9.

  As part of the training for Pradeep's DOVE system, ultra-high-definition cameras were installed all around the Deva Stadium, and to save someone having to manually turn them on, they were linked to the floodlights. Max didn't want DOVE being distorted by pre-match kickabouts or half-time entertainment, so either Pradeep or Spectrum had to review the output and delete irrelevant footage, which they discussed in a dedicated Discord channel called When Doves AI.

  Pradeep: Wednesday, December 29. Chester versus Watford. Teams enter pitch. Ian Swan is there. Owen isn't. Rainman isn't. Backup goalie is Aston Davidson! Unofficially, that's very, very bad. Officially, good for him! Should we preserve some clips? It’s a big moment in his career.

  Spectrum: Rainman has that cold that is going around. Yes, grab some footage of Aston making his 'debut' in the first team. Delete from DOVE.

  Pradeep: Done. Very strange team sheet.

  Spectrum: Max doesn't like to use his international players after long flights if he can help it. That's why Youngster and Dazza aren't in the squad.

  Pradeep: Youngster has a cold, too.

  Spectrum: I forgot about that. I'm actually surprised to see Cheb and Bark in the line up - they had long trips - but Cheb's probably in to give us some heft. Max wants to give minutes to Adam and Tomz before they go on loan to Tranmere. And if Roddy Jones is starting, you want someone with top defensive awareness like Cheb to give him support.

  Pradeep: DOVE is saying that Peter Bauer is as good as Fitzroy Hall and only slightly behind Christian Fierce. What do you make of that?

  Spectrum: In terms of their overall contribution to a match, it might be about right. Peter is reaching their physical levels and is smarter and gives us more on the ball. The others are better against the really powerful forwards, but Max has been trusting Peter more and more. I'm itching to see how long it is until Peter plays as one of two CBs. Max mumbled something about trying it near the end of the season.

  ***

  Pradeep: DOVE says we're playing 5-4-1. At home.

  Spectrum: The starters include Adam, Tomz, and Roddy. And Andrew Harrison. It makes sense to be conservative in the approach. This will be one of those games where we get stronger towards the end.

  Pradeep: I just hope Aston doesn't have to play. DOVE's goalie data needs work but Aston isn't showing up on the model at all.

  Spectrum: He won't be needed. Swanny's not gonna get sent off today - he knows that would mean instadefeat.

  ***

  Pradeep: 0-0 halftime. That was terrible. Even DOVE was bored.

  Spectrum: Are you doing the half-time deletions?

  Pradeep: Yes. Done.

  ***

  Spectrum: Still a poor game, isn't it?

  Pradeep: Now the subs. Three! Wibbers, Dan, and Lewis. DOVE says it's 5-3-2. Still five at the back. At home.

  Spectrum: You're overindexing home and away as a factor. Max wants to entertain the fans as much as poss, but he'll always take a season-long view and in the winter he's far more likely to play boring football because it's about preserving energy and not picking up injuries as well as entertainment. Also, Max will tell you that five at the back can be very attacking. It gives you a lot of stability so the forward players can be more ambitious, and you can send more midfielders to join in.

  ***

  Pradeep: The momentum graph has swung our way. Lewis at left back and Cheb at right back are generating surprising amounts of threat.

  Spectrum: Now we just need that goal.

  ***

  Pradeep: Watford are sitting deeper.

  Spectrum: When it's like this, we need to be patient because the chances will come.

  Pradeep: 3-5-2. Lewis and Cheb with higher starting positions.

  Spectrum: Max isn't in a patient mood, it seems.

  ***

  Pradeep: It's better but it's not working. We need a way to encourage Watford to attack us.

  Spectrum: You wouldn't take a draw?

  Pradeep: We beat Watford 2-0 away.

  Spectrum: Does the data say we are playing better today?

  Pradeep: Yes. Clearly better.

  Spectrum: Sometimes you need a bit of luck. If you try to force things, you can get punished. Let it happen.

  ***

  Pradeep: No! What is he doing?

  Spectrum: Max, Jesus Christ. This is too much.

  Pradeep: He is putting an 18-year-old goalkeeper on for his league debut! Is this because of his Youth Cup project?

  Spectrum: Partly, yes, but I think it's to entice Watford to attack.

  Pradeep: Whaaaaaaat. That's crazy.

  Spectrum: Crazy like a fox who wants three points.

  ***

  Pradeep: I've changed my mind. It is brilliant. Can you feel the tension in the stadium? This is AWESOME. Everyone is on edge! One mistake, one shot on our goal, and we lose. It's a high-wire act - no safety net! Haha I love this.

  Spectrum: It isn't working, though. Watford are staying in the low block.

  Pradeep: Max is dancing like a chicken!

  Spectrum: Trying to goad their manager into changing his team's mentality. It worked in the lower leagues. It's worth a try but I don't think this guy's gonna fall for it.

  ***

  Pradeep: Last minute. Corner kick. Max is sending Aston into Watford's penalty area!

  Spectrum: Sandra is telling him to go back. Ha. Their bickering is more entertaining than the match, sometimes.

  Pradeep: Sandra won the argument.

  Spectrum: Keeping a clean sheet on debut is -

  Pradeep: Oh, shit! Watford are breaking.

  Spectrum: Long shot. He's not going to chip Aston from the halfway line is he?

  Pradeep: It was so far wide! Lol. What was that cheer?

  Spectrum: Didn't you see Aston?

  Pradeep: No.

  Spectrum: You'll see it on the tape. Aston was well back, in position to save the shot, so he watched it skew wide and then threw himself towards the ball, sarcastically. It was very funny. To our fans, anyway. The Watford players didn't like it.

  Pradeep: They are pretending to be angry to waste time.

  Spectrum: Yep. Okay, 0-0, but I'm seeing good stats everywhere I look.

  Pradeep: Very good progression, yes. I understand Max's concept better now. He could use his strongest players to win this match, but he prefers to gain CA across the squad, because that will generate more wins in the medium term.

  Spectrum: That's it. What's funny is that we can see the progression happening right before our eyes, but there will be grumbling on social media about the starting line up, and reporters will go on TV and radio saying Max got cocky or doesn't know his best eleven and all sorts of nonsense like that.

  Pradeep: We could release some of our data to show them he's doing a good job!

  Spectrum: I know you want to be helpful but killing the company doesn't help anyone. Max was very, very clear about this data staying locked up. Remember he was attacked because some rich prick thought Max was carrying around something like DOVE? Also, he doesn't want outsiders to understand why he does what he does. When Luton are watching this match, trying to work out what Max will do on Saturday, what are they supposed to think?

  Pradeep: They will have no clue what's coming next. They can't possibly internalise all the factors that Max bases his decision on.

  Spectrum: Exactly. Be where your enemy isn't, etc etc. Anyway, publishing data wouldn't help. The kind of people who don't understand Max are the kind of people who don't understand numbers.

  ***

  Pradeep: Checking the post-match footage. Groundsmen, grow-lights, sprinklers. Deleted.

  ***

  New Year's Eve

  Pradeep: There isn't a match tonight, is there?

  Spectrum: No. Why?

  Pradeep: The cameras activated. The floodlights are on.

  Spectrum: Strange.

  Pradeep: Do you want me to go there?

  Spectrum: You're at a party, aren't you? With Adam S. and his mates.

  Pradeep: Yes! There are many manga fans here. It is a wonderful party.

  Spectrum: The system will send you a file with the latest clip. Review that, see if anyone's on the pitch. It's probably the marketing team doing something.

  ***

  Pradeep: I got the file. It's Max! Max and Emma.

  Spectrum: At the stadium?

  Pradeep: Yes. Wait, there's a second slice of footage coming.

  ***

  Pradeep: I am not sure what they are doing but it looks fun. They went onto the pitch and stood side by side. It looked like Max was describing the new stand. Emma said something and they went back inside. They went out again with bigger coats and gloves and possibly a second scarf. Max took Emma on his back and ran around. Then he put her down and said something about the halfway line. They stood a few metres away, then Max picked her up like a fireman would, and he was carrying her over the line. They did it five times, each time different.

  Spectrum: They're practising crossing the threshold for when they are married. Aww. Cute.

  Pradeep: I see! Should we tell someone that Max is using the stadium as his playground?

  Spectrum: I vote no.

  Pradeep: Okay! They have gone inside, anyway.

  Spectrum: It's too cold to stay out for long, and they will miss midnight if they don't hurry to whatever awesome party they're supposed to be at.

  ***

  Pradeep: They are back! Max is. He's dragging something onto the pitch.

  Spectrum: He's what?

  Pradeep: I think it's a mattress.

  Spectrum: How much punch have you drunk?

  Pradeep: I am telling you! It is a mattress. He got a sheet, a cover, two pillows. Emma tried lying on it, then got up. Max wants to sleep on the pitch!

  Spectrum: Whatever you do, do not let anyone see these videos. As soon as you have watched them, delete. Delete, Pradeep!

  Pradeep: Yes, of course. I am being very discrete.

  Spectrum: Don't be discrete, be discreet.

  Pradeep: I am being more discreet than Max! They both went inside the main stand again, but they are back with sleeping bags and blankets and I don't know what else. Why is there so much bedding inside?

  Spectrum: Max used to sleep at the stadium when he was working late. That was before Emma came to Chester. And he has a bed in his office at Bumpers, just in case. It doesn't really surprise me that there's bedding. It surprises me Emma's considering going along with it.

  Pradeep: She's from Newcastle. This is like spring for her. Oh, no.

  Spectrum: What?

  Pradeep: Max ran inside and now the floodlights are off.

  Spectrum: So? You're worried you won't be able to see what they get up to?

  Pradeep: Please...

  Spectrum: Sorry, lol.

  Pradeep: I'm worried they will freeze to death. Should we go to the stadium and turn the lights on as a sort of message?

  Spectrum: They're not gonna freeze. Hold off on deleting the footage until we see them safe and well in the morning, just in case there's a police investigation.

  Pradeep: Don't...

  Spectrum: That would be a good story, wouldn't it? Max and Emma, frozen in ice for a thousand years, and they wake up in an apocalyptic world where they rule together as king and queen, but they split up because instead of training a new generation of left backs, Max wants to install solar panels on his mud hut.

  Pradeep: I wish you would take this seriously.

  Spectrum: It'll be fine, honestly! They're not stupid. Now enjoy the party. Countdown to the new transfer window is imminent!

  Pradeep: Haha that's funny.

  ***

  Spectrum: Get ready. Here it comes!

  Pradeep: Happy New Year, my friend!

  Spectrum: Happy New Year!

  Pradeep: The fireworks are so loud! I wonder if that's why Max wanted to be on the pitch at midnight - to get the best view?

  Spectrum: It could be that, but I was thinking maybe there was a different explanation. Either way, I'm sure the bangs rocked the stadium.

  ***

  2028

  DAY ONE

  ***

  8:00

  The media room at Bumpers had a few 'sets' ready to go at a moment's notice. One was a wall with our sponsors' logos printed at regular intervals, which was useful for Sandra's pre-match interviews, content for the club's channels, and media training for the players.

  Another set was similar but had a large Chester FC crest in the middle, and when you wheeled in a table and a couple of chairs, we could take the traditional 'signing my contract' photo. It wouldn't see much use this January, but the transfer window was open and we did have a couple of deals to get over the line.

  "We're ready when you are, Max," said the photographer, who was a member of the marketing team who had learned the delicate and subtle art of pushing a button on a camera.

  Emiliano, sporting shoulder-length hair that he kept tucking away - it would have looked awful on most of my players but it suited him to a tee - was in a Chester top - squad number 28 - with his name on the back. His first name, because that's how he wanted to be branded. His surname was, to everyone's surprise, one of the most common in Italy.

  "You sure you want to do this?" I said, as Emiliano picked up the pen and brought the contract closer. "If you sign that, I control your destiny for the next three-and-a-half years."

  When women were around, his brown eyes went soft and his voice low. "God controls my destiny."

  "God's not registered with FIFA."

  He mumbled something in Italian, but with a tiny smile he adjusted himself on his chair, pushed his hair back, and posed for the camera. I did my part.

  "Max," complained the photographer.

  Emiliano looked to see what the trouble was. I was standing bolt upright, arms folded, glaring at him. Emiliano, to his credit, laughed. "It's good. Let's do it like this."

  "Let's try it the traditional way," said the photographer.

  I bent and put my hand on Emil's shoulder as custom demanded. While the photographer got ready, I said to Emiliano, "This is day one of the rest of your life. A fresh start. New year, new you."

  Emiliano's Morale jumped a level.

  ***

  Chester FC have signed Emiliano Ferrari from Pescara on loan with an option to buy. The initial fee, should Chester exercise their option, is thought to be in the region of three million pounds, rising to as much as eight if certain conditions are met. Chester boss Max Best said that Emiliano would be competing for playing time "from day one", and that while the 19-year-old Italian attacking midfielder had much to learn, he had all the makings of "a real Rolls-Royce of a player".

  ***

  Saturday, January 1

  Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 8.

  You can never go back to the river, they say, for if you go back, both you and the river have changed.

  I was back at Bumpers, on the bank of the river Dee.

  Chester had changed. So had I.

  Livia Stranton, as delicately beautiful as ever, had been attaching electrodes to my skin, and now she was using an ultrasound machine, taking measurements, writing them down. It was my medical, the process by which football clubs ensured the players they signed were fit to work. "How does it feel to be back?" she asked, before shaking her head. "Sorry, you must be getting that from everyone."

  I smiled. "You're the first. I don't mind the question, but so far, I don't know the answer. I can say that it's very strange. When you're inside the club, you see that things are happening but it's step by step, little by little. When you go and come back, wow. Everything's the same but nothing is. Even the trees in the far corner. There was one, then there were three, now there must be, what, twenty?"

  "Max likes progression. He would build the new stand one seat at a time if they would let him." She made her latest note. "I'm doing this more slowly than normal to make sure I don't make any mistakes but also because the more detail I do here, the faster it will be when we sign the papers later."

  "That is fine, Livia, but thank you for informing me. One thing I noticed in Germany is that our doctors tend to be uncommunicative. They are very good but they do not tell you what they are thinking. You have to ask. I had to tell some of the young players it was okay to ask."

  "Maybe Dean is German," she said, which made me laugh.

  I checked the display to which I was connected, briefly fearful that my heart rate would increase and Livia would notice. I lay back and tried to keep the number steady. The time was 08:15, a series of numbers that always amused me. "Livia, there is a concept in Germany of Nullachtfünfzehn. Zero eight fifteen. Things that are Nullachtfünfzehn are average, made to a specification. It is a term used negatively, but given a choice, all football managers choose Nullachtfünfzehn players. I am anything but - "

  The door burst open, and in strode Max Best, with Sandra Lane behind him. "There he is!" bellowed Max. "The conquering hero returns!"

  "I didn't conquer anything," I said, before I had time to think. I wondered how much bitterness was in my tone.

  Max came closer and bent down, his jaw set. "You're gonna fucking conquer, mate. This next six months is gonna be the most exciting time of your entire career. You're gonna leave a trail of devastation everywhere you go. Fuuuuuck!" he cried out, leaning back, muscles straining against his hoodie. "It's gonna be epic! I can't fucking wait!" For a mad moment I thought he might tip his head back and howl, but he leaned close to me, close enough to jab at my chest. "Destiny is calling, mate. Will you pick up the phone?"

  He strode back out, bringing Sandra with him. "But - " she said, as she was swept out in his wake.

  There was silence in the medical room. I eyed the machine and saw that my heart rate had spiked crazily. A guilty glance towards Livia told me that her blood was pumping, too. "Livia," I said, feeling so, so alive. "I'm happy to be back."

  She opened her mouth to say something, but the door burst open again. Max strode in, with Sandra behind. "There he is!" bellowed Max. "The conquering hero returns!"

  "What?" I said.

  Max moved closer and bent. "This next six months is gonna be the best of your entire career. You're gonna leave a trail of lamentation everywhere you go. Fuuuuuck!" he cried out, leaning back, muscles straining against his hoodie. "It's gonna be epic! I can't fucking wait!" He came closer again. "You'll laugh at your fears when you find out who you really are."

  With that, he went out the door, closed it, and came straight back in. He clapped his hands together.

  "Okay! Did you prefer version one or version two?"

  "Fucking hell, Max," said Livia.

  "What? How else am I supposed to A/B test things?"

  I closed my eyes for a second. "I preferred version one, boss." How good did it feel to say that last word? Best the Boss. Max the Gaffer.

  "Kay, kay, interesting," he said. "From my research, I'd say that footballers love it cheesy. The cheesier the better."

  "Abstract is good for Maxterplans," I said, "and pre-match team talks. Right before kick-off, or half-time, let them eat cheese. What was that second quote, anyway?"

  "Uh, some manga thing. I'm trying to broaden my horizons because kids these days, they've got a three-second attention span, and, er... Hey, what's that?"

  Livia said, "It's an ultrasound."

  "Pascal, if you're pregnant there's gonna be hell to pay." Livia whipped the device away from me so suddenly we all turned to look at her. Max threw both hands over his mouth and said, "Gasp!" He actually said the word, though he said it in a gaspy way. "Preggers?"

  Livia returned to her task. "I'm not preggers. It just occurred to me that if Pascal's back, does that mean Clive is coming back, too?"

  I nodded. "He is."

  "How is he?" said Livia.

  "Much improved. Bochum was a very good circuit breaker for him, and now he is looking forward to his new project."

  "What will that be?" Livia looked to Max instead of me, which was logical but irritating.

  "Chester," said Max. "If he has time, a bit of Dragonball, but mostly he'll be here at Bumpers."

  Livia paused. "You didn't want an elite coach for your own projects?"

  Max gave her a funny look. "This is one of my projects." He turned around and faced the wall for five seconds, then did another 180. He held his hand out like you would wear a sock puppet, forming a mouth in the space between his index finger and thumb. He did a high, squeaky voice. "You don't want an elite coach for your own projects?" He brought his hand back, clenched it into a fist, set his jaw and growled, "Elite students need elite teachers." He skipped closer. "Which did you like better? Version one or version two?"

  I exchanged a smile with Livia, and as one, we said, "Two."

  "Interesting," he said, rubbing his chin, as though he didn't already know.

  "Boss," I said. "If this is going to be the best six months of my life and you can't wait for me to get started, will I play today?"

  Max tipped his head back, laughed for ages, then stopped abruptly. "No. You are a Wednesday child, so you'll start on Wednesday."

  "I wasn't born on a Wednesday," I said.

  "Weren't you?" said Max, smugly, as though he knew better. He fled the room before I could reply.

  Sandra came over and shook my hand. "Welcome back."

  ***

  Chester FC have signed Pascal Bochum from Bochum for a fee of ￡700,000. The 22-year-old pacey German forward will return to the Deva Stadium hoping for more game time than he got in the Bundesliga. Manager Max Best was delighted with the deal. "Bochum's back-um, and you can back 'em to stack 'em and rack 'em. Goals and assists, that is. And if managers don't look out, we'll sack 'em. You know what? Come back in five minutes and I'll give you a better version of that."

  ***

  08:30

  "Hiya, Max!" said Jojo, our friendly receptionist, who was worth plus one Morale over the course of a season.

  "All right, pet?" I said, because she liked it when I talked like a 70-year-old former bricklayer.

  I popped into the canteen to get a bit of breakfast, and was surprised by how busy it was. The men's team had a match that afternoon, but the women had their winter break. That hadn't stopped a bunch of them from coming to Bumpers. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised - they were professionals and their next match was a huge one - the FA Cup against West Ham.

  "Start the year as you mean to go on," I said to an all-female table that included Sarah Greene, Meghan, and Charlotte. "Love that."

  Meghan said, "We're just here so that Charl can keep her rivals away from Emiliano."

  "Shut it," snapped Charlotte, who might have been blushing, it was hard to tell.

  "Don't get too attached," I said. "When I'm finished with him, he's gonna look like the Count of Monte Cristo."

  Charlotte grinned. "Ooh, do you promise?"

  I shook my head. "I don't think we're thinking about the same stage of the story. All right, seeyas."

  "Max," said Sarah Greene, getting up and following me. "Can I have a tiny chat?"

  "Sure," I said. I veered away from the quiet zone and decided to go outside. It was bloody cold, but it would be private and Sarah had said she would be quick.

  She took a seat on the bench next to me. "William says he's on the bench today."

  Ah, so she wanted to talk about Wibbers. "Yes."

  "And you've signed Emil and Pascal, who play in his position."

  I wobbled my head while wondering how hard to push back on that. "There's some overlap there, yes."

  Sarah looked worried for half a second - it was possible I imagined it. "And you changed William's training. Before, he was getting lots of extra attention, special training. Now it's like, Wibbers we need a body to do today's session with Gabby, can you chip in? I don't know, I just feel that maybe he has pissed you off or he's not doing as well as you want or... something." She finished lamely, which was not normal for Sarah Greene.

  "It's nothing like that," I said. "I want to see how he responds to the competition, yeah, that's one thing. But I've worked out that I don't need to give him special training because he soaks everything up like a sponge. So when he's in a session with Gabby and we're working on movement, body shape, front-line pressing, Wibbers absorbs those lessons. When he's doing AM things with Emiliano, Wibbers learns. It's quite efficient from the club's point of view. Two sessions for the price of one. The only thing I want him doing solo is penalties because I don't really want him experimenting with other people's techniques. He's got his style and I want him to perfect it." I frowned. "I'm surprised he complained about it; I thought he was enjoying himself."

  "He didn't complain," she said, hurriedly. "He just told me how it had changed. I put two and two together and made five. Sorry. It has just been bugging me."

  "Okay." I looked behind me, through the large panes of glass into the canteen. "Does Charlotte like being teased about who she fancies?"

  "Not really."

  "That's the impression I got, too. This is her workplace, isn't it? Banter makes the world go round, but we have to respect everyone's boundaries. So who's going to put a stop to it, me or you?" I gave her a slightly cold look.

  She responded as I had expected. "I'll do it."

  I kept up my intensity for a couple of seconds, then stole a leaf from Emiliano's book and let my eyes and voice soften. "Bosh."

  ***

  08:45

  I went back inside to eat, and was just polishing a cup of tea when Well In turned up with one of the Saltney Town players. I had signed Billy Webb and two others with money borrowed from Henri's Syndicate. I owed the Syndicate ￡135,000, a number that had been rising slowly owing to interest, and it was time to get that number trending down.

  Billy had cost a mere ￡5,000 two years ago, and with good training and exposure to European competitions, he had recently cracked his head against his ceiling of CA 80. League Two Barrow had offered ￡65,000 for him, which I felt was a deal that suited everyone.

  Everyone except the manager, Well In. He came over to where I was sitting, with Billy close behind.

  "Morning, Max. Enjoying your breakfast?"

  "Yeah, it's lovely. Thanks for asking."

  "Do you want to know what I had?"

  "I'm agog."

  "I had a full Welsh. Well," he said, rubbing his face. "I say full. There was something missing."

  I knew where this was going. I pointed at Billy. "An egg?"

  "Max," said Billy, shaking his head, delighted at being bantered.

  "Oh!" I said, smiling wider. "A lemon!"

  Well In put his hands over Billy's ears. "Don't you listen to the bad man! He's in a destructive mood and he's lashing out."

  I tapped the table. "Billy, sit and eat with me. Um... for five minutes, then I've got a meeting."

  He looked around. "I just came to say goodbye to everyone, boss, then the gaffer's gonna take me to Manchester and the Barrow team bus will pick me up on the way to Gillingham."

  "Are you starting?" I said.

  "Yeah!"

  "Straight in on day one," I smiled. "You'll smash it. You played in Nice, you played in Vienna. You can handle - what was it, Ganymede?"

  "Gillingham," said Billy.

  "Right. Ganymede's the award-winning shampoo, voted best male grooming product by the readers of White Dwarf magazine."

  Well In tutted. "What are you on about now?"

  "New Year's resolution," I said. "Need to mention my sponsors more. I'm bad at it."

  "Yes, you are," said Well In.

  I got up and shook Billy Webb's hand. "Well In's mad at me for selling one of his most reliable players, but this was the deal, wasn't it? I train you up, give you some medals, move you on. Barrow's a good place for a defender, and you'll be next to Jamie Brotherhood. He's their right back."

  "Good, is he?"

  "He gets stuck in and he's got some upside. You'll frustrate a lot of good attacking teams, mate." I gave him his hand back and looked around. "Was there anyone in particular you wanted to say goodbye to?"

  "Kin hell, Max," complained Well In. "Always looking for the gossip." He paused. "But was there? Anyone in particular?"

  Billy smiled at us, then his head swiveled around. "Is, er... Is Angel here?"

  I winced. "Oh, mate."

  "You don't think - ?"

  "I think she would try to be nice about it. She always tries to be nice about it."

  Billy looked at Well In, who said, "Max has never let you down. He has let me down, but not you. Never you. Come on, let's do the round."

  They walked to the next table.

  Buy a guy for 5 grand, benefit from him playing in the first team, sell him two years later for 65. It was a decent business model, and I had intended to use the profit to buy a replacement with an even higher ceiling and do it all again, but that wasn't really the point of Saltney Town these days. So instead of replacing Billy, I had told Well In to promote one of the dragons from the youth team.

  Jake Williams, centre back, was 16 and only had CA 35, but his PA was 131. The Welsh Premier was basically wrapped up - we were miles too good for the other teams. We would get whatever results we got in the final four Europa League matches. Jake Williams could play a lot of minutes in the second half of the season, then, without it affecting the club's results, and by the time next season came around, the lad would be CA 60 or more. Not all that far away from Billy Webb!

  Well In knew all this, and he was happy to accelerate the development of a Welsh lad, but he was a football manager these days and had absorbed the football manager's habit of moaning about the 'board' messing his team up in the transfer market.

  Well In was actually lucky I hadn't weakened the squad even further, though it was something I was considering. The second Syndicate signing, the right back Otis Burke, had hit his cap of CA 77. But we had signed Carl Carlile, whose cap was also 77 and who was loving life at Saltney Town. I thought we didn't need two right backs, but Well In didn't agree.

  The youth system actually had two spectacular D RCs, both 15. Rex Jones was PA 141, while Greyson Hughes was PA 138. I had pitched the idea of moving them up to the first team squad but Well In had pulled a face. "Next year, Max. Next year."

  I tended to agree with him, so Otis Burke would stay for the rest of this season, as would the third Syndicate signing, Cam Mason. Cam had the highest PA of the group, 85, and was eight points shy of it. With Billy Webb out of his pathway, Cam would hit his peak pretty quickly, and again, would be another summer sale.

  The Syndicate would get their money back, plus a big bonus, leaving me with no debts to them. That meant Saltney would keep 100% of whatever we got for Vincent Addo.

  Vincent Addo was a DM RC, a defensive midfielder who could play on the right. Thanks to the top training he was getting, plus playing at youth level for Ghana and in senior European competitions, his growth this season had been fast. He had added 23 points and had very recently hit CA 100. His PA was 169.

  I had a real dilemma with him. When was the right time to bring him to Chester? He was only 10 points off Championship level, so I could easily do it in the current window. There would be no issues with work permits or ESC slots; he had been in the UK for long enough and had played continental competitions.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He probably wouldn't hit a training cap if he stayed at Saltney, so that wasn't a consideration. He would get four more appearances in the Europa League, which would keep him hurtling forward. If there was a soft training cap at Saltney, I reckoned it was in the CA 125-130 region as long as the club was in Europe.

  Bring him to Chester for a million quid? I didn't have the money. A small loan fee? That would work, but how often would he play? Our squad was jam-packed.

  I found myself staring up at the ceiling lights. Vini could stay in Wales until the summer, then next season, Chester could loan him from Saltney. When Chester got promoted to the Prem, Vini would be more or less the average level of the squad and we would have the cash to pay for a permanent transfer.

  That felt more or less right, but I would let the idea germinate over the next few weeks.

  ***

  09:00

  I crossed Bumpers Lane and strolled past a handful of people. Preparations for the day's match were already starting, with guys setting up the fanzone stalls. I didn't recognise many of the workers, and couldn't tell if that was good or bad. We were growing, creating jobs, but were we losing our small-club feel?

  I badged myself into the main stand, skipping up to the boardroom two steps at a time. "Max Best!" I announced, as I exploded through the double doors.

  MD shook his head. Brooke smiled lazily. Secretary Joe was the most impressed. "I like that! Is that going to be your new thing for 2028?"

  "It only works if there are double doors," said Brooke.

  "Why?" said Joe.

  MD knew the answer. "Head's too big."

  I stretched my arms wide. "What a morning! What a year this has been already!" Through the windows that looked onto the pitch, I saw our groundsman, Jonny Planter, giving a patch of grass near the halfway line a very quizzical look. He was scratching his head and looking around. Insanely, he looked right at me. He couldn't possibly see me from where he was, surely, but I dropped down, pretended to be tying my shoelaces, and crept to my spot at the head of the table. "Let's get down to business," I whispered, as I slunk into the chair. "What's on the agenda?"

  "Quick one," said Brooke. "Naming rights. Can I confirm that we are not interested in that for the whole stadium?"

  I shook my head. "I'm looking into it for West Didsbury but only because you can get more for a brand-new stadium. For an established one you've got the problem that everyone always calls it by the old name, so the amounts you can get aren't worth it. Even with West, what's the point? It's a sixth-tier club. I'm tempted to give the naming rights to a bat charity." I closed my eyes, imagining Chester on a world map. What did people care about when it came to Chester? "The Deva was an old fortress, and that link to the city's history, it's part of the club's story now. This is a footballing fortress. Abandon hope all ye who enter here, except York City, who we never beat. You can't buy history." I found myself nodding hard. "You can't buy history. That's our USP, isn't it? History. Plus we will get purity points from the fans by not selling out."

  Brooke's eyes had widened ever so slightly as she made more notes. "Got it. But we're open to naming the new stands? The McNally is the McNally, the away end isn't suitable for sponsors, but the West Stand is. I'd like to start pitching to businesses. Naming rights plus dedicated areas inside the stand for ongoing marketing activities. Any thoughts from a fan's perspective, Max?"

  "Continuity is important," I said. "The only time I like sponsored stadiums is when they keep the name for decades. The Emirates, the Amex. There are some that change names every couple of years and it's just a hot mess. I know it's not very businesslike but I'd take a slightly lower fee in order to, you know, have a name that's going to last."

  MD said, "As a fan, I agree. As managing director, highest bid wins."

  "Boo," I said.

  Brooke scribbled a note. "We have all the major sponsors coming today: BoshCard, Glendale, Jejune, Nutriburst, PetPride. Glendale are unlikely to be able to afford it, but I could pitch the idea to Grindhog instead."

  "Hmm," I said. Grindhog made our kits and the partnership was going fairly well, but they were a company that had grown rapidly, wildly, and didn't always seem to care about quality control. "They think too short-term for my liking. If they fuck up our kits I want to cancel that deal and that won't be easy if they sponsor a whole stand. I mean, you can talk to them..."

  Brooke made a show of crossing out something on her notepad, then gave me a big smile. "My proposal would be a ten-year deal, with the price per year set according to our division. Fifty thousand when in the Championship, a hundred in the Prem, ten if we drop out of the top tiers."

  "A million over ten years," I said. "That seems pretty bosh, to be honest. Yeah, I'm good with that and it seems like a good deal for that brand because it'll get loads of discussion in the media this season, too. The new Jejune Stand is coming, Chester on the march, yadda yadda yadda."

  Brooke said, "I'll work on the sponsors during the match. Will you be able to come and talk to them afterwards?"

  "For a million quid, yes. If it's less, I'll send Emiliano."

  "If I get two million, will you send Emma?"

  I did an 'exasperated' sigh. "Three million I'll send Zach. Hurr hurr. Is that it? I have a Scouser to annoy."

  "One thing from me, Max," said MD. "Quick update on our targets?"

  "Seventh and a cup run."

  "Oh!" he said, looking three years younger. "A cup run would help with our finances. And you really think we can stay in seventh? I mean, when you said we needed a consolidation season, I was thinking - " He shook his head.

  "We're not going to the playoffs!" I said, a little louder than the rest of the conversation.

  The air was heavy with my weirdness. MD's eyebrows twitched. "I was thinking we would be battling against, you know, Scenario B."

  That was his word for 'relegation'. Back in my even voice, I said, "We're not doing Scenario B or Scenario P. We're going to struggle in the coming weeks for legitimate footballing reasons, dip down the league, then crawl back up." I pressed a finger into the table. "To seventh." I got up to leave. "Joe, is Jonny still out on the grass?"

  He got up and checked. "Yes."

  "Cool," I said. "Cool, cool."

  I left by the other door.

  ***

  09:30

  My phone rang. It was Jackie Reaper, Tranmere manager, a man who had as much cartilage in his knees as he had bonds in his portfolio.

  "Max Best!" I said, in an excited tone.

  "Is that your new greeting, la? I don't mind it. How you getting on?"

  "Smashing all aspects of life, as always. Believe six impossible things before breakfast, start your day as you mean to go on, make sure to bring a bottle of Ganymede shampoo wherever you go. Ganymede for your hair, Chester Zoo for your godson, and for everything else, there's BoshCard."

  "I think that slogan's been done, Max. Watch you don't get sued. You're swimming with the sharks with all your corporate buddies."

  "Talking of circling the drain," I said, "how do you like your new players?"

  I had sent Jackie two Chester men on loan: Adam Summerhays, the young left back, and Thomazella, the Brazilian CB. I had given them some minutes in the Championship and used Secret Sandra on Tomz to give his CA a further boost. As a result, Adam was reporting for Tranmere duty on CA 94, while Tomz was 97. The minimum needed for League One was CA 91 (ish), so both would be very, very useful.

  They would be joined at Tranmere by another former Chester player, the left wing back Josh Owens, and a guy called Tom Hickman who had to be the unluckiest player in my entire database. He was a talented centre back and maybe finally he would get some stability and a fair chance at a career. Knowing Hickman's luck, Jackie would be sacked and that would be that.

  "Ah, Max, I'm made up. You've got me three Championship lads! I'm actually buzzin' off it. Three guys straight in the first team and we already feel a lot more solid."

  "I know what you mean. Adam and Josh on the left is a great combo, and you've got two good centre backs as well. I was hoping to get you more players on day one but your owners can't help but clown around. Do your best. The cavalry is coming."

  "I could use a striker, Max."

  "So could 71 clubs in the EFL, and that's the problem. At least you've got Lucas Cook. He's improving fast and he'll bag you ten goals before the end of the season. It might be enough."

  Jackie made an uncertain noise. "It might have to be."

  "Jackie, it's happening. The good times are coming. This will be your year."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "Nah, not really. It'll be pretty good, though."

  "I'll take it. The only way is up."

  "No, thanks," I said, in a heavy tone. "Good luck, today. Seeya."

  ***

  10:00

  I went into Sandra's office for a meeting, just the two of us. We grabbed a hot drink and sat in the 'cosy corner'.

  I sipped my tea. "Just wanted to have a quick strategy sesh."

  "Kay." She looked to her big wall planner. "I hope you're not bringing in more players, Max. We're rammed."

  That was true enough.

  Chester had loaned out two players to Tranmere, but we had regained Magnus Evergreen, the reliable defender slash midfielder whose CA had increased to 124 during his time at Saltney Town. Magnus had played four matches in the Europa League group stage, and I was expecting that to give him a boost in the coming weeks. We had also signed Emiliano and Pascal, bringing the total number in our first team squad to 27. That was maybe just about tolerable in the short-term because we had so many elite coaches, but long-term, having an overly large squad would start to work against us.

  Including the players we had at other clubs, the total was 33. In the summer, Lucas Cook and Tony Herbert would join from Tranmere. If I didn't do anything, we would have 35 in the squad. That was far far too many - I blamed the director of football. "I don't plan to sign anyone. Our wage bill is fucked."

  "I lost track of it," she said. "Remind me."

  "Magnus is still on 1,400 a week, which is mental. He got a decent chunk of change in bonuses at Saltney but I hear the price of incense and yoga balls is skyrocketing so we'll have to find him a raise somehow. Emiliano's on two grand a week, which is about fair." The little brat was CA 91, but PA 170. "And Pascal is getting what he got in Germany. 4,200 a week."

  "Euros?"

  I smiled. "Imagine Secretary Joe having to learn about currency hedging. No, that's in pounds. All told, our weekly spend is just under 139,000."

  Sandra's eyes widened. "Isn't the budget... 121?"

  "Yep. We're almost 18,000 over."

  "Per week."

  "Per week." I sipped my tea. "Some of it's coming out of the war chest. It's not a problem in itself, but it does add to the overall pressure of, like, paying for the new stand. And I want to buy the land next to us so I can put the zen garden in place. That's not cheap and we need to fence it. Three big extensions."

  Sandra waved her hand. "This fence here can be moved to the new boundary, right?"

  "You sound like Brooke. And MD. And Secretary Joe. And Emma. And Ruth and the Brig."

  She blew on her coffee. "You didn't think of it?"

  "I'm bad at fences, apparently. So needing two new strips instead of three is a money-saver but still, you know. MD is broadly relaxed but there's a sense that the financial walls are closing in. What happens in the summer when players want pay rises? More players means any extra budget is spread more thinly." I drank some tea. "We'll need to sell, which means making the players we want to sell look good, which is linked to what I want to talk about." I let the cup warm my palms and grinned. "Isn't New Year great? It's like a fresh start even though it isn't. In football terms, January is like August, but we're not just footballers, we're real people, too."

  Sandra shook her head. "I hate how much sense that made."

  "Here's the thing," I said, leaning forward. "Over the break I did a lot of thinking."

  "What did you do?" said Sandra. "Emma was off Instagram, which is where I normally get my info about your movements."

  "We cosplayed as tourists," I said. "Stayed in my new flats, pottered around the centre. It's easy to disguise yourself in winter. Bobble hats and stuff."

  "You had some downtime? That's good."

  I agreed with that. I had earned enough XP to buy the next Attribute, but I hadn't bought it - I needed XP in the bank to keep financing Secret Sandra, which had brought me back below 4,000. Today's match against Luton would tip me way over the top, and the schedules would return to normal. I would return to the grind. "Emma asked me if we were having relationship trouble."

  "Oh, no," said Sandra, legit worried.

  "Uh... not us. Us."

  "What?"

  I grinned. Language is hard, sometimes. "Emma asked if you and I, Sandra and Max, were having problems."

  "Why?"

  "Apparently it looked like we were misaligned in recent matches. One of us wanted to attack, the other defend, and apparently it happened more than once. I dunno, it felt aligned to me. We want the best result in any particular match, right? But her saying that got me thinking and I would like to discuss the broad strategy because I'm not sure I can keep it internal without seeming like I'm having a slow-motion meltdown."

  Sandra frowned and shuffled. "Go on."

  "We're in a difficult situation. Where we are and how we're doing feels great, doesn't it? Seventh in the league, ahead of Wrexham. The fans have had a lovely old Christmas, lording it over their rivals. We're all grinning from ear to ear. But because it's Chester and we always finish seasons strong, everyone's like, hey Max, playoffs. Playoffs, Max! Playofffffffs."

  "We could easily make the playoffs."

  I slumped, theatrically. "Okay, sure. We could. Yes. If nothing goes wrong. But do we want to?"

  "Yes."

  "No," I said. I leaned back and spoke a little more slowly in the hope that would make my language more precise. "I never want to lose a match. I don't want to throw any positions. If some prick winds me up by cheating or trying to injure my guys, I want to destroy him. But think about what would happen if we got promoted."

  "We would get a hundred million pounds and you'd use it to turn us into a top-half team that could win a cup."

  "No," I said. "We would get about sixty million up front. Okay, maybe MD would let us budget for the rest but what you get depends on your final league position and how many times you're on TV and things like that. Let's say on day one we get 60 million to work with. Fence off fifteen mill for the West stand, plus we'd have to make various upgrades to the other new stands, big cables and so on, which would cost a few mill.

  "You can't be a Premier League club with a teeny tiny main stand, so we'd have to start work on that one, too, either right away or after the first Prem season. Architects, planning, demolition. I mean, nice to accelerate everything but what's that, twenty million we need to set aside?

  "Pay rises for the existing squad. Ten mill? They're Premier League players, now.

  "In the Prem you need an academy, and one of the requirements is a pitch with a dome. We'll be doing the Max Best version of an academy, but all told it'll still be five mill. Doesn't make much sense to do phase three without doing phase two, so slap on another five mill for that. There's your Premier League starter money gone. My favourite movie is Gone In Sixty Seconds, because it tells the story of Chester's bank balance." I shook my head. "By the time we get more money - if there is any - MD won't let us spend it because we'll be bottom of the league and certain to go down whoever we buy.

  "No, there won't be money for new players. Couple of free transfers at the start, maybe. I'd consider a loan signing along the lines of Cheb just to give us the tiniest chance of competing, but competing is the one thing we won't do." I pointed to her wall chart. "This squad is mint, it's a work of art, but if they hit the Premier League in 28-29, we will lose the first seven matches, and heavily. I will be sacked. You will take over. You will lose the next five matches, heavily. You will be sacked." I waved my finger in a circle. "This will fall apart. I need another season to get the players more ready and to get the club more ready. We're not ready, Sandra. We cannot get promoted. I'm serious."

  She had been listening with, I think, growing horror. "What about... Cheb? Can we loan him again?"

  "Bayern are going to arrange his transfer in the next couple of months. They already asked if I wanted him. I said yes. They said they'd do us a deal. 20 million, rising to 30."

  "What currency is that?"

  I laughed. "It doesn't matter. Cheb's gone. West Ham or Stuttgart or somewhere."

  Sandra was in the 'bargaining' stage of grief. "What about not doing phase two? Postponing the new stands?"

  "If the broadcasters can't get high-definition pictures at our stadium, if they can't get VAR or goal-line technology, if we can't house their staff and give them rooms to conduct interviews, if we can't give them a nice buffet, there's a risk they won't pay us the full whack. If they say, your stadium is shit and makes our broadcast look shit, we're only giving you half the money..."

  "Fuck. Can they do that?"

  "Yes. Let's say they refuse to show games from the Deva. That's ten million quid lost already, and that money will go to our rivals. We don't want that! As much as DigiWorld are annoying in the way they move matches around and their innovations piss me off, when you watch a Premier League game there's a sort of a lush, uniform quality to it, right? They expect good pitches - we're solid there - and mega bright floodlights and massive cables and space for outside broadcast units. They're paying top dollar for a top product and we have to bust a gut to give it to them. If we want the money, that is. Look," I said, "it's just a nightmare scenario. We can't say this in public and we can't tell the coaches and the players, but we can't find ourselves in a position where we're anywhere near the Prem."

  Sandra drank her coffee, taking three slow sips before she next spoke. "What do you want to do?"

  "I want to be eighth on the last day of the season knowing that a win will take us to seventh."

  "But you don't want to throw games."

  I shrugged. "We have some in-built excuses for weakening the team sometimes. We've already got our second-best goalie starting. When Owen is fit, we'll take our sweet time reintegrating him into the team. No-one will bat an eyelid at that. Then there's my Youth Cup mania. We'll give Wallace, Chas, and Hamish good minutes. I'm not gonna be in most of our squads, to make sure the young players get game time."

  "To make sure you can't go Super Saiyan on people who piss you off, you mean."

  "I don't know what that is," I said. I shuffled on the chair. "Anyway, I think I have a groin strain. I had better take it easy." I looked at the wall chart. "There was something else. Ah, yeah. Helge, Cole, Nasa. We need to give minutes to full backs, but I want to involve Peter Bauer a lot - he's key to everything we will do next season. Peter can only play if we have three centre backs, and if we're playing full backs, that means 5-3-2, but we've got Lewis and Cheb and 5-3-2 doesn't make the most of their talents."

  Sandra was eyeing me, giving her head a tiny shake. "You want to play 5-4-1."

  "Not every match," I said. "Um..."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Away. Win at home, draw away. Max, that'll still take us into the playoffs."

  I rubbed my forehead pretty hard. "I don't think we'll win every home match, not even close. Sometimes we will play four at the back with Helge, Christian, Fitzroy, and Nasa. If we do 4-4-2 and play like Preston North End and just go all-out attack, the games will be fun and our attacking players will get goals and assists and we'll be able to sell them for good money. Right? That's what I was saying before. We pimp the goal involvements of Joel Reid, Pascal, Dazza."

  "You want to sell Pascal? You only just bought him!"

  "If he scores, like, ten goals from now till the end of the season, we could get a huge return on our investment. It wouldn't be the first time he solved our financial woes! I'm okay with keeping him, too."

  Pascal was CA 126, which was fascinating. I felt like he and Wibbers had been running neck-and-neck for a while, but since leaving, Pascal had fallen slightly behind even though he was playing at a higher level of football. It wouldn't take Pascal long to hit his cap of 133, but then I would use God Save the King to give him a boost to his Passing or Off The Ball. Both those Attributes were very high, so I hoped the first boost would add 2 points in PA. If he was still at Chester, I would do the same right at the start of next season, too, as we romped to the top of the Championship. That could add 3 points. If I then did it again at the start of the first Premier League season, Pascal could be as high as CA/PA 141 and a big, big problem for any opponent, given the right tactical setup. That prospect was one of the reasons I had jumped at the chance to buy him back.

  Sorry, Andrew Harrison, you are a prince among men, but I have a new king to crown.

  "Where was I? Right, if we play a lot of heart attack football, we'll make half our players look good, and even better, we'll lose a few games by playing that way, too."

  "I can't believe this is the conversation we're having."

  "Who are we hurting? If we lose half our home matches but every match is wildly entertaining, our fans will love it."

  "Wildly attacking at home, incredibly conservative away." She stared at nothing, then frowned. "All I can see is Helge scoring from corners, Wibbers hitting thunderbastards, and Pascal doing fast counter-attacks."

  I winced. "I know. We have quite a lot of weapons... But so do other teams, and we're inconsistent. We can win 4-0 then lose 2-1. That's... probably fine. And if we get injuries and suspensions, yeah, that will get easier. And we've got a secret weapon for playing shit while appearing to try."

  "What's that?"

  "Emiliano."

  "Max," she complained.

  "What?" I asked, innocently. "We can give him minutes, which he needs, while gathering data and footage we can use to correct his behaviour, while effectively playing with ten men. It's genius. Oh! And while our league form dips slightly, we'll also go full tilt at the FA Cup. That will give us a couple of matches where I rotate heavily in the league game before the cup game, the cup game being, of course, my priority. Which everyone knows because I never shut up about it. The magic of the cup, Sandra! The magic of the cup will save us from being too good in the league."

  She rubbed her eyebrows hard. "This is not the conversation I expected to have. I don't..."

  "Look, I don't want you to throw a match. When we are on the sideline, we're trying to win. Tweaks, formation shifts, bold substitutions. But we're gonna make it hard for ourselves. It's like if you want to lose weight, 99% of that happens in the supermarket. Don't buy those cakes! When you open the fridge and all you have is veggies and apples, you're gonna eat healthy. We're gonna pack our match day squads with veggies and apples and whatever the fuck Emiliano is. A plastic tartlet. Where are the big hitters? I'll give Cheb Ramadan off. Helge will get the long break he so desperately needs. And so on."

  Sandra rubbed her lips as she looked at her wall chart. Inspiration struck. Her head snapped back and she smiled. "I've got it. We don't need to do any of that crap! All we need to do is lose the playoff final! 70,000 at Wembley Stadium. The club gets a million quid, heartbreaking 3-1 defeat, and we only have to throw one match instead of 20."

  "It's too big a risk," I wailed.

  She pointed. "If we get to the playoff final, Christian Fierce will get to play at Wembley!"

  Oof. I had forgotten that he had missed the Vans Trophy Final. "Shit," I said. I rubbed my temples. "What if it's Wrexham? We're not going to throw that, are we? We can't end the season with a defeat to Wrexham."

  "It's gonna be Palace, Wolves, or Ipswich, Max. They'll beat us even if we put out our best team. If you aren't in the squad, you can't go to level 9000. Christian gets his Wembley dream, we get a million quid, and we get to run riot for the rest of the season. Win the second half, like you said!"

  "Oh my God," I groaned. Sandra's idea was solid, but it filled me with dread. Losing 5-0 every week in the Prem and being a laughing stock would be hard to recover from. I was building an aura. Some managers and teams won matches before they ever stepped onto the pitch. Take my youth team. If we beat Chelsea, who else could oppose us? But it worked the other way, too. Having zero points after ten, eleven, twelve Premier League matches would be the end of the Max Best project. "I can accept some level of personal humiliation but not a total wipeout.

  "Honestly, if we get promoted this season I would have to ask you to leave Chester just so you weren't tainted by what would inevitably happen. After my sacking, I'd tell MD to appoint a famous manager who did 4-4-2 and tried to grind out some draws so we wouldn't have the record lowest points, then hire you back the season after." I put the cup down so I could make some bigger gestures. "Christian will get his day at Wembley later in his career when he drifts down the leagues. A million quid isn't worth the risk of being promoted. The next nine games are tricky and with just a couple of nudges at the right time, we can drift down the table as gracefully as a dying swan."

  Sandra blew air out of her cheeks, gripped one hand with the other, and did a big stretch. "At the start of the season, if you had offered me eighth with a chance of seventh on the last day of the season, I would have bitten your hand off. I don't like the idea of not giving it our all in every game, but you're a better strategic planner than me. I'm certainly glad I know what you're thinking. Can I make one request?"

  "Of course."

  She drummed her fingers on her coffee mug. "I know you want to give minutes to the kids before the Chelsea match and I'm okay with that. More than okay, in fact. Wallace Wells is one of the most exciting young players I've ever seen, I love Hamish, and Dominic Duckham is so good on the ball he could play for Man City."

  "Ew."

  "So by all means let me be part of the development of those players. I'm into it. Making sure everyone gets on the pitch and feels part of what we're doing? I'm into it. Playing heart attack football to make our attacking players look good? I'm into it. And it could be that everything goes as you want and we win one, lose one. But I just feel that this squad has a lot of solutions to a lot of problems, so please don't write off a cheeky little playoff run. I mean, seriously, what are the odds we would actually win?"

  "What are the odds we would win in the one season we don't want to win?" I tutted, not trying to hide my disappointment in her understanding of narrative arcs. "One hundred percent, Sandra. One hundred percent."

  ***

  13:00

  I was pottering around the stadium thinking about transfers, thinking about strategy, with Briggy sticking close. While I was leaning against a wall, sorting my database looking for possible targets for West Didsbury to buy and flip, she got a text.

  "Emma wants me to bring you to the Glendale box so that Gemma can berate you in front of an audience."

  I scoffed. "What's in it for me?"

  "No comment," said Briggy.

  I gave her a sharp look, then shrugged. "Fine. Let's go."

  A couple of minutes later, we were up in the skybox, where Bill, our hospitality manager, was making sure the Glendale bosses were having a good time. Emma, as she often did, was shamelessly tucking into their food and drink. Pradeep was there, which struck me as unusual. Gemma spotted me and got up.

  She was dressed far more casually than normal and it suited her. She seemed relaxed and light. I said, "You have a good Christmas?"

  "Yes," she said. "We love Solly. He's, I don't know, like a fireplace."

  "What?"

  She smiled wide. "I mean our family life revolves around him. Who takes him for a walk, who feeds him, who plays with him. He elevated Christmas. New Year was harder because of the fireworks."

  "Right, yeah. Sounds like a warzone. People are such dicks."

  She pushed me in the chest. "I hear you've dropped Andrew again."

  "Whoa," I said. "I thought we were having a lovely chat about fireplaces and dogs and how I elevated your life."

  She gave me a crooked smile. "You signed a midfielder and put him in the team on day one. You never do that. What does it mean? What's your plan for Andrew?"

  I sighed. "Max Best doesn't know his best eleven. Max Best doesn't know tactics. Max Best makes it up as he goes." I waited for a reaction, but she was in such a good mood it was all slipping off her. "I want to make Andrew look good in the coming months and sell him in the summer. The new kid plays vaguely in the same space as Andrew but there's no tactical comparison. He's starting because fixing him's a long-term project and there's no time like the present."

  Gemma thought about what I had said. "Would you sell Andrew this window?"

  "Yes, if there was a good bid." That would let me make the Vincent Addo move. "But I'm not looking for it or pushing for it." And there was absolutely nothing in the 'interested clubs' section of Andrew's Transfer screen. "Triplet One is gonna play. You saw when we had a couple of midfield injuries it was hard to put out a coherent side. We have more options now but I'm planning to use him a lot, and the bids in summer will be higher with another six months under his belt. He'll play today. The whole second half, probably."

  "Oh. That's good. Okay."

  "How's The Wall doing?" That was the sports law firm Gemma ran from her base in Manchester. It was affiliated to Sebastian Weaver's Newcastle-based firm.

  "Very good," she said. "You have been terrific publicity. I hope you're planning to get into more trouble, soon."

  "I'm not," I said. "But how would you like to get naming rights on West's stadium?"

  "Oh," she said. "That's interesting."

  "It's in Manchester, The Wall is a cool name for a stadium, and the outside will be green walls, living walls, so we can market around that, can't we? You worked your arse off getting us planning permission against the odds so I'd do it super cheap for the first years."

  She tilted her head one way, then the other. "That's awfully nice of you."

  "I am awfully nice."

  Briggy appeared and tugged on my sleeve. "I have a matter that requires your attention."

  I waved vaguely at Gemma and the others, expecting Briggy to remind me that my wedding was in 147 days, like I didn't know. Instead, she said that I had been tagged into a social media post by Borussia Dortmund. It had a picture of the player whose life I had 'saved' - if you think running around shouting 'what the fuck, holy Christing shit' counts as a medical intervention - and some text in German.

  "Your German is wunderbar, I think?" she said, absolutely rinsing me.

  "Yes," I said. "Give me that." I brought her phone closer to my face, but weirdly, that didn't make me better at languages. "I think this must be in a dialect I haven't yet mastered."

  Briggy gave me her most impeccable poker face as she translated. "It says: Every day feels like the first day of my life. I have Max Best to thank for that. You are in my heart."

  It took me about twenty seconds to compose myself. In a gruff voice, I said, "Send him a hamper."

  ***

  14:00

  I went onto the pitch with Sandra and cast my eye over the Luton squad. We had handed in our team sheet but we could have revamped our formation if needed.

  "It's pretty similar to the eleven who beat us 2-0 in October," said Sandra, consulting her notebook. "They're ahead of us in the league, decent form, bookies are pretty sure they'll make the playoffs."

  "They're a touch weaker today than then," I said. Luton's average CA was 136, a point lower than earlier in the season. "Still way above our levels," I said. "They are superior. We should turtle up. Fight for table scraps, try to frustrate them, hide in the corner like shy little church mice."

  Sandra sighed. "Are you going to be like this for the rest of the season? Can I go on loan to Tranmere?"

  I laughed. "I'm just saying today is the perfect opportunity to debut our bold 5-4-1 strategy."

  ***

  14:45

  I wasn't in the matchday squad, so I pottered around posing for selfies and having little chats with fans. I decided to visit the away end, because Luton had sold a fuckton of tickets. It helped that we were the joint-cheapest away day in the division and that the city of Chester was a good day out. There was a novelty factor, too - Chester was a new notch on most fans' bedposts. We wanted to make sure that away fans had a good time so we would continue to see impressive turnouts in the away end next season. Come for the novelty, come back for the kebabs, good beer, and friendly Welsh security staff who not-so-secretly want Chester to lose.

  With Briggy and some of the 3 R Welsh lads close by, I hopped over the electronic hoarding and posed for selfies with some of the disabled fans. There was one who said, "Fuck off, Best," which made me laugh pretty hard.

  I was just leaving when Dylan called out. "Have you a minute, Max?"

  "What's up?" I said, moving closer.

  "Fella here has his son with him. Good player, he says. Wants to know when you'll be down south next so you can scout his lad."

  I put my arms up and stretched backwards. "Good player? Every dad thinks his son is the next Messi." I looked behind me. I had three Playdar hits that I was highly unlikely to use today. "Where is he?"

  "Up there, Max."

  "Will you get him?"

  A man and a kid came down the steps. The man was the most typical dad in the country, and his kid was absolutely generic too. The Germans probably had a word to describe things that were exceedingly average - they had a word for everything.

  "All right?" I said.

  "Max," said the dad. He went for a handshake and got a fist bump. So did his kid. "This is Jack."

  "Jaaaaack!" I said. "Man on, Jack! One-two, Jack! Get back, Jack!" I rubbed my chin. "Pretty good name for a footballer. Not as good as Max, but pretty good. How old are you and what's your story?"

  "13. I play for Luton. Striker. Top scorer."

  The position didn't surprise me; any half-decent kid was set as a striker early on. But the first two nuggets were mad. "You're 13 and you play for Luton? This Luton? The Luton we're playing today?"

  "Yeah."

  "But that's good. Stay there; they'll look after you."

  The dad shook his head. "Jack's happy but he's had his head turned. We had a scout from Arsenal come to watch and he wanted to sign Jack."

  "Ah," I said. "That's the problem, isn't it? Megaclubs think the whole world's their playground. It winds me up."

  The dad nodded, but his eyes glazed over slightly. "Er, right. Except it didn't go to plan for him. There was another parent there when the scout was making his pitch. Scout goes, come to Arsenal, Jack! The other dad, he goes, don't listen to him, lad. If you want to go somewhere, go to Chester. Arsenal scout, he goes, yeah, fat chance. Chester's full. Invitation only. So he's only made it sound like this is the place to be, like. And we looked it up and read about you beating Wolves from non-league and taking that poor Polish woman home, and we watched that 8-3 against Ipswich and you were doing that Bestball thing and it was amazing. We loved it, didn't we, Jack?"

  The kid nodded. "I can do that! I bet I could do that! It's not at Luton or Arsenal, though. Only Chester."

  I imagined Gwen from the Welsh FA standing over my shoulder, tapping her feet. "Have you got any Welsh relatives?"

  "No," said the dad, surprised.

  Jack said, "Why don't you do Bestball all the time?"

  I gave him my best smile. "That wouldn't be fair on the other teams, would it?"

  "Why aren't you playing today?"

  "That wouldn't be fair on the other team, would it? All right, come on."

  The dad said, "Come on what?"

  "I need to borrow your son for a minute. Gonna submit him to a barrage of tests."

  "Hang on," said the dad, but Dylan touched him on the arm and did a face like 'it's okay'.

  I helped Jack over the hoarding and led him towards the penalty area. He didn't want to step onto the pitch, which showed he was a boy of high character and breeding. "You're with me, bro. This is my patch, yeah?" He grinned and fell into step beside me. I lowered my voice. "I sleep here sometimes. Did you ever want to live in a football stadium?"

  I had clearly just blown his tiny mind. "Is that allowed?"

  I stopped walking and stood tall. "I am the law," I said, dramatically. "Hang on." I turned around, reset my face, and held my hand out. "Is that allowed?" I squeaked. Dropping back into my dramatic voice, I said, "What the po-po don't know can stay on the downlow, yo." I clapped, amazed at my skills. "Did you prefer version one or version two?"

  "What?"

  "Never mind. Come on." Luton Town's goalkeeping coach was going through his usual warmup with the starting keeper. "Lads, I need a minute."

  "Fuck off, Best," said the coach. Must have been a Luton thing.

  I covered Jack's ears. "Hey! He's one of yours. Just fuck off for a second or I'll turn the sprinklers on." I put my foot on one of Luton's footballs and lazily flicked it up. "Jack, do some tekkers, then take a penalty. If you score, I'll let Luton win today."

  He laughed hard. "No, you won't."

  I shrugged. "I might. I'm a maverick."

  The goalie coach stepped aside and watched as the kid did some skills. "Don't I know you, lad?"

  "He doesn't consort with pottymouths," I said, but as Jack did his fourth kick-up, I smashed Playdar.

  Jack Knapper, 13, English.

  MC.

  CA 7, PA -2.

  I froze, watching dumbly as the kid put the ball on the spot and clipped his penno neatly into the bottom left corner. The goalie didn't move, Jack punched the air, and there was a good-natured cheer from the away end.

  "Um..." I said. I had the weirdest feeling that I was being pranked. "Yeah," I said, looking all around me.

  A goalscoring midfielder with Flair and half-decent Decisions. And that PA! Minus two, same as Magnus Evergreen. I still wasn't really sure how minus values worked, but I had three such players in my teams now. Magnus, Dan Badford, and a 15-year-old at Saltney. So far, all three had kept up with their peers with ease. What was I supposed to do about signing a kid from Luton? His family would have to relocate, and I couldn't even be sure Jack would make it as a player.

  "I'll get back to work, will I?" said the coach, who started firing volleys at the goalie again.

  "What does your dad do?" I asked Jack, slowly moving towards the safety of the overspill. I took a ball with me.

  "He's a painter."

  "Does he paint Renaissance masterpieces or, like, walls?"

  "Walls and houses and all sorts!"

  Moving a painter would be easy. We would get him a job up here and the rest would slot into place. People moved house all the time. Was it ethical to ask a family to uproot? Change schools? No... But hang on. I had 'found' Jack with Playdar, with the Feedback Loop token activated. All Jack's future achievements - of which there would surely be many - would power me with bonus experience points.

  "Check this out. You know rap battles?"

  "Yeah!"

  "I invented a thing called a clap battle. You have to do tekkers while clapping. Like this."

  I flicked the ball up and started doing kickups. In the middle of two kicks, I clapped. Kick, clap, kick, clap, reminiscent of girls in my school playground doing clapping games.

  "Simple, yeah? Then you add complexity."

  I chucked in a few double-taps and matched them with double claps. The away fans jeered and chanted.

  "What I like to do is use the music that's playing and try to turn it into a routine. We can use what your friends are singing. What the fuck, clap, what the fuck, clap clap, what the fucking hell is that? Clap clap clap clap clap."

  Because I was being taunted, I went a lot more show-off than I was planning. I bounced the ball from one shoulder to the other, did a sort of static half-rainbow flick thing that's a lot easier to perform than it is to describe, and finished by catching the ball on the back of my neck.

  "Your turn," I said. I dipped my head, let the ball run down (meaning towards my crown), then flicked it up and into his zone of control.

  The talented little shit went right into it.

  "What the fuck," he said, doing multiple tiny kick-ups, "what the fuck," he added, bouncing the ball knee-height on the outside of his trainer, "what the fucking hell is that?" To finish, he did a simple kick-up but threw one leg over the ball while hopping, then collected the ball between his feet. He squeezed and the ball popped up towards me.

  The away fans gave him a round of applause.

  Briggy was watching with interest. "Do you have an agent, Jack?"

  "Oi!" I said, balancing the ball on my foot while lifting it higher, one centimetre at a time. "No UK clients. Brexit means Brexit."

  Briggy stuck her tongue out at me, which Jack enjoyed.

  I let the ball drop and got my phone. "Jack, does your dad like getting the VIP treatment from hot blondes?"

  Jack furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure. I think so."

  I nearly had a fit of giggles but my call connected. I held a finger up and turned away from the kid. "Brooke? Slight change of plan. I'm sending you a dad and a midfielder."

  "Striker," said the kid.

  I nearly laughed again, and turned further away, got even quieter. "Give them the works, show them Bumpers after the match, everything. Find out what it's gonna take to get them up here."

  "It's the little boy you brought onto the pitch, is it?"

  "Yeah. Sorry to mess up your plans."

  Amusement danced in her voice. "You throwing a spanner in the works to sign a top talent you found in the away end isn't a spanner in the works, Max. It's the kind of story sponsors love." She lowered her voice. "I think I'll put the price up."

  "Don't be greedy, Brooke."

  "Stop signing midfielders, Max."

  Biting my bottom lip, I hung up, and looked from the away end to Jack. I felt slightly bad for wanting to steal one of Luton's top prospects, but it wasn't stealing if they drove to your stadium and asked for a trial, was it? And better we get him than Arsenal. "Jack."

  "Yeah?"

  "How many times do you want to win the Youth Cup?"

  ***

  15:00

  EFL Championship Match 26 of 46: Chester versus Luton Town

  I was snuggled in the dugout next to Wibbers, wrapped in a sleeping bag I had found lying around. I was thinking this could be one of the weird things I did sometimes, because I doubted anyone else in football had a sleeping bag sponsor, but I also thought it would be funny and would play a part in the pantomime that was about to unfold.

  Sandra was on the touchline doing the random bits of shouting she liked to do.

  We were doing the 5-4-1 formation that I planned to deploy a fair amount in the coming weeks.

  In goal, Swanny was CA 124. He was easing closer to his limit of 127, and would be a potential option for a summer sale. Playing heart attack football and conceding two goals a game would not help his sale price, but playing defensively in others would. I kinda had to hope that the two extremes would even out. If not, he would be a good backup next season, so it wasn't a big deal.

  Helge, playing at left back, was 112. He was improving nicely, and I had been able to give him plenty of rest during the season. There was some chuntering in our fan base about the transfer fee I had paid for a guy who wasn't the first name on the team sheet, but it didn't bother me too much. Those people didn't know his PA was 185.

  Right back was Nasa, CA 101. The three centre backs were Christian, Peter, and Zach (120, 118, 125). On CA alone, not one of them would get into the Luton team, but they had a good variety of skills and they worked well together. Christian and Zach won headers and loved a physical battle. Christian and Peter anticipated danger. Peter and Zach were far more comfortable with the ball at their feet than most centre backs at this level.

  Left mid was Lewis, who had played his second game for Northern Ireland in the international break and had moved to CA 131. Joel Reid was CA 133 and I wanted him to have a good few months so I could make a big profit on his sale. I was thinking about 'resting' him against the top five or six teams so that he would get 8 out of 10 match ratings against everyone else. His goal involvements per 90 would be high, his expected threat per 90 would be high, and so on. Most managers weren't bright enough to realise that his dataset was skewed. Heh.

  Next to him in midfield was Emiliano. CA 91, PA 170. He didn't know it, but Sandra and I had come up with a script about how to handle his debut.

  Magnus (CA 124) was playing right midfield, which was more about getting him back into our lineup than anything tactical.

  Which left Dazza up front on his own. His job, as always, was to win duels, hold the ball up, and wear out the defenders.

  Our average: 118.8. I would have paid a few hundred XP to lock in a 0-0 draw!

  I would have paid a couple of hundred XP to guarantee that nothing happened to Ian Swan, either, because Aston was our sub goalie again. If Swanny was forced off, I would have gone fully defensive, trying to protect Aston from humiliation.

  We started slowly, forced back by Luton. Almost all of my attention was on Emiliano.

  At first, he was a non-entity in the match, so stunned was he by the pace of the game. It was typically frantic EFL Championship fare, players running flat-out for absolutely everything, no-one getting so much as two seconds to think about what to do when the ball came their way.

  I could see that one of the Luton players really wanted to smash into Emil as a kind of 'welcome to England' message, but the Italian couldn't get anywhere near the ball for the first five minutes.

  The match settled down by a few percent, which was enough for our players to put together a passing move. Peter to Zach to Magnus, back to Peter, clipped out to Lewis, worked across to Nasa, back with Peter. Everybody breathe.

  Then a pass in the direction of Emiliano.

  I winced as a Luton guy sprinted at the kid's back - this was gonna be very, very painful.

  Emil controlled the ball, turning into the attack, but then moved the ball to the other side and pushed away. The oppo tried to grab him but stumbled and tripped over his own aggression, plunging face-first to the turf.

  "Holy shit!" cried Wibbers.

  Sandra turned to face me, her jaw dropped. She mouthed the word, "What!"

  Emiliano touched the ball to Joel Reid, scanned the area, and moved into space.

  Pretty good.

  He played the first fifteen minutes pretty conservatively - which, ironically, made him look absolute class. I could sense the crowd falling in love with the little shit. Some players had that effect.

  We put together some more nice passes, worked our way up the pitch, and had our first opportunity to make something happen. Lewis overlapped Joel, rolled the ball inside to Emil, then sprinted ahead to get the return pass.

  Dazza made a run towards the far post.

  This was it! I squirmed happily, because I knew Emiliano was going to fuck it up.

  Instead of passing to Lewis, he let the ball run across his body, wiggled his arse like a cat about to pounce on a string, and smacked a shot that went high, wide, and ugly.

  I fell forward, trapped in the sleeping bag, digging my nails into the grass in front of me like a ghost in a Japanese horror movie, so desperate was I to get onto the pitch to batter our new signing.

  Sandra spotted me and got in the way. She grabbed me and pushed me back while I screamed obscenities at Emiliano.

  "Wibbers!" I cried, when I had spent long enough trying to get closer to Emil. "Get warmed up! You're going on!"

  Sandra stepped to Wibbers and pushed him back into the dugout, then she made me sit down and told me to pull up the sleeping bag. While I fumed and sulked, Sandra turned to the pitch and raised her arms in the direction of Emiliano. "Mate," she said, more sadly than anything.

  Good cop, bad cop. We would do this when Emiliano did something selfish, but only twice. On the third time I would throw my biggest tantrum yet, then either actually sub him off, or I would leave. Yep! I would literally walk out rather than watch him fuck up my team.

  I hoped it wouldn't come to that - especially when we were trying to sign wonderkids and sponsorship deals - but I wouldn't go far. I would still gather full XP from the director's box, and maybe someone could be sent to calm me down enough to rejoin the others for the second half.

  ***

  15:50

  Sadly, Luton got the first goal of Chester's 2028, and went in at half-time one-nil ahead. Emiliano had given me the 4 out of 10 performance I had dreamed of, but in amongst all the shit he had actually shown that he had the bones of a good player. And, let's be honest, I had thrown him under the bus.

  His Morale was low, so I sat next to him on the bench and handed him a tube of marathon paste. He took it wordlessly. I said, "Do you feel you deserve to play on Wednesday?"

  He closed his eyes and tried to get control of his expression. "No," he said.

  "That's good," I said. "It's good to admit when you're not up to the levels. You're gonna start on Wednesday." His eyes widened; his Morale flew up. "Don't get excited," I said, with a thin smile. "We're getting video of everything you're doing wrong and we're gonna drill you and drill you and drill you until you do it right."

  He sort of tuned out slightly, which was an interesting reaction, but what he said next made me realise he had something else on his mind. "It's so fast. It's not football. It's like manga!"

  I looked at the ceiling and grinned wide. I knew the perfect thing to say! I put my arm around his shoulder, shook him, and said, "You'll laugh at your fears when you find out who you really are."

  His brain literally exploded, in the literal sense, right then and there, a literal ‘clean up on aisle three’ moment, but his Determination rose by one point.

  ***

  16:30

  We made our pre-planned changes, taking Emiliano and Lewis off, to be replaced by Wibbers and Andrew. That lifted us to CA 120.8 but, more importantly, the switch to 5-3-2 gave us more bodies at the top of the pitch, with Wibbers going close to Dazza. It also gave us more energy in the middle of the park, with Andrew running like his life depended on it.

  We continued to defend stoutly and worked up a head of steam around the hour mark. That period of pressure led to some chaos in the penalty area and Wibbers smashed in the equaliser.

  11,200 fans watched us hold out for a draw, and virtually everyone thought it was a fair and good result. Somehow, getting two draws in a row kept us in 7th place, but we were leapfrogged by Wrexham. Not ideal, but it probably helped in terms of lowering expectations for the rest of the season. We were only two points ahead of the team in 12th, so there was plenty of scope for a quick tumble down the league. Whee!

  On the whole, lots of good came out of the match. Jack Knapper, a spirited fight against superior foes, good minutes for plenty of players, the fan base learning to value Ian Swan, another goal for Wibbers, and yes, a debut for Emiliano.

  The Live Scores screen told me that Tranmere had battled to a good 0-0 draw against a top-eight team. Henri's Newport County won, as did West Didsbury.

  And to top off a great start to the year, I had enough XP to unlock a hitherto undreamed-of power. During the second half I unlocked yet another new Attribute.

  ***

  There were only four Attributes remaining. At some point in the past few years I had paid good XP to gain the power of choosing which column the next Attribute should be selected from, but I had never actually used it. I was tempted to do so now just because otherwise I had wasted my XP, but since I planned to ignore all the monthly perks until I had the complete player profile down, there really was no justification.

  I let fate decide my fate.

  The dancing yellow cursor landed in the final unfilled cell of the middle column, in between Long Shots and Off The Ball. I guessed the Attribute would start with the letter M but had genuinely no clue what was about to be revealed.

  Marking.

  This one was self-explanatory, it seemed. How good was a player at sticking tight to an opponent, not letting him get into space, not letting him breathe?

  I probably used man-marking as a strategy less than 95% of managers, but when I did, it was usually vital. Knowing who was good at that and who wasn't was a very slight step forward. Certainly I wanted my defenders to have high Marking scores, and I was pleased to note that, on the whole, most of them did. Fitzroy Hall was the senior defender with the lowest score, and if I wanted to get a good price for him in the summer, one way to make sure that happened would be to never ask him to man-mark an opponent.

  Bosh!

  One down, three to go.

  So close, now!

  So close.

  ***

  XP balance: 702

  ***

  22:00

  The doorbell rang. That was strange. Who would come here at this time?

  Frowning, I approached the unfamiliar front door and opened it. My frown turned into a surprised and delighted smile. A stunning blonde was in the corridor. Alone. "Can I help you?"

  She pointed towards the stairway. "Yes, sorry to bother you, but I'm staying in the other Airbnb and it's crazy but the electricity just went out. Is yours working?"

  I flicked a switch - the light went off and on. "Yeah, it's all good. We must be on different circuits."

  "Oh my God, this is such a bad start to my trip! I've been dreaming of visiting Chester for years and it's all going wrong! I called the landlord - horrible person called Mark Blast - and he wasn't interested at all! He was quite rude, in fact. It's New Year's Day, where am I supposed to get an electrician? Um, I was wondering if I could maybe use my hairdryer in here and maybe get a hot drink or something like that? If you don't mind. Sorry."

  I looked to my right, uncertain. "Well..." I eyed the blonde. It wasn't her fault she was in a pickle on day one of her holiday. "Look, we can't have you freezing to death, can we? You'll come in, get warmed up, and we'll see what we can do."

  She smiled, very very sweetly. "My name's Emily, by the way."

  "Mads," I said, shaking her hand. "Mads Goode."

  ***

  00:30

  When Doves AI

  Pradeep: Spectrum, oh em gee, emergency!

  Spectrum: Mate, it's past midnight. What are you working for, you melt?

  Pradeep: I went to the match and I was setting up my things when Emma found me and said 'Pradeep, you must come at once!' I said, of course! Glendale Logistics had brought an IT person and Emma thought we would get along. Not rational, of course, because there are so many disciplines, but we got on like a house on fire! A most excellent person!

  Spectrum: Soz but it's sooooo late. Can you skip forward?

  Pradeep: Yes, of course. Long story cut brutally short, I was distracted during the match, went 'on the town' with the Glendale employees and Emma and Gemma and the Triplets and have only just seen the data and the footage. It is all as per Max's analysis. Emiliano 4/10, Magnus 7, Dazza 7, Wibbers 9. But before kick-off there was an astonishing spike in DOVE data from a person in the Luton penalty area. Absolutely off the scale!

  Spectrum: What? But that's... Hang on. You mean Max.

  Pradeep: I mean Max! But that's not all. There was a tiny hotspot next to him! The boy that Max whisked away and is desperate to sign. That boy showed as red on DOVE from a few tekkers!

  Spectrum: What the fuck?

  Pradeep: I know! It's happening! We are going to be super scouts!