14.

  Extract from the voluminous first draft sent to the editor of The First Footballer In Space: The Pascal Bochum Story, Volume 6

  Chapter 14 - Epilogue

  Thursday, August 14

  1. Sinfonia

  The ceiling of room 156 at the private hospital in Manchester was painted white. There was nothing there except for shadows, and the shadows spelled numbers.

  Five. Five months out.

  One blink later and the shapes had changed.

  Ten. Ten months out.

  I would like to say I was stoic, I was strong, but a film covered my eyeballs and when I blinked away the tears, the shadows had reformed into the pedantic but accurate phrase 'five to ten months out'.

  "Schatz," said Tiggy. "You're awake. Oh!"

  She had spotted my distress; I could not deny it. "My career's over."

  "It's not."

  "You can't miss a full season in this sport. It's ruthless. Max is ruthless. He'll bin me off."

  Tiggy was by the side of the bed trying to smile at me, trying to give me some reassurance. She was bossy, she was forceful, but when she needed to show tenderness, there it was. What a woman. "Max is a dick but he would never bin you off for being injured. No way. I don't want to listen to that, okay?"

  "Why hasn't he been to see me?"

  Tiggy pushed my hair back. "We talked about this last night. Did you forget? He got concussion from, like, avenging you, so he's got to take it easy. Doctor's orders. He can't tell you to do as you're told if he won't do it himself. And he put in the group chat that everyone goes to see injured players in the first couple of days and then it's tumbleweed so they need to coordinate with Christian so you get at least one visitor per day. See? He's thinking about you and I don't say this very often but he's right. What's the point of twenty people coming all at once?"

  "I suppose."

  "You know what I think? I think five months is a long time but you could be back playing in February. Feb, March, April, May. There will be a lot of games, right? There might be some rain in the winter. Some snow. Matches will get pushed back like always happens and you'll be fit to play in them." She smiled, took my hand, and kissed it. "You'll get your league winners medal."

  "How are they going to win the league without me?"

  She tipped her head back and laughed. "That's it! There's my Pascal." She stood and looked at me with such affection I briefly forgot the pain. "I'm going to get a butty from downstairs. Do you want one?"

  The pain returned. It was as though blood was trying to rush through my leg but was crashing into the many and various traumas it encountered. I imagined a bloody torrent rushing through huge cracks in my bone, passing through me like a river, wearing away the tissue instead of healing it. "No, thanks." Tiggy sensed my shift in mood and hesitated. "Actually, yes, I would like one."

  The lie was necessary to stop her from worrying too much. I summoned a lightness of the face that I hoped would give her comfort. I'm sure it was a grotesque, gargoyle grimace. The closest thing a wretch like me can get to tenderness. The meanest, basest approximation of affection. "Bin schnell zurück," she said. I'll be back soon.

  ***

  2. Aria [Tenor]

  The door closed behind her. I popped in an earbud and pressed play on my phone, listening to a piece by Bach that reminded me of my mother. It was exactly the right amount of nostalgic and gloomy for my present mood, and I was trying to keep my mind occupied by translating it into English.

  Some parts were easier than others.

  Ich steh mit einem Fu? im Grabe.

  I stand with one foot in the grave.

  Another tear spilled as I wrote the next line: my sick body will soon fall in.

  The door flew open.

  "Knock knock! Who's there? Max Best! All right, mate?" Max came in and looked around at the space. Moderately spacious, clean, and simple. He dumped his backpack on a chair that was pushed up against the wall. "Wow, nice this, innit? It's bigger than my fridge!"

  "Have you got a big fridge?" I asked.

  Max gave me a stern look. "In England, it's rude to ask a man about the size of his fridge." His face cracked into a big smile. "What's that?" he said, indicating the far side of the room. When I turned, he snatched away my translation. "The shit is this? You're writing poetry? I Have One Foot in the Grave. Holy fuck, I'm too late. It hasn't been 48 hours and you're already writing depressing songs. We don't need more, lad. You're in Manchester and we gave the world The Smiths."

  "It's Bach," I said.

  "I'll give it back when you explain what it is," he said, but again he laughed and handed it over. He was having one of those mornings when he was at 107% energy.

  "It's Bach," I repeated. "My mother loves Bach. This reminds me of my childhood."

  He laughed again. "Well, that explains a lot." I had to smile at that, but he put a pause on his antics. "They've been to see you, right?"

  I nodded. "Yes," I said, as loud as a church mouse. "And Tiggy has been with me."

  He pointed at something. "Tiggy, right. Where's your phone?"

  "Here," I said, finally realising the earphone was still playing the cantata. I tucked it away in its case.

  "Top. She's downstairs, right? Send her a message that you need a biscuit Boost and a copy of The Economist."

  "No. Why?"

  "Because I want to give you your performance review and I won't enjoy it if she's here. Come on, just send the text already."

  Performance review? After two matches of the new season? Absurd... but I really wanted to know what he would say. "It's not fair to send her on a wild goose hunt."

  "Chase."

  "It's not fair. I will tell her that you are here and ask her to wait downstairs."

  "Don't be fucking mental!" he said, throwing his hands over his eyes like I was the one being unreasonable. "She's here to take care of you, right? Trust me, when she gets that text she'll be ecstatic."

  "What?"

  "It's like you're getting better, know what I mean? You suddenly thought, huh, I could murder a biscuit Boost. She's going to go to the nearest shop to get it and realise they don't sell The Economist. So she'll go and get that and okay I get a bit more time to talk to you in private but she gets a killer story. Right? She's with her mates drinking straight gin and they're all like ooh poor Pascal and she's like yeah it has been tough but I knew he was on the mend when he asked me to go to the shops but you'll never guess what he wanted!"

  "That isn't a killer story," I said, but something about Max has a way of making you believe the preposterous things he wants you to believe. And in the shadows of a corner of my mind, I wondered why he had chosen the two items he had chosen. To force Tiggy to visit at least two shops, yes, but also to stimulate her. I never ate the Boost chocolate bars - I never ate British chocolate if I could help it - and I never read The Economist. The surprise would absolutely intrigue and delight Tiggy and Max knew it.

  I thumbed my phone, which emitted a whooshing sound.

  "Let me see," he said, and for some reason I showed him my screen. "Top top top." He sat by my bed, facing the door, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So much to do. I wanted to start small and get big but all the conversations bleed into one another."

  My phone pinged. I showed Max what Tiggy had sent. The word okay and a smiley face.

  Max grinned. "Told you. Right, first things first. Grapes." He pulled a plastic punnet of green grapes out of his bag. "I got you ones with seeds because I know you Germans like to do the opposite of what is nice."

  "Those are seedless," I said, pointing to the pack.

  "Yeah, well, I might have some."

  "Why do British people bring grapes to hospital?"

  Max tutted. "Because we are the height of class and sophistication. We're civilised, okay? Now let's talk about your mangled leg."

  ***

  3. Recitative [Bass]

  My mood had been on the rise - his manchild energy was infectious - but now it collapsed. I thought I had bottomed out but Max always knew how to find extremes beyond the extremes. He pulled out something that was clearly an X-ray - how did he have it? - and I was so stunned that I couldn't even look away.

  "I need your permission to put this out on social media."

  Despair and denial mingled with anger. The throbbing in my leg, the pounding of blood against bone, made me feel nauseous. "What - " I started, but then I saw it. He held it up in front of me. I had told the doctors, I had told Dean that I didn't want to see. I only wanted to focus on my healing, my recovery. And there it was.

  Very clearly a human leg, but shockingly broken in multiple places. Despair, denial, rage, nausea - but the nausea won. I slumped back on my pillow, turned white, and prepared to vomit all over the bed. While the bile rose I felt ashamed - the nurses would have to clean up and they had been so nice to me.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Max's tone diminished my symptoms by a few percent. I turned towards him and saw that he was astonished by my reaction. I swallowed back what was in my gullet and let the anger take over enough that I could speak. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you show me that?"

  He looked at the X-ray, seemingly unable to comprehend how monstrously he was behaving. "This?"

  "My fucking leg, you Dummkopf!"

  He did one of the most maddening things I've ever seen - he broke into a smile. Not one of the smirks he can't contain when he knows something better than you, or one of the playful lip-bites he uses to flirt with waitresses, but a warm, genuine smile that contained dollops of amusement and affection. "This isn't your leg, Pascal."

  "Oh."

  He added a frown to the smile, and as he looked at the X-ray he side-eyed me. "Why would I use your X-ray on social media?"

  The moment had exhausted me. I held my arms over my eyes. "I don't know."

  "Have a grape," he said. He took them over to the sink and washed them. He plopped one in his mouth and created a paper towel bed underneath the punnet so it wouldn't leak too badly. I would have used a plate, but Max had his own way of doing things. "No, see," he said, as he experimentally put the grapes on the edge of the bed where I could get them easily. "Your X-ray is super boring."

  "I apologise," I said. He lifted the grapes and discovered the paper towel system had failed. He opened the drawers and found a Bible. He placed that down and was about to use it as a plate. "No, Max. Not that. Forget the grapes and tell me what you want."

  He tutted, not at me but his own inability to solve this challenge. He shrugged as he picked up the X-ray again. "Er, yeah. Bolton haven't sacked Gregory yet so I am piling on the pressure. Got to do this before his next press conference." Max tapped his phone's screen to bring up the date. Like me he had slightly lost track of time. I remembered Dean told me Max had hit his head and most of my annoyance at being shown the X-ray dissipated. "That will be tomorrow afternoon. You know those pressers, they're super boring. Normally he would answer questions about the game at the weekend in front of maybe five journos. This week there will be at least six."

  "Bethany Alban," I said.

  Max smiled. "Yes. So the plan is, either today or tomorrow morning - I'm going to work with Beth on it because she can calculate the optimal timing better than me - we're going to put this on our socials with, like, no words. Just hashtag Pascal hashtag Kieran Lovett."

  "But it's not my leg."

  "We're not saying it's your leg. If somebody viewing the post thinks 'oh shit look what Kieran Lovett did to Pascal', that's, like, beyond my control. And if a Daily Mail reporter writes a piece about the incident showing this X-ray 'as posted on Chester's socials' next to a photo of Lovett and Gregory looking shady while leaving a building, I mean, that's nothing to do with us."

  "Why not use my actual X-ray?"

  Max did a lop-sided smile. "That would be unethical, Pascal. I'd never ask you to do that." He tried to control his expression and decided that eating a grape would help. Maybe that's what the grapes were for - to give people something to do while they had difficult conversations. "Anyway, like I said, yours is boring. This one. Mwah! Chef's kiss. Even you were repulsed and you knew it wasn't you." He frowned; I had thought it was me. "Hang on. You've seen your X-ray. Why did you freak out?"

  "I haven't seen it. I know it's bad." Max's face lit up, just for a half a second, which shocked and irritated me but made more sense when I thought about it later. "I didn't want to know. I don't want to know, I only want to heal and get back on the pitch."

  "Top."

  I sighed. I went through cycles of trusting Max completely and being ready to impugn his character but everyone said he had gone supernova in reaction to Lovett's assault. Surely I could give him the benefit of the doubt. "Why are you going after the manager? Why not Lovett?"

  "Because when Lovett got the red card, the manager was complaining to the ref that it wasn't that bad a tackle. In the post-match interview he said Lovett 'wasn't that sort of player' which is a disgraceful thing to say because Lovett literally just did the thing his manager said he would never do. The manager creates the culture, right? You and I both know that players will sometimes go fucking mental and do something mad. Like, if you play a thousand matches in your career are you going to do a tackle like that at least once? Probably. But I think you know if you do that for my team you're not getting back in the side for months, if ever. Right? You know I won't go on TV and defend you."

  "I would expect the opposite."

  "Right. We do bad fouls, bad tackles, same as everyone. We're no angels. If Henri lashes out and thumps a defender I'm not going to go apeshit, I don't think, even if we're all a bit disappointed in him. But I hope we can agree I haven't created a culture where you can go round hurting people. All you're doing is hurting the team, hurting the club. Anyway, the way I'm going after the manager is based on an assumption that Lovett is a minotaur, just a wild beast that has to be kept locked away. He's not getting away with this. When the manager's sacked, Beth's going to start another media frenzy around whether the new guy will release the minotaur. And if there's ever a sniff of Lovett getting another contract anywhere, that manager, that club are going to get bombarded with media enquiries. Why are you signing a literal monster, mate? What's wrong with you? Etcetera, etcetera. No, Lovett's a long-term revenge. Short-term we focus on Gregory. So I need you to let me use this X-ray, please."

  "Why do you need my permission if it isn't me?"

  "Because it's your career. Three years from now when you're sick of my shit and you want to move clubs, a sporting director might think 'good player, dodgy leg'. I think it's incredibly unlikely but it wouldn't be fair to go all-out without you having some input."

  "Why do you think it's unlikely?"

  "One thing at a time, please. I've been here for like seven minutes and we haven't even got the preamble sorted. Can I go hard at this twat Gregory, yes or no?"

  Right then and there I didn't care either way; I only wanted to heal, to know that I would walk again. But I also knew that the anger would come back and I would want revenge, and I knew that Max Best would keep this grudge in his heart forever. He would use Beth, the Brig, and every other weapon in his arsenal to hound Lovett and Gregory out of the sport entirely.

  I reached out for my translation and read:

  If you will because of my sins,

  place me on my sick-bed,

  my God, then I beg you,

  let your kindness be greater than your justice.

  Kindness for me. Justice for Gregory and Lovett. Leave it to the gaffer. The throbbing in my leg eased. "Yes."

  ***

  4 Aria [Alto]

  Max fired off a text. "Top bins," he said. "Right, what's next? Your performance review. Will it be a 4.71 out of 5 that means you're shit and don't deserve happiness, or a 4.73 that means you're an all-time legend? I don't think this needs to take long. When you left the pitch it was one-nil to Bolton. Nuff said." He laughed. "Nah, but seriously - "

  "One moment, please," I said, because he was about to go on a monologue. "Henri came yesterday and he said you savaged Gregory in the post-match."

  "Yes but in French, to savage means to tenderly brush your lips on someone's neck."

  "It does not. He said that today - yesterday - I was having the cockroach but that tomorrow - "

  "Wait what?"

  "To have the cockroach? You don't know the phrase? It's French. It means, you know, to be depressed. I was down and groggy on meds but tomorrow - today - I should find the video of you going at Gregory. He said you didn't use the back of the spoon."

  "Jesus Christ, mate. You're making these phrases up."

  "It means you didn't hold back."

  Max shrugged and got his phone out. "See for yourself." He tapped a few times until he was on the EFL's YouTube account. There was a video with the title 'Chester Boss Pulls NO Punches - full interview.'

  He gave me his phone, and I hesitated. "Dieter Bauer sent me a voicemail."

  "Course he did," said Max. "He's a gentleman. He's, like, the opposite of Gregory."

  I waited for more, but that seemed to be that. I pressed play, and immediately had a shock. "You're bleeding!"

  "Pause," he said, and I obeyed. "I got a little cut scoring the third goal but Livia sorted it out. I asked Sandra to poke me until it bled again. She refused, of course, but I said if she didn't I was going to smash my face against a wall until I drew blood. She was pretty fucking unhappy, mate, but she sort of jabbed her finger into the sore bit. It hurt like the devil but I egged her on. I was like hey have you started yet and oh that tickles and all that and, yeah, anyway."

  "You're crazy."

  Max tutted and looked up at the ceiling. "What's crazy about getting your assistant manager to draw blood so you can look suitably wounded while you're being interviewed about how violent your oppo were? Come on, man. It's not like I faked it."

  I had thoughts, but I kept them to myself. Suffice to say the blood very much added to the sense of immediacy, the sense that authentic words were being spoken.

  "Max Best, you've knocked a Championship side out of the AOK Cup. How do you feel?"

  "I'm gutted for the fans of Bolton Wanderers. We brought five thousand fans here tonight, sold out our entire allocation and had to ask for more, because this is Bolton Wanderers and it's amazing to play them in the cup. Bolton are a huge part of the history of English football, a sleeping giant. Every true football fan in this country would say that Bolton Wanderers are a much bigger club than Manchester City."

  Max asked me to pause, and he pointed to Sandra Lane, who was beside him on his phone. She had been nodding along until the last part. "Look how she reacts to that." Max laughed. "That's how furious she was about what happened to you, mate. She really doesn't like it when I lay into City but here she lets me get on with it. I mean, she flinches, right, but you can see in her eyes she goes 'this is for Pascal'. Okay press play."

  "We've just seen one of the most pathetic, feeble, cowardly, and tactically inept performances in the history of this great club. When you think about Bolton you think about the Lion of Vienna. Now it is run by a mouse. When you think of Bolton you think of its rich history. Now there is only intellectual poverty.

  "We've got the manager there, Gregory, and serious questions have to be asked about how he ended up at the wheel. He is the worst manager, by far, in the entire football league. His starting line up today was a joke. He might have thought he was insulting Chester but he was only shaming Bolton. If you don't have the players to play a system and you insist on using that system, fine, but that's not tactics, that's a letter of resignation.

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

  "Gregory was lucky in the first half that McManus played well, because McManus covered a multitude of sins. Once he came off, the second half was Gregory versus Best. I have managed six matches in League Two and of those six I have won zero. Inept as I am, I made some adjustments that had Chester, with the lowest budget by far of the 92 league clubs, dominating against Bolton. Did Gregory notice? He didn't change anything, so he can't have noticed. If he can't see what's right in front of him, why is he managing anything other than a Sunday league side? If he saw it but didn't know what to do, why is he managing one of the country's most important institutions?

  "If you create a culture that rewards thuggish play, two-footed tackles, pushing people into the goalposts after they have scored, a culture that rewards players for constantly whinging and moaning at the referee instead of learning how to pass, you're going to get red cards, you're going to get fines, and sponsors are going to think twice about associating with you. If I were a sponsor of Bolton Wanderers today I would be looking at the small print of my contract because why is my brand logo on the shirts of players launching themselves two-footed at their opponents? I'm told poor Pascal Bochum might never walk again. Is that what we do here?"

  Max reached over to pause the video. "No-one said you wouldn't walk again. That was just for shock value."

  "I understand." There wasn't long left in the video; I pressed play.

  "If I was a Bolton fan today I would be livid. My club is being hollowed out, not by Gregory, but by the people who appointed him. Those people will sack Gregory, of course they will, because you can't lose 6-1 to Chester. A club the size of Bolton can't lose 6-1 to Chester, who started the match with four players under 19. So they'll sack him, but they don't have the competence to appoint someone better. Those decision-makers can't stay at the club because if they do, Chester will be playing Bolton again next season, in League One, and I'll look at that and think it's an easy six points even if any two of their players earn more than my entire squad.

  "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to hospital. First for a scan on my head and an X-ray on my arm, then to find out if my talented young player's career is over. A horrible, appalling day in my life and the life of Pascal Bochum but for Gregory? It's just another Tuesday."

  I licked my lips and Max came round the bed to pour me a glass of water. "I am speechless."

  "I rate it 4.72," said Max, who didn't seem to be joking. "I obviously didn't have time to write it and structure it properly but I think it hits the main points. Building Bolton up gets me the sympathies of their fans but also contrasts with how tiny Chester are - for now - and shines a light on just how crushing it is that we beat them. The threat that we would meet in League One if they didn't change soon was pretty good, I think. I wasn't too happy with the bits about me."

  "When you said you had never won a game in League Two."

  "I have as a player," smiled Max. "But I went from saying I was a shit manager to saying I made some tactical changes that worked. Do you know what I mean? It wasn't completely internally consistent."

  "I think you might be underestimating yourself. I would give the speech 4.73."

  "I just really, really want the guy to get sacked and if I flubbed my chance, that's going to eat at me forever."

  I tapped my Bach 'poem'. "What happens is as God wills it." Something occurred to me. "Your arm! Please tell me you didn't break it again."

  Max scoffed. "God willed that a big boof-headed American should break it last season. You know bones heal stronger, right? That one little bit of my arm is like adamantium now. About half a centimetre of me is literally invincible. Then again, I'm still not convinced it ever actually broke. No, I'm all good, but because of the concussion protocol I do have to sit out the Burton Albion game. I'm not sure what to do - it's ages since I had a match day off. What's the best use of my time? Go and scout a couple of League One teams, maybe."

  "No! That's our first home game back in the EFL! You have to be there."

  Max didn't seem too bothered. "Without our two best players we don't have much of a shot; Burton are going to be right up there at the end of the season. I knew we would lose a couple of matches early doors and Sandra gets to be the first female manager in League Two. Sucks that it'll go down as a loss but it's still history, isn't it? And we will make it up to her near the end of the season when we're flying. Her first six matches will look a lot better than mine. Won't they?"

  I wasn't sure how to get back to my performance review, and my attempt was clumsy. "Our two best players?"

  Max snorted in derision - he knew what I was trying to do. "Okay, fine. Quick recap. When I first scouted you at Darlington..." He rummaged in his backpack and came up with a player radar. The sections were, at most, three thin pencil lines deep.

  "What's this?" I asked.

  "That's your radar when I found you," he said. He pulled another one out and looked at it. "Hang on, the one you're holding is the newest one." I looked in horror at the chart. Surely... surely I was better than this? The computer must have - Max pushed his finger to his lip while he considered something, but he couldn't contain his amusement any longer. "Ha! Look how worried you are. Here's where you are now."

  He handed me the real chart - some long bars, some short ones - and I devoured it. "Aerial duels bad," I said.

  Best tutted. "Don't start with the worst stuff, you dick. Look at that. Carry and dribble volume. That's mint, that."

  "This radar has different metrics from the one in the Maxterplan."

  "Yeah, I don't know which one I like. Spectrum's giving me different options. He loves it, all this data stuff, wants to get into it in a big way."

  "What about the youth teams?" Spectrum was in charge of the youth setup - he couldn't spend too much time on data analysis.

  "Yeah," said Max. "I've told him the kids are his priority until I can find someone better than him and anyway, even if I do Spectrum will show him how I want things to go for the rest of the season. He gets it; he's in no hurry but we get free data from all over the place now that we're in League Two. It's really amazing."

  "I'd love to help him," I said. "If I'm out for the rest of the season I could do some data stuff. I love it, too."

  Max scowled at me, then realised what he was doing. "No. I've got plans for you. They are completely mandatory. I mean, voluntary."

  "I see."

  "Let me say my things. So when I found you, you were too small to play in England. I made you my first signing, staked my entire reputation on you. Since then you've played loads, slapped teams pink, and got two league winners medals. Either I made you taller or you proved the doubters wrong big time. I asked you to do certain things at certain times and you did everything I ever asked. One very stupid way people talk about players is to ask how a team of eleven clones would do. Would eleven Messis beat eleven Ronaldos? I think a team of eleven Pascal Bochums would fucking destroy League Two, and that's including set pieces. So that's my appraisal. You are the perfect chess piece."

  "I'm a robot," I said. "You programme me and I follow instructions."

  "Yes and no. You add your own spin to my instructions. You interpret them."

  I felt the throbbing in my leg go faster and I tried to keep still. "I will have a short career, boss. Perhaps it is already over." Again, something flashed on Max's face, but I continued. "If I make it back, I would like to learn Relationism." My throat tightened. "From you."

  "Er, no."

  "Please," I said, eyes welling up. "I don't want to be the best robot. I don't want to be a chess piece. I want to be more like Henri. I want to do something, create something." My throat tightened even more. "While I still can."

  Max got up and paced around. He flapped his arms and gestured like an Italian. "Mamma mia! What the shit is going on? Why doesn't anyone listen to me? Max knows Best, remember that? I want to get you earning forty thousand Euro a week, mate, and you're like oh now I'd rather learn about blobs. Blobs isn't for you, PB. There are no Bad Boys in blobs."

  "Dan is a Bad Boy."

  "What?"

  "Badford."

  Max cackled. "Why did that never occur to me? Or did it and I forgot?" He went to the window and looked out, biting his nail. He turned suddenly. "I've got it. Here's what you're going to do and I don't want to hear a fucking argument against it, you hear me? I just want to hear you say yes. Okay..." He pushed his index fingers into his temples as though analysing what he was about to say. Running it through a virus checker. "You are going to get your UEFA C badge in Wales. First you've got to do a course called Football Leaders, then there's a Welsh thing called FAW C. They're both really short but you'll turn up, be the biggest fucking megabrain they've ever seen, and they'll wave you through. Okay? Then you'll be added to whatever UEFA C course is going on and if you've missed some you'll catch up. You got that?"

  Why not do a course while I was injured? It would be another point of difference between me and the other players like me. Add a working knowledge of Relationism and I would surely be able to carve a niche in this industry. "Yes."

  "At the same time you'll come to 3 R Welsh with me - I mean, it's normally in Saltney unless there are matches - and you'll learn about Relationism."

  "Okay."

  "As my assistant manager."

  "Oh! Yes!" My brain was swimming in happy chemicals. Nurse! I don't need those pills - take them away! Nurse, bring the pills back. My face hurts from smiling. "I mean, yes. Love to."

  "Top. Last question for this section, I think. Do you think you could spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels and make things weird?"

  He was talking about Luisa, the waitress I had longed after. I felt heat burn my cheeks. "I am with Tiggy," I said.

  "I'm going to have to press you for a yes or no on that one."

  I set my jaw. He really was insufferable, that man. Highs followed by lows, but far more of the former. "Yes, I can spend time with a cute girl and not fall head over heels."

  "Huh," said Max. "Okay." He went to his bag and pulled out something I had seen a lot of, especially at the Fans Forum when Max was fighting off the Daddy Star takeover. The Chester logo took up half of the front cover.

  "A contract?" I said. My hands shook as I flicked through the pages. Max wasn't thinking about binning me off. He wanted to give me a new deal. I flicked to the last page. 800 pounds a week! An increase of 300. In the world of football, peanuts. In the world of Chester's stupidly tight budget, it was a vast fortune.

  I cannot lie. I wept.

  Finally, I got a grip. "Thank you," I said. "But I refuse."

  ***

  5 Recitative [Bass]

  And if that is your will, that I shall not be ill, then I shall thank you from my heart.

  Max, slappable to the last, laughed. "Don't be a dick," he said. "Sign it before Tiggy comes and sees how little I'm offering and we have another Triplet fiasco."

  I inhaled a deep, shuddering, messy breath. I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve. "The club has 900 pounds a week left in its budget. I'm out for the season. You can sign a forward on loan, one who is earning 1800 a week. Clubs will loan players to you on half their salary because they know you'll improve them."

  Max looked far to the left, a sure sign he was unimpressed. "Have you been playing Soccer Supremo? I don't need help squad-building, thanks. I'm actually the best in the world, thanks. Sign the fucking contract before I lose my shit, thanks."

  "No. You have to replace me. For the team."

  Max's faux-outrage puffed out of existence. "This isn't a test of Chesterness, mate." He paced around the room before going to the door, opening it, and peeking down the corridor. He came back to the side of the bed closest to the door and whispered. I had to strain to hear. "First thing, no loans in. Remember Chipper? That was as stressful for me as for him. Second, we're going to coach the fucking shit out of the players we've got. Wibbers is the best talent in England. Sharky can crush this level. Third, it's an excuse for me to give minutes to kids. Tyson, Benny, Noah, Chas. They didn't think they'd get much time in League Two games but now they will. And fourth - " He paused to check the door and got even quieter. "You're fucking fine, mate."

  There was complete silence in the entire world. "Pardon me?"

  Max got a giddy look about him, the one he'd had on his face when he first entered the room. He checked behind him again. "You know Dean wants to build a database of all the ACL injuries but clubs won't share their data? I've been going round, now and then, meeting their physios and doctors and whatnot, to try to persuade them to sign up. They fucking love a bit of attention from a big shot like me, Pascal, let me tell you. You think I'm good with waitresses? You should see me with a League One head physio. They're putty in my hands. Along the way I've seen loads of gruesome shit I never, ever wanted to see. I saw an X-ray with a bone broken in two places just like yours. Guess what the doctors said?"

  "Five to ten months."

  "Right. Now, I wasn't so sure because to me it looked like the bones were all just, I don't know. They just needed to be eased back into place, sort of thing. You know if you get an atlas and cut out the continents you can shove Brazil next to Africa real good? It used to be one big thing, didn't it? Pangea. Panagea, something like that. Maybe that can be next year's Maxterplan. Anyway, call me crazy but I was like there's no way that break is five months, but you know me, I'm a man of science, I trust experts, and I got what I wanted and fucked off. But fuck me, wasn't that lad back training two months later?"

  "What? Two months?"

  Max tapped me on the shoulder. "You'll be healed up in six to eight weeks and you can start light training again. That's a fucking Maxy five-star triple-lock promise, okay?" He looked behind him again. "But you can't tell anyone. That's why Tiggy can't be here - also because she won't let me tease you - and that's why this is going to be hard. You have to do what you're told, go through the process, be sad when they talk about ten month timelines. But it's not ten months, okay?"

  "I don't..." My world was tumbling upside down. I was just getting used to the idea that I was crocked, that I was broken, perhaps forever. It would have been easy to dismiss Max's dilettante diagnosis but I knew one person who wouldn't and that was Physio Dean. Dean was flat-out terrified of Max's intuition when it came to injuries. "You're guessing, though. You don't actually know."

  He smiled and tapped me again. "That's the spirit! Maybe we don't need to send you to acting class after all."

  The shadows on the ceiling shifted. No longer 5 to 10 but 6 to 8... and weeks not months! It couldn't be true. There wasn't even the slightest ghost of a chance. "And this is why I get a new contract? Because you think I'll be back by... by December?"

  "You get a new contract because you've earned one over the last three years with your grit, courage, and skill. Sign it."

  I shook my head. Max was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. "We're light. We still need another player."

  Max's forehead sank into the bed and he mumbled, "Oh my God." He came up with a disbelieving look. "Fine, there's another reason. Our main rivals. Check this shit out."

  He got his phone, hunted around, and showed me another video. It was Chip Star in a wild limo/van hybrid. The seats were luxurious, there was party lighting, and Chip and a male friend were inside with four models. Everyone was holding champagne.

  "Here we go with another Chip Star story! First match of the season. Bradford City, yo! We're off to Harrow-gate in the Party Bus. We're going up so you better get this party started! Oh, boy, fellas, am I excited about this. We've got a helluva roster, top head coach, and the best fans in the division, yo! Harrow-gate gonna get dominate. Let's go, baby!"

  I felt almost as sick watching that as I had when Max showed me the horrible X-ray. "What the fuck did I just see?"

  Max smiled. He took his phone, tapped some more, and showed me the outside of the Party Bus. It was beyond vile, a sort of squashed team bus with two huge pictures of Chip. The one on the left was facing away, double-thumbing his name on a Bradford shirt with the name CHIP and the number 1. The other showed him facing forward, trying to look sexy in a cowboy get-up, tipping his hat. Some words were painted by his head: "Hey there, ladies!"

  Max was pleased by my reaction. "The Bradford fans are calling it 'The Chip Van'. Yeah, that's our main threat this season. They were a fucking shambles in that match against Harrogate. Sorry, Harrow-gate. Obviously I feel bad for Aff and Carl but, you know. Fuck Chip."

  "Yeah," I said, but I had a strange feeling. Max was confident I would recover fast from my injury, and had dismissed a rival based on their owner's taste in vehicles. Was that really enough to fritter away our meagre budget? "I just think that maybe - "

  "Conversation's boring. Sign the contract or you're sacked."

  He wasn't serious about that, but it was clear that he had made his mind up. The remaining budget would go to the rest of the first team squad - if they signed new deals. I picked up the contract and skipped to the final pages, where the most important terms were. I was getting more money but there were no other changes. The club got nothing from this - it was purely a show of faith.

  Grant that my soul may be free from illness and always remain healthy.

  I signed my second ever contract as a professional footballer and my heart soared.

  Max loomed over me with a menacing look about him. He growled two words. "In triplicate."

  ***

  6. Chorale

  "Christ, what a palaver," said Max. "Why does everyone make everything so complicated? The fuck. Okay, we're nearly done, I reckon. Er, got a sort of post-contract performance review for you. No, that's not the right phrase. What's it called when you tell your robots what you want them to do in future?"

  "By robots you mean employees? Goal-setting?"

  "Yeah. I think there's a proper word. Ah, well, who gives a shit? So you're doing some badges and you'll help me with the soldiers. Oh by the way I'm going to be telling people your leg is proper fucked but that's just to set up a miracle return narrative. We'll get you fat stacks of sponsor money, trust me. Where was I?"

  "Badges and soldiers."

  "Right. But that's like an hour a day at most. You'll have visitors and the coaches are going to come and watch oppo video with you. So, let's say three hours a day. I want you to use all this free time to do something so when I sell you I can make proper bank."

  "Yes, of course. Upper-body work? Er... hand-eye coordination? Advanced visualisation?"

  He pinched his nose again. "Could you stop wittering on? Watch this."

  He opened Instagram - which I found astonishing because he said he wasn't on there. The account owner was Cliff Daps - I should have guessed. It was open at a page from a name it took me half a second to recognise - Foquita.

  With a frown of surprise, I pressed play. Foquita spoke first, but when the camera moved there was a beautiful woman (crying) to the left and what must have been the Peruvian striker's mother to the right. She was gripping some Rosary beads.

  It was all in Spanish. Foquita said things, the crying woman said one line, and the mother interrupted once, too.

  "My Spanish is poor," I said.

  Max nodded and went through the video bit by bit. I was surprised by his language skills, but I quickly realised he was doing a lot of guessing. "Foquita is saying, like, Pascal my brother, I saw what happened, it's a crime, it cannot be true, his heart is with you. This is his girlfriend - I hope he doesn't bring her to Chester because that'll be mayhem, holy shit, what a babe - and she goes 'it's not right!' Foquita says he believes you will recover soon and his mother says yes, she is sure, too, and she will pray for you. Foquita finishes by saying, like, I'll be there in January and we will play together, I know we will, stay strong. Then the last bit is something like, 'I love the way you play'."

  That got me welling up again. "Okay," I said, because that's all I could manage.

  "Then his mum finishes by saying please like and subscribe."

  I laughed. "No, she doesn't."

  "Okay, fine, she doesn't, but I'm pretty sure the rest is, you know, more or less right."

  "Your Spanish is good these days."

  "No, it's dogshit, but you know what was strange? In Brazil I saw some stuff and heard words and I was like oh that's almost the same as the Spanish I learned in school. It kind of brought some things back that I'd forgotten or never quite learned the first time round."

  "You learned Spanish in Brazil. That's so you."

  "I can't talk to Foquita in Spanish, though. I can't actually communicate, do you know what I mean? Anyway, this isn't about me. We're talking about you. Try to focus, yeah? Your French is mint, isn't it? You can read books in French. Your English is bonkers good, obvs. You picked up a bit of Portuguese. And you know that other one."

  "German."

  "That's it! I can easily sell you to a team in the UK, MLS, Germany, Switzerland, er... what's the other one?"

  "Austria."

  "Yes! Who else? The French leagues. Do you get me? That's a lot of potential suitors. But there's a gap. I would like you to learn Spanish."

  "To play for who? Valencia? Sevilla?"

  "I don't know," said Max. "But having two clubs interested instead of one could add a hundred grand to your value. Having three clubs... you get the idea. Are you going to do it, si or no?"

  There was really no reason not to, but I had additional motivation in the form of Foquita's message. One way to pay him back for his kindness was to speak his language. I could help to make him feel more welcome when he arrived - whether I was on the pitch by then or not. "Si," I said. "Is that why I get a pay rise? To pay for materials? Apps?"

  "Er," Max said, suddenly looking shifty. "I consulted top experts and they say nothing beats in-person language training. So I've paid for three lessons myself and if you want to continue the club will go halves with you. Something like that."

  Why was he looking shifty? Was he lying about booking lessons? It made no sense. "When do I start?"

  Max checked the time. "Twenty minutes ago. Let me just think if I've covered everything..." He looked around the room and nodded a few times, before picking up the page with the Bach on it. "Oh, check this out! Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End. Does that mean what I think it means?"

  "Probably."

  "Top. All right, put that away. It's Spanish o'clock, do you get me?" He went around the bed to collect his bag, slid the signed contracts inside, and paused again. He pointed at the page of translations. "Video of you in a wheelchair. Classical music plays. You roll into a light source, turn round, camera zooms in super close. You do your best Christian Fierce impression and you say, 'I'll be Bach.'" Max nodded, delighted with himself, but the nod turned into a shake. "No, cut that. That's terrible. Okay remember what I told you. I won't see you for a while, all right? Hasta la vista, baby."

  "Vaya con dios," I said.

  Max left and closed the door behind him.

  The room was suddenly incredibly empty and supernaturally quiet.

  Remember what I told you, he said.

  So many things. A new contract. I wasn't as badly injured as feared. Bradford were a shambles. He wanted me to be his assistant manager and to learn a language to boost my transfer value. What else? There was more. It had all unfolded like a -

  There was a knock on the door and in walked Luisa. No, not Luisa! This stranger was about my own age, and by far the cutest woman I had ever seen.

  Short brown hair, huge brown eyes, eyebrows to die for.

  "Hola!" she said. "Me llamo Carmen."

  "Hola," I said. "Pascal."

  She looked around as she came close, and of all the places to sit, she sat down right next to me. Right next to me! "Cómo estás?" she said.

  "Muy bien!" I said, smiling.

  "En realidad?" she said, looking at my leg. She gave me a warm smile. She thought I was brave!

  I didn't know how to reply, though. I barely would have known what to say in German, and for a long time after that moment I wondered if Max had chosen Carmen as a trick or a treat. I lay back on the pillow and looked towards the door. Tiggy would surely return soon, and what would she see? Me blushing every time Carmen spoke? I took a breath and tried to smile. "Si," I said. "No," I added, with a laugh.

  Carmen gave me a dazzling burst of perfect white teeth and picked up the Bach paper. "Alemana?"

  "Si," I said, nodding. I took the paper from her and pointed to one of the lines. The last line of the soprano's Chorale. "Ist alles gut, wenn gut das End." She liked it, but didn't understand. I translated. "All is good, if the end is good."

  "Si, claro," she said, agreeing, and she pulled some paper out of her bag.

  It was a worksheet with lots of familiar images. I grabbed at it with ridiculous haste, scanning and scanning and scanning. Carmen tapped the first image. "Cuatro cuatro dos," she said.

  "Cuatro cuatro dos," I repeated.

  The next picture showed only the defensive line of the 4-4-2 formation. I expected her to say 'flat back four'. "Linea de cuatro," she said, which was incredibly fascinating to me. Didn't the Spanish describe this as flat? Then again, why call it flat when it was the default? The line of four - yes, it had a certain logic, didn't it? "Linea de cuatro," she repeated, with a little more force.

  "Linea de cuatro," I said, with the biggest grin.

  The lessons continued in the same vein. That was the beautifully unorthodox way Max had asked Carmen to teach me her language, and it worked. My progress was phenomenal.

  And my recovery?

  Lo siento, but that story is told in the next volume. I think this is a good place to end.

  Oh, but... perhaps one more paragraph.

  Tiggy came in, striding purposefully into the room as though she owned it. She saw Carmen, paused, blinked, scanned the worksheets, eyed the grapes, and somehow instantly put together that she had been sent out on a wild goose chase. "That bloody Max Best," she said, dropping the chocolate and the magazine onto the bed. But then she looked at me, saw how my spirits had been lifted, and smiled. "One day I'm going to kick his arse."

  ...

  The men's squad versus Bolton:

  The women's squad at the start of pre-season:

  Fleetwood Max chapter, here's a link. Pretty cool!