13.

  On average, a footballer sustains two injuries per season, missing 23 days of action. Contact injuries represent 30% of cases. Hamstrings account for over 40% of soft tissue and muscular injuries.

  ***

  Monday, August 11

  "All right, lads, settle down. I've decided we're going to bin off the usual drills - it's time for us to learn Relationism. It's going to be strange at first but when it clicks we're going to be an unstoppable force. Relationism is new for some of you, so here's Margot Robbie in a bubble bath to explain."

  I sipped my tea.

  "Max?" It was Henri.

  I woke from my reverie and remembered where I was - BoshCard HQ. There was no bubble bath, no champagne, and - well, there was a blonde Australian. "I was just thinking about The Big Short."

  "Is that your favourite movie?" said Youngster, with a big smile.

  "No, but we're doing a financial planning talk soon, so..." I took a big sip of tea and pushed myself off the wall. This meeting could probably have been done as a long WhatsApp message but it was good to have rituals. If we skipped a Monday meeting it would discombobulate the lads, and the last thing I wanted was to get a phone call from a local farmer saying twenty lost and confused players had wandered into his field.

  "All right," I said, and Christian glared at everyone until there was quiet. "Some admin. We got some soft tissue injuries on Saturday and as far as I can tell they happened celebrating the second goal." The lads smiled as they relived the moment. "I know it's a mad release of all the crap that's built up but we can't get injured celebrating goals. We don't have the resources, guys. Can you just? Can you not? Sometimes I can't even. If you've got a dodgy hamstring today tell Dean. The yoga lady is here at Bosh this lunchtime and I might ask if she can come in the morning, too. Quite fancy a bit of the old yogs right now. I've invented a new pose I call the Celebrating Seal. Doesn't involve pulling a hammie or getting a groin strain or any kind of injury. Really modern stuff, this.

  "Our new home kit sold out. We're talking to Grindhog about getting more, or not. Brooke thinks it might not be worth doing another run and we'll build demand for the next release, but that's supposed to be in two years. Also, if we don't stock up, counterfeiters will come in. So... I don't know, my instinct is to get more but that's up the air at the moment. I know you guys are being hassled for kits - just say we're sold out and you're not sure what's going to happen next. I think the unexpected demand shows that this city is ready for another good season. We give it to the fans, they'll respond, you know what I mean?

  "Tomorrow night is Bolton away. I'll come back to that, but in short it's normal training today, chilled out in the morning, board Sealbiscuit around 3.

  "Saturday we're home to Burton Albion, who just came down from League One. In theory they should be a fair chunk better than Fleetwood but I've seen some of the players they've lost and who they replaced them with and they're much weaker. They're still one of the very best teams in the league so it'll be tough, but if you play like you did against Fleetwood we'll be in with a shot, won't we? It'll be another party atmosphere at the Deva so be prepared for a strange day and whatever the score is, the fans are gonna be in the mood for a lap of honour so final whistle, whatever mood you're in, fucking flip that switch and go applaud the mob.

  "Similar note. Remember I sent out a video asking for donations for the department at the Cheshire FA that runs schools football? The response was massive and the number of schools putting up teams is up 40% or something mad. So that's great but I really want to strike while the iron is hot on that whole thing so the guy, Richard, is going to be our guest of honour on Saturday. I'm thinking three of you get to do bits with him for your socials. Take him round the inner sanctum, introduce him to the Chester Chatters, photos of you, him, and the kids we scouted playing for their schools. You can build your brands being associated with good people doing good things, right? Talk to Christian if you want to get in on that. Yes, Lee, you're allowed. Actually, you'd be perfect for that, wouldn't you? Get stuck in.

  "Okay, Bolton. First thing is they've got a beautiful stadium, 28,000, and we expect about 9,000 attendance. Pretty decent, right? But they normally get 22,000 and of this 9,000, five thousand will be Chester fans." That provoked a stir. "I know. We're going to outnumber the home fans and it's going to be mental. Why have we sold so many tickets? This is our return to the big time, isn't it? First of all, it's the AOK Cup and you need to be in the football league to play in that. Right? So it's already, like, a novelty. Second, it's Bolton. Founding members of the Football League, four-times FA Cup winners, Nat Lofthouse, some of the most delicious footy scran in the land, and best of all, it's only an hour away. See the game, couple of pints on the coach home, back in bed by 11. It's a perfect Tuesday night out, isn't it? I mean, the demand for tickets sort of hints that maybe our fans aren't convinced they'll see another AOK match in the next two decades, but I don't mind that. It's up to us to show them we belong at this level, isn't it?

  "Yeah but anyway, it's going to be noisy as fuck so get excited. This is huge, lads.

  "Okay, what about Bolton, the team? They've been in the shit in recent times but they clawed their way back to the Championship, just about, and they're holding on by their fingernails. They spent a long time doing three at the back; some 3-5-2, some 3-4-3, loads of variants.

  "Their current manager likes four at the back. Okay, no problem there, except he doesn't have the squad for it. He's trying to change course but he's blocked the canal and he's in the shit and the fans are turning - the ones that haven't already turned. So even if he only rests a few lads against us, we might find there are juicy targets to aim at. Example: his backup fullbacks are likely to be centre-backs shunted out to the sides and Pascal and Sharky will fucking do them.

  "I'm getting ahead of myself. Expect Bolton 4-3-3, home advantage, lots of talented players, better than Fleetwood." By my reckoning, Bolton must have been in the CA 110-115 range. They would win League One but were out of their depth in the Championship - something for Chester to aspire to. "Okay? So we start with 5-3-2 and we - Vimsy?"

  "Keep things tight."

  "Let me tell you now, our subs are going to be key to this. We'll start, ah, inexperienced, and in the hour before kickoff their analysts will look at our team sheet going who the fuck is this? No offence, Sunday." The young man smiled - I could tease him all I wanted if he started a big cup match. "New guys, one of the things we do here is let big oppos get complacent and as soon as their temperature drops we turn up the heat. Bolton will start strong and get weaker as they make subs, we'll do the opposite, and, yeah, as long as we don't get blown away at the very start, we really have a chance to dick them at the end."

  "How long will I get?" said Sunday, whose pleasure at being picked had diminished rapidly when he realised he would be subbed off unusually early.

  "Ten to fifteen minutes," I said. Sunday pulled a face. Mine hardened. "You don't like it?"

  Henri reached out and put his hand on Sunday's shoulder. "I'll explain it to him, Max. It's okay."

  I was mollified - slightly. "It better be okay because I'm picking a team to win this match and if there's anyone who doesn't want to be part of the biggest shock of the round, let me know now."

  Sunday was too busy regretting some of his life choices to speak, so once again Henri took over, speaking in a slightly soothing tone. "We all want to play, Max, and we will carry out your plan to the best of our ability. If we are not selected we will train hard to be ready for Burton Albion."

  I rubbed my forehead, partly to relax and partly to see if any veins were about to burst. From daydreams about beautiful women in bathtubs to Exit Triallists pulling faces at being given minutes in a huge cup tie. To guys I'd plucked from the beach demanding lobster money. Stupidity was creeping back into our preparations, our play, our goal celebrations. We had only been back in the EFL for five minutes and egos were already inflating out of proportion to on-pitch achievement.

  Before I could properly melt down, Sandra stepped into 'centre stage'. She moved the magnets on our tactics board into a 5-3-2 formation.

  "The boss and I are going to finalise the line up and tell you after the sesh, but we're going to do something like we did against Fleetwood. Start really solid then open up. Almost certainly we'll use young players to take the shine off the ball, as they say in cricket. It's hard work, lads, and to the outside world it seems a bit mad but it's part of the process and it's why we're in tier four instead of tier seven. Okay?"

  The young lads I wanted to use early on were Sunday, Tom, and Omari.

  Soon, I would send Omari to Saltney on loan, but there were potentially five more matches in August before the transfer window closed and I wanted to give him some minutes to show we valued him and he wasn't just some object we chucked around like a hot potato. He was a lot more useful to me right now than Sunday fucking Sowunmi, that was for sure.

  Sandra moved one magnet. "As we get into the game, having weathered the early storm, we move to 4-1-3-2, sliding the central CM to DM, like we did against Fleetwood. The boss wants to bring Youngster and Pascal on, not start them, because he's convinced Bolton won't be expecting that and those guys will play out of their skin once they've had ten, twenty minutes to analyse the oppo. And if you've been around long enough, you'll know the boss is normally right. Second half, when Bolton have had fifteen minutes to regroup and adjust to how we finished the first half, we whip out Henri and Dazza and see how they like that. Spoiler alert - they won't. Last change, as per, about twenty minutes to go, the boss. We loosen the jar so he can feel strong when he opens it, yeah?"

  She looked at me to see if I had anything I wanted to add, but I didn't. I had just come to a decision. Yes, we had hit a tipping point and there was no doubt about it - I didn't like footballers.

  "Okay, lads," said Sandra. "Let's get to it."

  They stood and shuffled out while I ground my teeth together. Sunday hesitated and took a step towards me. Both Henri and Youngster intercepted him and pulled him to join the stream. Sandra spoke to Well In, then came over to me. "You're hangry."

  "I'm not hangry. I'm disappointed."

  "Let's get you a smashed avocado on toast and we'll finalise the team."

  "You asked Well In to take training?"

  "The start, yeah. Won't take long to decide, will it?"

  I scratched my jaw. "No." We had plenty of options, most of which would crash and burn against a Championship team, leaving us with maybe three valid formations to choose from. But the AOK Cup allowed us to name NINE subs and we could use five. I had a perk called Bench Boost which made my subs play better; I could use it once per season per competition. Deploying Bench Boost and Triple Captain against Bolton was a no-brainer. If Bolton rested a few players and my reserves kept things tight while five stars lurked on our bench, I gave us a fifty-fifty shot at winning the tie. But even with the added complexity of thinking about who should start and who should come on - and in which formation - it wouldn't take more than five minutes to hash it out. "No, it's a piece of piss. Been here before, haven't we?"

  "Sunday hasn't."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Most people, Max, don't know about this surprise subs thing you do. He has come from a club culture where being subbed off after ten minutes is a humiliation."

  "But ten minutes at the end is good?"

  "Yes. Come on, you know this. Don't pretend what you do isn't weird and his reaction isn't completely normal."

  "He gave up the right to assume things will be normal the moment he signed his contract," I said, loftily.

  "Is Emma around?"

  "She's working from home, but she'll come at lunch for the yogs."

  "Oh, good."

  "What?"

  "You always cheer up when she's around."

  ***

  Aided by our head of marketing, who had stopped by for breakfast, Sandra and I spent a while workshopping scenarios and running ideas up flagpoles to see if anything resonated. Then Brooke left the area and we got back to 'having a think', as it used to be called.

  I started at the end. 4-1-3-2. Ben; my first-choice back four; Youngster; me, Lee, and Pascal in midfield; Henri and Dazza in attack. That would give us a CA of 72.4, and if I could use Bench Boost on Youngster, me, Pascal, Henri, and Dazza, we would be pretty potent going forward.

  Ben's head had cleared, and while his morale was still bad, it was trending upwards and if I told him today that he'd definitely be playing, it could get to neutral by the morning. The rest of that eleven was fit and raring to go.

  So if that was the ideal ending eleven and I knew which players I wanted to bring on, then...

  "We start with Sunday, Ryan Jack, Omari, Wibbers, and Tom." I shook my head. "This is magical. I am a wizard. This is a masterpiece. Don't you think?"

  "You know me. I love a starting eleven with an average age lower than Man City under 16s."

  "It's not that bad," I said. "Omari, Tom, and Wibbers are battle hardened. No, nothing can go wrong with this," I said, as is tradition. "I defy the gods," I would have added, if I had thought about it. I chose to ignore the 58.3 average CA of my starting eleven. Anyway, even if we somehow bombed, sixteen players would get yet another big CA kick because of this experience.

  Speaking of improving, Well In was getting some good green from the group, so I suggested to Sandra she leave him in charge for the rest of the morning.

  We went up to my office and after a couple of minutes, someone knocked on the door.

  "Come in, Sunday," said Sandra.

  "Oh." Sunday was in his socks - remembering to take his boots off when he came in got him a relationship point. He took a minuscule step into the room and scratched his neck. "Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to say that I thought I felt something, like, in my hammy. Not bad but a bit weird and I thought it might be good to let you know."

  I pretended to be concerned. Pretended not because I'm a horrible prick, which I'm not - other opinions are available - but because the curse was giving him a clean bill of health. It was possible that something might show up on his player profile tomorrow, but I was pretty sure I knew what was happening. "That's a shame. You're supposed to talk to Dean, though, not me. I'm actually very busy and important."

  "Right, yes. Yes, boss."

  "It's a shame you'll miss your debut," I mused. "Are you sure you felt a tweak?"

  He looked absolutely wretched for a second, but recovered. "Yes. I think so. Like a pre-tweak."

  "Hmm. Okay, well, prevention is better than cure. A few days off is better than a few months out, so take it easy today, yeah? And who knows? Maybe tomorrow morning it'll be fine and you can play after all."

  "Oh. Oh!" He smiled, but then got sombre again. "Yes, boss. Hope so."

  "Mmm," I said, clicking my very important mouse on a very important document.

  Sandra gestured that Sunday should leave, and I heard his socks on the carpet and the fire doors flap closed at the entrance to the staircase.

  "Sandra," I whispered, giddily rushing to the side of the window, peering through my blinds. Sandra came beside me, also out of sight.

  "What is it?"

  "Ha, look!"

  Youngster was waiting for Sunday. He was 'hiding' behind a lamppost, which only drew more attention to him. He and Sunday had an urgent conversation. Youngster shook his head and pushed Sunday back inside - towards the medical room - before he himself jogged away towards the training pitch.

  Sandra laughed and moved away. "How to get back in your good books, lesson one. No chance he has an injury for real?"

  "No."

  Sandra shook her head. "That was cute."

  I tried to look angry. "It's not cute; they're wasting Dean's time."

  Sandra opened her mouth to defend the lads, but she was far too good at reading my face sometimes. "It was cute and it cheered you all the way up."

  ***

  I wandered out to watch the last ten minutes of the session while getting some fresh air.

  Well In had set up a really interesting drill that had people flocking around the ball in little groups and for a second I thought he was doing some Relationism, but it turned out to be a variation on a positional play standard. Strange how the extremes of a line seemed to curve and almost touch each other.

  "You okay, boss?" It was Dan Badford. He was such an oddball - I couldn't even decide if he was extrovert or introvert.

  "Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs personality test?"

  He put his hands up. "I left it where it was, boss, I promise."

  I laughed. "You cheeky fuck."

  Well In wandered over, wondering why one of his players was out of the drill. He might have shouted at Dan to get back had it been anyone other than me distracting him. "Everything good over here?"

  I shook my head and pointed at Dan's shins. Like a lot of silky-smooth playmakers, he wore teeny tiny shinpads and rolled his socks down. It was a show of bravado mixed with a distaste for the aesthetic of the full-length sock. I'd tried to get him to protect himself properly but he felt he couldn't be himself with big shinpads and a long sock. "We're just talking about Chekhov's shinpads over here."

  Well In sniffed. "Thinks he's Alberto Tarantini, he does."

  'Who?' I thought. I was a student of the game but that was a new name - possibly made up. I would check it later. "Thinks he's Cyrille Regis, he does," I said.

  "Thinks he's Emlyn Hughes in the 1971 cup final, he does," said Well In. He was miles better at this game than me! So specific.

  "Thinks he's Rui Costa, he does," I said, which drew a raised eyebrow of appreciation from my opponent.

  "What's a Chekhov's shinpad?" said Dan, ruining the game.

  I tutted. "It's where we talk about you not being protected in the first act and you get your leg cracked open in the third act. All right?"

  "Okay," he said, confused, "but what's an act?"

  Well In roared. "This lad," he said, ruffing Dan's hair. "He's very funny. Very funny, he is."

  ***

  The yoga students were a strange old mix. Emma and I were already on different ends of the 'person who does yoga' scale, though when I became a professional footballer I became a lot more interested in anything that would keep my core strength up, keep me flexible, and keep me in rooms full of hot women.

  There was also Dan and Pascal, also on different ends of the 'person who does yoga' scale, though perhaps the opposite end to the one you'd think. Pascal had been to more lessons than anyone, and while Dan seemed like the type to gravitate towards quiet, reflective pastimes, he had to be pushed by the physios to do his stretches and eat his kale. He seemed unbothered about having a long career, but then again, I couldn't really get a read on him.

  We also had some randos from BoshCard.

  I liked yoga - it was easy enough that I could do the poses, while hard enough it made me concentrate. After an hour I normally felt refreshed and clear-headed.

  This time, though, there was a fair amount of hero worship to deal with. When we were doing Extended Side Angles, Pascal was recounting all the amazing things I'd done in my cameo against Fleetwood. At least six times I ordered him to stop but he flat-out disobeyed me (or maybe he didn't hear me, not sure). Finally, we moved on to a topic that was more interesting.

  "Do you think I can ever be as good as you?" said Pascal.

  "As good as I was against Fleetwood?" I thought about it. Pascal's PA was 133 while my CA was almost certainly in the region of 100. 110 maybe. Pascal would need to 'waste' loads of points in order to build his physical profile to withstand the ravages of 90 minute games and 46 game seasons, but when he was maxed out he would be fucking mint. "Yeah, for sure. I wasn't that good, you know. It was flashy more than anything."

  "Come on," said one of the BoshCard randos. "You scored two goals. Got us a point."

  "No, look," I said. "I did a few stepovers, a nutmeg, scored against a goalie who hadn't been in the game for over an hour. Do you know what I mean? You can do twenty nutmegs without affecting the game. Can you run around a lot and be as effective as me? Yes because honestly most of what I did wasn't effective. What it was, was annoying. That's my superpower - I'm slappable. Aren't I, babes?"

  "Uh," she said, because her core strength was dogshit and she had to focus.

  "Yeah that John Allen went absolutely tonto, didn't he? It's like his manager showed them footage of me clowning around and said 'are you gonna let him do that here in our gaff?' It must have been something like that, right?" I took a deep breath to settle my heart rate; I didn't want to bring my hatred of John Allen and his manager into my lovely yogaland. "The real answer, Pascal, is yes, you can be better than I am now. To be totes honest, I hope that when you catch me up I'll have moved on a bit, if you know what I mean. Like that Greek turtle that can't be hit by an arrow."

  "Random," said Dan. We eased into a Cobbler's Pose as Sandra Lane came in, slightly flustered, apologising for being late. Once we'd settled, Dan was next to speak. "Boss, if you don't mind me saying, you've been out of sorts."

  "Shit," I said. "Our sports psychologist has killed Dan and put his face over his face."

  "Max," complained Emma. "Can you stop talking about face swaps, please? Otherwise we're never watching Face/Off again."

  "I was referencing Silence of the Lambs, but okay."

  Dan waited for us to finish, then continued. "I just... I was talking to my mum about it - well, I just said someone at work is acting strange and described it a bit - and she said 'oh, he sounds depressed'. And I'm just wondering if there's anything you need or anything because I know people aren't making it easier for you but even so, you're normally a bit more zen."

  "Who, Max?" said Pascal, with shocking disloyalty.

  Dan twisted his neck left and right and settled back into the pose. "If it's just there's so much going on because of Bumpers and the new league and his phone's still blowing up because of the transfer window, then yeah, that's normal, right, but I don't think it's that because it's like he doesn't even like football any more."

  Perceptive little shit!

  "I like football," I said. "I don't like footballers."

  "Max," said Emma. She didn't like it when I talked about my players like that, unless I really needed to vent after a hard match. Then I was allowed, but not in the middle of the day when she was trying to keep her abductors aligned or whatever.

  I smiled. "Yeah, okay. Maybe it's more the opposite. I did some Relationism stuff in Brazil and it was amazing. Addictive."

  "Addictive?" said Dan.

  "Yeah it's like a rondo, right, but it's eight against two in a small part of the pitch and you're just taking the piss and then they send more bodies in and it's eight against three, four, five, six, but if you've got balls you can keep it going and when you get stuck you can go back to your free man and he sends the ball back into the blob and you start again and it's so disheartening for the oppo and you're laughing your head off. I've never done nitrous oxide and I never will but there's no way laughing gas is as fun as zipping the ball in a tight space while you get closer to goal. It is so for me. I was garbage at first but it's so for me."

  Dan and Pascal looked at each other, excited. Pascal said, "When are you going to teach us?"

  "First, it's not something I teach you. It's something we learn together. Second, I'm not doing it with the first team. Pascal, you're a positional play natural. If I fill your head with this mumbo jumbo it might stop you reaching your potential and I can't risk that."

  Emma's shape collapsed. "It was fine with Henri," she said, before reassembling herself.

  It was true - Henri's profile hadn't changed, as far as I could tell, but he had only had a few sessions in Brazil. "I'm willing to experiment on myself, and yes, on Henri, because for him a new experience is as valuable as, you know, fifty grand in the bank or whatever. But I'm completely risk-averse when it comes to you guys. I'm starting on the Welsh lads because they're abysmal anyway so it doesn't matter if I ruin them."

  "I heard about that," said Dan. "How's that going?"

  "Um, I'm not the kind of person to blow my own trumpet but I would describe it as incredibly sensational," I said. I laughed as my body started to complain about the pressure I was putting on it. I focused for ten seconds and felt the cleansing happen. "Early results are promising but I'm not quite ready to start with the boys."

  "Which boys?" said Pascal.

  "Dan and those oiks," I said. "I think Dan might be the player at the club most likely to succeed at Relationism, so that's good, but mostly I want to use it as a mind fuck to absolutely destroy a Premier League team in the Youth Cup. We won't play one until December at the earliest, if I have my dates right, so that's plenty of time to get started and try it out in a couple of games against minnows."

  We finished that pose and changed again, this time to the Happy Baby Gurgle.

  Dan had more to say. "Sorry, boss, for being all, you know, nosy, but you didn't answer my question, I don't think."

  "What was your question?"

  "I suppose it's, why don't you like football?"

  "Oh, I do," I said, waving my feet around like a contented baby or an upside-down cyclist. "What it is, right, is when I'm managing you lot I'm like a floating megabrain. It's chess, really, but chess that I'm good at. Do you know what I mean? It's kind of shit to think about it like that because you're not pieces, you're people, but that's how I win. That's how we'll beat Bolton. The less I care about your feelings - I mean, Sunday is right to be annoyed that he starts and gets whipped off right away, isn't he?"

  "Yes," said Dan and Sandra.

  "No," said Pascal.

  I smiled. It was always interesting when people gave different answers at the same time. "The less I care about your feelings the better the chance to win. You're robots, do what you're told. Okay, so we will have a glorious season based on my creativity and analytical skills and the fact that I'm a shit boss and an unfeeling monster isn't just irrelevant but celebrated. It's not really what... But Relationism, right, as a manager it's like I'm saying to my players okay I trust you and believe in you and you can interpret the general principles I give you. Right? It's more human. And as a player, when you're in the middle of the blob you've got to focus. I can't tune out and think 'hmm Eddie could be a few paces forward over there'. No! You've got to be in your blob being part of the blob otherwise the blob collapses."

  "You like saying blob, don't you?" said the yoga teacher.

  "He really does," said Sandra.

  "Am I being too loud?"

  The yoga teacher gave me a mystical look, one handed down through a hundred generations of practitioners, and said, "You can say we're going to beat Bolton a lot louder, if you like."

  The class cheered.

  Emma gave me a proud look, then sank back into her pose. I looked at Dan. "I got a big new idea this summer and I'm working hard not to let it overtake my brain - and the club. I'm trying to, like, have a healthy outlet for Relationism while I do my responsibilities the best I can, and doing that means positional play. So what we're doing every day, you know, all that 'if he goes there you go there' stuff, that's like, my duty, but not my passion. I still enjoy it. The worst times are a billion times better than working for a soulless financial institution - no offence BoshCarders. I get to make a difference in people's lives and I'm hitting the ball well and I feel as sharp as I have since the murder. Yeah things are fine but if it was, like, the pandemic again and I thought the season would be cancelled in a couple of weeks and there was no-one at the stadiums, we would be playing a 1-blob-1 formation and our line up would be most of the youth team with me running around literally cackling for ninety minutes."

  Pascal let out a chuckle. "Sandra wouldn't let you."

  She considered it. "I think I'd like to see it. I'd want another job lined up, just in case."

  Dan had a dreamy look about him. "I can't wait to get in the blob."

  "Yeah, well, it won't be long, I don't think. The army guys have a six-a-side tournament soon and if we don't humiliate ourselves there I'll try it out at eleven-a-side. It's gonna be wild whatever happens and I'm looking forward to it. Maybe too much, to be honest, because I did nearly fly off the handle with Sowunmi and I didn't mean to." I thought about that failure for a second but let it go; I couldn't be good at everything. "Here at Chester, we're never going to do pure Relationism. It'll be a hybrid, so you need to learn what you're being taught. It's like, if I want to study maths with you in Chinese, do we learn maths first, or Chinese?"

  "Maths," said Dan.

  "Chinese," said Pascal.

  "I'd change schools," said Sandra, which drew a snort from Emma.

  I laughed. "Okay shush now. I need to get my zen on."

  ***

  Tuesday, August 12

  AOK Cup First Round - Bolton Wanderers versus Chester FC

  An hour before kick-off, I hopped, skipped, and almost jumped into the dressing room.

  I was hyper.

  "Holy shit, guys. Holy shit." I paced around while they shut up. The shutting up came faster than it had since we came back from our summer breaks. Progress! "Quick recap. AOK Cup, named after the low-cost airline. Man of the match gets a first class ticket to Dubai. That's worth twenty-nine pounds. Ignore that last bit, I just made it up. This is what used to be called the League Cup; a cup played by teams in the league, whereas the FA Cup was for every team in the country. Tonight's a straight knock-out. 90 minutes, no extra time, straight to penalties. Yeah? I've got an idea for a scam where we pretend to be playing for penalties and they come at us in the last ten and we dick them on counters, but I really don't think it's gonna come to that. We're gonna fucking smash them! I can't believe the team they've put out. I honestly can't believe it."

  I was grinning from ear to ear as I strode to the tactics board in the spacious away dressing room. Despite players having tons of storage space, with two shelves and room under the bench, I nearly tripped over Sunday Sowunmi's kit bag. I glared at him and nearly unleashed a hairdryer - are you trying to get someone injured you stupid twat? - but I had handed in the team sheet and didn't want to trash his morale. I also wanted to give his teammates the chance to correct his behaviour. How had they let that happen? Glenn would have spotted it immediately - Christian, Zach, and the senior players needed to do better.

  The magnets.

  The magnets cheered me all the way back up. I swizzed them around and compared what I was seeing in the curse screens to Bolton's player profiles.

  "4-3-3 like I thought. There are some really good managers in the EFL but this clown ain't one of them. Christ, this is going to be brutal today. Totally unfair. It's like we're playing Fleetwood Mac with all their players in the wrong places."

  "Fleetwood Town," said Vimsy.

  "Yeah," I said, double-checking what the curse was showing me. Okay, Bolton's average CA would be around 90 but it wasn't a very optimised 90. Even with Bench Boost, we really, really shouldn't have been in with a chance against a Championship side. It couldn't be this easy, could it? Surely there was a trap lurking somewhere? "Okay the goalie's fine. He's their second-choice but he'll be right up for this. He'll see it as a way back into the first team."

  I realised I was accidentally describing Ben and nearly hurried on, but saw an opportunity for a subtle bit of guidance.

  "What managers want from their goalies in that sitch is to stay calm, treat it like a normal game, but don't be surprised if this guy tries to be flashy. If he can get himself on the highlights the fans will be in their WhatsApp groups saying he should be back in the team." I shook my head. "That's not what he should do. Just be solid! We'll see. The defence is a fucking shambles. Well, shambles is harsh but this is fucking Bolton Wanderers, do you know what I mean? Nat Lofthouse, the Lion of Vienna. Jay Jay Okocha. Twenty thousand average attendance. You cannot be this shit. I mean, what the fuck. So the two centre backs are okay, I suppose. One old guy, one young buck. But the old one's knackered. He's so slow, guys! He might be the slowest player I've ever seen, and I've seen Ryan Jack."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Thanks, boss."

  "The right back is a centre back. A pure centre back like Christian, not a double threat like Lee H. We can't do much with that at the start but Wibbers, try and have a run at him. The left back - get ready for this, it'll blow your mind - is a right back. Yes! Four right-footers across the back line. The manager is either rubbish or he thinks it's Chester, I can name any old fucking mess and we'll slap them."

  I briefly got myself worked up, but then I remembered his staff profile and nope - he was rubbish.

  "Okay in case it wasn't clear: when we attack, we put pressure on the full backs. That's the right back, number 14, Kieran Lovett, and the left back, number 28, Matt Harris."

  Henri spoke out to help make sure it was all crystal. "We will focus on the right back who is actually a centre back and the left back who is actually a right back."

  "Just slap down the wings! What the hell. Bolton's midfield is serviceable. They'd do a good job... in League Two. Omari, I'm going to ask you to man-mark a guy who's just back from injury. Matt McManus. He's a Ryan Jack kinda schemer, he likes to get on the ball a lot and set the tempo. He's probably the best player in their whole squad but yeah, that was a nasty injury he had. Bolton will want to play through him. When I say mark him, you don't need to be Franco Baresi, just make him work hard to get on the ball, close him down so he doesn't have time, follow him where he goes. If you do a good job they might sub him off at half time and that's gonna be massive for us in the second half because we won't have to commit so many bodies to the rest defence. Can you give me that?"

  "Yes, gaffer. Can I still take the free kicks?"

  I smiled. "All work and no play makes Omari a red-card danger. Yeah take the free kicks but before you strike, make sure you know where McManus is, okay? I don't care if three guys sprint past you, get on him because he's the guy who will pick out the right pass. Does that make sense?"

  "Got it."

  "The three forwards will spread out, you know, one wide left, one wide right. They're doing the thing where they've got a right-footer on the left, so they're going to cut inside and cross or shoot. You hear that, lads? These full-backs aren't going to bomb forward so Bolton aren't going to have proper width. They're not going to get to the byline and make us defend facing our own goal. It's going to be the same on either flank - winger pops the ball on his strong foot and hits a cross at an angle it's hard to score a header from. I mean, I'll take that over the alternative. Vimsy?"

  Vimsy stepped to the board. "When the winger cuts inside, one of the three CBs moves up to stop him getting good shots away. Chris, if you go, the other two need to be aware of the striker and look to your spacing. Don't all go to the ball. Keep your heads. It can feel that you're getting bombarded but actually..." He went through an enormous inner struggle. "Actually," he said, his eyes darting from me to the ghost of Ian Evans only Vimsy could see. "Actually, it's all low xG chances."

  Chester's last remaining football dinosaur was evolving! He had a map and was raising his little-used 'data analytics' mountain.

  I gave him a hearty thwack on the shoulder. "Listen, guys. Bolton's season has started terribly and don't the fans know it. If we play more like a unit and a proper team than them, their fans are going to get restless and from there it's a short step to quarrelsome, feisty, fractious, unruly, and mutinous. Sandra?"

  My assistant manager took Vimsy's place. "They don't play a lot of long balls. It's all short through the middle and then give it out wide to their danger men. First thing we do is use our midfield to block off the passing lanes. Max, I just had a thought that we might go man-to-man in midfield."

  "Oh, three against three? That's interesting."

  "Boys, be ready to switch to that. If they do get through midfield, it's normally a ball to feet out wide. We will keep our full backs back. Make them dribble at you, stay on your feet, don't get sucked into any nonsense. They tend to go on the outside once early in the match but that's only to give you something to think about. In fact, they cut inside 99% of the time, okay? They're a very predictable team. We should be able to cope with what they throw at us, but strikers, with you it's all about work rate, giving us out balls. Chasing lost causes, maybe win us a throw-in high up the pitch and let us recover. The usual, Tom. Wibbers, if you can get on the ball, have a run at, er - "

  "Lovett and Harris," said Wibbers, who was totally up for this match. He had been out on the pitch and gawped at the stadium and it was clear to me what he had been thinking - I wouldn't mind a piece of this.

  I clapped my hands. "That's it. We know the plan. Stay calm, let our fans get at the referee, we stick to our jobs. We can win, but we're gonna have to work fucking hard for it, do you get me? Captain."

  Christian Fierce stood up and cried. "Out we go, boys!"

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  The history books wouldn't say we had beaten a shambolic side led by a nincompoop. They would say that lowly Chester had beaten the sleeping giants that were Bolton Wanderers.

  "Boss?" Sandra was giving me a worried look.

  I closed my eyes for half a second and tried to access that zen state I was so famous for. "I love the smell of glory in the morning."

  "What perfume does she wear?"

  I tutted and did the closest thing I ever did to an eye roll, but rose above it. "Sandra, check out the lineups of the other teams, yeah? I bet we are taking this competition more seriously than literally any other club."

  "I'll have a decko," she said. She gave me another strange look, then tapped me. "We'll do the pre-match TV together, okay?"

  "Aw, do I have to?" I whined.

  She laughed. "Whatever they ask, go on one of your misty-eyed, rose-tinted rambles about the history of Bolton. Nat Lofthouse and all that."

  "Yeah, sure, love talking about the history of the sport. But why?"

  Her eyes flashed hot, just for a second. "So when we humiliate their team, the fans will have something nice to say about us."

  I nodded a few times. "Yeah." Sandra was just as competitive as me, but she also had enough sense to realise our industry was small. Acting with a bit of class every now and then could help us get jobs in the future. For example, at Bolton. "Best is a prick, he was offside for his third goal, but he gets the club a lot more than our current manager does."

  Sandra got a fierce look about her, but then it turned to amusement. She fussed with my toggles until they were the same length. "Let's do it now while you're looking handsomely boyish."

  "Er, what am I going to look like later?"

  "Last time you did the interview looking like you'd survived a horror movie. As the villain. Oh! Mention AOK, too. They might want to sponsor us."

  "They can't sponsor the cup and Chester, can they?"

  "I meant us. Me and you." Sandra smirked. "I'm kind of a big deal now, Max. I'm massive in Switzerland."

  ***

  After I charmed the Bolton fans and whored myself out to a climate criminal corporation, I went to the dugout to chill for a while.

  The stadium was amazing from the outside, really beautiful, stunning even, and while the inside was a bit more functional it was still very aesthetic with the same sort of curved roof that Fleetwood had, but on all four sides, hugging the pitch.

  Yeah, I liked it a lot, and Bolton was basically Manchester so I felt at home.

  In this competition, gate receipts were shared between the two teams. 45% each, with 10% going to the EFL, the organisers. If Bolton's projections of selling 9,000 tickets were correct, and if the fans paid an average of 20 quid each, Chester would get in the region of 81,000 pounds. Not bad for a Tuesday night early in August! If we won, we would get 5,000 in prize money, which was garbage but all the bits and bobs we earned would add up quickly enough, I reckoned.

  I felt sure we would beat Bolton and get through to the next round. Who did I want? Another away trip to a Championship side for another decent payday? Or a tie against one of our League Two rivals - someone we could beat? If we got to the third round we might finally get a match away to a Premier League team.

  Man United would sell 50,000 tickets, easy, and would happily rinse their fans for 40 quid a pop. We could come out of that kind of fixture with 900,000 in the bank.

  I cut the daydreaming short - first we had to beat a team that was much better than us, and to do that we would need to get off to a good start.

  ***

  "Five minutes gone and it's Bolton 1, Chester 0."

  I could just imagine what was being said up in the commentary booth. Welcome to the AOK Cup. David versus Goliath. Reality check.

  I stood in the technical area, shifting my weight from leg to leg. This was a reality check.

  In reality, you couldn't field a team that included a CA 26 novice defender, a CA 44 striker who rarely scored, and a CA 42 midfielder whose role for the day was - for the first time in his life - to man-mark a very, very good Championship midfielder.

  In reality, grand schemes that worked in the subterranean non-league levels would wither and die when exposed to sunlight.

  In a strange way, I was glad to concede the goal. One day I would be the Championship manager putting out loads of reserves against some team of worms, and it was good to know that we didn't live in a world where CA 26 players could actually perform against guys with CA 90, CA 100.

  Another perverse reason to be happy with the goal was that it proved Sandra and I knew what we were talking about. Most players knew that, of course, but for Lee H, Sunday, and even Dazza, seeing was believing.

  Bolton had started brightly, knocking the ball around, using the keeper as a passing option - which nullified Tom's work rate to a huge degree - and counter-pressing us when we gained the ball. I hadn't realised how nervous we were until three minutes in when I saw that our pass completion rate was under 40%. Even Ryan Jack was feeling it - his match rating slumped to 4.

  Ryan coughed up the ball, but Lee C snapped into a challenge and, seeing that Omari was blocking the pass to McManus, the third midfielder passed safely backwards and Bolton reset into the shapes they'd been working on.

  The centre backs combined with the goalie to take Tom out of the game, then a new triangle formed that included a midfielder, and as Omari lost his discipline, McManus was free. McManus slid a gorgeous pass through our lines to the striker, who fed the right winger. The winger cut inside, nutmegged Sunday as he made a reckless challenge, and struck a nasty shot that Ben could only parry. Bolton's striker was on his toes, reacted fastest, and passed the ball low into the corner. Christian and Zach had been pulled out of shape by Sunday's rush of blood to the head, and their attempts to get back were in vain.

  Wibbers had had three touches of the ball. Two of those were kick-offs.

  I rubbed my head furiously, but what could I do? This was the plan. The plan was perhaps not mint, but it was the kind of thing that had been working for three years. It seemed to be the best way to use Bench Boost. What else would you do? Start with your strongest eleven and bring on your weakest players? No way. I just had to accept that from time to time I would get my pants pulled down. It wasn't like the tournament organisers would deduct prize money if we got hammered.

  I paced around, soaking up XP, wondering if it was too early to withdraw Sunday and Omari. Doing it after ten minutes when they knew about it was one thing, but doing it after five minutes would have been truly humiliating.

  No, I had to leave things alone for a minute. It would be interesting to see how the team reacted because Christ knew there would be plenty of matches like this in the coming ten months.

  Bolton's morale had rocketed after the goal. They were playing with smiles, with freedom. They were already doing tricks and skills. Slightly annoying. Lads, you're one-nil up against the worst team in the EFL. Do you want to calm down?

  Their fans were enjoying themselves, too. They were doing what Fleetwood had done - mocking us for being tiny, calling this match our cup final, all that kind of thing. After a brief lull as they digested the goal, the Chester mob found their voice again. The back-in-the-big-time party resumed.

  Another minute passed and we didn't concede. Then another minute, and another.

  I checked the match ratings - diabolical - and moved Wibbers back one slot to be a CAM. Maybe he could help us get more control of the midfield, or at least help slow down Bolton's attacks.

  Our Conditions were all fine.

  Our Morale though, was rock solid. So interesting. Sunday Sowunmi had been getting on my tits all week and he knew it, and he had started the match like a fucking chump. But his morale was steady. It might have been because Christian was being all Christian out there, blasting everyone with his Triple Captained Influence, but I think it was actually Chesterness. Sunday had been on the scrapheap and we had rescued him. He'd gone to boot camp and laughed in the white water rapids and cried with the injured soldiers. And every time he got something wrong, his mates gathered round him, talked him through it, showed him that they had his back.

  He rushed forward, took a loose ball on his chest, and passed it wide for Eddie Moore before retreating back into his shape. Sunday's match rating went from 4 to 5 and I found myself dancing down the line punching the air.

  Electricity was building and Bolton were going to get shocked.

  ***

  Sunday and Omari did well enough to last until the 22nd minute. Bringing on Pascal and Youngster meant Wibbers had to go back to being a striker, but it didn't matter because the flow of the game evened up. Youngster made interceptions and forced his oppo to run down blind alleys. Pascal toyed with Bolton's players around the edges of where they wanted to go.

  It's amazing what a bit of speed and a huge upgrade in decision-making will do for a football team. It would be an exaggeration to say we bossed the game from the second they came on, but I was already looking forward to the second half, when Henri and Dazza would be our strikers. With me on for the final twenty, I really couldn't see how we could possibly lose.

  Bolton's right winger cut inside Eddie Moore and had a crack at goal. Ben flapped at it but the ball went right through him somehow and cracked against the post, bouncing back into a very relieved goalkeeper's hands.

  Yeah, okay. There were plenty of ways to lose.

  But still I turned my mind to the weeks ahead. "Sandra. Why is Zach so conservative with his passing, do you think? He's finding Youngster all the time. He's supposed to hit some to midfield."

  "I think they're all overwhelmed, Max. Slovakia, Fleetwood, Bolton. Burton will be the same. It's like you said, it's a brutal start to the campaign and everyone's trying to get by. He'll open up when he finds his feet in the league. You'd rather he was defensively solid than pinging passes all over, wouldn't you?"

  "Er, maybe. I suppose. Okay but look, I want drills where the midfielders zip around and Zach pings passes to them at mad angles. Oh! We'll get him by the penalty area. Have five under eighteens sprint at him; he has to pass through them."

  "That sounds terrifying."

  "We'll call it 'Zombie Apocalypse'. No, 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre'. Can we get five chainsaws?"

  "How about a DM has the ball and the five lads jog between cones, all doing different lengths, and we blow a whistle, DM passes to Zach, the lads sprint from where they are towards him. It'll be different every time and very slightly more realistic."

  "Fucking amazing. Scrap this match and let's set that up right now. I'm not even joking."

  Sandra smiled. "I think it can wait till Thursday. Or maybe until September. Zach's doing fine for now."

  I scanned the pitch. Having the extra quality around him had transformed Ryan Jack - he was up to a match rating of 6. But his footballing doppelganger, McManus, was also playing better, now that he wasn't being man-marked.

  "Tell Pascal to dribble near McManus," I said.

  "Got it."

  One player in need of a tweak was Wibbers, but I couldn't think of how to help him. I was using my one deformation to get Youngster into his preferred DM slot, and Wibbers just wasn't quite wily enough to play with his back to goal against an experienced centre back. Wibbers was thrilling when he got the ball and built up a head of steam as he ran at defenders, but if he was facing his own goal, the sport was a lot more of a challenge. That was true for everyone, though, so I wasn't worried about it. Being pocketed by a good defender was a necessary lesson for the lad.

  That said, he wasn't always up against the experienced centre back. The young one was doing a number on Wibbers, too, which I found slightly surprising.

  "What do you think about swapping Pascal and Wibbers for a while? Let Will get involved in the match, get on the ball a bit, do some dribbles?"

  Sandra shrugged. "Normally I'd say absolutely but Pascal's on fire. Better to leave it as it is, don't you think?"

  Wibbers wasn't exactly announcing himself to the England selectors with this performance, but I had to put the club first, and Sandra was right that Pascal was in the right place and in the right mood. "Yeah. Good. Leave it like this till half time."

  ***

  The atmosphere in the dressing room was upbeat. The lads were showing some of the same signs of exhilaration as after the Slovakia match, but this emotion was a different colour. Slovakia was red: they're much better than us. This was green: they're not much better than us.

  I spent a few minutes with Sandra and Vimsy talking about the scores and line-ups from the other matches. Folke Wester clearly wanted to get Bradford City knocked out so he could concentrate on the league - he had even included young Tom Hickman in his first eleven. Tranmere had given a start to Tony Herbert, their exotic new centre back, signed on my recommendation. Lucas Cook, the talented young striker, was starting, which was an indication that Jimmy Mustard didn't want to progress in the cup. Cambridge, Carlisle, Swindon, most of the starting elevens were full of player names that weren't in my extensive database.

  "Fuck me," I said. "Ten minutes into the new season you're trying your best to get knocked out of a competition. It makes no sense to me. Fucking Swindon aren't going to win the league, do you know what I mean? Why wouldn't you have a go in the cups?"

  "Easier for us," shrugged Vimsy.

  I couldn't argue with that. "Not much fun for Bolton's fans, is it? They haven't won a cup since the 50s."

  "The fans what've been slagging us off for an hour?" grumbled Vimsy. "Fuck 'em."

  I chuckled. "Yeah, good point."

  I wandered around, killing time, waiting to see if Bolton's manager would make any changes. It took him ten minutes to decide, but eventually the tactics screen refreshed with three new names coming on. Two in midfield, one winger. McManus was coming off.

  "To the tactics board!" I cried, delighted, and the low murmur of conversation died down. "I think McManus won't come out for the second half. I want to wait a minute just to make sure, but if he's not there I want to have a good fucking pop at this second half, okay? Ryan, I need to take you out early so Wibbers can stay on a bit. Yeah, Tom and Ryan off, Henri and Dazza on. We'll go 4-4-2 out of possession, 4-2-4 in."

  "4-2-4?" said Henri. "Away from home against a Championship team?"

  I went over to his spot, grabbed his wrists, and shook them. "It's just like the old days, mate! Just like the old days! We're going Full Max!" Still smiling, I walked around. "Lads, these guys aren't that good and their morale is built on sand. We're going to slap down the sides like the old days. Wibbers, do you want right mid or left?"

  "Right."

  "Pascal, you're left. Youngster, you'll play CM next to Lee C. Nice and compact when we're defending, then fast breaks. If we can't get it out wide quickly, keep the ball, circulate, breathe, draw Bolton into the middle then get it wide. We should be able to get Wibbers and PB into some juicy one-on-ones, yeah? Remember, Lovett and Harris aren't proper full backs. They can't cope with players of your quality running at them. But we'll have to work fucking hard to get into those positions, lads. It'll be tough out there. Keep at them."

  ***

  Not for the first time, I was dead wrong. It wasn't tough out there. It was a piece of piss.

  Once we made the changes, we had an average CA of just over 70, but with four Bench Boosted guys. Youngster's effective CA was very probably 100. He bossed the midfield and fed balls to the wings. Pascal had Lovett on toast. It was hilarious to see him skin the guy again and again, though Lovett didn't see the funny side. He was getting more and more worked up, which was exactly what Pascal wanted to see.

  On the other side, Wibbers wasn't having much joy against his opponent, but had got past him a couple of times only for Harris to recover. It was clear to the naked eye that Wibbers was a dangerous player, though, so Harris was staying close to him.

  That only opened up the centre for Henri and Dazza, who looked sharp and strong. Pascal's only mistake so far had been that he was sliding crosses along the turf into the danger zone between defence and goalie, which was normally a good option, a high-percentage option, but today we had two guys with tremendous heading, Bench Boosted. I could hardly say that to Pascal, though, and anyway, if I left him alone he would probably work it out for himself.

  The flow of the match was so lopsided that the home fans started to flip. I didn't know what Lovett had done to piss them off, but every time Pascal zoomed past him, the mood darkened. First there was annoyance. Then consternation. Rage was on the radar.

  Our fans were behind the goal we were attacking, and unlike the Bolton lot, they were right behind us. If we scored - I was sure we would - they were going to go bananas.

  Time was slightly running out, though. The clock was on 55 and okay, we were in the ascendency but hadn't really made the keeper work all that much. We still had one substitution available and I had all kinds of options on my nine-man bench, but in reality it was going to be me. I hoped someone else would score the first goal, though. I'd scored both goals against Fleetwood and generated most of the expected threat. I didn't want some kind of one-man team narrative to get going because that felt like it would be bad for morale and maybe even for teamwork. If players started to think, subconsciously or not, that I would get them out of the shit twice a week...

  Lee C played a pass slightly behind Pascal, who had to turn to get it. When he did, Lovett leaped, two-footed, his boots going over the ball and into Pascal's shin.

  Pascal's player profile turned red. Very red.

  "Holy fuck." The life drained out of me. Hands on head, I froze. Two seconds of mad, desperate panic. "Dean," I croaked, but our entire bench was up. Vimsy was already in his counterpart's face, looking ready to rumble. Dean looked scared as he grabbed his bag and jogged across the pitch, but I knew his inner doctor would take over when he got there.

  In the stands, the Chester mob had gone feral. They were throwing punches at stewards who were trying to stop them from getting onto the pitch to have it out with Lovett.

  Dazza and Henri had no stewards stopping them, and they got there first, pushing the prick away from the scene of the crime. Henri's eyes were popping out like the most tormented inmate of the most twisted asylum. Dazza had to turn his attention from putting aggro on Lovett to keeping Henri out of trouble. Zach and Christian pushed everyone clear of Pascal so Dean could work.

  The melee was normal after a bad tackle, but ten yards from it, facing away, was Eddie Moore on his knees, crying. That wasn't normal. That wasn't a good sign.

  Pascal's profile read:

  Suspected leg injury.

  Yeah, you think?

  I wouldn't get more information than that today, but in the morning or the day after, the curse would give me a pretty accurate estimate for how long Pascal would be out. Based on Eddie's reaction - months. Right then and there I was more worried about if Pascal would even be able to walk again.

  While my guts turned inside out, while my knees got so weak I had to crouch and hold onto the grass, I forced myself to think.

  Shamefully, my first thought was about the match. What did I need to do? Who would go on to replace Pascal?

  Decency finally kicked in and I ran to pull Vimsy away from the other dugout. "Mate, what do we do? Do we tell his parents? Someone needs to go with him to the hospital. Who calls the parents? Is it me? I don't have my phone."

  Vimsy, seeing my distress, put his hands on my shoulders. "You run the game, Max. You leave everything else to Dean and me. We'll get the Brig if we need another hand. Don't you worry about the details. You get back to letting them have it. Fuck them up, Max. Fuck them all the way up. For Pascal." He gave some verbals to the home dugout as he crossed the pitch to support Dean.

  I went for a walk with my hands pulling at my hair, but snapped my head round just as the ref showed Lovett a red card. I felt a vein on my forehead throbbing. Lovett would have to get past me and I would fucking murder him. Ryan, Dan, and Sharky seemed to read my mind because they made a kind of wall between me and the Bolton lot. The home team had their own tunnel over there so there was no way I was going to be able to get to him.

  Ryan said, "Beat him on the pitch, boss. Win the game. That's the best thing right now. Win the game, boss, come on."

  They had sort of bodied me away without riling me up, which when I thought about it later was pretty impressive because I had a volcanic rage inside of me.

  I changed tack and walked five, ten yards away. Dean was calling for the stretcher. I saw something that nearly made my head explode and stormed back to my minders. I put all the anger into my index finger and pushed it quite slowly towards Dan. "Put some fucking proper shinpads on right fucking now."

  He licked his lips, glanced towards the far side of the pitch, and nodded. He zoomed off.

  I paced away, this time for twenty yards. I wanted to smash things up.

  I would start with Bolton Wanderers.

  ***

  It took time for Pascal to be put on the stretcher, given an oxygen mask, and taken away. I decided not to look at his injury in case it sent me all the way into outright lunacy the way it had done with Henri.

  I waved at Christian and made him gather the players in a huddle by the side of the pitch. While they were coming, I checked how Bolton's manager would respond to losing a player. He was getting a defender ready and would go men behind ball. Low block. Me? The opposite.

  I turned to Sandra. "You're in charge."

  "You're going on?"

  "Yes. You're in charge. I need you to set the formation, make sure everyone sticks to it. 2-4-4."

  Her eyes flickered towards the Bolton dugout - like everyone she was finding it hard to concentrate. "2-4-4."

  It seemed like she was about to call it absurd, to complain, to put up a fight. I didn't have energy enough, spirit enough, to persuade her and then go on the pitch. I needed her to understand. "Please," I said, feeling all the energy seep out of me anyway.

  The lads had gathered. "Two-four-four," she said. "Boss is going left wing. Eddie, are you good?"

  I went to him; he looked distraught. "I've got him," I said, putting my hand on his back. I would cover him if he needed a minute. If he needed more than a minute, I'd still fucking cover him.

  "We'll sort this out later," called Sandra. "What we do right now is we get that win. Knock these fuckers out of this cup. Do you hear me? Henri," she snapped. She went to him and I had the mad idea she would take a swing at him, but she just pushed her fists onto his chest. "Henri," she said, much more softly.

  He swallowed, looked up and away, and nodded.

  "Win," she said.

  We walked onto the pitch but Sandra grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I hadn't subbed on yet, so if the ref saw me go on the pitch he'd have given me an instant yellow card. I pulled my hoodie off and waited while they did the rigamarole of holding up boards. The fourth assistant checked I was wearing shinpads. I nearly bit his head off but he wasn't the enemy. I walked on the pitch and stood in front of Bolton's dugout, staring at the manager for ten seconds.

  "Max!" called Christian, because it was our free kick and I had programmed the curse to automatically make me the free kick, corner, and penalty taker as soon as I stepped onto the pitch.

  I walked over to the left, thought I saw a patch of blood, but, amazingly, didn't see red.

  I felt the fire.

  And I felt the ice.

  Eddie was the closest to the ball. I set him as the free kick taker. "Tap it," I commanded.

  He touched the ball so that it went through one rotation, and I booped it another one. The new right back came at me, hesitated, but came at me again.

  He was Pace 10, Acceleration 8.

  I pushed the ball down the line and burst past him, turned left, away from goal, and gestured for him to come again.

  Double dribble.

  He did what his manager would have wanted - got between me and the goal. I walked closer to him trying to trigger him into making a move. He flipped a foot towards the ball and I burst past him again, before cutting the ball towards the goal line. I made to smash the ball along the turf, the way Pascal had been doing, and a defender slid in front of me. He blocked fuck all, though, because I simply moved the ball back onto my right and chipped the ball to the far post. Henri looked favourite, but Dazza appeared out of nowhere with a gigantic, salmon-like leap.

  He headed the ball hard - against the crossbar. It bounced away and was hacked clear.

  I shook my head; Bolton's strategy was pathetic and cowardly. 70 minutes gone and there would be at least ten minutes of injury time. They couldn't just hope to hold on for half an hour.

  My direct opponent had Heading 14, Jumping 13.

  I told Eddie to come near me and waved at Zach, indicating my head. He saw me and pinged a high ball. "Go," I said, and Eddie ran on. I easily won the header and he was away. He sent in a nice-looking cross that was headed clear. Youngster anticipated where it would land and I anticipated where he would want to pass. He played it short and I clipped a soft, back-spinning ball to Wibbers on the right. He set himself to take a first touch back inside the defender, but instead dabbed it to the goal line. He smashed a low cross - good variety - that caused chaos.

  It was cleared again, pinballed back to Henri, who cleverly deflected the ball to the far post. The keeper saved it and a defender hacked it clear. Christian cushioned a header to Zach, who found Youngster. Zach rushed forward for the return pass - him leaving the back line was my kind of reckless - and hit a really decent cross to the far post. Dazza rose, nodding it sideways towards Henri. He lost his duel, but again the ball was only partially cleared. A Bolton guy got on it and dribbled towards the halfway line.

  "No foul," I called out, and Lee C dialled back his aggression. The Bolton twat flung himself to the ground, hoping to buy a free kick and ease the pressure, but the ref didn't fall for it. Zach steamed forward, took a touch, and I was sure he was going to hit a long shot. I mean, rather him than Youngster but Bolton would take a full minute restarting the game.

  As a guy threw himself at the ball, Zach put his foot on it, turned square, and gave it to Lee C. Lee C rolled it to Lee H, who shaped for a cross but pushed it to Wibbers, who had more attacking threat.

  Wibbers clipped the ball first time, slowly, behind the line of our strikers - not a great choice, I'd have to talk to him about that - giving the defence an easy clearance. But the ball came to me at a nice height and at a nice angle, and because we had been working Bolton down the other flank, the path between me and goal wasn't too crowded.

  I thought about dribbling through them. I thought about doing tekkers or a thunderbastard.

  I decided to score, and simply passed the ball into the bottom right of the goal.

  There was a tiny pause before the Chester fans roared. The other players didn't know what to do - this was a big moment but Pascal was top of our minds. I knew what to do - I chased my shot and ran into the back of the net. I retrieved the ball and jogged back to the halfway line. I placed the ball down and while my guys hurried back I picked out the nearest Bolton player and screamed, "Hurry the fuck up!"

  They wasted as much time as they could, but the manager released them from their low block. They would come at us. The sensible thing would have been for us to drop into a 4-4-2 but I had no interest in that. Bolton tried to play a through ball in the middle - Youngster gobbled it up like Pac-Man - and soon the ball was on its way to me. The right back decided his best chance of stopping me was to stop the ball getting to my feet, and he darted to it. I got there first, flicking the ball two yards down the line into my stride.

  I glanced up and saw where everyone was, and drove not to the byline but towards the angle of the penalty area. From there, I'd be able to repeat my previous shot, and indeed, I did just that. At least, that's what two defenders thought, as they threw themselves at my feet. I cut back onto my left foot, though, drove forward, cut inside another sliding tackle, and rolled the ball into the net with my right. Two-one! We were winning. I didn't give a shit. I hurdled the goalie so I could grab the ball.

  This time the lads wanted to celebrate, but when they saw I'd collected the ball again, they got the message. We're not finished.

  Bolton were frazzled. The foul on Pascal had turned this into something they weren't prepared for, and even without the rage we would have slapped them in an 11 against 10 scenario.

  Fire and ice. "Hurry up!" I called as Bolton's players once again tried to slow things down and take the heat out of us. Good luck with that. I was generating the heat.

  Ice, though. I needed to be careful with my stamina. Not that it would be a big deal if I was running on fumes in injury time, but I had the chance to do something really spectacular here. We could really run up the score and let people know: you don't mess with Chesters. You send one of mine to the hospital, I'll send your manager to the morgue.

  I glanced over at the stupid prick. He was doing that thing shit managers do where they start to point at something but realise no-one's looking, no-one's listening, and they pull their arms back.

  I slowed myself down for a minute, playing one-touch passes with Lee and Youngster, sending Eddie on dummy runs before sending the ball across the pitch, making Bolton's defenders shuffle, slide, and burn calories. When the ball came back again, I did one more fake pass down the line, touched it to the side, and whipped it into the box.

  Dazza got a lovely little flick on it, but the goalie saved well.

  This seemed like one of those dilemmas. Run up the score by doing everything myself, or help Dazza score his first goal for the club? I looked down. Was this the very spot where Pascal's career had been ended?

  No. He was fine. He would be fine.

  But just the thought that maybe -

  Not now, Max.

  I sprinted to the side and screamed for the ball. I passed to Wibbers, who shimmied left and right, threatened to nutmeg his marker, but instead rolled the ball into my path. I fucking leathered it first time, aiming about a yard to the right of the right-hand post. It swerved in, missing the inside of the upright by a whisker, before the Chester fans went full limbs. Once again, I kept my run going so I could pluck the ball from the back of the net, but this time there was a twist. As I got close, Bolton's young centre back decided he would stop me with a push that sent me crashing into the post.

  I blinked and found myself tangled up in the net with a forest of legs nearby.

  The fuck?

  The guy had shoved me onto a metal post. What the hell was going on with these morons lately?

  In a slightly stunned state, I wondered if it was The Sentinel warning me. But that didn't make sense. My goals against Fleetwood had been after the guy elbowed me in the gob. I mean, I'd been dicking around but as I'd told Pascal, it wasn't productive.

  I thought about trying to get up but something felt wrong so I decided to wait. Dean had gone to the hospital with Pascal. I saw Livia approaching, but she veered off to the side because the ref had produced another red card which caused another outburst of pushing and shoving. I checked the curse commentary and saw it was for the guy who had assaulted me. Bolton were down to nine men. Nine!

  Was Old Nick making people attack me? Punishing me for something? Warning me not to get too flashy?

  Or were footballers at higher levels just as violent and idiotic as the ones in non-league?

  "Max, hold still. Where does it hurt?"

  "Um, it doesn't. I'm fine."

  "You're bleeding."

  "No," I said, genuinely surprised. Livia pressed a cotton pad onto my forehead and took it away, showing me the colour. "You're using disclosing tablets."

  "Not in the mood for jokes, Max."

  "Okay."

  I also had a cut on my arm at the exact spot where Zach had broken it the year before. Livia went through her process and said I seemed to be fine but that I'd taken a knock to the head and had to go off. "Okay, I'm not in the mood for jokes either," I growled.

  She wasn't intimidated by me in the slightest. "You've been in a coma. You've taken a blow to the head. You're not playing another minute. Get off the pitch."

  I took a breath and tried to stay calm. "We've used all our subs. They could get back in this, even with nine."

  "See, that makes me think you're more hurt than you're letting on. The real Max Best knows you can make a concussion sub. You come off, send someone else on, we're back to full strength."

  "If we do that, Bolton get another sub, too, though," I said, proving I was compos menti.

  "I'm just a physio," she said, zipping her bag closed with savage force. She got in my face. "But I say put Sharky on and let him run riot." She got up and offered me a helping hand. "But what do I know?"

  ***

  I let her shepherd me across the pitch - the jobsworth ref wanted me to go off the side and walk around but fuck that - and Liv told Sandra what was happening. Sandra turned to Dan, which I thought was fascinating, but Livia said, "No. Sharky."

  Livia tried to get me to keep moving, but I paused. I got Sandra and said, quietly, "Attack till we drop. Anyone who goes easy on them doesn't play for this club again. Make sure they understand."

  With that, I went down the away team tunnel and let Livia give me a closer examination. When she was happy I wasn't going to drop dead, I told her to get back to the dugout in case there were more injuries. She turned the light out as she went and I sat there in the dark, like a worm.

  I lay on my back on a treatment table, chewing on marathon paste, as I followed the match like I was playing Champion Manager.

  Bolton Wanderers 1 Chester 3

  It looks like Chester are adopting a more attacking approach.

  More attacking than 2-4-4? I popped the tactics screens up and saw that Sandra had gone to 2-3-5 with Christian Fierce as another striker. If Triple Captain had an area of effect, it was now boosting our goalscorers.

  85'

  Slick interplay from Chester.

  Lyons drops to collect a pass. He passes wide.

  Hayward takes on his man. And beats him!

  He has the chance to cross...

  Fierce is first to the ball.

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Chester score their fourth goal!

  The home fans are streaming out.

  86'

  Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...

  Flashes a shot just wide!

  It was so close to the head of Smith.

  Was it a shot or a cross?

  87'

  Roberts in space on the left. He cuts back inside...

  Gets a shot on target.

  Good save from the keeper!

  Bundled home by Fierce! He's got his second!

  But the referee has disallowed it. He saw a foul in the build-up.

  88'

  Roberts in space on the left. He slips the ball down the line.

  Moore crosses first time.

  It evades everyone.

  Hayward collects. He drives forward and lashes the ball square into a mass of bodies.

  The ball squirts off Smith and onto a defender.

  It's in the back of the net!

  The Chester players look to the referee.

  He points... to the centre circle!

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Chester's fifth goes down as an own goal.

  91'

  Relentless waves of attack from Chester.

  The home stands are virtually empty.

  The away end is raucous. They are chanting for Bochum.

  Green takes the ball and strides forward. He slips a pass through the lines...

  Roberts collects. He had drifted over from the left.

  Roberts has his heels clipped!

  The ref points to the spot!

  It's a soft penalty, but the correct decision.

  Who will take it?

  92'

  Lyons wants Darren Smith to take it.

  Unselfish play from the Frenchman.

  Christian Fierce snatches the ball from Lyons' hands...

  And gives it back to him.

  Lyons is getting an earful.

  93'

  The penalty will finally be taken.

  Lyons...

  Makes no mistake!

  He runs to the away fans. They can't believe what is happening.

  The noise is ferocious.

  It is Bolton 1, Chester 6.

  95'

  Eddie Moore goes down with cramp. He's in some discomfort.

  Contreras goes to offer his assistance.

  Christian Fierce jogs to the touchline and takes instruction from Sandra Lane.

  It looks like Chester are adopting a more cautious approach.

  ***

  Back on my treatment table, I nodded to myself.

  ***

  At full time, the lads went over to the fans, but Sandra came to find me. With the lights off in the dressing room, she immediately left. I called out.

  She frowned, turned the light on, and came towards me. "Why are you - oh, concussion. Are you all right?"

  "I'm being a good patient for once. Setting an example. Any word from Dean?"

  She shook her head. "Just that it looks bad." Her lips tightened as she got angry, then she placed her hands on the table and leaned on them. "Can we manage without him?" 'Him' meant Pascal, not Dean.

  I closed my eyes and looked at the squad screen. It was somewhat lacking in creative forward players but we had some speed, some graft, and a great big Australian battering ram. That said, because a certain contract rebel had made me stop handing out new deals, I actually had nine hundred pounds a week left in my budget and three weeks remained in the transfer window. "Let's talk about that later in the week. What was the final score?" I asked, as if I didn't know, but Livia hadn't let me get my phone - you didn't let guys with concussion look at screens.

  "Six-one," said Sandra.

  "Acceptable," I said, trying to squash down the pride I felt in everyone. That could come later, after I'd been on TV. "The fans stopped roaring. You didn't take your foot off the gas at the end or anything like that?" Sandra inhaled and was about to defend herself when I reached out and gently gripped her lower arm. "I'm joking."

  She looked relieved. "Eddie got a cramp and I was thinking, you know, Pascal wouldn't want us adding injury to insult, if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah. I do."

  "How's your head? Anything you want me to say to the media? I'm going in a second."

  I eased myself up and felt absolutely fine. No dizziness, no spinning rooms, no kaleidoscope of colour. I had a minor cut to the head, end of story. "We're going to do the media."

  "You sure?"

  That was why I was pushing down the positive emotions. I wanted to tap into the anger. "Job's not done till that fucker's got the sack."

  Sandra thought about it. We would undo the bridge-building work we'd done in the pre-match interview. We would be less appealing to AOK. "Agreed. Let's end him." She looked around the dressing room, silent except for the distant chanting of our mob. "That was epic. I wish you'd been out there instead of being in here all alone in the dark."

  Some positivity bubbled out of me against my will. I looked deep into her soul. "That last ten minutes," I said, with a slight gesture. I was waving towards the Match Overview but Sandra thought I was waving to the away fans, to the oohs, ahs, and cheers that told me what was going on. "That last ten minutes I didn't feel alone. I felt like I was right there with you, watching you make the right moves, watching you drive the lads forward. And I was with the players, playing every pass, running every overlap. I know it sounds crazy but I was right there, right where I want to be."

  She nodded, and with a tiny smile, said, "Right in the middle of the blob." Her smile got a fraction bigger. "I can't wait to read your essay about teaching Relationism to Welsh soldiers. I'm worried you saying 'we went into the blob and rolled and done a slap' might not be, you know, forensic enough to pass the course."

  I clicked my fingers. "Forensic. Yes. That's the right way to handle this. I'll show you how forensic I can be. I'm going to dissect a football manager live on TV. You coming?"

  Her eyes flashed. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."