an envelope.

  She peeled the plastic away - the sound went right through me and I remembered why I had never investigated this stuff - and she pulled it out.

  Inside were a few folded-up pieces of paper.

  The first had a very, VERY old-fashioned letterhead from Manchester United. I had just enough time to scan it and see that it was wishing mum well on the birth of her child. What? Why would a football club do that? It made no sense.

  The next was from Nottingham Forest, the next from Stoke City, and another, bizarrely, was from Hamburger SV.

  My head was ready to explode, but I was keeping very, very still while my mum went about her work.

  At the back of the little stack of letters was one with a paperclip. "Here," she said.

  "Bayern München," whispered Peter, just as amazed as me. My mum handed him the letter, which was in German. He skimmed it. "As requested, we are pleased to enclose a gift for little baby Max..."

  Mate. Tears burst out of me. Lips wobbled, shuddering breaths, fighting not to have a full meltdown. It had hit me so suddenly I had no defence against it.

  "Aw," said Anna. Solly came over to me and let his head drop onto my lap.

  Peter slid the paperclip off and his fingertips fluttered over a white square less than half the size of the letter. "What is it?" he said.

  Now it was his turn to get a blast from the emotion cannon. It was a photo and it showed Dieter Bauer - a very young Dieter Bauer - on his haunches, looking at the camera with a tiny smile, holding a ball in his hands. He had signed the front.

  He had probably signed two hundred such photos in one go, but on this one, someone had asked him to go the extra mile.

  Peter, hands shaking slightly, flipped the photo over. "Dear Max, You are the same age as my grandson and though you are divided by borders, you are united in having wonderful mothers who fight for you and care for you! I wish you all the Best! Dieter Bauer."

  "I thought he didn't much like my mother," said Peter.

  "Why is he young?" asked Angela, because Dieter had been in his fifties when I was born.

  Mum didn't answer. She had gone internal.

  Peter took the photo, placed it on the coffee table, and snapped both sides with his phone. "I can't believe this," he said. "May I send it to him and ask if he remembers?"

  "Of course," I said, but I was starting to panic that we had been there too long and were stressing mum. Once he had finished digitising the images, I tried to gesture to him that it was time to go. He was busy staring at the original, turning it over and over.

  "The pen on the front is different. I think this is a signed photo that your mother sent to Germany to get the dedication added. That's why he's young."

  "Peter," I said, and looked from him to the front door. He understood and put the photo and envelope back as it had been while I gave Anna's hand a squeeze and promised Solly I'd be back to take him for a walk. That didn't impress him much. "How about a walk with a hot Julia Roberts comp?" He made a tiny dog noise. "Yeah, I thought so, you little hound. She lives round the corner, so stop sulking."

  Angela came to the front door. "Aw, Max," she said.

  "Why did she have those letters? Did all the clubs in Europe know a golden child had been born?"

  Angela tried to hide her amusement. Because I had been kind to her son she thought everything I did was brilliant and tolerated my outbursts of egocentricity. "Your ma wrote to all those clubs asking for memorabilia."

  "What?" I said. "That's mental."

  "No, Max. It's what we used to do. I did it when Diarmuid was born. Liverpool FC sent us a pin badge. His father tried to nab it but I put a stop to that. Diarmuid loved that pin. He was so proud of it."

  I shook my head. The past was a foreign country. Ah, but I had a tour guide! Angela wasn't just amazing with my mum and Anna, she also remembered things from the past that I either never knew or had forgotten. She would know how to send a fax, use Teletext, or arrange a party without using text messages. She was top, the house was mint, let's fucking go. "When can you start?" I said.

  "Sure, that's up to you."

  "We never really talked about pay."

  "Oh," she said, looking away. The topic made her uncomfortable, like she'd do it for free if she was allowed.

  "Thirty grand, rent's free, you get raises when I do."

  "Careful Max," said Peter. "You'll have her earning more than her son."

  "Yes," I said. "I will."

  ***

  I sat in the driver's seat with my hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

  What on earth had just happened? I had so many questions. How many clubs had mum written to and had she chosen them at random? How did mum know German? Did I like Dieter because she did? How could such a simple gesture as signing a photograph have such meaning after so long?

  Peter had a go at summarising the madness. "Small world."

  That seemed to sum things up. I didn't feel like talking or getting emotional in front of a Rolls Royce centre back. I started the car but I didn't know where we were going. "Do you want me to drive you to Chester?"

  "What will you do?"

  I felt the emotions welling up again and had to punch the steering wheel to batter them down. Get back, you worms! I set my jaw. "I'm going to pay it forward."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I'm going to save those Man United kids."

  "Which ones?"

  "All of them."

  "What if they're shit?"

  "That's why God invented the Welsh leagues."

  He laughed. "I will join you if I'm invited."

  I drove down the road for about twenty metres, which took approximately fifteen seconds. I stopped and composed myself as best as I could but there was something that needed to be said and it needed to be said right away. "Thank you, Peter." Suddenly, the bathtub of emotion was full and pouring out the sides. "I thought I'd never see her like that again. It's such a relief. Such a relief. I know you don't like being compared to Dieter but I'm pretty fucking happy you look like him. I got my mum back for a few minutes." I was going to say something like 'if you ever need anything, let me know' but remembered what Emma had said. Actions, not words. "I've got ages before United's kids train. Let's have vegan hotdogs and I'll show you around West."

  "That is the football club you don't own."

  "Yes."

  "I have questions about your MCM."

  "MCM?"

  "Maxy Club Model. That's what Henri calls it."

  "I prefer the Max Best Universe." I took in a deep breath and declared myself fit to drive. "Let me answer a different question first. If I was Bayern manager - trainer, I suppose you'd say - I'd start with 4-1-3-2. Strikers and midfielders, whatever, they're all good. Let them roam. Guti? the DM; he's amazing from what I've seen. For width you put Davies at left-back, a one-man solution to every left-sided problem. I love him. Then you need someone of that level on the right."

  "Who do you propose?"

  I scoffed. "Sorry, in this scenario aren't I at the club?"

  He dipped his head. "Player-trainer. Of course."

  "Player-trainer," I said. "Urgh. Veto that phrase forever. I'm a mint right back. Love whipping those crosses in."

  "Do you have the discipline to defend for an entire match?"

  "Defend? If you put me in charge of a superclub we're not going to fucking defend. Jesus, man." I laughed. "What the fuuuu."

  I wiped my eyes, counted to five, and drove away at normal speed.

  ***

  We spent a nice afternoon together that included driving past the Death Star. I told him it was traditional in Manchester to give the Man City campus the middle finger and he was happy to oblige. What a great guy.

  We got to Carrington, United's training base, and were met by one of the academy guys. He showed us around. It wasn't as obnoxious as City's compound, but it was just as massive and just as good. Facilities 100, or close to it.

  To my relief, our guide didn't ask Peter about his grandfather. He wanted to talk about how great the rebuilt training ground was, but I didn't give much of a shit. Bumpers was best. "How did the lads take it when they were told they were getting cut?"

  "We haven't told them quite yet."

  I stopped and pinched my nose. "Then they're not going to be looking for alternatives, are they? They're going to think I'm some no-mark and they're not going to listen. What's the fucking point me being here?"

  He looked awkward and I sensed he agreed with me but that he had to do what the people from BigTox told him. "You can have a look at them, still. Introduce yourself and when the time comes they'll remember and look you up and when we give them the news, we can say hey but that Max Best liked you."

  I tutted, but Peter said, "Yes, that's good. It's not ideal but it's fine. Isn't it, Max?"

  "Sure, yeah. It's better than fine. It's brilliant."

  My mood improved as soon as we got out onto the grass. There were fucking tons of Man United players everywhere! I must have added 70 boys and girls to my database in the first ten seconds. Plenty of good ones, too. If any of these boys or girls were released I would see they were 'free agents' and I'd be able to swoop in the very next day. I needed to get to all the academies.

  The dude told me which six players were on the verge of being released and I said I'd need to watch for a while and could they do a mini-match at some point so I could see the lads in action?

  That was easily arranged, but of course I didn't need it for scouting purposes. It was to make me seem like a real scout but also to get an idea of how United played. The youth teams were still doing the 4-3-3 the first team had been doing for most of the last decade. Maybe that's why BigTox were signing loads of new players - to align the youth teams with how the first team played. For that, they needed wing backs.

  "What do you think?" said Peter, casting his eye around. His own scouting skills weren't bad if you needed a ready-made player, but his Judging Player Potential score was low.

  "They're good," I said, looking from a very technical PA 133 midfield schemer to a PA 125 striker with low Finishing. "The best is a left back, of course."

  "Why of course?"

  "Because I already have two good young lads and it's going to be hard for me to give out minutes even to one as good as him." He was on the short side but had PA 137 and he was fast as fuck. Useful.

  "What about Saltney Town?"

  "Yeah, if the kid would go there. I suppose I'll just introduce myself for now, like the guy said, and they can look me up. I don't know. What should my vibe be? What can I offer them they can't get at a hundred other clubs?"

  Peter smiled at the question. "Expertise. Athleticism. Moments of surprise." He looked around at the other pitches. The very young players looked excited but there was a noticeable increase in the tension levels through the age groups. There were vanishingly few smiles among the eighteens we were watching. "Enjoyment."

  "Yeah," I said.

  "And the chance to be coached by me."

  I laughed - a big one. I needed that. "Mate. You're so money." That seemed like the right moment to make my pitch that he should come to join Chester on a permanent basis, but all of a sudden that felt tawdry. I needed to stop trying to manage the whole world. He worked for the club he loved. That was pretty good, wasn't it? He had helped me enough by covering for Sandra and shifting a ton of mini-bonds. "Check this out," I said, moving closer to him. I brought up a video Emma had sent me and I was about to press play when I realised it would make no sense. "Okay, context. I was staying in this house on my own and there was a pine marten living in the attic. That's, er, marder or something in German."

  "Marder, yes. What, really? In the attic?"

  "Yes. No-one else ever saw it so there's a bit of a running joke that I imagined the whole thing. It's gone now - they leave in the spring and live in the woods - and we meshed up the roof so it can't get back in. Okay, that's the background. Check this out."

  Here's what he saw.

  Interior: Ruth's grandad's cottage, AKA The Barn.

  It is pitch black and Emma is in a white night-dress shining a torch in her face. She's recording on her phone.

  EMMA

  There's something in the house! In the attic! In the walls! There, did you hear?

  Pan to: a wall.

  Back to: Emma's face. It's moist, as though she has been crying.

  EMMA

  I moved here to be with Max but no sooner do I unpack my last box than he says he's staying the night in Manchester with a dreamy German. Now I'm here alone in this haunted house.

  Pan to: a wall.

  We see Emma's hand reaching out, delicately touching things while she breathes heavily.

  EMMA

  I'm scared. I'm so so scared. Huh?

  There's a sudden movement, a thump, a crash, and the scene ends with Emma's head on the floor and her lifeless eyes open, unblinking. It stays like that for over twenty seconds.

  Peter gave me a strange look. "I have to ask. Is she okay?"

  "Yes. She's just a complete nutjob." I scrubbed through the frames. "She doesn't even watch horror movies. I don't know how she knows the beats." I put my phone in my pocket and bit my lip. "She's taking the piss out of me while keeping in touch. She's amazing. The world is a flaming dumpster fire but I get to be with her." Maybe it was because there were a hundred people running around in Man United gear, but my mind turned to the upcoming match. "I'm going to attack. We can really get at them if we go for the throat. Who cares if they dick us? I get to go home to Emma. How bad can it be?"

  "Pretty bad."

  I clicked my neck. "I can take it. You can nope out if you want. You have to consider your reputation. We can say I sent you to scout our next league opponents."

  "Can I decide after the Crewe match?"

  "Sure. It's going to be boring, though."

  "I'll believe that when I see it."

  ***

  Saturday, December 13

  Post from The War Chest, your number one resource for the hottest transfer news and gossip.

  BREAKING! Chester have made a ￡200,000 offer for out-of-favour Stockport County winger Steve Weller. Weller won't be keen to drop a division, but may be tempted by the offer of first-team football and the chance to play against Manchester United.

  Text from me to the DOF at Stockport County: Tony, why is everyone asking me about my interest in Steve Weller? I haven't told anyone about my interest in Steve Weller. Have you been telling everyone about my interest in Steve Weller? That's rather annoying, Tony. It's not in my interest to have everyone know about my interest, Tony.

  Tony: I might have mentioned it to a couple of other clubs. It's called creating a market for your product, Max. If I don't try to drive the price up I'm not doing my job.

  Me: And if I publicly pull out of the deal everyone will know you pissed me off. You'd better hope some idiot takes the bait and you'd better hope we beat Crewe today because come 6 p.m. if I'm in a bad mood I'm taking it out on you.

  ***

  Match 20 of 46: Chester versus Crewe Alexandra

  Tony probably breathed sighs of relief as our goals went in, but I only breathed sighs of listlessness. I turned to Peter. "I told you it'd be boring," I said, as the clock hit 70 minutes.

  Crewe had come to the Deva with their usual 3-5-2 and a team full of young players. Their CA 80 made them the 12th strongest side in the league on paper, but that paper wasn't worth the paper it was written on.

  I'd gone for my trusty 4-1-4-1. Having Cole at left back and Josh left midfield brought our average down to 78.5 but we had great balance, Crewe couldn't hurt us, and Pascal was enjoying being back in the starting line up. I'd stationed him at right mid and told him to go crazy. He had climbed to CA 80 and had a good forty-five minutes of fitness in his legs. He created the first goal with a burst of pace and a simple pass to Henri.

  The second came when the young Crewe players switched off from a free kick. Ryan Jack clipped a ball over the top, Henri fought for it, scrapped against a centre back, and bundled the ball through the keeper and into the net. The Crewe lads complained that we took the kick too quickly but weirdly, no-one in blue-and-white agreed with them. More importantly, neither did the ref. The goal stood.

  At half time I had put Sharky on for Pascal, and after sixty minutes put Magnus and Dazza on instead of Ryan and Henri.

  It was extremely rudimentary stuff. If Peter had been hoping to see me do some wizard stuff, he was barking up the wrong tree.

  The fans seemed to be enjoying themselves and the women's squad were singing and dancing up in their now-traditional corner of the Harry McNally but to me this match was dull as dishwater. Three points, clean sheet, climb to 8th in the league, yawn.

  ***

  Extract from Seals Live

  Boggy: Approaching the final ten minutes here at the Deva. Chester well in control, well on top. It seems we won't see Max Best today.

  Spectrum: This isn't his kind of match. We're so comfortable and he'll be content to let his players see out the win. Remember the early part of the season when he was having to do everything himself? He'll be loving this. Absolutely loving this.

  Boggy: Understandable, very understandable, though of course the home fans would like to see him in full flight. Ah, well. Perhaps he is thinking about transfers. Lots of rumours flying around today, and a lot of bonds being sold on the backs of those stories.

  Spectrum: That will infuriate him. Max did all those interviews for nothing. He’ll be fuming when he realises he could have simply dropped some transfer hints instead!

  Boggy: Green to Hudson. Ball clipped over the top. Hayward runs onto it. The home fans are off their seats!

  Spectrum: Crewe have left that hole there the entire match. It's crazy.

  Boggy: Hayward gathers, looks up. Only two more home matches until his big move to Crawley. He doesn't like his options, though, and turns back.

  Spectrum: Oh, that's excellent. The fans are frustrated but that's excellent.

  Boggy: Max Best with big, over-the-top applause. He's signalling to the fans that Sharky did the right thing. Yes, and... Oh, now what's this? Some urgent discussions there in the technical area. Who's that?

  Spectrum: That's Livia Stranton, one of the physios.

  Boggy: Oh, dear. Someone has picked up an injury?

  Spectrum: Never good news, but especially this time of year. The matches come thick and fast and when players are out it puts more strain on the others. Max will be worried.

  Boggy: He looks extremely stern. In fact, he's getting ready to come on! I can't tell who for.

  Spectrum: Josh.

  Boggy: That's right. Josh Owens. But Owens is sprinting across the pitch. He looks fine. What's going on? Very strange buzz around the main stand. Lots of worried faces. Peter Bauer is yelling: what's going on? Welcome to Chester, Peter. Suggestion from the chat. New motto idea. Chester FC, where you're always the last to know. [Chuckles.] It does feel like that sometimes, yes.

  Spectrum: Josh straight onto the bench, puts his jacket on, laughing and joking. He's fine.

  Boggy: Around him, the worried murmur intensifies. The game continues with Crewe playing out from the back. Dazza makes a half-hearted attempt to press. Evergreen closes the 14. Crewe cycling the ball nicely. Max Best is very still. Motionless, in fact.

  Spectrum: What's the difference?

  Boggy: Motionless is stiller than still.

  Spectrum: What?

  [Fan noise intensifies.]

  Boggy: Best with the interception! He waited for his moment and... He's on the march! Off he goes. The speed is - Past one. Past two. Shapes to shoot. One-two with Smith. The Australian overhits the return pass! It's gone wide but Best gets there ahead of the goalie. Best is forced away from goal, onto his left. Points for Smith to come closer. The defenders are all back. Best passes -

  [Fans roar.]

  Best scores! His back was to goal and he was too far wide. He shaped to pass but chipped the goalie! Left-footed from an angle. What a goal!

  Spectrum: Look!

  Boggy: And the rarest of all sights - a Max Best goal celebration. He's gleeful! He's beaming! What's...? He's in front of the McNally, waving his arms left and right. Palms facing upwards. Baby! He's miming that he's rocking a baby! It's the iconic baby celebration from the 1994 Brazil side!

  Spectrum: Sandra Lane's baby! Little baby Spectrum!

  Boggy: The rest of the team are alongside Best, copying the celebration. Now they hug. Now they dance! Now they weep!

  Spectrum: Oh my God, amazing. So amazing.

  Boggy: Are you okay, mate?

  Spectrum: Yeah, it's just... Been so worried...

  [Long stretch of quiet.]

  Boggy: Oh, no. This is ominous. Peter Bauer caught Best's attention, waved him over. It looks like he has given Best some bad news. Best all but slapped the turf!

  Spectrum: Oh, shit. The good news wasn't good after all. No! Where's my phone?

  Boggy: No phones, please. It messes up the broadcast.

  Spectrum: I can't handle it, Boggy. I'm sorry. I have to go and find out.

  Boggy: [Audibly gripping Spectrum by the arm.] Wait. We've kicked off again and Best is in a fury. He's pressing like a madman. Smith joins in! Contreras backing up! The whole of the team is pressing! There's... Zach Green in midfield. Fierce in midfield! Who's back?

  Spectrum: Youngster.

  Boggy: Youngster is a one-man defence! Everyone else is haring around the pitch, chasing that ball. It's pumped long. Cole Adams retreats, takes it on the chest. Very nice. Plays it to Youngster. Crewe rush to block the passing lanes. That's an open invitation to dribble! He surges forward. Green and Fierce back in position. It's still Youngster. He exchanges passes with Evergreen. The Ghanaian under 20 star threatens to clip the ball over the top to Hayward. Crewe push up to catch him offside but the pass doesn't come.

  Spectrum: It's Sandra's Switch! This is her move! Look left.

  Boggy: Youngster clips the ball over the top. Best rushes onto it. The defence is too far from goal! Best is through on the keeper, just like that.

  Spectrum: Timed to perfection. Watch companies, what are you waiting for?

  Boggy: Best... He's got Smith trying to catch up to offer an option. Best... thrashes the ball into the net! [Intense crowd roar.] He hit that with such venom it could have taken the keeper's head off! The crowd go bonkers. Limbs! Best rushes into the back of the net. He gets the ball. It's four-nil, Max! Someone tell him it's four-nil! Now he's sprinting towards the technical area. Peter Bauer is bouncing around. Best... shoves the ball up his shirt! And sucks his thumb! Well, is he pregnant or is he a baby? He's wrapped up by his coaches on one side, his players from the other.

  Spectrum: Message on the chat!

  Boggy: It's from Sandra Lane! She's listening! Aiden gave birth to a healthy baby boy. All is well. Sounds like Peter told Max his goal celebration was out of date so he's gone and scored another. In honour of this wonderful win, we're thinking of naming him... Alex.

  Spectrum: Alex? Because of Crewe Alexandra? Sandra, that's terrible. They're losing! And you can't name him after the sports psychologist!

  Boggy: Message from the chat. Peter tells Max to score, Max scores. That's called an infinite goal glitch. What is the club doing to make sure Peter stays? It's a good question, Spectrum. Will he stay?

  Spectrum: Look around. The stadium is bouncing, there are smiles everywhere, the manager's a wizard. We're going to beat Man United, win the Youth Cup, and win League Two. This... this is the only place to be.