2.

  British glossary: wonga. Money. Bread. Dosh. Dough. Lolly. Moolah.

  ***

  Monday, September 1

  I tested my neck and found that it was loose and mobile. My ankles hurt, of course they did, but if I lay flat on my back with my arms across my chest and focused on my breathing, the aches and pains abated. I tuned in to the pendular clicking of the grandfather clock and the more I matched my inhalations to the ticks and my exhales to the tocks, the more at peace with the universe I felt.

  "Okay, doc, I'm ready. Fix me."

  From my left, in the darkness, came the voice of Alex Short, our new sports psychologist. "Quick note," he said, in his hard-to-place accent. "I'm not a doctor and I'm not Coldplay so I won't be attempting to fix you. But I'm here to support you in any way I can." He spoke in a rough, matey, blokey tone that would put footballers at ease. I'd seen his CV so I wasn't buying his shtick - the guy was as sharp as Mr. Yalley in his Savile Row suit.

  I counted ticks and tocks, checking there were equal numbers of each. The metallic clink and clunk sounded like people going through the turnstiles at the Deva. Tick - in goes a season ticket holder. Tock - there goes his son. Five thousand three hundred and eighty-nine to see us play Bradford. A lot of ticks, a lot of tocks, a lot of wonga for the club. Chester was Willy Wonga's Football Factory and I was the magical proprietor. The very tired proprietor. "Okay I'll get a nice blanket and then you'll do a soft spoken role play where you pretend to check me into a luxury hotel and in about half an hour you can wake me up and we'll go out and tell Emma we had a really good, deep conversation."

  "I'd love to discuss the luxury hotel fantasy one day but I think this might be a good time to clarify that I won't be lying to your girlfriend."

  "What if I pay you a million pounds a week?"

  "Then yeah, tell me what you want to say and I'll say it. No problemo!"

  I smiled and the air in the room felt less dense, less clingy. "I don't lie to Emma except about one thing."

  I thought I heard Alex scratch something. An eyebrow, maybe, or his beard, which straddled the line between scruffy and professional to microscopic accuracy. "That feels like an invitation to ask what the one thing is."

  "I am attracted to her mother."

  Alex sniggered, but only briefly. "Max, it's good for my rep with the players if you're so keen to see me you bagsy the first sesh but if you're here under duress the time won't be very useful. It could be counter-productive. Clients have to want to talk to me otherwise it's like being sent to detention in school, isn't it?"

  "I'm not under duress. Ems thinks I was more affected by the match than I'm willing to admit and she thinks she has been extremely patient over the weekend because she knows there was a lot going on, a lot for me to unpack, but she would like me to get your help with some of the bigger boxes which I totally agree with because it's why you're here. I mean I probably wouldn't have insisted on doing the session first thing Monday morning when I want to watch the lads train on our new pitches and the dentist opens today and there are some media people coming to Bumpers in a bit but Ems said I should talk to you before I try to do any of the other stuff and Ems is a ledge and sometimes she's right about these things, so."

  "What is it about you or your behaviour that makes Emma think you need to talk to someone?"

  "Don't know," I lied. There might have been a bit more staring into space than normal, and what Emma thought was an unhealthy few hours spent curled up on the floor reading old football annuals and war comics.

  Alex didn't believe me, but he let it go. "I suppose we need to talk about Bradford but first can I ask a few things about my role at the club?"

  "Of course."

  "First, what's with the ticking?"

  I lifted myself up and turned towards him. Conditions outside were overcast and the lights in the cabin weren't on; the room was dark. "It makes it feel like therapy like in the movies. Don't you like it?"

  "I don't mind it but again, this isn't therapy, so I think it might contribute towards a false expectation of what we're going to do. Ditto the way you're lying on a table. But if you're comfortable up there, I'm happy to continue."

  "Will I stop the ticking, yes or no?"

  He didn't feel super comfortable answering, but he said, "I think it would be better."

  "Okay." I got my phone and closed the app I'd bought specifically for these sessions. "Bosh," I said, sadly.

  In the silence I closed my eyes and heard thousands of Chester fans on their feet singing 'Best! Best will tear you apart again!' I wasn't sure it was an improvement.

  Alex said, "Quick question about squad rotation. At most football clubs being in the team is the Holy Grail and losing your place is what triggers a visit to the SP. I know you do things different but I feel like players are going to spend a lot of time trying to reconcile how they perceive their worth as players and how much game time they're getting. So if you could briefly explain your process that would probably be helpful for me in helping the lads."

  "You're asking how I pick the team?"

  "I suppose I am, yes."

  My secretive nature kicked in, but only for a second. Alex's request was totally reasonable and showed he had been doing his homework. My way was pretty unusual. "Let's pop out to Amsterdam and see how the lads are getting on. I'll explain out there."

  I hopped off the table and led Alex out into the fresh air. There was a nice cold bite to it - perfect football weather, but Emma was tucked indoors somewhere so I didn’t see her. The mobile kitchen was in place and fully operational. Smells were wafting around Bumpers Bank - sausages, bacon, melted cheese. Delish - got my mouth watering. The morning was gloomy enough that the floodlights were on around the main training pitch. Alex nodded to where Jude was placing cones in a very specific pattern. "That's Amsterdam, is it?"

  "Yep," I said. "We're testing all the names for things to see what sticks."

  "Why Amsterdam?"

  "Because the grass is so good."

  Alex chuckled. "Right."

  "Don't do drugs myself but it is easy to remember the name. I wanted to call the other pitch Man City. You know, because it's plastic. Sandra wasn't keen." Sandra was with the squad in the meeting cabin, outlining the plan for the week. Simple plan - try not to lose too heavily. I strolled towards the edge of the grass pitch - it was immaculate. I returned to Alex's question about how I chose my starting elevens. "I hate when players ask why they aren't in the team and I do react badly when players react badly so if you can help them not piss me off that would be tremendous." I put my thoughts into order. How did I pick the teams? "Okay so I suppose there are three sort of main considerations." I went to Jude's pile and grabbed three cones, laying them out in a line as Alex and I got on our haunches. I pointed to each cone in turn, starting with the one furthest away. "There's the season as a whole, the two-week period that follows the next match, and the match itself.

  "The match. I study the oppo and I think I want to play 3-5-2. I need a left back on the bench for if I want to change to a flat back four. Pretty straightforward, right? There's no left back in the starting eleven, same as there's no pole vaulter or computer programmer. A left back complaining about not being in the team is like a toddler whining that the sun's too far away. Don't waste my time with that shit, you pricks." I paused, wondering where the heat had come from. "The second consideration," I said, in a soothingly professional voice, "is the period in which the match takes place. At this level games come thick and fast. Home league match on Saturday, away cup match Tuesday, away league match Saturday, on and on it goes, endlessly. You can't pick the strongest eleven every week because they will get fatigued and injured and their improvement will slow. Almost everything we do here is geared towards maximising our training output, so if we have five matches in two weeks, no-one should play more than four. I think I would even prefer three but the squad is thin in some areas. It's hard to rest Christian Fierce, for example.

  "Then there's the season view. I'd like Cole Adams and Josh Owens to start ten or fifteen matches each, if that's possible. Henri Lyons will accept being rested but only to a certain extent. I can't play him once a month, right? So that's where a player could come to me and discuss their role in the overall season because they need a certain amount of play for their own careers. But I'm well aware of those issues and I do my best to give everyone what they need. If they really want to get minutes they should focus on training so that I can trust them in hard matches. I think what drives me crazy is that they come to me to discuss things I've already thought about and worried about seven hundred times."

  "They might think the squeaky wheel gets the grease."

  "The squeaky wheel gets sent to the bottom of the pile because I'm trying to run a football club and I don't need fucking whiny babies pecking my head seven days a week." I unclenched my jaw. "Anyway, does it make sense that there's a plan? It's not just whatever I feel like on a particular Saturday?"

  "It makes enough sense that I can help the players come to those conclusions for themselves. It’s good when I can help them see things from your point of view. Maybe I'll have follow-up questions one day."

  "Sure. I really want you to be a success here because you could be a catalyst for some really fantastic growth. If there's anything you need, let me know. Unless it costs money, in which case ask me next summer. Or the one after."

  A door opened and a few players came out. Henri was wearing black leggings and gloves as though he was playing in the Antarctic. "Max!" he said, jogging towards me. "Alex, good morning. Max, it's wonderful. It's simply wonderful."

  "What is?"

  "The pitch! I was out before. It's spectacular. Jonny Planter is a wizard. I would like your permission to include him in my Christmas happening."

  "Your happening? It's not going to be a play?"

  "No. I have created a completely new concept. I am very smug about it - I believe that in the future all football Christmas parties will look like mine and the world shall know that I, Henri Lyons, was this idea's progenitor. I do not know if Jonny can take some light teasing though. I need your input."

  "You can poke fun at him but not his pitches."

  "Never!" said Henri. "There, it is decided. I will include him. Thank you, Max."

  He jogged off. I raised my eyebrows at Alex and nodded towards the video cabin. "I think my morale just improved," I said. Christmas fun to look forward to, and the new pitch making its debut! I couldn't wait to see all the green in the player profiles. There was going to be so much green.

  Alex pushed the door open and held it for me. As I passed him, he said, "Should we talk about Bradford City, do you think?"

  I made my way to my table. "We can talk about whatever you want. We can talk about hands. How many fingers is the most amount of fingers you'd want?"

  "I'm happy with five. How did you sleep on Friday night?"

  "Sleep?" I said, surprised. "Fine. Good. Emma came to Chester after work. She lives in Newcastle more than here and she has been busy catching up with her projects because we had a looong summer holiday. She's getting on top of it now and she's a lot more relaxed and I always sleep better with her."

  "I've got to say I wasn't expecting you to say you slept well. There is a lot of history between you and people from Bradford City." He added, in a worried tone, like he just realised he had been pranked by someone, "Isn't there?"

  I thought about that as I lay down. "I mean, compared to most clubs, yeah, but it's not a big deal, is it? I'm not going to lie awake worrying about Folke Wester. He is my defeated foe. He's shit." I closed my eyes and heard the fans.

  Max Best's blue and white army!

  Max Best's blue and white army!

  Alex scribbled something. "I've been trying to get a handle on the trouble between you and him but it's all quite vague. Can you tell me the story from your point of view?"

  I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. "There's nothing much to say, I don't think. He looks like the actor who comes second in every casting call for a serial killer. He nails the audition, looks the part, but when it comes time to make the final decision the director and producer both realise they've been sent a bullet in the post and somehow they know it was from him."

  A distant whistle blew - the first drills were starting. I checked the profiles wondering if the whole squad would all add an instant five points in CA - imagine that! No such luck.

  Alex coughed. "But what happened, though?"

  "I was playing for Darlington and clowned about in a match where Wester's dad was the manager. He got sacked as a result and Folke decided to blame me instead of his shit dad. He becomes player-manager of Darlington, copies my tactics, and buys some good players who like kicking people. They eat our dust. Oh, the main thing. He pays a journalist to go around town getting all the hot goss on me and unleashes this scurrilous article that's sort of based on things that are half true but twisted in the worst possible light. It doesn't bother me much but it mentions my mum. That's shitty but she'll never read it. Emma did read it. And what it said about her was way way way over the line. So I went tonto in the first match and in the second I played goalkeeper and took the actual piss. I kept expecting Wester to be sacked but somehow he clung on and when we were winning the National League, Darlington won the National League North. That plus our so-called rivalry brought him to the attention of Chip."

  "Tell me about Chip."

  I visualised the grotesque limousine slash team bus that had appeared in our car park on Saturday. The Chip Van, as it was derisively called in Bradford, was Chip's party bus. An ostentatious show of wealth from the owner of a football club that represented one of the poorest places in the UK. "Chip Star. Imagine a killer robot from the future whose job it is to fly to Pluto to wipe out the last human beings in the universe. That robot would one billion percent be more likeable than Chip Star. Chip Star once stood for election, unopposed, and came second."

  "Max."

  I laughed - if Alex hadn't stopped me I could have riffed for hours. It was strange - I thought I wanted to get out of the sesh as soon as possible but I was drawing it out. "His old man is Daddy Star, owner of a retail chain in Texas. He's about halfway to becoming a billionaire and he is also the father of Brooke, my Queen of Green, my Wizard of Wonga, my Princess of Profit and Sustainability Rules. He doesn't want his daughter in England so he tried to buy the club so he could give it a punishment beating and get her to go home. During the takeover process, Chip talked a lot of shit about his data models but when they bought Bradford the model turned out to be 'copy Max Best'. Which, to be fair, is the second best squad building strategy in modern football."

  "What's the best?"

  "Be me."

  "Right."

  "Yeah, Chip is an idiot but he has never directly hurt me so I don't get emotional about him. It winds me up that he has signed some young players for a manager who won't use them, but Bradford are far from unique in that respect. One of the reasons I went at the match so hard was that I thought I had a decent chance of getting Folke sacked this weekend."

  "Because of Bradford's poor start to the season?"

  "Poor is one word for it. You have to think that Chester's first team budget is 30,000 pounds a week. If it sounds like a lot, think again; it is buttons. Bradford are up to 98,000 a week so whatever we do, they should be doing three times better. But they got one point from the first three games, same as us. Their striker, Chipper, who I fell out with over the way he was always getting sent off, got sent off. Wester wants to play 4-1-4-1 because that's his favourite - that's official now - but he doesn't have a proper defensive midfielder. He was using Raffi Brown in there and, like, no. Also, Brown was playing hurt. And, of course, Folke's main tactic remains 'let's kick people'. As you saw on Saturday," I added, darkly. "It's just a mess. A shambles. I keep going back to that word because it's really the only one you need."

  "So they're spending a lot of money but they don't have a good team."

  "Oh, they have a good team."

  ***

  Saturday - One Hour Before Kick Off

  I stood in the dugout, hoodie pulled over my dipped head, and peered at the Bradford squad. They had decent depth even without the suspended Chipper, and their first eleven, lined up in 4-1-4-1, would have an average CA of exactly 85.

  Apart from the three former Chester players (Carl, Aff, and Brown), the first eleven ranged from CA 84 (the left back) to 96 (the centre back and captain). They had a great spine which comprised a CA 87 goalkeeper, the aforementioned captain, a CA 94 central midfielder, and a CA 85 striker.

  I noted that Carl, their right back, had reached his ceiling - he took to the Deva pitch with CA 77. At left midfield, Aff was maxed on 72. Quite strange that I had used one of my most precious perks to boost his PA and now he was playing against me, but the money from his sale had been invested in a new 3G pitch in Hoole and I didn't want to keep players who could no longer improve. I was happy for him; he was earning more than all but two of Chester's squad.

  Raffi Brown was -

  "Max," said Sandra. "We have to talk to the TV guys."

  "Coming."

  ***

  I blinked. Alex was patiently waiting for me to continue - I suppose he was used to people spacing out while talking to him.

  "The previous manager froze out a couple of good players and Wester has brought them back into the fold. Wester has his best eleven on the pitch, that's one point in his favour. Aff and Carl might drag the overall skill level down a fraction but they are very solid guys who don't make many mistakes and they know how to fucking play." I tested the tension in my neck again. "I don't regret selling them but it was hard hearing their names being cheered by the Bradford fans when the teams were read out. Very strange. No, Bradford are one of the top teams in the division. I would smash the title with that side. If Aff is comfortably your worst player, you're in with a shot. I'm still holding out hope Wester will get sacked and then it will be interesting to see if the new manager can get them to the playoffs."

  "You don't think Wester can do it?"

  "No."

  "Tell me about Saturday morning. Your preparations. That was the same as normal?"

  I closed my eyes and tried to recreate my movements. "Emma made me a tea and we did a puzzle in bed. That's not a euphemism. I did my stretches, pottered around the garden. It's looking great even though I wasn't around to keep an eye on it. Ruth says it's because I wasn't there, but Ruth says a lot of things."

  "Who's Ruth?"

  "My landlord. Former Chester board member. She runs an agency and I give her the benefit of my boundless wisdom for a small consideration."

  "Sorry, you've lost me."

  "Me get wonga."

  Alex laughed. "You meant it like that, okay."

  "Erm, lunch, stadium, Chester Chatters, sponsors, bit of glad-handing, you know. People like to see me, apparently. Sandra writes out the team sheet, I go out to see what the oppo are up to, pre-match media, pre-match team talk. Sometimes I've got a theme for the day, like I might briefly outline the difference between the Austrian school of economics versus Keynesianism and then I'll get them pumped up by saying whoo let's intervene in the business cycle and achieve a monopoly on those three points."

  "What, really?"

  "Really. There's a weight of intellect behind it all."

  ***

  "All right," I called out, "shut the fuck up. Who would win," I said, scowling, "in a fight between a seal and a chicken?"

  "A seal," said Youngster.

  I switched to a big smile. "That's right! We're the Seals and Bradford are the Bantams. Do you know what a Bantam is?"

  "A chicken?" said Youngster.

  "Yes! Okay so we're up against some chickens. I want you to go out there today and draw chalk lines on the grass. The chickens will put their heads to the lines and won't be able to move away."

  Henri smiled. "Max, is your theme today tonic immobility?"

  "Oh my God, Henri," I groaned. "You always do this. I'm talking about hypnotising chickens. What are you - You know what? Never mind." I pulled the tactics board forward a little. "Reminder of the plan. 4-4-2 diamond. Ben's in goal - "

  ***

  "Can I stop you there?" said Alex.

  "Well, you already did, so... sure."

  "Research shows that making predictions can help you understand a topic better, so I've been playing a game of guess the Chester FC lineup. When I get something wrong I'm normally able to follow the logic but this one blew my theories out of the water. I thought Ben was the cup keeper and Sticky was for the league."

  "Well, that's basically right, but I felt Ben was more suited to this particular oppo."

  "Any particular reason?"

  Yeah. Ben was CA 65 and Sticky was 57. What more reason do you need? "I felt that Ben had more experience against Aff, Carl, and Brown and that could be useful."

  "Hmm," said a dubious psychologist.

  ***

  "Ben's in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H. Youngster at the base of the diamond. Lee C and Ryan are the CMs. Wibbers in the hole behind Henri and Dazza."

  That eleven had an average CA of 71.2 - almost 14 points behind Bradford. It was possible they would absolutely blitz us but I wasn't too worried. I wasn't even planning to use Bench Boost, the once-per-competition perk that made substitutes play better. I would use it in the second half of the season when Pascal was back and I had Foquita available. A boosted Pascal passing to a boosted Max Best who would cross to a boosted Foquita - someone was going to get absolutely slaughtered. Bradford away was scheduled for January 3, which was too early, unfortunately. Foquita would still be jetlagged then.

  "You know the overall plan. Wibbers gets half an hour, then I'll replace him. I'll do the rest of the half and the start of the second and in that time I'll go wee wee wee all the way home. That's an official term from the FA's coaching manual, by the way. Bradford might be expecting something like that, or they might not. It doesn't really matter because there's fuck all they can do about me and they won't be able to regroup at half time because they don't know how long I'll stay on the pitch for.

  "Wibbers, this Brown guy is good but he's not a DM. Work hard, get into pockets, move him around. He's got a calf strain or something so any sprints you can draw him into, amazing. That'll help me out, won't it? And it'll help the centre backs, too.

  "Christian, Zach, they've got a good striker and you'll have your hands full but watch out for Brown making late runs into the box. Youngster can track him but he's not going to win those headers, yeah? One of you make sure you get on Brown. We're lucky his manager is shit and doesn't know how to use him.

  "CMs, you've got a job of work today but when we're under pressure defend wide as much as you can. I don't expect much threat down the middle - they'll use the wings.

  "Lee H, watch out for Aff. He's got a great left foot, his crossing is a real nuisance, he can shoot, and he's relentless. If you slack off or think you've got him in your pocket, he'll fuck you up, I promise you that.

  "Eddie, their right mid is very, very good and you know Carl will bomb past on overlaps. You'll need support from Ryan and Christian. If you find yourself in the shit, remember that you'll have Youngster on his way. Just do what you can to hold them up, yeah? Don't dive in. Buy us two seconds and we'll be there.

  "Ben, when I come on, watch for my runs on counters. Ping it, yeah? But remember - one ping only."

  ***

  Alex shifted - the hard-backed chairs in the video room weren't designed for comfort, they were designed to make people want to leave. "So there's a fair amount of detail," he said.

  "Not really. Those are just, you know, the broad strokes. We go into more detail on the training ground but we're trying to keep it simple in meetings. I had a big session with the coaches at the start of the season and we talked about how to increase the complexity of our patterns of play with and without the ball in a way that the players can absorb without even knowing it. So, like, we do drills that isolate Eddie Moore against a winger with a right back overlapping. The detail is, does he have help? If he does, he should track the overlap. If not, he should take a risk and try and stop the pass from happening. Maybe foul and stop the move. Risk a yellow. The football we're facing is a slightly higher level now and the oppo managers are a little bit better with their in-game tweaks. It's manageable but I'm already thinking ahead to next season because we will need solutions for all kinds of tactical challenges."

  "It sounds hard."

  "Yes and no. I need to sit with the coaches and discuss exactly what I want from all kinds of scenarios. Once they know what I want, they can design the sessions. The challenge is that there are so many variables, like the fact we often have loads of kids on the pitch, and I'm inexperienced. I haven't seen everything so we're in a quite reactive state. There were plenty of things Notts County did to us that we weren't prepared for, so it's like, which two do we want to fix?"

  "Why only two?"

  "Because we have limited training time and I want us to use it on getting our skill levels higher because that will automatically solve a lot of problems. If your technique is higher than the oppo's, their press becomes less relevant because you can play through them, their attacking patterns are less relevant because you deny them the ball, and so on and so on. It's interesting, though, especially for the coaches. We're a very flawed team, actually, and that's exciting for the types of coaches we have here. And I have to say that the players are hungry to learn, too, and you don't need to teach them every little thing. Put them in a scenario a few times and they can learn it themselves. It's quite interesting to watch and to hear how Sandra and Well In talk about their session designs."

  "So as 3 pm approached, everything was going well?"

  "We were well-prepared, yeah. A few things could have been better. Dazza was going too hard chasing his first goal. Some of my OGs like Youngster and Henri were freaked out that Brown was back and they didn't know exactly how to conduct themselves around him. Wibbers was tense because he was in the key role and he knew he only had thirty minutes to make something happen. But there's always going to be some little stories like that. I was confident."

  ***

  "Hello and welcome to Seals Live for match commentary of Chester against Bradford City. I'm your host, Boggy, and I hope you'll be able to hear me. It's loud in the Deva today. Very loud! Both sets of fans, even at this early stage, feel this could be a key encounter. Both clubs are winless in the league and are down near the foot of the table. Bradford are harbouring hopes of promotion and to be fair they're much too big a club to be languishing in the fourth tier. As for Chester, there have been some promising moments this season but we have been well and truly outplayed for the majority of our games.

  "And we're off! Bradford get us underway, kicking towards the Harry McNally stand. Both teams will shoot towards their fans in the second half but for now - oh! A loose pass and a crunching tackle on Lee Contreras! Foul says the referee, and all the home fans agree. Lee did well to get in the way of a passing lane, put pressure on his man, and turned the ball over. Ten seconds in and it's clear this one's going to be brutal. Typical Folke Wester. Hard tackling, late tackling, put pressure on the referee. No wonder they've been down to ten men in two of their first three matches.

  "And it's kicking off on the sideline! Max Best is giving Folke Wester a piece of his mind. Wester giving a piece of his own mind back, though that's like bringing a spoon to a gunfight.

  "Vimsy easing Max away. I have to say, if I were an opposition manager I wouldn't want to get under Max Best's skin right now. He has scored 6 goals in 90 minutes of action. He says it's because he's playing against tired opponents, but he's clearly in scintillating form and after what happened to poor Pascal Bochum, he's very sensitive to these late, reckless tackles.

  "Contreras seems good to continue. Bit of the old magic spray. No yellow card for that tackle, by the way. One wonders if that already sets the tone."

  ***

  I'd had enough of lying down and pulled myself up into a cross-legged position.

  Alex was scribbling on a wide notebook. "That first fifteen minutes was pretty brutal."

  "Folke Wester is a one-trick pony and the trick doesn't work outside non-league. As bad as the refs are, they aren't going to let you thug your way to victory. It was tough to watch my lads get the shit kicked out of them but honestly at that point I was thinking about which manager Chip would turn to next."

  "You were thinking that during the half?"

  "Yeah. There was nothing for me to do. It was a bit of stalemate. Bradford got the ball down the wings pretty well so they should have put Brown as a CAM, supporting the striker. Having him as a DM negated his main talent, which is getting into the box late and winning headers. Maybe Wester would have done that except Wibbers was looking bright and was making a nuisance of himself, so it made sense to have a DM. Like I said, stalemate, which given the relative strengths of the teams is amazing for us. I'll take that."

  "You mentioned Chip thinking about managers. He was in the director's box, right?"

  "Yeah, I didn't want him in the stadium but MD put his foot down. Said it's tradition to invite the oppo bigwigs and someone would need to do a lot worse than try to buy the club before MD made a scene."

  "How did you feel about that?"

  I shrugged. "I didn't mind it. He's right except that it meant Brooke wouldn't attend. I had to beg her, almost. She put a hat on and sat with the Chester Chatters. I asked the Brig to sit with her, just in case."

  "Why did you insist?"

  "It's like Zach said. This is her home. And it wouldn't be right for her to miss the show."

  "The show?"

  "The show."

  "You were planning to put on a show, then?"

  "At this stage of the season it's more like a preview. A trailer."

  "Pretty good trailer."

  ***

  "Half an hour gone here at the Deva and - what's this? Substitution for Chester. It's... William Roberts who's going off. I wonder if one of those tackles has hurt him. Hope it isn't anything too serious.

  "Listen to this! Standing ovation as Max Best stretches his hamstrings on the touchline. Warm applause for Roberts. Big hug from his manager. The hug continues. Now the roar as Best walks on. Walks! He's got his game face on. A crackle of anticipation goes around the stadium. People leaning forward. Something's going to happen, they can feel it.

  "Oh! What was that?

  "Best walked towards midfield, into the zone Raffi Brown is operating in. Chester's former player and record sale extended a hand and Best blanked him. Totally blanked him! Brown looked hurt.

  "Wow. That was... That was as hard as any of the tackles we've seen today. I felt that from here."

  ***

  I sensed that I wasn't going to enjoy the next part of the discussion so I moved the pillow to the end of the table and lay down.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Would you like to talk about Raffi Brown?"

  "Nothing to say. Bang average League Two midfielder."

  "Max."

  "Got a decent pass on him, can go box to box, can win a header. He was on 6 out of 10, flirting with 5. Wibbers is faster than he looks and Brown had that little injury that was affecting his mobility. The last thing you want is to be up against someone like Wibbers. Well, maybe the last thing you want is to be up against me."

  "It was pretty remarkable when you went on and he tried to shake your hand and you walked past him."

  "What's remarkable about that?" I snapped. "I've got a job to do. It isn't a yacht club."

  "It was remarkable in the stands," said Alex, not affected by my outburst. "There were gasps. There hadn't been much reaction to Brown until that moment. It was like no-one knew what to do. After that, he got boos. You set the tone. I don't know, I can't describe it very well but there was a tangible feeling, a shift in mood that I felt in my bones. Tell me about it."

  ***

  I stretched my hamstrings while waiting to Wibbers to come to the side. He knew he was only getting thirty minutes but he was still pissed at being subbed off. He was frustrated he hadn't been able to make his mark on the game. He had been giving Brown a bit of a runaround but we hadn't been able to get the ball to him often enough, and when we had, Wibbers hadn't been able to create anything.

  His Morale had dropped to very poor. I gave him a hug and kept him there. "What are you doing?" he demanded, after it had gone past the seven-second mark.

  "Stick to the plan," I said.

  I felt him roll his eyes, but he replied, "The plan is mint." I smiled and let him go. His Morale was up to okay.

  As I walked onto the pitch I saw Carl Carlile to my left, wearing the wrong kit, and that snapped me out of my happy little moment. Folke Wester was behind me. Should I stare him out before destroying him? Nah. The guy wasn't worth the effort.

  I strolled to the middle checking all my hotkeys were lined up. I had a perk called Free Hit that would increase the chance one set piece would lead to a goal. I had one called Seal It Up that would make us more defensively solid for fifteen minutes. And I had one called Cupid's Arrow that would make passes between two players more likely to succeed, also for fifteen minutes. I had two main choices with that one - I could link myself to Henri or Dazza to increase our goal threat. Or I could link Youngster or Zach to me so that we would be able to progress the ball from defence better.

  Either option seemed good, but I decided I would wait five minutes to see which side of the coin we needed more help with.

  As I was deep in that contemplative state, my brain purring like a Rolls Royce, I found Raffi 'The Saudi Snake' Brown standing in front of me. To my utter incredulity, he stuck his hand out, offering to shake.

  ***

  "Look," I said, gesturing with my hands as though Alex was watching from above. "Everyone expects some sort of resolution to the Raffi Brown story but we had that. When he left, that was the resolution. There's nothing beyond that moment. Nothing."

  "Can you take me through the steps? The history?"

  I tutted. "I found him playing indoor footy in Manchester and thought wow, what a player. I mean, I thought wow, he could do a job for a mediocre League Two team. I got my shit together, made some contacts in the industry, signed him as a client."

  "Right! You were an agent. I always forget that."

  "I didn't know anyone or anything. What else could I have been? Yeah so I carved out a niche, got a bit of a rep as a player, leveraged that into the Chester director of football job. Brown was already here by then. His wife didn't trust me and his dad thought he could get a better deal at a better club. I had put a release clause in his contract so that I wouldn't get greedy and I'd be forced to accept a really good amount because as you know, the club is skint and will be for a couple more years yet. Anyway, at the worst possible moment, he bought out my agent contract then got a club in Saudi Arabia to pay the release clause. That's it - bosh. Absolutely nothing to do, no way to stop it, and he didn't talk to anyone so we didn't even have a chance to match the offer or whatever. It's not so much that he left, it's how and when. Pascal was hit hardest, but everyone who was there at the time was pretty pissed off. Some of them want answers, they want to know why he did what he did but it's obvious. For money. He got a million quid tax free and his club even paid it up early so they could bring in a different foreigner. Now he's on four and a half grand a week at Bradford City. He's got no medals, barely played, and he's on more than me." That was mental considering he was CA 78. Bradford didn't know he had PA 139 - what were they paying for? "So's Chipper, by the way. You think crime doesn't pay? Think again."

  "Was that the first time someone in your life left suddenly without saying anything?"

  "Topic's over. I'm going to talk about me for a while now."

  ***

  The handshake stratagem did work, I must admit. It put me off my stride for a good couple of minutes. Thinking about Brown's wife and dad being in the stadium somewhere, happy and proud now that he was playing for a proper club, wound me up. I put my energy into my face muscles, which made me glad Zach didn't have a Spectrum working for him.

  But the ebb and flow of the game soon sucked me in. I found myself dropping to help in midfield, then moving wide and receiving passes from Youngster before turning and causing havoc. I found that if I played in the space to the right of Brown and the left of the left back, neither was sure if they should come and challenge me.

  I grew into the role and decided to use Cupid's Arrow to make a line between Dazza and I. The next time I picked the ball up in the half space, I turned, dropped a shoulder left, burst right, and as the left back closed in on me I curled a cross towards the Australian. My position wasn't ideal in terms of generating pace but my cross was accurate - Dazza flicked his head and the shot was on target. The goalie saved easily but it was a warning to Bradford.

  On the touchline, Wester was going mental.

  Maybe that's because he had set his team, as per usual, to hard tackling, and that one setting was his entire philosophy. But it didn't work if no-one could get anywhere near me. He had the sense to move Raffi one slot across so that he was playing as a kind of left-sided DM.

  I saw the change instantly and merely attacked up the opposite flank. With one fewer player near me I went on a devastating gallop that had the fans roaring. I shaped to shoot but instead clipped the ball waist height to Dazza. It would have dipped if he had only waited a second, but he was so keen to get his name on the scoresheet he did a weird snapshot that missed the ball completely.

  It bounced off his hip and Henri was on it like a flash. His shot was bound for the corner of the goal... but the captain had somehow read the whole series of events and threw himself in front of the ball. Incredible, really.

  The force was with us and I changed our team mentality to attacking. I used my screens to move Eddie Moore one slot forward, but that proved ineffective so I moved him back.

  Wester finally realised what I was doing and he ordered a midfielder to drop back as another DM. Both him and Brown were set to man-mark me.

  I mean, sensible, sure, but there was a hole in the middle, still. My plan was to appear to be a left-sided CAM but to burst into the empty central slots when possible. I would have to get rid of the ball fast before Brown came close, but it wasn't like I was doing picnics.

  Another idea struck me and I dropped Henri back one slot. He was now a left-sided CAM, just like me. When I left that zone, my marker would follow me, and Henri would be alone. When someone dropped to pick him up, I would use a hotkey to make him a striker again.

  ***

  "Hudson. Green. Lovely ball from the Texan. Contreras touches it back to Jack. Jack looks up. Best is marked, but he sends the pass anyway. Best runs over the ball. Lyons gathers. Beautiful! Best scampers away. Lyons is unmarked, briefly. Best's marker changes tack, goes to the ball. Best drops square. Lyons sprints ahead. Will Best find the ball over the top? He - no, he dribbles. He's got a bit of space, Raffi Brown slides in to block the shot, Best evades, glances up. Lyons is far post. Here comes the cross - and Best is wiped out! Terrible challenge. Yet another terrible challenge and Best is in a heap. The physio runs on. Yellow card for the Bradford midfielder. That was a shocking tackle, but what do you expect from a Folke Wester team? Disgraceful. They have been disgraceful today. Will Best be okay, and will he punish them?"

  ***

  "What was going through your mind when you got to your feet?"

  "Erm, not much. Good angles. Near post screamer or far post cross. Just calculating the odds and that. And, yeah, visualising my celebration."

  "Ah. So it was planned."

  ***

  I used Masterpiece Theatre to spread my players out in a fairly unconventional way. I sent Dazza alone to the far post. Alone because I could pick him out pretty easily at the best of times but with Cupid's Arrow it would be even easier. I put Henri and Lee Contreras fairly centrally, and Christian, Zach, and Lee H directly in front of me, menacing the near post.

  It was hard to imagine what I might do with my three big defenders where they were - a high chip that they might try to knock sideways into the danger area, perhaps. But the presence of those big lads drew Bradford's big lads, leaving Carl Carlile to mark Dazza. Much as I respected Carl, that was a mismatch and a half.

  I used Free Hit, put a bit of pace on the ball (but not too much), and aimed it nicely in front of Dazza so that he'd be able to get a bit of a run and a leap and add some of his own power.

  He boofed it real good, the CA 87 goalie did an amazing stretch to keep it out, and Lee C was there to smash home the rebound. One-nil!

  I had words with the guy who had fouled me and then jogged to the main stand to blow kisses to Emma.

  ***

  "Tell me if I saw what I thought I saw. You put in a great cross, Dazza got a good head on it, Lee C was first to the rebound. You ran to one of the Bradford players - not Brown, obviously, because you wouldn't talk to him - and you screamed in his face."

  "It was the guy who fouled me and I didn't scream in his face," I said.

  "What did you not-scream in his not-face?"

  "I don't remember exactly," I said. "But it might have been something like 'kick me again you dick, kick me again, see what happens.' I mean, that's a public service, really. I don't know why he took it so personally. Or why the ref needed to have his say."

  "The ref got involved after you celebrated in front of the main stand."

  "Yeah."

  "About a yard in front of Folke Wester."

  "Was it?"

  "There was quite a kerfuffle."

  "Huh. Didn't see that. All I know is I was blowing kisses to my girlfriend. If there was some aggro, I mean, what can I say? We're winning and as long as Bradford are distracted and angry they aren't going to put a lot of free-flowing moves together."

  "See, I think that you actually play football in good spirit most of the time. You talk to the opposition, you shake hands, you're calm with the referee, when you lose you congratulate the player that did the most damage. Bradford was different. It was personal."

  I shook my head. "If you go in hard on my players, yeah it's personal. You order your players to go in hard you get what's coming to you."

  "Ah, so it's like a revenge mission. You're an avenger."

  "Yeah. I'm Doctor Slaps. I'm Captain Get Fucked."

  "It is interesting how angry you are in those moments and how well you play. Most people playing angry play badly and our sessions are about not overthinking what has gone wrong and trying to get back into a productive state. You're angry but you're productive."

  "That's my secret. I'm always angry."

  "Heh. I've seen the movie. Good one."

  I smiled. "The anger is real but I'm acting, too. I want the intensity up. I don't have long on the pitch and I want to make it count. The more they come at me in those moments the more they lose their positional discipline. I mean, you saw what happened next."

  ***

  "You've got to say this is a tremendous response from Bradford! They're playing good football, moving the ball around. Raffi Brown looks like Paul Scholes reborn, spraying passes left and right. Aff is still very much Aff. It's good pressure all round. Shot comes in... Saved! Ben Cavanagh, well played that man! It was a shot from just outside the area, Cavvers saw it late but he got a good hand to it and tipped it round the post.

  "It'll be a corner to Bradford and there's all sorts going on, as you can imagine. Pushing and shoving for days. There goes Youngster! Someone has pushed him to the turf. Referee isn't interested. What's that? Raffi Brown pushing his own player away! He offers Youngster a hand. Slight hesitation but he takes it. Everyone's on their feet now. What does Best make of that, I wonder? He's on the edge of the penalty area, glowering.

  "Everyone's back for Chester... Danger here. Aff will whip this in... Incredible tension in the home ends...

  "Here it comes. Aff... Cavvers! Fierce and Green made the keeper a corridor and he plucked the cross from the air. He falls to the turf, clutching the ball. He wants to take some of the sting out of this Bradford fightback.

  "But he's up! He's sprinting. Where's he - He's launched it! Cavanagh has launched the ball down the pitch. Max Best is haring after it. Appeals for offside from my Bradford counterpart but you can't be offside from your own half! Where will it bounce? It's going out, is it?

  "Best keeps it in! He's running a thousand miles an hour but he keeps it in somehow. He's had to knock the ball miles ahead of him. The goalie's coming out. It's a flat race.

  "Best versus the keeper. Best will get there! Best will get there!

  "He looks right. There's no-one for miles. He points - he's going to pass. Who to?

  "He passes... No! Stepover. The keeper's fallen on his arse! Best looks away, taps the ball towards goal, runs off to celebrate. It's... The defenders are... It's gone in! Oh my God that was extraordinary. Best did a no-look shot from all of thirty yards out. I thought the defenders might catch up with the ball on the line but no. That's two-nil. Two-nil Chester!

  "Extraordinary!"

  ***

  The day had lightened and even inside the dingy cabin I could see Alex smiling. "Pretty nice goal."

  "Ben's good at that. The first time we played together he did a long pass just like that one. Ian Evans didn't want him to do it in matches and to be fair, neither do I; most of the time you're just giving the ball away. Sometimes it's worth the risk, though."

  "How would you react if one of your players took the ball round the keeper and shot without looking at the ball or the net and he missed?"

  I inhaled sharply. "Don't think I'd like that very much. I reckon... immediate sub off and I don't talk to him for a month."

  "Do you think it's fair you're allowed to do it?"

  I grinned. "I wouldn't miss. Anyway, TikTok-friendly goals like that help with player recruitment."

  "Oh, that's why you did it. The only reason."

  "Yep. Bit of content for Brooke to put on the socials. A little treat for her."

  "Gotcha. The last few minutes of the half was you, double man-marked, trying to drag Bradford players away from their duties as much as possible. Is that right? And when the half time whistle blew, there was another standing ovation and the Chester fans were singing Best Will Tear You Apart Again. How does - " He stopped mid-sentence as someone in heels barged into the cabin without knocking. "Hello?" Alex said, in a tone that showed he didn't know her.

  I thought about who would barge into a private space like that, remembered what was on my schedule, and said, "Hello, Beth."

  ***

  I twisted myself into a sitting position with my legs dangling off the sides of the table. "Breaking and entering, Beth?"

  Beth didn't seem too worried about being caught in a criminal act. "Nothing's broken. Handle's a bit stiff. I was told I'd find you in the Spectroom and didn't know which one that was. There are no signs."

  "Yeah that's the old name. Today it's called the Sin Bin. Sin like cinema, bin because it looks like a bin. Alex, this is Beth. Beth works for the Daily Mail because while she enjoys the benefits of living in a liberal democracy she gets paid more if she helps to destroy it."

  "Hi Alex, I'm Bethany. You've met Max. He gets paid the same if he talks shit or not but somehow he always chooses shit."

  "Hi Bethany." Alex had a little smile that showed he didn't mind who Beth worked for.

  "My head is too big so I'm getting it shrunk," I said. "Alex is my therapist." There was a quiet murmur of 'I'm not a therapist'.

  "Is that why you're lying down in the dark? Is that a yoga mat?"

  "Yes. Alex always says therapy is like yoga for the mind."

  "It's not therapy and I've never said that. I'm trying to help Max work through some of the issues that arose during the Bradford City match."

  I thought Beth would say something snarky. "That's healthy, Max. And this will be a good example for the other players who maybe think it's a bit woo-woo. If the boss does it, they're free to do it with no pushback from the others. What are you working on? Your narcissism? Attachment anxiety? Being a control freak? Conflict management? Latent daddy issues?"

  I left a few beats of quiet before saying, "We were actually talking about how I'm too forgiving."

  Beth burst out laughing. "And how's Alex doing?"

  "He's good," I said. "He's tricking me into saying things."

  "They do that," said Beth, as Alex wrote something down. "I've seen it on TV."

  "Are you here for the grand opening?"

  "Yes," said Beth. She looked around, unimpressed by the Sin Bin. "Not interesting for Mail readers but it's a big day for you, isn't it? You worked hard for this."

  "It'll be a chapter in our book, will it?"

  Beth had talked about writing the official Max Best biography; I wasn't sure if she had been joking. She sat on one of the hard-backed chairs and immediately stood again. The act reminded me of why I liked her. "Maybe not a whole chapter," she mumbled.

  "Beth, you're wise sometimes. Do I even need to fix my brain?"

  She stared at me like it was a trick question. "Um, no comment."

  I smiled. "No but really. My flaws aren’t bad when it comes to winning matches. Anger is fuel. Spite is motivation. Revenge is noble and cathartic. Our fans work long hours in dead end jobs and they have one release per week and that's coming to the Deva to see what their local team gets up to. They pay twenty quid to see us wear their badge, they get dipped in the sewage of my broken psyche, they get milled, pulped, swept along. They laugh, they cry, they scream at the referee, they have moments of despair and ecstasy, and their earthly troubles are washed away with bread and wine. They don't want to see Max Best the level-headed, thoughtful diplomat."

  "I wouldn't worry about that any time soon."

  "You think I'm beyond repair?"

  "I think your flaws get magnified because you get an instant reaction from five thousand people."

  "All right well, I would like to be less of a mess, I think. Oh, hey! Let's do it like this. Four topics from the Bradford match and you know the history as well as anyone. Tell me which one to fix."

  Alex said, "I'm not sure - "

  "Okay, first one. Chip."

  Beth joined me on the edge of the table. "Chip's a rich brat whose dad always got him every toy you never had, and now he's the owner of a football club, a position he has not earned, while you, an actual generational talent, have had to scrabble in the mud for everything you possess."

  "So you're saying I should challenge him to a duel."

  "No, I'm saying fuck him. He's not worth spending time on."

  "Agreed," I said.

  "Hang on, er..." said Alex.

  "Second topic. Chipper."

  Beth nodded. "Okay that whole mess would have happened sooner or later. You will always get into conflict with players and staff who don't put the club first. If it hadn't happened on that bus ride, it would have happened the next day, or the next. That's why I understand your position with Andrew Harrison."

  I was ecstatic. Andrew wanted a big pay rise the club couldn't afford. "So you think I'm right?"

  "You're not right but you're not wrong. If I were you I wouldn't blame myself for what happened with Chipper. He's not a team player. He's not a Max Best player. You could get some therapy about why you signed him in the first place."

  "Yeah," I mused. "I think him being dropped at Crawley made his natural tendencies worse. I couldn't have known."

  "There you go then."

  Beth was top at therapy! "Raffi Brown," I said.

  "Fuck that guy," said Beth. "Unless he wants to give me an interview in which case, come on Max, forgive and forget."

  Alex said, "Would you have shaken his hand?"

  "Would I fuck," said Beth, and I gave her such an intense stare I could have sworn she blushed.

  Alex might have been annoyed by the intrusion, but he was interested enough in Beth's opinions to ask, "What about Folke Wester? Does Max have a problem there?"

  "Yeah. Max is out there doing legendary shit but people shrug and say it's only against Folke Wester. He's not a worthy opponent. Shit manager, shit person, doesn't deserve respect." Beth kicked her legs; she was enjoying herself. "So yeah, in summary Max, you're perfect."

  "Come on," I said, laughing. "I want to go deeper on something."

  "How about not dropping points in the league because you're throwing on teenagers left, right, and centre?"

  "That's non-negotiable."

  "Why?"

  "You'll see. All right, I think we're done here. Thanks for interrupting my private session, Beth, that was very Daily Mail of you. Two things, though. First, all this was off the record. Second, if I ever catch you sneaking into rooms you haven't been invited into, here or at the Deva, it's a seven-year ban."

  "Seven-year ban?"

  "Yeah. Okay, bye."

  She hopped off the table, quietly fuming, and tried not to show how mad she was in front of a stranger, especially one who might hear loads of my secrets. "Nice to meet you, Alex."

  "Beth," I said, as she reached the door. "Do you want to get ahead of a good story?"

  She sagged. "Of course I do."

  "Interview Pascal."

  "What? Why?"

  "Max Best has spoken."

  ***

  "I have a lot of questions about that interaction," said Alex.

  "Let's get back to Bradford," I said. "Half time was very, very strange."

  "How so?"

  ***

  We clip-clopped into the dressing room, drained but happy, with a two-nil lead in our pockets. The lads sat, chatted, and ate marathon paste. I hopped on the treatment table and got a bit of a rub. I'd done fifteen minutes and hoped to stay on for as long as poss in the second half. I knew I had a good ten in me, and there was a chance I could drop to a DM slot and keep things tight for another ten.

  The way Bradford were playing there might not be any need. They were abysmal.

  Still, I didn't want to leave anything to chance so I went through my options. My subs included Sticky and Sunday Sowunmi and I wouldn't use either except in an emergency. That left Josh Owens, Magnus Evergreen, Sharky, and Tom Westwood. Good options, lots of tactical flexibility, but no-one that improved the eleven.

  If I could get a third goal I would probably take Ryan off, put Magnus on, and switch to 5-3-2 with Youngster nominally a centre back but actually playing DM. That would be very solid and we would take it easy for the rest of the match. Last ten minutes I would put Josh, Sharky, and Tom on.

  I was just about to discuss these thoughts with Sandra when I realised something was going on. Or rather - nothing was going on. There was no chat, no movement.

  "What's happening?" I said, lifting myself up onto one elbow.

  Livia, who was massaging me, said, "It's kicking off in the away dressing room. They've been screaming at each other since they came in. We're all listening."

  "Can you hear what they're saying?"

  "Not really. But Wester is losing his tiny mind. It's impressive, really, the way he keeps shouting in one continuous blast. I keep expecting him to pause for breath."

  "It's not only Wester," said Magnus Evergreen. "There are two or three voices."

  "Tag team," I said, to some amusement. I sensed that my players were entertained by what they were hearing, but also a bit freaked out. There was something off about the situation, something strange about the vibes. So much so that I wondered if Old Nick or the imps had done something to help me win this match.

  I sank back onto the table and brought up the match commentary. It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more attacking approach. Best rounds the keeper, he shoots, GOOOAAAALLLL!!!! It looks like Bradford City have adopted a more defensive approach. Yeah, it was all normal. I had out-thought Wester, out-managed him. His plan A was to kick me. When that didn't work, there was no plan B.

  "He is fucking shit," I said, and nuzzled my face into the comfy head rest. Livia's hands worked their magic.

  ***

  "So it was, what, five, six minutes of the most intense screaming you've ever heard and then silence?"

  "Silent as a grave. The grave of Folke Wester's management career. I was about to hammer in another nail."

  "Talk me through it."

  ***

  "Forty-eight minutes gone. All Chester so far in the second half. Looks to me like Bradford are concentrating on keeping the score down. I haven't seen... let me check the stats. We have stats now, ladies and gentlemen! Moving up in the world. Er, yes. No fouls in the second half. That's very, very unusual for a Folke Wester team, as you can imagine. It's not that they have given up exactly but... You know what it looks like? It looks like they're down to ten men and they're focussed on keeping their shape.

  "Fierce. Green. Back to Fierce. Touch for Cavanagh - the Bradford back line drops a couple of yards, ho ho, they've learned their lesson - Green. Simple to Youngster. Ryan Jack takes over. He finds Best. Best... is confused. Bradford are squatting in two banks of five ahead of him. It's very odd, this. Best turns and... pumps the ball back to Cavanagh. The manager twirls his finger - movement! Players are going everywhere. What am I seeing?

  "I wish Spectrum were here to explain this to me. We've gone from 4-4-2 diamond to... well, I would say 3-4-3. It's all a bit confusing. Eddie Moore's there on left midfield. Lee Hudson has moved into the centre of the defence. Youngster is still defensive midfield, Max has moved to the right wing. Christian Fierce is playing as a third striker! It's... 2-1-4-3. Best really going for the jugular here. If you defend, he is saying, I'll attack.

  "Bradford in disarray once more. Nobody knows who to mark and the presence of the enormous Christian Fierce next to the huge Darren Smith must be a nightmare for the Bradford defence!

  "The ball is worked wide right. Best against Aff - never thought I'd be saying that. Aff looks wary, as he's right to be. Will Best take him on? He fires a square pass to Lee Contreras. Contreras first time return ball. Best's first touch takes him past the left back. Best down the wing! Look at him go! One of the most thrilling sights in football. Fast as a bullet, pace and purpose, and here comes the cross - it's perfect! Fierce? Fierce! He couldn't miss! The cross was perfection. Christian Fierce angled his head, the ball went down, up, and in! Listen to that noise. Listen to that crowd. It's immense. The Deva is rocking. The Deva is rocking. Rock and roll, we've scored a goal.

  "Er...

  "As Max would say, that's terrible, cut that.

  "But the score isn't terrible. It's Chester three, Bradford City nil!"

  ***

  "One thing that confused me," said Alex, "is that after the goal you switched things back and just passed the ball around. Like, you had them on the ropes. Why not go for the killer blow?"

  I was looking up at the ceiling again, but looked even more 'up' as I tried to remember my thought process. "Well, based on what had happened, the second goal was the killer goal. Do you get me? There's a psychology to a team and we had broken them. They came out second half all passive and humble. How can I say this? They'd changed their mentality from hard tackling to easy tackling."

  "Like in Soccer Supremo."

  "Yeah, I suppose. It was, like, over. But you can't take your eye off the ball. People say two-nil is a dangerous score for the team that's leading because if it's one-nil you're still on high alert but at two-nil you relax. It's a man-in-the-pub level cliche but it's not totally wrong. So I wanted to get the third goal to be sure, but then when that's done, your mind turns to what else is going on. The first cone is green, let's look at the second one, do you get me? We've got a match on Tuesday, another hard away match next Saturday. My legs were already running out of steam so it's like, let's shut up shop. Would I take three-nil against a team that's much better than us on paper? Of course I would."

  "After the match, you were asked about why you only ever play twenty, thirty minutes and you evaded the question like you always do. Is it something you don't want to discuss?"

  "I'm player-manager. It's tiring. I've found I can manage for 70 minutes and play for 20 and not be too wrecked at the end."

  "You could ask Sandra to manage."

  "Alex, this is annoying."

  "Sorry. So it's fair to say you stayed on the pitch far longer than you would normally want?"

  "Yeah. This is the kind of thing that makes me seem arrogant but I knew that as long as I was on the pitch, Bradford would be cautious. Even if I'm tired, they have to assume I've got enough in the tank for one sprint from halfway. They weren't going to come at us so, yeah, I stayed on. There was a point where I thought about playing a big diag and just thought, this is going to tear up my calf if I do this. So I tapped out."

  "Job done?"

  "I mean, what else could I have done? It felt pretty comprehensive."

  "It did look like Bradford got a boost when you subbed yourself off."

  "They immediately went to normal tackling and came out of their low block. There was five minutes where it was a bit more of a contest but we were happy to absorb the pressure. Zach Green was pinging balls to Dazza and it was like a training session. I'd asked Zach to look for those passes so Dazza could work on his hold-up play."

  "We got into the last twenty minutes. I watched the highlights and they showed a clip with you and Sandra chatting away, having a laugh, loving life. Was that around then, do you think?"

  "Probably."

  "What are you saying to yourself at a time like that?"

  "It was all smiles. We had a plan, the plan was mint, the plan worked. It worked better than we could have dreamed. I didn't have Bradford's complete mental disintegration on my bingo card but I was happy to see it."

  "As well as putting Magnus on instead of you, we had Wes Hayward replacing Ryan Jack, and young Josh Owens instead of Eddie Moore. Those aren't really like-for-like changes, are they?"

  "No but we adjust based on who's on the pitch. Sharky in the centre doesn't make a lot of sense but teams are scared of his pace wherever he is. Anyway, he needs minutes. I'm trying to use him in every match so he gets up to the level. If he can kick on just a little bit faster, he'll really really help us in the second half of the season. I really hope he does because he needs more than five good games at the end of the season to get a good contract somewhere. There's a lot of distrust of him so he needs to do it over a longer span of games to show it isn't a fluke."

  "Is there any reason you're talking about the end of the season instead of the end of the match?"

  I sighed. "You know there is."

  ***

  "Bradford building up a head of steam here. Do I detect a slight stiffening in the technical area? Best is biting his nails. Sandra Lane is organising.

  "Aff is on the left wing, just in front of Best, his old manager. The Irishman exchanges words with his new manager. Aff shouts at someone. I can't see... Raffi Brown maybe?

  "Yes, looks like Wester is asking Brown to move forward. Why not? Nothing to lose except Wester's dignity, and there wasn't any of that to begin with.

  "Youngster is next to Brown. Something of a size mismatch. Bradford's right midfielder has pushed up against Josh Owens. Another mismatch? I'm seeing a few more of those around the pitch.

  "Lee Hudson looks well capable of dealing with Aff, at least, and our centre backs haven't been troubled by the lone striker.

  "More good possession for Bradford. Brown at the heart of things. He receives a pass, turns away from Youngster, slides it out to the wing. That's beautiful. Round of applause from the Bradford fans. They have been boisterous. And Chip Star comes out of the box to take his seat in the main stand. He scurried inside, didn't he, when Max was ruling the roost.

  "The ball's still with Bradford City. Long spell of possession. It's back with their captain. He fires it to Brown. Brown turns again, loses Youngster again. Another slick pass to Aff.

  "Aff shimmies. Goes outside Hudson. Steals a yard! Whips in a cross. Well defended by Fierce but it drops to Brown. Brown lines up a left-footed shot - into the corner! Into the net! Bradford score in front of their fans. They're back in this and don't they know it! Three-one and of course it had to be the Chester old boys who combined. It had to be!"

  ***

  "At that point, what are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking about our individual performance levels, who's struggling, who's got a knock, things like that. Technocratic stuff. And I'm looking at the matchups. Lee Hudson and Aff are pretty much exactly the same level. Youngster's better than Brown. Josh Owens is not as good as the winger he's up against but he's much fitter and fresher. The performance is good, the tactics are good, there's nothing to worry about. You think that's that but football's got a mind of its own."

  ***

  "Ben with the ball in his hands. Long ball is pumped forward - far too far ahead of Lyons. He's livid. Best drops down and slaps the turf. That's just giving possession to the opposition!

  "Bradford build again. Neat and tidy play. Dazza tries to press but he has worked hard and looks tired. Tom Westwood will replace him soon, I'm hearing.

  "Ball goes into midfield. Brown drops to collect. Youngster not sure if he should follow or hold his position. He decides to hold. Brown with time. He glides to the right - such an elegant player when the ball's at his feet - exchanges passes with the winger. Now Youngster arrives but OH MY WORD what a pass from Brown. What a pass! He's slipped it inside Owens. Carlile is onto it.

  "Carl Carlile with a heavy first touch - he slides to stop the ball going out of play. Cuts it back! The striker's there...

  "Goal for Bradford! They've scored a second. Bradford City playing like peak Chester. The neat interplay on the right, drawing the opposition to them, the overlap, the through ball, it's like watching Chester! We've been slapped. Slapped by our own petard.

  "Ten minutes to go and it's Chester three, Bradford two. It's anybody's game."

  ***

  "How - "

  "How was I thinking? I was pissed is how I was thinking. I made the mistake of turning to the executive box and Chip Star was jumping around and whooping and that got under my skin."

  "You wouldn't have done the same?"

  "That's our box. He's a guest."

  Alex dipped into his box of psychology tricks. "And there's a feeling of powerlessness. You can't go back on the pitch. You throw Tom on and that's the last of your subs. It's out of your hands."

  "There are things you can do beyond making subs. We could have gone men behind ball and tried to hold out for the win that way."

  "But you didn't."

  "No."

  "Was that pride? Stubbornness?"

  "Men behind ball is a pretty desperate strategy. We're not so far off the levels that we need to park the bus in a home match. Bradford hadn't made many changes, their players were running out of legs. And half their team were on yellow cards. If we get Sharky on a break and the wrong player fouls him, they're down to ten men and that's that. Plus if we get a fourth goal, that's also good, and we won't score if we're camped in our penalty box. No, men behind ball is real last resort stuff. I wasn't so furious at Chip that I made bad decisions. We were set up quite well. I quickly got back to feeling pretty chill."

  ***

  "Agony at the Deva. Suffering at the stadium. Bradford pushing and pushing, looking for an equaliser that seemed a million miles away when Chester scored their third goal just after the break.

  "Raffi Brown had a purple patch after being moved up the pitch but Youngster has worked out how to play him and Brown seems to be hobbling around. Bothered by his thigh, it looks to me. All around the pitch are battles, duels, scraps that Bradford were winning five minutes ago but that have evened out in the meantime.

  "Chester look solid, but not quite solid enough. It's hard to watch for the home fans. It's hard to watch for me. Sandra Lane trying to coax a little more out of some tired legs. That's one area where we have the upper hand - the substitutions destabilised us but we have five fresh players on the pitch and that's evident.

  "Good play from Evergreen! He evaded that tackle superbly well. He lays it off to Hayward.

  "Hayward at speed! Shark speed! Bradford suddenly look very weary, very tired. The last thing they want is - Hayward skips to the right. Here comes the tackle - the 6 has to be careful - he's on a yellow. But he lets Hayward go past. Hayward with options. He looks for the little dink to Westwood. Westwood gets in front of the defender, is fouled... not given! Referee says play on. That's terrible from the match official.

  "The ball's in the keeper's arms. He throws it out to the left. Clock's ticking down. Four minutes to go. The left back miscontrols but just about keeps the ball in play. A lot of very tired legs out there. He plays it to Aff. Aff touches it straight back. You'd normally expect him to turn and sprint down the line but he doesn't have it in him. If that doesn't show how tired they all are, nothing does.

  "Ball goes into the middle. Good possession again from Bradford. They can play good football when they want, which isn't often. It's gone to the right. The winger holds, waits for Carl's overlap. There he goes! Carlile with incredible energy but the pass doesn't come. Chester's back line shuffling, sliding, creaking.

  "Back on the left. Patient play from Bradford. The home fans are quiet. What will it be? How will this end? A Wes Hayward break? Or -

  "Little slip from Hudson there but he recovers before Aff can get free. That was a heart in mouth moment. Raffi Brown can barely move. Why is he still on the pitch?

  "Contreras tries to intercept - good battle with the 15, Contreras wins, just about, hacks the ball clear. Westwood chases. Look at the energy! Lyons moves to the far post, darts to the middle. Westwood fires a cross - but it's behind Lyons. Oh, what an opportunity to put this game to bed. Best and Lane have their heads in their hands. What a moment that could have been.

  "Nerves abound at the Deva stadium as Bradford come again. Into the last three minutes of normal time. There won't be too much added on, I don't think. I can't even remember a foul in the second half, and Bradford haven't made any substitutions.

  "Contreras slides in, misses the ball, Brown first time lay-off to midfield. The ball's out on the right. Carlile bursting a gut to provide the overload. He gets the pass - no! Josh Owens with tremendous athleticism to get in the way.

  "But the ball bounces kindly for Bradford. Brown again. First touch pass again. It's gone left. Aff fakes to cut on his right. Hudson falls for it. He never goes on his right, man! Aff has a yard of space. Shapes to cross... Chester's defence are well set... Aff pushes forward another couple of yards, changes the angle, goes high to the back post...

  "And it's in! It's in! Raffi Brown! Brown with a towering header. Brown with his second of the match. Plucked from obscurity by Max Best, sold against Best's wishes after the British transfer window had closed, the former Chester player comes back to haunt his old manager and his old club. It's three-all! Chester's players slump to the ground. Bradford's are behind the goal, celebrating with their fans.

  "The Bradford coaching staff have spilled onto the pitch - the ones who aren't up in Max Best's face.

  "Chip Star has vanished. Ejected from the stadium, let's hope.

  "Three-all. The home fans are stunned.

  "That...

  "That was a sickening blow. I'm... I feel sick."

  ***

  I put my hands under my head and stared at the ceiling for a long time. After the equaliser and the over-the-top celebrations, the match had kicked off again and there had been a couple more minutes of action, but nothing interesting. At the final whistle, I'd gone straight down the tunnel to my manager's room to try to get my head straight before going on camera.

  I hadn't got my head straight. Not then, nor that evening, nor on Sunday.

  I didn't really want to talk to Alex about my innermost feelings but I did want help. I knew I wasn't going to get it if I wasn't honest with him.

  "A point against Bradford at this stage of the team's development is fantastic," I said. "If we were three-nil down and we'd recovered to three-all, we would be buzzing. It doesn't really matter that it's the other way round, does it? It only feels like it does."

  "I think it does matter," said Alex.

  "Yeah, it matters a lot." I realised I had been dishonest mere seconds after vowing to be more truthful. "I suppose you'll ask how I felt. I mean, it's a weird mix. Sort of numb. It's disbelief because it was really the worst case scenario and you have those in your head all the time but it's really, really rare that it actually happens. It's Chip Star blasting bass from his party bus in our car park, it's Folke Wester as happy as if he'd won the World Cup, it's the Browns high fiving each other like this match vindicated all their decisions. It's the feeling that you were so, so close to ending Wester's management career and knowing that this failure will haunt you. The whole thing is like an anxiety dream except you're sharing it with five thousand other people."

  "Do you often have anxiety dreams?"

  "Yes. They're horrible. I'm not sure that match will feature in one, though. I really had nailed it. 9 out of 10 manager, 10 out of 10 player. I could have done more but only by not building a training ground or by using my once-a-season super amazing motivational speech that basically guarantees a win. The things I could have done different are basically things I would never, ever do different, do you know what I mean?"

  "From your tone I'd say you're very comfortable with your decisions on Saturday."

  I sat up and got cross-legged while I faced Alex. "Yes. And I'm not mad at my players, there's no blame to go round. They did what they could. You can pinpoint moments like Ben slapping the ball to the other goalie when we needed a breather, or Lee H not listening to the coaches when they said about how Aff attacks. I mean, they're tired, too. Tired people make mistakes. I don't want to put them on blast for every little thing. They know it, don't they?" I wrung my hands and looked down at my knuckles. "I've still not won a League Two match as manager. Five at Grimsby, three here."

  "Does that bother you?"

  "Not really. We've got Chesterfield, Barrow, Mansfield next. Then Carlisle away, Gillingham away. That's five more we're unlikely to win. Our first win might be in October."

  "You're talking about not winning but you say it doesn't bother you."

  I nodded and bit my nail. There was something incongruous about what I was saying, all right. "I'm not a miracle worker. I'm, like, fighting with one hand behind my back but the rope is coming loose and when it's free we'll give this league a right old tear up. I'm not going to beat myself up about being at a disadvantage because anyway, I knew about it. I know about it. It's factored into my decisions, right?"

  "You know about it," mused Alex. It was interesting that he'd latched onto that phrase.

  I got slightly more excited. Spoke faster. "That's it. That's what's been bothering me. When we play team X we know it's 3-5-2 and if they change it'll be to 4-3-3 or whatever. Sometimes mad things happen near the ends of matches or after red cards or whatever. Or a defensive manager might say fuck it and go all-out attack, but most of the time a leopard doesn't change his spots."

  "You think people are predictable."

  "When it comes to football, yes. Aff doesn't cross with his right. Folke Wester will use a DM even if he doesn't have a strong candidate. Chipper doesn't go ten minutes without calling the referee something horrible. But what happened on Saturday? Everyone played their roles to perfection, lived up to their stereotypes. Folke Wester did Folke Wester things until half time. They had a blazing row. But instead of coming out even more fired up, they played possum."

  "That's a new phrase for me."

  "They played dead. They were like oh, well, tomorrow's another day. It was a trick. They waited for us to get weaker then they had a fucking good go. It's... I don't know what it is but it's not Folke Wester football. Whatever happened, it wasn't him. Chip Star didn't go down at half time with a master plan. Do you know what I mean? I can't get my head round it. I can't get past it because I don't know what happened. I need to know what happened so I can process it."

  "That's the opposite of something you said earlier."

  "What?"

  "You don't know why Raffi Brown left without saying a word. You don't know what happened but you said you were over it."

  I nodded. "I see this is going to be one of those relationships where you remember the things I say. Those aren't my favourite."

  "Who else do you have that sort of relationship with?"

  "Emma. Beth. Brooke. The Brig."

  Alex smiled. "I might be in good company then."

  I stared at one of the chairs while pulling at my bottom lip. I did that until my phone pinged. "Alex, everyone's here. I have to go and smile at the media and all that. I'm, er, sorry I wasted your time."

  He looked at his notes. "I don't think this was a waste of time."

  "No?"

  "No. As first sessions go, that was a banger. But Max, is there anything I can do for you right now? What's a short-term challenge I can help you with?"

  "Just, you know, make it so I'm not huffing and puffing and sighing and being sarcastic and bitter in front of these media people, I guess."

  Alex tapped a finger against his lips for a few seconds. He looked down at his notes and something popped out at him. He brightened just as the sun came out from behind a cloud. "On a normal day, would you prefer to talk to me about your feelings or talk to football reporters about Bumpers Bank?"

  "Them. The second one."

  He came close and gave me a friendly arm punch. "There you go then! You've already done the hardest part. It's all fun from here."

  He was right. I cheered all the way up! Morale plus two! "Fun. I remember that. Yeah! Let's go have some fun!" I practically skipped to the door, but paused on the handle. "You know what's even more fun than bragging about Bumpers Bank to some media types?"

  "No, what?"

  "Getting down in the trenches with my army guys. Their first game of the season is Wednesday afternoon and I'm finally going to unleash Relationism on this little island of ours." I had a thought that made me laugh pretty hard.

  "What?" smiled Alex, his mirror neurons firing.

  I gave him a playful slap on the arm. "This country's going to need so much therapy by the time I'm finished with it! Everyone will be coming to you. Oh, Alex, I had another bad dream last night. You'll be, like, was it the blob again? Yeah it was the blob again." I laughed some more.

  "Well," said my therapist. "I don't know what you're talking about but I can't wait to hear more about it."

  "I'll tell you about it on Monday."

  Alex got a big smile. I'd just booked a follow-up session with him, and in his world that was the biggest compliment of all.