9.

  British Cultural Victory: In 1981, a hastily-assembled pop combo called Bucks Fizz wowed and won The Eurovision Song Contest with the song Making Your Mind Up. The lyrics are about decision-making, obvs, but the track was made famous by a dance routine in which the female members of the band wore short skirts that were ripped off by their male counterparts to reveal even shorter skirts. You're welcome, Europe.

  ***

  SPONSORED CONTENT

  This chapter is supported by the Tourist Board of Newcastle. Visit our famous bridge and bask in the glow of having the most comprehensible accent in the city as you embark on a soothing, restorative two-week time skip! By day, help your fit girlfriend's yummy mummy in the garden, and by night listen to your querida complain about how her job is so boring it makes sitting in a traffic jam in Santiago seem like white water rafting. Newcastle - they don't mackem like this any more!

  ***

  Tuesday, July 1, 2025

  Chester FC men's first team squad total weekly wages: 23,120

  Max's Budget: 30,000

  I woke up in Chester for the first time in fifty thousand words, took a shower, and went to my chest of drawers. I pulled the middle handles, stooped, and came up with an item of clothing just as precious to me as Youngster's Ghana top had been to him.

  I pulled it on and looked in a full-length mirror.

  Max Best in a shit black hoodie.

  Yes!

  I had dressed up while in Newcastle - in the evenings, anyway - because Emma liked it and I liked Emma. If our relationship had been strained by my allergy to international travel it had recovered wonderfully. Not because I'd spent a bit of cash on nice drips (clothes), but because I had helped her mum out in the garden and gone to play squash with her dad a couple of times. I'd never played squash before and had lost some of my conditioning so at first Sebastian was able to compete with me. When I got the hang of it I felt like I could destroy him but I didn't feel any particular need to do that and we had some close battles. Not close enough that he might hit a few lucky winners and get lippy, but close enough that he could feel good about himself.

  But now I was back home, and it was back to work. I had some very serious decisions to make about the squad, and didn't want to think about anything else. Shit hoodie, shit car, decent trim. I ran a hand through my hair - back to my natural colour - and nodded.

  On my way out of the house I paused. I went to find my Airofit device and charged it for a couple of minutes. It was a mouthpiece like you get on a snorkel and in conjunction with an app normal people could use it to improve their breathing. I used it to monitor my overall fitness and to check whether I had hit my current PA limit. I did a lung test and found my capacity was at 7.1 litres. That was about normal for me these days with my 'twenty-minute build'.

  Hmm. There was another decision to make. Was I happy to do twenty minutes per match or did I need to be able to play a full ninety? Boosting my stamina would come at the cost of technique, so while I could train myself to stay on the pitch for longer, I would be less effective. If at all possible, I wanted to stick to playing twenty minutes at a time, if only because there was so much to buy in the perk shop and I needed to maximise my XP income where possible.

  Today was the day I was going to try to fill the holes in my squad. If things went well, I would be able to stick to what I was doing. If I didn't get the players I needed, well, I would have to get creative. Max Best, two-way left mid? Max Best, doughty right back? The thought did not inspire me.

  I needed a good day.

  ***

  I drove to the Deva. Along the way I checked out the poster on the club's billboard.

  It was last week's one, which showed a Chester fan on a donkey being refused entrance to a hotel from biblical times. The words 'No room at the inn!' were emblazoned across the top of the giant poster. At the bottom it said 'Fewer than 100 season tickets available. Act fast!' The Chester crest was in the top corner. The concept didn't make complete sense but I personally found it funny to have a Christmas-themed promotion in July.

  Strange that the poster hadn't been changed though. We had agreed to have a new one every Monday and there was no shortage of ideas for what to do next. Maybe Brooke was leaving it up for a few more days because it was leading to good sales.

  I let myself into the stadium and went straight through to the medical rooms. The treatment tables had been moved out and the space was now dominated by a big whiteboard, while a mix of comfy armchairs, plain white tables, and creaking office chairs had been brought in. I laid my backpack on one of the office chairs and moved things around to my satisfaction.

  This was the Phwoar Room. As with the previous year, we were going to try to get all our transfer business for the summer done in one day, or as close to it as humanly possible. Most other clubs left most of their deals to the last minute, which generated a lot of headlines and a lot of fear and excitement in their fan bases. I did not care to be part of the transfer hype cycle and anyway, I knew what I needed and July 1st was the day with the most opportunities. Every out-of-contract player in the top four leagues was available. The longer I waited, the more opportunities would get snapped up by other clubs. I had told Adrian, the agent of Foquita, that I really needed him to make a final decision today because the ESC slots were too valuable to leave unused. I didn't expect to hear from him, in which case I planned to make Tony Herbert, the curiously-named Panamanian centre-back, my key signing.

  On the whiteboard I drew a 4-1-4-1 formation. Under each position I created a few bullet points signifying how many players I wanted in that position.

  On the goalkeeper space I wrote the name Sticky next to the first bullet point, Ben next to the second, and Rainman next to the fourth. For the third, I drew some question marks.

  A door closed behind me and someone approached. I saw who it was and smiled. I did my amazing Texan accent. "Howdy, pardner."

  Brooke did her posh voice, the one Americans learn from hearing other Americans do bad English accents. "Good morning, Mr. Best."

  I looked her up and down. She was in a simple black top and floppy linen pants that were very summery and fun, but still somehow professional. "A firm handshake, perhaps, since it's been so long."

  "I want a chaste hug and two cheek kisses."

  "Two and a half," I said.

  She laughed. "Acceptable."

  I did two cheek kisses then a third on my fingertips that I transplanted onto her cheek. She watched me with a very amused air. "You're in a good mood," I said. "You're all light. You have an inner glow."

  "Thanks for noticing," she said. "I have a new face cream. It's literally called Inner Glow."

  I put my finger to my temple and tried to read her mind. "Er... that's fake."

  "Correct," she laughed. "How sure were you?"

  "About fifty-five percent."

  She looked at the board. "What are you doing?"

  "Writing out the squad, checking we have cover in every position." I tapped the third goalkeeper slot. "Turning question marks into names is the name of the game."

  "Why don't you have the ones who go here?"

  She was indicating the CAM slots. "Good question. Partly it's because I don't have a pure CAM. My guys who can play there are multi-purpose. Mostly it's because I like 4-1-4-1. It makes me feel safe."

  She laughed again. That made three in three minutes! She was in a good mood. "Sticky's up first. Is that significant?"

  I nodded. "Yes. It depends on the goalie we sign. Erm, imagine there are three quality levels, right, and they cost different amounts. 500, 1000, 2000. Your 500s are your Exit Trial kids or someone like Wes Hayward who's kind of desperate to stay in football. The 2000s are your premium players. The corn-fed beefcakes who fell out of favour at their old club." I waited for a reaction - I was describing Zach Green, who had joined us exactly a year ago - but she simply continued to glow inwardly. "Established League Two players with some headroom are in the two grand bracket. Lee Contreras, for example. A thousand gets you a solid but unspectacular guy who can maybe be developed into a low-end League One guy. That's the basic principle I'm going with. If we're lucky we'll find someone like Aff who doesn't quite know how valuable he is."

  "Aff did all right."

  "Yeah the plan is to leave players better than we found them but I have to be a bit of a Scrooge, don't I? I've only got thirty thousand a week to get everything. Right, goalies. If we can't get Banksy or another 500 dude with a high ceiling, and depending how our other deals go - if there's any money left - I have the option to get a proper League Two goalie. There are a few 1000 types on the market who can come in day one and give us solidity in that position. But," I said, rubbing my chin, "if I sign a kid for the future I have to decide who's first choice for the present. Sticky isn't the best right now but he will overtake Ben in a few months." Ben's PA was 67, while Sticky's was 122. "Goalies tend to have a longer prime than outfielders. Not sure if that's just because most managers like an experienced keeper but I don't see why Sticky can't kick on in a serious way if we give him minutes. That's logical but that's a risk. It could mean a ropey start to the season and if we lose a few games our morale could tank and it's not necessarily easy to get it back. Arsene Wenger said when it comes to confidence you go up stairs and come down an elevator."

  Brooke hopped onto the nearest desk and put her arms behind her for support while she let her legs swim. "Did he say elevator?"

  "No, he said lift. I translated it for you. After my big tour, my language skills are amazing. Look, what's up with you? Did you, er, quench your thirst?"

  She let her head drop backwards slightly and the whole vibe reminded me of the women on the Copacabana. Carefree and easy. "I went to L.A. as Chester FC's Head of Marketing, Strategy, and More Marketing. Thanks for updating the website without telling me, by the way. I had to explain to some very serious people why you thought that title was funny. And I went to Dallas and Orlando. They took me seriously. It was refreshing."

  "Don't people here take you seriously?" I said, with a tiny frown.

  "Now now, Max, no need to slam a doughnut in anyone's face. Folks at Chester are just swell. There are some other clubs where folk can be snooty. It's fair to say that as a female American with no prior interest in soccer I'm not unconditionally accepted in this country but back home it's completely different. They have a lot of admiration for a club like ours. We're small but we've lasted a hundred something years."

  "You don't get a lot of old things in the States, I guess."

  "It's nothing to sneeze at, Max. FC Dallas would love to get to a hundred. They're interested in how we operate, though they're more willing to go their own way if our way doesn't make sense, and change something if it seems to be broken. A lot of things here you can't change even if it isn't working and hasn't been for decades."

  "You're thinking about the crests."

  Her lips curled up on one side in a show of amused disbelief. "Football club logos are too complicated for the digital world! It's not wrong to change them given how much the world has changed. Juventus took that step and got kicked in the teeth for it but the new badge gives them a huge edge on a screen. You can identify it in a small social media profile, it looks great on a shirt or a baseball cap, and the closer you look, the more detail you notice. Ah," she said, waving away her slight frustration. "It's fine. I accept that some things here are not to be discussed but I enjoyed the conversations I had with my counterparts. Enjoyed them a lot."

  "Oh," I said, looking away.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," I said, but a lot of my enthusiasm for the day had suddenly drained away. I thought sending Brooke to visit soccer clubs back home would be interesting and that she would be able to make some connections, but mostly I intended it as a stealth holiday. It had worked! She looked rested and healthy. But it had also planted a seed. Maybe she would like to stay in the football industry when she left Chester. Maybe she would like to run Orlando City.

  If Brooke was going to leave in a year or two that would put a stonking great hole in my plans. Football clubs had four main income streams. The first was match day revenue.

  "Quick question," I said. "Season tickets?"

  "Nearly sold out."

  "I want to build a waiting list."

  She smiled. "For the expanded stadium."

  "Right. Hit the ground running on that. Everyone who misses a classic match needs to sign up for the waiting list so they can be there next season."

  Brooke shifted her weight and described a giant circle with her hands. "Dare to Dream."

  "What's that?"

  "Our waiting list slogan. An image of the new Deva stadium but blacked out, you know, silhouette. And the words 'dare to dream'. We're going to get the stadium back, we're going to expand, join the waiting list just in case. It'll be aspirational but without making any promises we can't keep."

  "Fucking hell, that's amazing. How long have you been keeping that up your sleeve?"

  She got back into beach pose. "Just came to me."

  "What the fuck, man. That's ten out of ten." I bit on a marker. Ticket sales would have risen automatically at Chester because I'd turned the team into winners, and I could claim to be responsible for 2% of our ticket sales through one of my perks. But Brooke was getting numbers up way ahead of schedule. The second stream was commercial revenues, and while I had scored a connection with BoshCard and got Glendale to renew, Brooke had been putting in a lot of spadework for enormous future growth in our income. When we got the new stands with swanky corporate hospitality facilities, we could rake in cash.

  The third and fourth streams, broadcast revenues and transfer income, were all about me. But I had come to realise it was futile trying to build a club through player sales alone - the other three pillars needed to rise, too, or the whole edifice would risk crumbling.

  It struck me that Brooke was the second most important person at the club and the curse would not help me replace her.

  I popped the lid off the marker and filled in the centre back names. C Fierce, Z Green - I checked for a reaction but got only amusement - S Sowunmi. I added a few question marks on an empty line.

  Brooke slid off the table. "You boys love your squad building, dontcha? Let me show you a couple of things before you get too deep into your wheelin' and dealin'. Something fun and something you need to decide."

  "I'm trying to minimise how many decisions I make today so I can make good ones."

  "This one's relevant. Come on." She sashayed over to the door but caught me staring at the whiteboard. "Come on!" she said, with another laugh.

  ***

  Our first stop was a retail park on Sealand Road, where the old stadium used to be (hence Chester were 'The Seals'). We parked and walked past shoe shops, tattoo shops, tat shops, and came to a discreet office building that housed solicitors, accountants, and...

  "Chester Chompers!" I said, pointing to the little nameplate. There was an intercom with a button you pressed if you wanted to enter, but Brooke had a key. We went in, up one flight of stairs, and stopped at a door. Another key and we were in a small reception area. Brooke took me through to a small waiting room - unfurnished - and doubled back into a slightly bigger room containing the important stuff. A dentist's chair with all kinds of nozzles and pipes and buttons. There were cupboards and a counter ready for the dentist's PC.

  The room had been freshly painted in the recent past but the overall effect, especially given the location, was less than premium.

  "This was a hundred and fifty grand?" I said, in disbelief.

  "There's an x-ray built in. You need to get a special door. That's ten thousand on its own."

  "Right, right," I said, nodding. "Fuck it, it's only money. We'll make more. You planted the magic money tree like I asked, right?"

  She opened a box and picked out what was either an instrument of torture or something to scrape bits of gunk from the bottom of a tooth. "I thought Youngster was the magic money tree."

  "Yeah," I said, checking out the harsh light that was attached to the apparatus. I hated the dentist's light more than the drills. "He is. All I need to do is find a way to sell him and get the money but keep him in the squad."

  "That reminds me," she said, putting the ghastly metallic thing away. "Here you say 'have your cake and eat it', which isn't very clear. Back home we say 'have your cake and eat it, too,' which is a lot more understandable. I never noticed until I went and came back."

  "I had a nice time in Sao Paulo," I said, taking in the bare walls. Maybe we could put some Chester FC posters and shirts and whatnot to liven the place up a bit. "Seemed quite normal. But in Chile, when I mentioned I'd been to Sampa they said, oh! That's the city with no billboards. And I was like, huh, that can't be right. But it's true! They're banned in the whole city. You don't notice it when you're there. It's like you said, you go and come back."

  She smiled. "Look at you travelling the world."

  I waved my hand around. "When does this open?"

  "First of September. It's a Monday."

  I sighed as I looked around. No two ways about it, the place was a dump and the location was a dump and I wondered if the curse would even count this towards my facilities score. "It's not exactly how I imagined it."

  "Kids will get fillings, Max. Your players, their families. When you win a football match you make a small difference to a lot of people. Here you'll make a big difference to a small number of people." She gave me a Max-style friendly shoulder punch. "You should be proud of this."

  I nodded a few times, remembering how furious I had been when one of the youth players hadn't been able to get his teeth sorted out. I'd had to throw a tantrum until the Brig had taken him to an army base. "You should be proud, too. You did almost all the work. Did we ever thank those army guys?"

  "The Brig did. Crates of suitable refreshments."

  "Yeah, we should do more. Let me know if any opportunities come up."

  "Er..."

  It wasn't like Brooke to be hesitant. "What?"

  She frowned so hard it actually showed on her forehead. "It's good news, I think. I mean, it's good news full stop. Did you know that BoshCard is owned by Taylor's Bank?"

  "Yeah, I did know that. I used to work in a bank and thought maybe I might have a career in that industry. Like, maybe someone would see I could be more than a drone." I put my hand on the adjustable headrest. It was brand new and as comfortable as a dentist's chair could be. The people I cared about would lie here and get healthcare and I suddenly was proud. Proud of how far I'd come, what I'd achieved, what was still to come. All it took was one person to believe in me. Jackie Reaper was going to get a hell of a present. A Colombian forward, perhaps. I cleared my throat. "Taylor's went on an acquisition spree when they were acting like rock stars instead of bankers. The deal went through about five seconds before they crashed the world economy."

  "Not a fan of Taylor's. Huh. I had a strange feeling about this one and maybe somehow I knew you'd be like this."

  "What is it, though?"

  The frown deepened. "The Brig set up this year's boot camp with more of his old army buddies."

  "The white-water rafting, yeah."

  "It's not just that. It's linked to something called Battleback. It's a recovery programme for wounded or sick soldiers. There's a lot of depression after a serious injury, as you would know, and there are plenty of programmes to help them over the worst of it. Players who go to the boot camp will be helping out with that programme as well as having fun. Sort of coming at teamwork from two angles. I think it's an incredible idea - John has outdone himself. That makes three years in a row we've used events run by former or current military and I got a phone call from someone at Taylor's bank telling us we had won a grant for doing so. It's 104,000 pounds, Max!"

  I grinned. "Some luck at last! Holy shit. Why are you worried about it?"

  "Because we didn't apply for that grant. I didn't know it existed, neither did John, so how did Taylor's know?"

  My neck tingled. Old Nick had come through with last year's Brig money! "Ah. You know what? I think I might have met someone on the plane and blabbed about it. Yeah, I was pretty jet-lagged but I think I remember that."

  "Oh, good," said Brooke, rubbing the back of her own neck. "Okay that's actually a relief because... I don't know. It was creeping me out somehow. And then there was the other thing."

  "Other thing?"

  She almost didn't want to tell me. She rubbed her arm a few times. "There's more to the grant. We can get another 114,400 pounds if we do some football coaching with a military team."

  I had at least four questions, but went straight to the first one. "What was that number again?" She told me and I divided it by 52, which came to 2,200. The Brig's salary for the coming season! Old Nick could have fudged the numbers slightly to make it less fucking obvious. Christ, was I the only one worried about being caught? "Okay that's quite interesting. What are the conditions?"

  "Well, that's just it. One coach has to do at least one session with one unit. Er, most units have a football team, if I understand it right. Even the dog trainers, the medics, any part of the military you can think of, they've got their own team."

  "One session for one team? And we get over a hundred grand? But that's amazing."

  She rubbed her arm some more. "I don't like it. Banks don't give money away. If a Nigerian prince tells you he wants to send you a hundred grand, you mark that email as spam. If I'm on the outside looking at this so-called grant I think 'money laundering'. I checked it out as best I could and it seems legit but makes me very uncomfortable. At the very, very least, someone at Taylor's is ticking a box. If it's one session they don't have to check up on it, you know? If they insisted on one session per week for thirty weeks or something that would actually have an impact on the lives of the soldiers, someone at Taylor's would have to check that we'd done it but clearly no-one gives a shit and I don't like that feeling. If we're caught taking this money and doing one session the reputational damage could be huge. Chester FC stealing from veterans."

  I actually understood where she was coming from. Old Nick had got lazy and there was no excuse. "We'll pick a unit and coach the shit out of them, don't worry. We've got loads of coaches lying around. We'll earn the money, Brooke, trust me. So that's two hundred grand. Wow." I started to think about Panamanian right backs.

  "Hold your horses, pardner. That's grant money; it goes to the foundation. We can spend it at Bumpers but not on players."

  "Yeah, that works, too. That simply frees up other money, right?"

  "Other money. Ah, yeah. About that." She had bad news. I once again felt all the life leave my body. Brooke was peppy enough for two, and she needed to be. "Come on, it's not that bad. Come on, I'll show you."

  ***

  In the car, Brooke sent a few texts and drove the short distance to Bumpers Bank.

  "You know," said Brooke, "You should have called this place Bestworld."

  "And filled it with murderous robots? I'm actually trying to make football less robotic." Relationism was the cure to positional play, but I still needed to get better at the latter. "It's mad, though. While I'm trying to unleash creativity and freedom I also have to master the mindless automatisms of positional dogma."

  "I don't know what you just said." She turned into one of the spaces that was outside the fence. She saw me looking up. The thing was very tall and looked very sturdy. Good luck breaking in and walking off with our lawnmowers. "You've noticed the fence."

  "Um, yes."

  "You didn't cost a fence in your proposal, did you?"

  "I'm going to say... yes. I definitely did."

  She blinked at me a few times and with a smirk, grabbed her handbag and got out. She later told me the fence had cost 50,000 pounds. Ouch. It looked good, though. Substantial but slimline and elegant. The fence was almost without question the nicest-looking part of the Bumpers Bank project.

  Inside the boundary, Bumpers was busy. I wouldn't say it was a hive of activity because bees don't take tea breaks three times an hour, but some work was being done. Diggers were digging, men were getting sun tans on their butt cheeks, and the ceremonial clipboard was being taken for its daily walk. Almost every surface was dirty, muddy, unfinished, and although the mishmash of temporary buildings had cost well over half a million pounds, they were so ugly and unlovable you'd have thought someone had paid us to take them away. My heart sank about six feet underground.

  Near us, a little kid was peering through the wirelink to check all the action. He was about ten - surely too old to still be gawping at construction sites. His dad spotted me and shook his son by the shoulder. The kid turned and his mouth dropped open. That sort of thing happened a lot these days, which is why I was comfortable in Newcastle where only about ten people knew who I was. I needed a break from confronting the reality of building a training facility for one-twentieth of the usual cost, though, so I walked over. "I see you admiring the machines. Have you heard there's a theme park where you can ride a JCB instead of a roller coaster?"

  The kid was too stunned to say anything so his dad helped out. "He's a big fan of yours is our Glen."

  "Glen!" I said. "Named after Glendale Logistics?"

  "After my granddad. It's his birthday and he wanted to see the progress; we do like to see how it's coming along."

  "Yeah? Well, I'm about to see it for the first time. Why don't you hop along?"

  "He's got school."

  "Dad!" whinged the kid.

  "School's important," I told Glen, "I don't like stupid players. Our team meetings are all about natural history and literature and I'm not afraid to admit that sometimes there's poetry. Education's important but what's also important is being cool and the coolest thing in the world is being the only kid in Chester who has ever had and will ever get a tour of Bumpers Bank. It won't take long. Quick pop round and then I've got to go sign loads of players."

  The dad was upbeat about getting a tour but his mood went from an eight to a ten. "Transfers?"

  "Trying to sign the best goalie in England and the best striker in the world," I said, which was hilariously close to the truth. The guy rolled his eyes - typical Max Best having a jape.

  Brooke said, "Ah, there's MD."

  Mike Dean, my boss, strode over and offered a handshake. "Max! Looking well. Slightly more conventional haircut, I see. Overprepared Grandmother will be distraught."

  "Er, okay," I said. "This is Glen. He's a big fan of mine. And Glen's dad, allegiances unknown. We're doing a quick tour before school. Got to whizz through so he doesn't get detention."

  "Oh, I see. Let's not dally, then."

  We walked the route I had described to Nono, the sporting director of Corinthians back in the Transfer Room.

  Brooke provided most of the commentary. "The reception building will go here. Makes no sense to put it in already; it'll only get dirty. This will be the bar."

  She was describing a nineteen-metre long wood cabin with a felt roof. I pulled at a handle - the bastard door was stuck closed and when it finally opened there was a ghastly squelching sound. The unit had been at some other site - what had they been doing to the poor door?

  The inside was bare and my footsteps echoed aggressively. I paced to the end and back in about three seconds flat. We had spent fifty grand on a box, basically. An ugly box.

  Brooke sensed I was underwhelmed. "It'll scrub up nice, Max. Trust me. We'll have it cosy. Sky TV, bar here, not the biggest selection, no, but it'll be nice. We might even open it on matchdays. It'll be popular, you'll see."

  "Kay," I said, trying to keep my face at least neutral. Why had I invited the stupid kid?

  The stupid kid was a bit perplexed at finding out that the first stop on the much-hyped new training ground was a whole bag of nothing, but next we came to a large rectangle that was clearly going to be a pitch.

  "Here's your 3G pitch, Max! It should be ready to use in mid-August." That was later than I would have liked but projects took as long as they took. "We've given Saltney priority because it needs to be ready for the start of the season so you can fulfil your fixtures." Glen's dad gave me a strange look and again, I regretted inviting these people. Brooke didn't realise she had said anything that could be construed as controversial. "The workers do phase one in Saltney, move here, then onto Hoole, then phase two in the same order. They've never done anything like it except at massive sites. I think they're enjoying themselves trying to optimise their work flows."

  "Great," I said, trying not to be a buzzkill. Brooke was having a good time, at least.

  Would the pitches generate as much revenue as we had projected? That was the question. It was possible opening three new facilities in close proximity was moronic, but it could also lead to a boom. I had been astonished to learn that Bromley FC were generating half a million a year from their 3G pitch, but Bromley's one was inside the stadium and the pitch rental could be combined with other activities.

  To the right of the 3G pitch were a bunch of portacabins and converted shipping containers. One had a sign saying 'Showers 1'. I popped in and found four cubicles and two sinks. The tiles were a dull grey. It was clean but depressing. I tried the water - the taps worked, the shower flow was anaemic. Henri would be furious. The floors were strangely bouncy.

  I went out without a word and popped into the toilets. Small, simple, clean, ugly.

  Brooke said, "We had to double the number of showers, Max. Four blocks instead of two."

  I nodded. 52,000 pounds instead of 26,000 but we needed to be able to accommodate the first teams, youth groups, and everyone who was renting the pitch. In my plans I had thought a small number of showers would work and if two matches ever finished at the same time people could wait cheerfully. Bit of the old wartime spirit. More showers was better, obviously, but the extra expense was hard to stomach from where I was standing. "Yep."

  Another ten yards or so and we came to two containers that had been placed side by side. "Medical centre," said Brooke. "For minor scrapes and emergencies. We're going to base the physios in the stadium itself as much as possible."

  "Good idea." It was always nice to go into a football stadium. Having an excuse to go there would remind my players that we were a football club and not the shittest open air festival in Europe.

  Things improved when we got to my new office. It was a cute little box a former Prime Minister might use as a writing room at the end of his garden. The windows were huge and gave me a view of almost all the pitches around me. It had a fun and friendly feel that brought a smile to my face. "Glen, do you want to go inside and I'll shout at you? You'll be the first to get told off in my new house."

  "The Theatre of Screams, the players call it," said MD.

  Glen looked uncertainly from me to Mike. "Sounds like detention."

  "No, this is more like being sent to see the headmaster. Detention would be when we do video sessions. Players hate them, except ones like Pascal."

  "They hate watching football?"

  "It's like homework, isn't it? It's not fun if you've been told to do it."

  Glen's face suggested he couldn't conceive of watching football ever being anything like homework.

  The next expanse would one day be a lot of football pitches of different sizes, but only one was going to be ready for the coming season. We walked to the right and turned right again, walking parallel to the path we'd gone.

  Glen's dad had thoughts. "You should curve this path."

  "Why?"

  "It's good feng shui, innit? All these straight lines aren't peaceful. Couple of gentle curves, put a tree in the way so you don't get elephant paths, lovely."

  "That's a good idea," said MD. "I think I would prefer that. This is very clinical."

  To our left was a full-sized pitch that looked very bare and was covered with 'keep off' signs. Jonny Planter, our groundsman, rushed towards me. "Max! You're home, amazing. Quick update. The PSD results were poor, far too much silt and clay. A thousand tons of Bathgate sand, a home-made drainage scheme, bore holes, drainage tank, sprinkler outlets, a nifty little bit of electronics to dilute the chloride, power harrow, rootzone, GPS controlled tractor. We've been hard at it!"

  I turned to the little kid. "Did you get all that? There will be a quiz at the end of the tour. Jonny, let's talk tomorrow. Today's about transfers."

  "For you, maybe. For me it's about slow release fertiliser."

  He wandered off and I shook my head. There was too much specialist knowledge in this business. The club relied on too many underpaid experts.

  Brooke finished by showing us the chill room and gym (shitter, cheaper versions of the bar and just as empty), the boot room, meeting room, and dressing rooms.

  I was having a bit of a crisis when Glen's dad said they had to rush off. I got my phone and pretended to be taking a call until they'd gone.

  MD said, "Max. You okay?"

  "Yes," I said.

  Brooke happy-punched me again. "He's frettin' he's spent all his money on this and it ain't as pretty as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Max, did you forget the plan? We start like this and upgrade step by step. Remember? You knew it wouldn't be eye candy on day one."

  "Right, but - "

  "Ah, none of that. Rome wasn't built in a day. You heard Jonny, the pitch is as good as can be. He's taken the budget and stretched it. The pitch is the main thing, ain't it? You've got the players, the coaches, the pitches. The rest is gravy."

  "Not really," I said. "We're trying to sign players but one look at the showers will put a lot of guys off. It's not even non-league standard."

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about before you get started on your big shopping spree. We are massively over budget on this."

  "Over budget? On this?"

  "Almost two hundred thousand over. Hey, no, don't panic. That includes everything: William Roberts, the billboard, the new team bus and charging stations, the fence, the dentist, Hoole. We will have a fully functional training ground with two income-generating all-weather pitches and if you ask me that's impressive. I've talked to Ruth and she's absolutely fine with us using some of the Chesterness money here. Season One will pay for the sports psychologist, Coach Elin, and Sophie. We will have two hundred thousand left over. Add two hundred thousand of unexpected grants and we have enough to upgrade one building here."

  "Upgrade? That sounds good."

  Brooke nodded. "If you absolutely have to improve the squad to stay in the division, we could move two hundred into the transfer budget."

  "Not four hundred?"

  MD shook his head. "Only if it's existential because it would border on fraud to use the grant money on players. If we'd had it at the start of the summer we could have used it, but we didn't."

  Brooke said, "I like this space, Max. I think it has great energy and I can visualise what it'll be like when it's ready. Cosy, charming, quirky, but okay not for everyone. What's that phrase I learned? No fancy dans here." She laughed. "But I also think it would be awesome to have one space that is very, very nice. A taste of what the finished product will look like, so to speak. If you spend too much time in one of the less glamorous areas and then go to the upgraded one, it'll put your mind at ease."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "I get you. One place you can be really proud of. Not defiantly proud, but actually proud."

  "Exactly! So you've got three options."

  "Oh! This is the decision, is it?"

  "It's making your mind up time!" said MD, and he mimed ripping Brooke's trousers off. "Sorry, that was misjudged. It's from a song. Er..."

  "Bucks Fizz!" I said.

  "Yes!" he said, beyond grateful.

  "This guy on the plane mentioned them and I asked Emma's parents and basically anyone old knows the song and the dance moves. Everything about it is very mediocre to me but they sold 50 million records. This country is wild sometimes. What are my choices, Brooke?"

  She was still staring at MD with her eyebrows all the way up, but she switched back to business mode like nothing had happened. "Option one. We build a more premium bar. Bigger footprint, a second floor that could host events, a built-in kitchen."

  "Oh! The second mobile kitchen. Where's that?"

  "It'll come last with the reception box. It's all taken care of, Max! A bigger bar will make more money. Not quite the magic money tree but a very good return on investment."

  "Bar sounds good. Question. We've got a bar, by which I mean an empty box with a truculent door. We've got a gym. If I hit the upgrade button what happens to those buildings?"

  "We move them and use them for something different - you'll find any spare space we have is very welcome."

  That sounded right. "Ace. Top. We didn't waste that money, then?"

  "Option two. A proper, substantial, premium shower unit. I always find I can stomach poor accommodations far longer if the bathroom is nice, and the way you and Henri talk about showers makes it seem like a very important part of a footballer's life."

  "We might care more than most."

  "The unit would be divided, too, so the women would have their own section."

  "Mmm," I said. Not having to share a space would solve all kinds of potential issues. The men complaining about the state the women left the showers in, for example.

  "Option three. The gym and chill rooms. We have quite a lot of equipment already so I'm thinking of a cool-looking building with tons of quality of life features. Some of the rooms soundproofed so you can blast tunes while you work out in one end while the other end is perfectly peaceful. Weights at one end, sleep pods at the other."

  "Shit, that sounds amazing. Wait, hang on. I've just realised. This is a dilemma."

  MD said, "It's not an easy choice, no."

  "No, I mean it's a dilemma like you get in video games. Increased income, boosted morale, or faster training. Choose one. Huh. That's actually fun." I spent a few seconds wondering if this was a new game mechanic to replace the achievements system. It felt like that. "What would you choose, B?"

  On hearing the nickname, her eyebrows shot up. She laughed it off. "Bar. Income. Get money we can use for the others."

  MD nodded. "I'm there, too."

  "Okay," I said. "I need to think about this. I'll let you know today."

  "There's no rush," said Brooke.

  "Yeah but I'll tell you today. When I make one decision, the rest will fall into place, if you know what I mean. Hey, where's the little kid?"

  MD rolled his eyes, while Brooke took me by the wrist. "It's nearly nine and you haven't signed any players yet. What kind of manager are you?"

  ***

  The Phwoar Room had assembled. As well as Brooke and MD we had Secretary Joe, who would be doing our paperwork, plus a cross-section of footballing society I felt could cover all sorts of bases: Sandra Lane, Meghan, and Zach Green.

  Ruth was supposed to be around but she hadn't arrived, it seemed. The Brig was similarly missing. Strange, but they were probably polishing off their tartlets, which is not a euphemism.

  I waved at my helpers and went straight to the whiteboard. I filled in some more names. At left back I wrote E Moore and C Adams. At left mid I wrote J Owens. "Sandra," I said. She ambled closer, sipping on a cup of tea. In the morning she would be jetting out to Switzerland to watch the women's Euros. "We are pretty skint. If we play a lot of 4-2-3-1 we don't need a left mid. When we do your 3-4-3 we will use Josh as first choice."

  She sipped and tilted her head. "He's still pretty raw."

  It was hard to tell exactly where my players were in terms of readiness for the coming season because most of their CAs were slipping during the pre-season break, but I expected Josh to be in the low 40s for the first friendly. "He's had quite a few appearances, got quite a lot of minutes under his belt. He'll just have to kick on." On the right midfield slot I wrote P Bochum, W Hayward, A Harrison. "Pascal and Wes can play left mid as well."

  "I wouldn't feel too good about that without a defender behind them."

  "You'd trust them on the right, though?"

  "More so than on the left, yeah."

  "I tend to agree, but we can use them on the left for ten minutes here and there, see how it goes. This is where it gets complicated. We need a centre back and a right back but I think it'll have to be one guy who can do both. Sunday's inexperienced so it would be good to use him in a back three. If we do that, the others can bail him out if he gets in the shit. I think we will probably end up doing a lot of back fours. We're not going to concede a lot of goals if we use 4-2-3-1 as our default, right?"

  "Hope not."

  I closed my eyes and tapped the marker against my lips. It was five past nine and I hadn't made any moves yet. Sunday Sowunmi was a talented defender but he was CA 22. I couldn't seriously use him in a League Two match and in any rational universe I would have sent him out on loan to get experience. In the real world, he was currently my third-choice specialist central defender. I had Magnus Evergreen who could play there, and that lad Max Best was half decent in an emergency, but Sunday was going to get actual first team minutes this season unless I used my scarce resources on that end of the pitch. But why should I? I had the best DM in the league helping out.

  I imagined Youngster being called away on international duty. Zach getting a red card. Magnus injured. Sunday Sowunmi lining up against Chipper in a title decider. It would be an absolute slaughter.

  "Sir," said the Brig. I turned and nearly said, "Finally!" But my former assistant manager and sometime bodyguard was standing next to someone beautiful, and I don't mean Ruth. "Mister Wilfred Banks, sir. And his father."

  "Yes!" I said, punching the air.

  The Brig smiled but raised a hand. "They haven't committed to join, sir. Not yet," he added, smiling at Banksy's father. "I suggested that spending a day seeing you in full flight would be the final push they needed."

  I wasn't sure about that - I wasn't having my best ever day. But I stepped forward and fistbumped Banksy and offered a firm handshake to his dad. "What do I need to...?"

  "Nothing, sir. We will talk to the others, mingle, and if it is okay, we will watch you work. The great master at his canvas."

  I frowned and looked at my whiteboard. I hadn't fully filled it in yet but I had planned to write the names of my top targets on there. Banksy could be spying for Bradford City for all I knew. Still, if the day ended with him signing a contract with Chester FC that would be a coup and a half. Worth some risk. "Erm... Yeah. Why don't you take the comfy seats? Oh, Meghan? Will you give Banksy a tour?"

  "I'd love to, Max," she said, sweetly, and Banksy became a good few percent more interested in signing. The girl was an absolute menace.

  I turned back to the board and filled in the DM names - Youngster and M Evergreen - then the central midfield slots - R Jack, O Naysmith, D Badford, a bunch of question marks. Zach Green came over with an enthusiastic expression. "Four CMs for two places? That's asking a lot of those young fellas, isn't it boss?"

  "Andrew can play CM," I said. "As can Magnus. And me. Plus our default formation won't need CMs so I don't want to overspend there."

  "The talk is you're leaning towards Lee Contreras for that position."

  "The talk is right. You know, I spend so much of my life begging players to join, worrying about them leaving, and this guy really fucking wants to play for us, you know? It's like, why wouldn't I want some of that? Just for my ego if nothing else."

  "And when the crap hits the fan it'll be another ally. Someone who wants to dig in and fight because they already believe in you."

  I liked that framing. "Yeah."

  He gestured towards Banksy. "You want me to help sell the kid, right?"

  "If you can. Maybe you can work the dad."

  He side-eyed me. "While Meghan works the son."

  "What?" I said, innocently.

  "You hit me with a double-whammy last year. Ruth and Brooke. That was low, boss."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

  He looked up. "Why am I here today?"

  "I invited you and you said yes."

  He looked down. "I mean, why me? You don't seem to be signing any women."

  "Whoa!" I said. "That was pretty big-headed, Zach. You're so irresistible to women I'd dangle you in front of them like bait, is that it? Is that your self-image?"

  He almost blushed. "No, that's... You have an MO on these days. I noticed it last time. Women call men, men call women. You did it right now with Meghan. You could ask anyone to come and they'd say yes unless they're on vacation. Where's Angel?"

  "Holiday."

  "Right," he laughed. "So it's Brooke, Meghan, Sandra. Why am I here?" He looked across the room at Brooke, which was as close as he came to accusing me of matchmaking. The very thought!

  "Because you came last year, bro. You're a success story. I plucked you out of obscurity and you won a title. Also, in narrative terms, it helps that you took a pay cut," I added.

  "Oh," he said.

  "Yeah. All right go and introduce yourself. Try to keep your top on this year, yeah?"

  I turned to the board and filled in the strikers section. H Lyons, T Westwood, question marks. I needed a striker, no two ways about it. Foquita missing five months and coming in January would be fine, but since that was unlikely I was looking at other options. A Mexican striker I'd scouted at the World Cup would be cheap and would hit the ground running. His PA was only 118 but he was an exciting talent who would fool scouts, I felt pretty sure. Any clubs who had dismissed him would think again when he scored 20 goals for Chester. I had been in touch with the sporting directors of all the players I was vaguely interested in and some were willing to deal in options to buy, meaning I could buy now, pay next summer.

  A player similar to the Mexican lad was Kpozo, the Ghanaian striker. He was also near his cap but I only needed my ESCapees to impress for one season in order to make a quick profit. There wouldn't be much profit on Kpozo, though, if any. His club wanted 600,000 pounds and there was no way MD was going to let me anywhere near that sort of amount. Not with the club's finances as precarious as they were.

  Then there were free agents. Guys of similar quality to Lee Contreras. Good League Two battlers who would help us through the season. If I signed one of them I could turn to Vincent Addo and Tony Herbert as my ESC signings. A DM and a surprisingly good centre back. I could 'build from the back' like a proper manager!

  Yes, that sounded good.

  It sounded very good.

  "Everyone," I called, and there was a general shuffling towards me. "Ladies and gentlemen. I, Max Best, will now shape Chester FC's squad for the next twelve months and in so doing, I shall shape the League Two season and, perhaps, the entire course of history." There was some applause. "Oh, thank you. Much appreciated. Behold my decision!" I proclaimed. I picked up the marker pen.

  "One second, Max," said Brooke, holding up her phone. "I've got new information."

  "Oh."

  "Let's go outside real quick."

  "Er, weird. Everyone back to work, I guess."

  I followed Brooke, getting increasingly confused the further she went. I thought she meant outside the room but she actually meant outside the stadium. A car's engine was purring. Brooke walked to the back and got in. The front passenger door was open. I went there and bent down. "Ruth!" I said. "Is this a new car?"

  "No, I cleaned it." She glanced in the back and I spotted a guy in a Chester FC beanie. Strange weather for that but I'd learned not to ask why people were wearing hats. The answer was usually depressing. "That's Darren. New stable helper."

  "Wotcher," I said.

  "Hi," he mumbled.

  I sat down, clicked my seatbelt, and Ruth rolled away.

  "Did you sign anyone yet?"

  "No," I said. "But I'm gonna. Except... I'm not in the Phwoar Room. Why is that?"

  "We have something to show you," said Brooke.

  Not very long later we were approaching Fountains Roundabout, where our billboard was, and I smiled. They had put a new one up in the last hour! I wriggled forward so I would be able to see it better.

  When I saw it I let out a shocked laugh and Ruth went round again so I could get another eyeful.

  The borders of the image were all gooey and white as though someone had splattered mayonnaise over the camera. In the one section that wasn't 'defaced' I was escorting Youngster off the pitch with my arm stretched out to the side as a warning.

  Giant text read 'Don't Mess With Chesters'. That was it. No call to action. No QR code to scan to be brought to our ticket sales page.

  "Astonishing," I said.

  Brooke said, "Is that all you have to say?"

  "Did you focus group that concept?"

  "No. I went with my gut."

  I turned all the way around to look at the stable guy. He gave me a nervous smile and looked away. I said, "What do you think?"

  "He loves it," said Ruth.

  I faced forward again. "Okay, Brooke, here's my honest feedback. I'm flabbergasted because I feel like if that was my idea you'd tell me the top five reasons not to do it."

  "What would one of those be?"

  "Too violent, for a start."

  Brooke disagreed. "There are lots of opinions about whether you should have done it or not but no-one thinks it was violent. I've heard a lot of people here compare the completo to a custard pie and I hope I never find out what one of those actually is. No, there is discussion about whether you should take it out on the camera operators but pretty much everyone in Chester likes that you stick up for your own."

  "And outside Chester?"

  Brooke smirked. "Who gives a fuck?"

  "Brooke!" I said, pretending to be scandalised. "That juxtaposition of the image and the quote. Everyone knows what it means, do they?"

  "No, but that's the point. They'll tell each other. It'll drive discussion and that's what we want. We want to be on everyone's lips. We don't represent football fans, we represent the whole city. Our wins are their wins. If we sweep them along, some will get caught in the web. They'll watch us on Sky, they'll try a match, and before they know it they'll be season ticket holders."

  "Yeah, okay. I approve. It's funny and provocative and fuck I love that we have a billboard! Ruth, do you love it?"

  "I love it."

  I closed my eyes and visualised the poster. "I was kind of hoping to leave the yellow hair in the past but oh well. It's only immortalised in pretty much the biggest photo imaginable right in the heart of the city."

  Brooke said, "You look cute. I saw bits on Emma's Insta. You had fun out there; it was good to see."

  "I did what I had to do," I said, theatrically. "I'm no hero."

  Ruth laughed. "It's good to have you back, Max."

  "It's good to be back," I said, just as I realised we were back at the Deva. "Why are we back? Is that it? You wanted to show me the billboard? You could have sent me a jpeg."

  Ruth turned the engine off and looked at me. "I also saved you from making a terrible mistake."

  "You don't know what I was about to do."

  "You weren't going to sign the player who is most perfect for Chester."

  "Er, what? What are you talking about?"

  "REM's new client, Max."

  "Banksy? Did he sign already? He's in the Phwoar Room playing hard to get, the cheeky scamp."

  "Not him, though I'm about to turn the charm up to eleven. No, I mean Darren Smith."

  "What? Who?" I said, but the name seemed familiar. It all clicked suddenly. I nearly broke my neck from turning around so fast.

  "My friends call me Dazza," the guy in the back said. In an Australian accent.

  ***

  I asked Brooke and 'Dazza' to fuck off inside and I invited Ruth to wind her windows up so I could boil without the footage going viral. She took my quiet, incipient fury in her stride.

  "Let it all out, Max. Better out than in."

  "The shit is happening? The point of the agency is that I know who's good. I'm not being smug for once! I have a talent."

  Ruth pulled down the flap and checked herself out in the mirror, judged herself to be flawless - correctly - and flipped it back up. "I know. But Darren comes pre-approved. Pre-approved by you, in case there was any doubt."

  "What the shit are you talking about? He's some nobody I saw in Chile."

  Ruth was trying hard not to laugh, but instead of infuriating me her demeanour was making my mind fucking race. Something was afoot, here. She slowly reached out like you might do with a wounded dog to show you meant well. "Do you remember meeting an Australian gentleman in the stands at whatever stadium?"

  "Yeah. Emma goes weak at the knees for these Aussies. I hate it."

  "Of course you do. Classic Max, seeing darkness where there is only light, but let's skip that. Emma suspected the man you met was Darren's brother and she was right. What she didn't know at the time was that Darren and his brother had seen that you were in Chile and embarked on an audacious attempt to come to your notice."

  "Me?"

  "Holy Christ, Max! You're not a nobody any longer. Darren can explain his reasoning. Now shut up while I tell a tale. You let slip that Darren was a striker worthy of attention but lo and behold you didn't want to pursue him. Emma skilfully probed you - "

  "Whoa! That's private."

  Ruth embarked on a fit of giggles that calmed me almost all the way back to zero. "Don't. Maybe you remember on one of those lazy South American nights she was asking about which players could have a future at REM. You seem to know which players already have agents, which players have agents that don't seem to be serious, and so on. She got you into a ramble about the most marketable players, the ones with the highest earning potential."

  "Err..."

  "You spoke at pompous length about Mexicans and Peruvians and Panamanians and only once did you let slip that Darren had the level of potential needed to meet your requirements for our agency. Yes he's a striker, you said, and goalscorers are marketable, and yes he's tolerably good-looking, and he speaks English 'of a sort' and 'he has lionesque hair like our logo oh wait it's a wolf'."

  "Vaguely remember some of this. Emma was plying me with pincho sours. I'm pretty sure I said he was a one-trick pony and the trick was something even a pony could see through."

  "No, you said he was 'uniquely suited in the entire tournament to English football but he's got a fatal flaw which is when someone says throw a shrimp on the barbie he goes looking for Margot Robbie'. Chuckle chuckle chuckle. Well, Max, I gave you a lot of money to start a women's team and I spent a lot of money turning my father's house into your little bachelor pad and when there were strange noises in the attic I cut short my holiday to fix it and when you say 'ummmm Brazil' I say yes of course Brazil. So now it's time for Ruth to get paid. I signed Darren because I believe in your gift.

  "I don't have a problem with Australians and neither does Emma and neither does Grindhog and neither does the bloody ball you're so fond of kicking. You told Emma that Darren is more than good enough for REM which means he's more than good enough for Chester and guess what? Darren thinks you're some kind of wizard. However could he have gotten that idea? He's a nice boy, he thinks he might want to play for Chester, and you're going to talk to him. You're going to be nice and you're going to listen and if you have a legitimate reason not to want a talented young striker who by your own words would 'make mincemeat out of League Two' then you're going to help me place him in another team so I can get paid. Is there anything I just said that you would like me to repeat?"

  "Yes. The bit where this guy's brother slimed Emma in order to meet me."

  Ruth glared at me. "For the next ten minutes we are adversaries and you're going to sign my client and I'm going to squeeze the pips out of you. Let's roll."

  She got out of the car and I did the same if only to get a better view of her bottom as it swayed towards the stadium.

  ***

  I took Ruth and her client to the boardroom and got them nice and settled at one end. You good for tea? Coffee? I was hospitality itself.

  Then I walked to the extreme far end of the boardroom table and sat down facing them. Absolute boss power move. Ten out of ten, no notes.

  Except Ruth jerked her head and the two of them stood, brought their stuff, and sat next to me.

  I steepled my fingers. "Well played. Yes, very well played indeed."

  "Cut the crap," said Ruth. "I wanted to sign Darren as a client and he wanted to meet you. This deal is destined to happen so you'd better get used to the idea."

  "I know why you want to sign a hot young Australian," I said. "But I don't understand why Darren would want to meet little old me."

  "If you shut your cakehole for five seconds you might give him space to tell you."

  I raised my eyebrows while squeezing my mouth closed. Darren took off his Chester hat, revealing long, flowing blonde hair which he flung around like he was in a shampoo commercial. Urgh. He spoke softly. "Did my brother annoy you, Mr. Best?"

  "Call him Max."

  "I'll stick to Mr. Best," he said. "In the hope we end up working together." One point for Dazza! Take that, Ruth! "He told me you were a bit off with him and he wasn't sure what he did wrong."

  "No, he was cool, but I don't like it when my girlfriend meets some charming guy and is superfriends with him right away."

  Dazza smiled just a fraction. "That's Lachie all over. I'm not like him. I wish I was."

  My phone vibrated. Agents who knew how I worked were coming alive, pitching me their players. "Let's speed this up."

  Dazza put his hands on the table and wrung them. "Soccer isn't big where I'm from. I mean, everyone plays it but when you get older you're supposed to choose a real sport. But when I was 10 I was sick and I couldn't do anything except watch TV and the Asian Cup was on. 2015," he said, expecting me to know the entire history of every football competition worldwide. "Oz won it," he said, his face lighting up. "It was so exciting and it hit me in a way footy or cricket or rugby didn't." By footy he meant the incomprehensible sport known as Australian No-Rules Football which appears to take all the worst parts of every other sport and combine them.

  "I like Aussie Rules," I said, because I was starting to think that maybe I could make a few quid training this guy up and selling him in the summer. Not to Foquita levels, but more than most of my options.

  "I took soccer seriously but got kicked off every team I played for. It was pretty disheartening but Lachie realised I was really into it and it wasn't just a phase and there was a day when it was like a switch flipped with him and he went from bantering me about it to being my biggest booster. Actually, I remember it. He went to watch me play and I missed a few shots and one of the dads was slating me and Lachie got into it with him."

  "He can slag you off but an outsider can't."

  Dazza smiled. "Yeah, that's it. So he worked with me. Learned a few drills he could do with me. Roped in me other brothers, cousins, nieces, anyone with legs who could make up the numbers. I got cut anyway and that was the end of the private coaching." Well, I thought. That took a turn. "A few days go by and Lachie comes to me with a magazine and it's got an article about Tim Cahill."

  Ruth said, "The name rings a bell."

  I said, "Goalscoring midfielder. Not that tall but he had an incredible knack for arriving in the penalty box just in time to get on the end of a cross."

  Dazza's eyes shone. "He was my favourite. Still is. Lachie had highlighted loads of the interview, all the times Cahill got cut from his youth teams. He never gave up, kept going, couldn't be persuaded to stop. It's a real-life fairytale and seeing that he struggled made me even more determined."

  I said, "If it was easy, everyone would do it."

  "Right. It's hard. I'll do the work. Whatever it takes. I got into teams, had more success. Watched videos of Cahill so I could learn how to time my runs better."

  "Your movement is good," I mused. I was getting obsessed with the Off The Ball attribute and was starting to wonder if it was even more important to a striker than Finishing. If your Off The Ball score was low you would never get into position to shoot.

  Dazza seemed to be waiting for me to say something else and when he realised I wasn't going to, he leaned forward. "You've seen me play. I'm good but limited. I want to get better and I haven't met a coach who can help me. I've been asking around for where I can get direction. You know, what's next for me? What can I improve next? Who do I talk to? I had sessions with the best private coaches I could afford and they want to work on things I already do. I'm looking for the next step. When I push back, they all say the same thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You need Pep Guardiola."

  I chuckled. "He'd turn you into a left-back or something mad. Or he'd make you hold fifty balloons and float you over the centre circle."

  "What would you do?"

  "I wouldn't do anything because you're not my player."

  "Max," said Ruth, which reminded me that he sort of was if he was a client of the agency.

  Dazza looked down at his hands. "There was only ever one thing anyone said that was what I needed to hear. Perth Glory, my club, were training one day and along comes a special visitor. Craggy old guy, got a fierce look about him, kind of snarling at us. Made everyone put a bit more bite in our tackles while he was watching."

  "Oh my God," I said, laughing. "Is this an Ian Evans story?"

  Dazza blinked. "Yes. How - ? Okay so he's experienced, he's seen it all, right? Might not be the most modern manager but what have I got to lose? I describe my situation to him and he looks at me like I'm mad. You can head it son, you're big and strong, you're a handful, keep doing what you're doing you'll be reet."

  "No offence but you are Ian Evans's fantasy Australian even more than you are Ruth's."

  He didn't react to the compliment. "I want to be more than that. I want to get to the next level as a player otherwise what am I doing? You can always be better. I want to score 50 goals for my country like Tim Cahill. I said it to Ian Evans and he said you've asked your coaches, you've asked me, you've got the same answer every time. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result but if it's insanity you want there's only one name for that."

  "Dustin Hoffman," I said.

  "That was the first time we'd heard of you but Lachie and I watched every video and read everything we could find. Match reports where you dropped your striker into midfield while you stood right wing without doing anything. One match where you made your striker man-mark the goalie! Interviews with your players and former players, too. That got Lachie excited because it wasn't just them saying those things because you pay their wages, they were saying that because they believed it. Sam Topps said the first thing you did was set a training routine to music and you chose Youngster to be the conductor and that was three years ago and he was one of the best players in Chile! We've been scheming a way to meet you for a while now and suddenly you're right there in the stadium with us on the other side of the world. Amazing! And your partner, she says to Lachie yeah come over and meet my boyfriend! Just like that."

  "Yeah," I grumbled. "Just like that."

  But Dazza was happily telling his tale. "He sees you're not in the mood to meet him and doesn't want to push things and ruin it and anyway, it should be easy to work out who you're scouting and make sure we're in the right stadium at the right time. But we got it all wrong. You were all over the place! We couldn't work out your plan. I wouldn't say we gave up. More like we ran out of time because you redecorated that camera and next we heard you were spotted at the airport."

  "Scarpering," said Ruth.

  "And out of the blue I get a call. Ruth wants to represent me as I make the move to Europe. Europe? I say. It's too early for that. She says Max Best doesn't think so."

  I smiled. It must have been an amazing moment. Ruth was smiling too. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes things just fall into place. Normally after years of grinding, but still, it's a helluva feeling. "Okay, I think I understand you. You'll move to Chester if I tell you what's missing in your game and coach you through it."

  Dazza nodded. "People say it's good here but if people stop improving you get shot of them. I want to improve. I'm desperate to play somewhere like this."

  "Whoa," said Ruth. "You're not desperate. Far from it. In fact, Max is the one who's desperate. Desperate to pay you three thousand pounds per week to score goals for this football club."

  "Or," I said, looking at Dazza, "I tell you what I think and you can take that to a club that can afford your agent's absurd demands. Okay?" He nodded before Ruth could stop him. I said, "It's not what you want to hear, I don't think, but you're not Tim Cahill. You're a striker, plain and simple. Ninety percent of what you do will be competing for headers, battling, putting yourself about, attacking and defending set pieces.

  "You are a battering ram. If I was a battering ram I could imagine wishing to be something else. A mystery winger who can fill in at DM, perhaps. But there are battering rams and battering rams.

  "If I were your manager I would want you to get a lot more sophisticated with your runs. Someone taught you to run between the centre backs. Yeah, okay, but we've gone one-nil down to Tranmere and they're in a low block. I want you to smash their short right back on the far post like we told you in the pre-match briefing. Or I want you to run in front of the front post defender as a distraction because our actual Tim Cahill guy is storming in behind.

  "For Australia you either batter tiny little teams or try to do counter-attacks against big teams. If you're playing against Spain you need to stop thinking about scoring goals. Your job isn't to score in that match, it's to hold the ball up, turn, and win a foul before their little piranhas can get to you. You take twenty seconds off the clock, give your mates a breather, and move the action up the pitch. Maybe you can get a goal from a set piece but you need to be a lot more intelligent with your work if you're going to earn that field position.

  "Your hold up and link play needs to be miles better and a lot smarter. Your technique is poor and your passing makes life hard for your teammates. What's the point doing the hardest thing in football, holding the ball up, then giving the ball away with a shit pass? You've got to put things together. I get that you play in teams that are under the cosh and you get isolated but there are solutions. Combinations.

  "You're a one-size-fits-all player but imagine you've taken the ball on your chest and Pascal is the nearest option. You can leave the ball there at your feet and spin away. If the defender tries to get there before Pascal, he won't, and he'll be out of position and you'll be away. If it's me you should fizz the pass because I can hit it first time anyway. If it's Sharky you need to feed it to his right because if you hit it left the move is over.

  "Game management. There were things you did in the World Cup that were shockingly stupid. You have to feel the narrative of the match and redirect it. Do I take a quick free-kick when it's just me and a winger against ten defenders? How about no. How about we think about the match on a meta level for a minute and ask, what would Max like me to do right now?

  "There isn't one big wow moment, Darren, like moving you to a new position or teaching you to do stepovers. I've got no doubt you've heard most of this before, but if I were your manager I would want and demand a hundred minor improvements that add up to you being a very similar player to the one you are now, but fucking mint."

  His eyes were wide.

  I continued. "Sadly, I can't afford you, but I wish you the - "

  "Max," snapped Ruth. She turned to her client. "Darren, would you excuse us? Max is acting up because there's an audience but he's a sweet boy, really."

  Darren got to his feet. He opened his mouth to speak but decided to leave his fate in the hands of his agent.

  "Talk to Zach," I called out as he was closing the door. "Actually, you know what? Do you want to go out on the pitch? I'm in the mood to whip in a couple of crosses. What do you think?"

  "I'd love that," he said.

  "Mmm. There are some new kits we've got in from our supplier. Why don't we do a little jog in them and see what we think? Hey, here's an idea. Talk to Zach, he'll take you to the dressing rooms and all that, and say to him you heard he's fast for a defender but he doesn't look fast."

  Dazza looked uncertain. "He's not gonna end up resenting me?"

  "If you're asking if this is a prank, no, it's not. We don't do that around here. Zach will accept your challenge and you'll run around the stadium like a couple of toddlers while I try to find someone willing to bet that you'll win so I can fleece them."

  "Wait," said Dazza. "You think he'd beat me in a race?"

  "I know he would."

  "Huh," he said, frowning. He pulled the door closed.

  Ruth was shaking her head. "What are you up to?"

  "Nothing." Maybe a tiny bit of mischief to lighten the mood as I prepared to make a series of consequential decisions. I pointed. "I can't afford him."

  "Maybe you can. His club want 400,000 pounds but I think they'll take two-fifty."

  "I have zero pounds and zero pence for fees."

  "What about a loan with an obligation to buy?"

  Under such a deal we would loan the player for a season but would have to pay the transfer fee regardless of anything that might happen in the meantime. It was the same as buying the player, but with the payment delayed. "Two-fiddy," I said, getting up and looking out onto the pitch. Dazza was CA 73, slightly better than Henri, and PA 138. With Dazza's work ethic and determination I could get him close to CA 100 by the end of the season - unless Bumpers Bank proved to be a level zero flop. I could probably get a decent chunk of change for him next summer but to really cash in I would need to keep him for an extra season. Two years of clogging up my ESC pipes.

  Wait, that wasn't right, was it? If he played in enough matches I would be able to take him off the ESC programme and put him on a normal work permit.

  "Is he always like that?"

  "Like what?"

  "Soft-spoken and a bit introvert or whatever."

  Ruth looked towards the door. "I didn't really notice. I think so. He's not your nightmare Australian party animal, I don't think. What's your problem with Australians anyway?"

  I was imagining the tactical solutions and problems caused by signing Dazza when I replied, "They go surfing."

  "So?"

  "Their ocean's full of sharks and jellyfish. It's crazy. Don't even get me started on the spiders. They don't have any sense of self-preservation and it makes me nervous."

  "He wants to leave Australia, Max."

  I brightened. "That's a point in his favour, isn't it? Yes. Okay... Two-fifty obligation to buy, two grand a week wages."

  "Let's talk goal bonus."

  "Let's not. Two grand, bosh, it's not a tactic, it's my absolute limit, no jokes, pinky swear. Help me make sure MD's on board and you can say you went in hot and heavy with the best in the business and came out with your pride intact."

  Ruth looked around. "Who are you talking to?" She drummed her fingers on the table. "One day I'll have a client who understands not to profess his admiration for you before we negotiate his salary." Her fingers stopped. "Can you do what he wants?"

  "Improving him is trivially easy. He needs to be a cross between Henri and Tom and we know how to coach them. It's not even a challenge."

  "Why do you need to be so glum delivering good news?"

  My eyebrows flickered up. "Yeah. But I need to get to the next level myself, don't I? Ah, don't worry about it. This is going to be great."

  ***

  Me: Hi Adrian, haven't heard from you but I want to let you know I found another striker for this season. I wish you the best of luck with Foquita and I sincerely hope I never have to play against him! Thanks for your time and please keep on the track you're on - it's optimal for both you and him. Cheers, Max.

  ***

  Budget: 25,120 out of 30,000

  One major decision down, one to go.

  I went back down to the Phwoar Room and saw that Ruth had intercepted Dazza and told him that we were going to try to get him to Chester. He was buzzing. Ruth was about to introduce him to MD.

  Two fifty was a decent number, wasn't it? It was right and proper that clubs should have a striker as their transfer record. I could imagine Perth Glory thinking they were getting the better end of the deal, since Dazza wasn't prolific and seemed to be relatively limited in his skill set. Yeah, but not for long. He was right to look beyond his current abilities. I liked that about him; he had a good vibe. He'd do well in our environment.

  I looked at my whiteboard. If Dazza was coming in as a striker, taking up one of my ESC slots, then did I want Vincent Addo (a long-term project DM who could fill in at right back) or Tony Herbert (a really good centre back)?

  Neither would get me any cash this summer and Vincent would only be able to play from January. Who else? There was a good left mid. Maybe I could revisit my thoughts on that matter - but I had to cut corners somewhere.

  The right back with poor decision-making?

  "Max," said Brooke. "Sorry to interrupt. Are we thinking of signing that young man?"

  "Yes. I've wanted him for a long time. He was my top target and that's why he was my first decision."

  "Er, right. Look at this." She took me over to a table where she had laid out a couple of folders. Mr. Banks was nearby - I'd almost forgotten about him - and Brooke handed him a copy. She took the other and opened it.

  The first page was called 'Chester FC New Player Orientation' and inside there was a checklist (In-person welcome; social media welcome; mentor; accommodation; family; health; languages; and so on). For each topic there were colour-coded pages with more detailed information, flowcharts, best practices, even words to avoid using. (Don't say: 'It must be hard leaving the house you grew up in'. Do say: 'You'll be living near an old Roman wall!')

  "They have these at Angel City," she explained. "To make sure new players get everything they need. When there's a new signing these tasks get assigned and people feed back that the tasks are complete until they are all done. Chester try to do this but I always thought the way we do it is too informal and it's too easy for steps to get skipped. Now that we're signing international players we need to be very mindful of how hard it is to settle down in a new country."

  "Right. Your experience is invaluable, Brooke, because I've never done that. It's all bits of admin, right?" I turned to one of the pages. "Right. Look at it! Getting a bank account. A UK phone SIM. This is great. We should have a day where we teach them random things like how to stop a bus."

  "How to stop a bus?" said Brooke, who better knew how to stop a superyacht.

  "You stick your hand out," said Mr. Banks. "They don't do that abroad, that's right."

  "What if you don't stick your hand out?" said Brooke.

  "It doesn't stop," he said. "Sometimes it doesn't stop regardless," he added. He was enjoying this conversation.

  Brooke produced a pen and started writing. "This is great, Max. Oh! What about a day where we take people around Chester and actually show them? We'll give them a buddy and some tasks, like withdraw ten pounds from a cash machine. Stop a bus. Buy a stamp."

  "You'll need more than a tenner for that, the way prices are going," said the crashing bore.

  I experienced a surge of affection for Brooke. In a way it was obvious that something like this should exist but it was the kind of idea I had and then forgot about. She had the idea - or saw it done elsewhere - and actually produced a draft. Once other people saw the draft they would add things that were missing, but someone had to take the first step. Someone had to get the ball moving.

  Well, Dazza had got the ball moving and I could feel myself hitting the groove. "All right!" I said, clapping my hands. "I feel something's about to happen! I'm about to make a decision! Our second ESC slot. And the winner is... Hang on, I have to take this." I stared at my phone for a few seconds. Surprised didn't cover it. "Adrian," I said. "Hi."

  "Hello, Max," said Adrian, agent to Foquita. "I was very surprised to get your message. I feel like perhaps you are playing with me a leetle bit."

  "In what way?"

  "The urgency. There are many weeks to go in the transfer window."

  "Adrian, can I call you right back on video chat?"

  "Video? Yes." I hung up and did as promised. When he saw me, he smiled. "No more yellow hair."

  "Never say never. But never again."

  "Haha."

  "Let me show you something." I switched camera mode so he could see the whiteboard. "This is my Chester men's squad. I haven't finished, actually. I wanted to put Wibbers here on the side to show he's multi-purpose." I scrawled the name there. "I think that's everyone. I keep getting interrupted when I work on it. What I do is I get a few volunteers here on the first of July and try to get all my work done for the summer. Our fans hate it because they like having weeks of drama but I want my squad in place before we go to boot camp."

  Zach called out, "What are we doing this year, boss? More army stuff?"

  "Could be," I said, pointing the camera at the American. "Adrian, that's Zach. We invited him to this room last year and he had to think about it but he signed. Here's Meghan, one of the best young defenders in England." Everyone I mentioned waved and smiled. "This guy's one of the best young goalkeepers in England. Here's our club secretary so that we can get deals signed, sealed, delivered. And this guy was at the World Cup with us. Darren Smith, Australian striker. Oh and his agent, who I just rinsed in the contract negotiations." I turned the camera back into selfie mode and wandered off into a different room. "So I'm not playing with you, Adrian. I'm going to sign four or five players today and that's going to be that."

  "Max, this is not normal."

  I scratched the side of my nose. "If I did things the normal way this club would be in the seventh level of English football. As it is, next season we'll be in the third."

  Adrian looked worried. "I see you are sincere. You signed a striker?"

  "I need my boss to agree to the numbers. It would be easier if we hadn't overspent on the training ground but it's not a serious amount of money. I think it will be okay."

  "And you are happy with him?"

  "The striker? I mean he wasn't my first choice, as you know, but I just had a chat with him and he's one of those guys who's nothing like how they look. I think he'll be a big hit, yeah. Especially from set pieces. Woof!"

  "Do you still want Foquita?"

  Whoa now. "Hang on. What? I mean, yes. No question. He was my top target. I thought I blew it with his mother."

  "You did not blow it. She had, shall we say, mixed feelings but she only wants her son to be safe when he is away. The fact you were in the stadium to see your young player was a big point in your favour. The fact you were so ferocious in your defence of him was one thousand points in your favour. The fact you would not sell him at any price was the deciding factor."

  "You only went up to five million," I laughed. "Wait, that was Bassco."

  "We were all there, Max. Maria wanted to hear for herself. She feels good with you. But now I'm worried you have too many strikers."

  "My assistant wants to play 3-4-3. If I sign Dazza and Foquita I'll probably end up playing a lot of 4-3-3 with three central strikers. Maybe 4-3-1-2 with Wibbers behind. Oh, God. Adrian, I'm salivating. What do I have to do to get this deal over the line?"

  "Nothing. It's done. If you need everything signed by today..."

  "If I have your word then no."

  "You have my word."

  "Holy shit," I said, heart pounding. PA 190. PA 190! "Er, but soon though?"

  Adrian's smile got super big. "Soon, Max! Now that we understand how you operate we will get serious."

  "Wait," I said, trying to get a grip on what was happening. "This is all because I did a pitch invasion and shoved a hot dog up a lens? What happened to crime doesn't pay?"

  "It was a crime of passion," laughed Adrian. "But that was not the only reason."

  "What else?"

  "Money!" He laughed. "We must negotiate my fee separately. But the final point was the first point. Foquita is as superstitious as his mother."

  "What's that got to do with it?"

  Adrian smiled. "When we read about you, we read that Chester is known as the Seals. Foquita means 'the little seal'. There you have it. Written in the stars. Congratulations, Max. Foquita will wear a blue and white shirt in January."

  ***

  Budget: 27,120 out of 30,000

  I stormed back into the Phwoar Room and jogged around demanding high fives. "Let's all sing Max Best songs!" I suggested. "Fucking come on!"

  "What happened?" said Brooke.

  "We just went stratospheric," I said. "I want to fucking kick something! Argh!" I looked around for something to do violence to.

  "But what?" said Brooke.

  I jabbed my finger in her direction. I was feeling some of her fizz now. "That's Chesterness. When one guy's down, someone else is up. We get through this together. I just signed two of the best strikers from the under 20 World Cup. We are going to fuck some teams up this year!" I laughed maniacally. "Christ! Where's Sandra? Sandra! Get your 3-4-3 hat on when you're out in Switzerland. Your 4-3-3, too. Narrow strikers. One hench boofhead, one warrior poet, one massive fucking seal! Argh!"

  The pressure in my head was rising and I felt like it might burst. I had to make more decisions to open the valves.

  "Banksy! Get on the bus right now while I've still got budget."

  He was grinning - they all were. "I'm in, boss."

  I scrubbed out the question marks at the bottom of the whiteboard and wrote Banksy.

  Budget: 27,620 out of 30,000

  "Argh!" I said again. My head was about to explode and I loved the feeling. I dialled and the recipient of my call picked up right away. "Lee! It's Max. Get your coat, you've pulled. No filming at Bumpers or the Deva. All right? Get down here today. Yeah, right now." I hung up. "Get in!"

  I wrote L Contreras in the middle of the pitch.

  Budget: 29,620 out of 30,000

  "Max!" cried Sandra. "We've got no budget left and there's no right back!"

  I stared in horror at the whiteboard. She was right. Holy fuck what had I done?

  Brooke was on the ball. "The Peruvian isn't coming till January, right?"

  "That's right!" I said, all the way back on the crest of a wave. Surfing in a sea with no jellyfish and only one shark - me.

  Budget: 27,620 out of 30,000

  "That was the plan. He comes in January and we'll have more budget by then, won't we Brooke?"

  "You better believe it."

  "We're gonna sell Josh Throw-ins merch and Butcher of Burnage sausages. We're gonna have cup runs and pitch income. We'll cover it, MD, don't you worry. Yes, we can afford a right back." I had a few options but they were solid League Two pros, nothing spectacular, but they would do a job for a year. I mentally assigned a thousand a week to the slot.

  Budget: 28,620 out of 30,000

  With the squad one phone call away from completion, I had just over a thousand left in my budget. Pascal needed - nay, deserved - a pay rise, as did Youngster, Wibbers, and Magnus. There wouldn't be much left for anyone else. I would have to manage everyone's expectations until we got comfortable enough for MD to release the purse strings. That could get tricky...

  But my brain kept fizzing with ideas. "Whoa!" I said. "Brooke, I want the gym done first. Get me a super gym."

  "Got it," she said. "Why the gym?"

  "Because player development is the most important thing. We'll make more money selling Dazza than selling a few extra beers. Won't we mate?"

  "I guess?" he said.

  "That's the spirit! And maybe with a proper facility we can get Zach's abs straight."

  "Pardon me?"

  I snapped my head to the right. "Brig?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "What's the nearest army unit to here? Er, in Wales, I mean?"

  "Oh?" He furrowed his brow. "That would be 3 R Welsh, I believe, sir. A Company."

  "A Company, B Company, it's all perfect," I said.

  "They're based in Wrexham," he said.

  I smiled wider. "Better than perfect. Brooke, I want to teach 3 R Welsh A Company how to play football. I'm doing my UEFA A licence this year and I'm doing it in Wales and they will be my guinea pigs. I want them in Saltney twice a week. Can you co-ordinate with Gwen and the Brig and whoever to make it happen?"

  "Sir," said the Brig. "Are you sure? You have your youth teams to experiment on."

  "Those guys are gonna learn space-age football. They're called the 3 Rs, did you say? Forget reading, writing, and arithmetic. I'm gonna teach them relationism, er... recovery runs, and..."

  "Recycling possession," said Meghan.

  She got a big high five. "Yes! Yes, mate! Holy shit they're gonna love it."

  "I honestly think they would prefer to learn to do 4-4-2 better, sir."

  "They don't get a choice. They're in the army and they do what they're told. Brooke, are you happy with that?"

  "Very happy, Max."

  MD said, "Are you going to ask me if I'm happy, Max?"

  "No because I know the answer. You'll be dancing on the pitch at the end of the season, though. I can promise you that."

  He smiled with tight lips. We were sailing pretty close to the wind financially, but were juuuust the right side of reckless.

  "Right, let me check all this. We've got a killer squad that's going to get better. Oh, Tranmere!" I fired a text to Mateo telling him to buy Tony Herbert, then one to Vincent Addo saying simply, 'Saltney.' "We've got a killer squad. The training ground is what it is but it will have one gorgeous section and three superb pitches. Okay. I'm doing my badges with a relationist twist and earning that grant money, big time. Banksy's gonna play for England, Dazza's gonna play for Oz, Zach's gonna lose a race."

  "I'm gonna what?"

  I looked at Dazza. The Aussie said, "The boss said he thought you'd beat me in a race. I think he was joking, maybe."

  Zach got a steely look about him. "Why would you think he was joking?"

  "Just coz you're a centre back, mate. I don't mean nothing by it."

  Zach was as unblinking as a prehistoric megashrimp. "How many laps you wanna do?"

  I decided to calm things down. "Two, obviously. But listen, wouldn't it be cool if you wore the new kit? No photos, anyone! It wouldn't go down well if Dazza's club saw him in another team's kit." I bent and pulled out a bag with loads of shirts still in their wrappings. "All right. Seems to be a yearly tradition, this. Tops off, lads." Both dudes whipped their shirts off within two seconds of me suggesting it and held their hands out for the new garb. Meghan collected what they had been wearing. "You know what?" I said, frowning. "These are the women's cuts. Oh, well, it's a nice sunny day. Just like Texas. Just like Oz. Makes you feel right at home, don't it? Okay, let's run a fucking race, guys! Let's go!"

  Meghan headed out towards the pitch, pushing her way through the first set of double doors. We followed in a line with Brooke and I at the end.

  "Hey," I whispered.

  "What?" she whispered back.

  "I got you a present for all your hard work."

  She opened her mouth to speak, but then we were emerging onto the pitch where two hot young things were already doing over-the-top stretches that showed off their abs, guns, and buns.

  "This," she said, "is inappropriate. They wouldn't do this at Orlando City."

  I nodded slowly. "Want me to get them to stop?"

  She sighed. "No, Max. I want you to make them do widths, not laps." I smiled. Laps was stupid - you couldn't get a good eyeful if they were in the far corners. "And I want a cold drink."

  "I'll get you a fizzy pop," I said.

  She raised one eyebrow. "You're gonna get me a drink?"

  "Absolutely I am." I described a circle with my finger taking in the stadium. "I need your help doing all this. You can achieve your goals without me. It's not true the other way round."

  She seemed to get thoughtful and after a pause, opened her lips. I prepared to hear something unbelievably profound. Life-changing, even. "Keh." It was a hard little coughing sound. "Keh. Mouth so dry. Keh."

  I grinned. "I knew you were still thirsty."

  That made her stretch out her fingers in frustration, as though she wanted to strangle me, but she had to concede that I had absolutely done her with that one.

  "Banksy," I called out, and jerked my head indicating that he should come to me. "I need to carry loads of cold drinks out here. Need a safe pair of hands. You in?"

  "I'm in," he said, jogging to catch up. I gave him a playful little push and we jogged through the stadium to raid the Blues Bar. I made him create a sort of cradle with his arms and loaded drinks into the space - far more than we were ever going to drink, just because it was funny.

  "You might make your debut soon," I said.

  "What really?"

  "Yeah. How do you fancy playing against Slovakia?"

  He staggered and one of the cans slid, agonisingly slowly, until it teetered on the edge of disaster. I nabbed it, pulled the ring, and drank deeply. "Ah," I said. "Life's pretty good sometimes. Don't you think?"