11.

  Monday, December 1

  I woke up to a noise in the house, remembered I no longer lived alone, and closed my eyes. I had cursemail.

  New perk available until Christmas Day: Secret Sandra

  Cost: 2,000 XP

  Effects: Gift up to 200 XP per day to boost one player’s training rate. That player will receive their usual improvement plus bonus improvement calculated according to the amount of XP gifted.

  Fucking imps. Get wrecked.

  I went back to sleep.

  ***

  Emma ran her hand along my arm, gently coaxing me out of dreamland and into reality. "Made you a tea, babes."

  "Bonus," I mumbled. The last images from the dreams - red trains, low fog that looked like clouds - dissipated. My surroundings came into focus. "You're dressed like a sexy lawyer. Is it that time again?"

  She twisted her lips. "I'm working, Max."

  "Working from home."

  "I like to get dressed. If I'm not smart I'm not a lawyer."

  I sat up and took the first sip of tea. It sent me into a different sort of dreamland. "You know what's good?" I said.

  "What?"

  "Everything."

  "Even bacteria?"

  "You need bacteria to make cheese. And wine maybe, not sure."

  "What about bombs?"

  "You use bombs to blow up the asteroids that are coming at us. Give up, babes, I can do this all day."

  "What's good about Alan Turner? Gammons?"

  "Yeah, okay, you win."

  She smiled and made as if to leave but I had misread her intention. She was only shuffling even deeper onto the bed. "You know me cousins?"

  Ems had some distant relatives who, by dint of being the closest thing to an extended family she had, were known as The Cousins. They lived in one of those countries where it's always dark, cold, and it's hard to understand the accent. Yes, this is a Scotland joke. "The Jocks and the Geordies. You could make a half-decent comic strip out of that concept."

  "It's Wee Tosh McTavish's birthday soon," she said, but I've changed the name for privacy purposes and also because there's already a Bonnie. "They want to go down to London and do all the things and watch a play. We're invited."

  "Ah, what a shame, I'm busy that day."

  "Don't start that. It'll be nice. Come on, I don't have a big family."

  "Erm..." I thought about going down to do the London Eye again and the Natural History Museum again. So boring doing the same things all the time. "How about we take them to Nando's instead?"

  "They want to go to the West End to see The Cursed Child."

  For the second time in two days, I froze at those very words.

  Emma didn't notice the turmoil she had created, the sense of dread. "It's very good, apparently. It's about Harry Potter's son. He's struggling to cope with his legacy."

  "Wow. Sounds magical."

  Emma scoffed. "He falls for a hot blonde, apparently. You'd like it."

  "Don't want to be uncivil or anything but I'm going to be going a hundred percent for the next six weeks at least. If they come to Chester they can get the VIP treatment and I'll score them a goal and talk to them and everything but even thinking about going to London to watch a play for children is exhausting. I don't have it in me to do that when I'm covering Sandra."

  She didn't seem surprised or disappointed. "I understand. Maybe I'll go with them to London on a Friday and the next morning, come through here on the way back to Scotland. Or meet in Manchester?" She shook her head, amazed at what she was about to say. "Nando's in Manchester?"

  I reached out and took her hand. "Or Chinatown. Or the curry mile. Oh, shit! What if they're your guests at Manchester United?"

  "That's January 11th, right? It's not her birthday then."

  I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them with a smile. "You want to see that play. You want to relive your childhood spent reading Harry Potter all night and in every break at school."

  "Maybe I do."

  "That's why you want to get married in a castle. I've never put two and two together. You want a Hogwarts wedding. I should tell you, I'm not going to marry a Hufflepuff."

  "You'll marry me and you'll like it. What house are you?"

  "Chester," I said, vaguely, because I was deep in thought. "It's perfect. Take them to that show on the 10th. Old Trafford on the 11th. How's that for a surprise? Best birthday ever, best cousin ever. Absolute bosh."

  Emma thought about it. "Are you going to score from 70 yards again?"

  I sipped my tea. "Don't know. Have to discuss that with my new assistant."

  She rubbed my knee. "Are you excited?"

  I tutted. "Come on. There's only one star at Chester. If you think I'm going to be excited to meet some dude you've got another thing coming." I drained my tea. "It's just gonna be another day at the office."

  ***

  The new coach was in the Sin Bin. I'd made the entire first team squad sit on the grass nearby, plus Dean, Livia, and whoever else was around.

  Sandra opened the door and showed me a thumbs up.

  I pressed play on my phone and played Gonna Fly Now by Bill Conti over our Bluetooth speakers. If you don't know the name, it's the theme tune from the Rocky movies. Absolutely fucking epic if you want to train hard for three minutes or if you want to get your players hyped about a new member of staff.

  As the song was approaching the final minute I activated the smoke machines - probably should have mentioned those earlier - and with impeccable timing, just as the music was reaching its emotional peak, the new coach emerged from the white smoke and stood towering over the players.

  I blew a single note on a party horn. Toooot!

  Pascal shot to his feet. "Gott im Himmel!" he cried.

  The music ended and the coach looked from me to the players, shrugged, and threw a few shadow punches.

  I laughed and called out, "Behold! Behold our new coach! Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you..." We hadn't rehearsed this, mostly because I knew that if I discussed this introduction with anyone, everyone would have vetoed it. I pointed at the coach, really jabbed my finger at him. "I give to you..."

  "Hi, everyone," he said, in a less clipped and precise accent than Pascal's. He had spent some time in California as a kid so his English was smooth, though he was out of practice. He was twenty-five years old, a lean 6 foot 3, maybe six four. He had short, light-brown hair, and had played as a centre back before retiring cruelly early because of injury. "My name is Peter Bauer."

  The reaction was sensational. Vimsy's hands shot to his head. Several players grabbed their nearest colleague by the nearest limb. A handful waved away the smoke.

  I turned off the closest machine and cupped my ear. "Could you say that again, please?"

  "My name is Peter Bauer."

  "Ha! Now you're repeater Bauer. Bosh. My tenth joke of the day so I get a free one. All right, incredibly exciting. We've got one of Bayern Munich's best young coaches for a few weeks so let's make the most of it. Peter, don't worry about learning their names this morning, we have a crazy week ahead."

  "I already know their names, Max."

  "What?" I said, but he didn't seem to be joking. "Christian, stand up." I pointed to my captain. "What's his name?"

  Peter smiled. "My grandfather loves your sense of humour. Christian Fierce, club captain, dominant centre back, formerly the club's record signing. 24 appearances this season and I believe 2 goals."

  "Okay, you've done some homework. That's awesome. Which player interests you the most?"

  His eyebrows bounced. "I choose not to say in case I am accused of sucking up."

  I stared at him blankly until it clicked. "Oh, me? Come on, be serious." My phone buzzed. Since the Man United announcement it had been going absolutely insane, revealing that my iPhone's battery was getting sick of my shit. "Right, the schedule this week is insane even by the standards of English football."

  "Four matches in seven days," he said. "I do not see how it is possible."

  "It's possible," I said. "Sandra's going to give you a quick tour of the compound."

  Peter frowned and gestured at the squad. "Perhaps that could wait?"

  "No, because I need to talk about you behind your back."

  He dipped his head and smiled. "Of course. I will do... the tour." His gaze went from the Sin Bin to the giant hole in the ground to the other cabins. Bayern Munich this was not.

  "Hey," I said, serious. "They say you only cry twice in Chester. Once when you arrive; once when you leave."

  Wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he tried to work out my meaning, but Sandra patted him on the back of his shoulder and led him away.

  "All right," I said, looking around the group. "Couple of things I want to say in private. We had a nice, relaxing November but now it's pure mayhem. Peter's going to be helping and it's good he's done his research but basically I'll be running this show on my own for the next six games up to Christmas and I've got the Youth Cup against West Ham, too. If you could fucking stow your temper tantrums because you're not playing and all that crap, that would be very helpful. If you get a minute off, consider yourself lucky and enjoy it.

  "Another thing. You all know Sandra's going on maternity leave and the baby could arrive at any minute. I don't want that baby born on the back of a three-nil defeat, all right? You know I'm not superstitious but I have a weird feeling that the baby's going to come during one of our matches and if we lose, gammons will grumble 'here comes The Cursed Child of Prophecy' or some crap. No. No no no, okay? We win every game in December. Blackpool's hard, Cambridge is hard, the others... I mean if we had a week to prepare we would smash all of them but with the relentless schedule we won't be able to spend days and days thinking and planning, right? It's win, sleep, light training, win, sleep, light training. We'll need to be flexible, think on our feet, cut each other some slack. I'll need to lean on my key players more than I'd normally like to.

  "We're going to dial down the intensity of the main training, okay? Light training and for players who aren't being ground to dust, it's extra skills sessions with Peter. That's my plan. To repeat - we are going to win every fucking game so when that baby is born, the first thing it sees is Sandra Lane's smile. That means less game time for our own babies. The under eighteens are in good shape. We might give Jamie Brotherhood ten minutes, that sort of thing, but basically it's us lot. Win win win.

  "And here's one way we'll win - no distractions. I don't want to fucking hear about Manchester United, okay? That match is January 11th. January. Today is December 1st. Yes, it's exciting but it's all anyone's going to be talking about out there, okay? I don't want it in here, too. If you can't get your head in the here and now you can fuck off in the transfer window. We've got work to do. Do you get me?

  "January the fourth against Bradford is twenty times bigger than Man U! And we need to beat Accrington Stanley tomorrow night and we need to do it with ruthless efficiency. Quick blitz, two early goals, straight into energy-saving mode. Why? Because we've got a big cup game 48 hours later! That's the only cup game I want to hear about, do you get me? I know it's my fault for bringing a big name to the club the day after we got the biggest draw possible, but I really, really need you to be professional. Accrington, Blackpool, Forest Green Rovers. That's six points and we go into the quarter finals of the Vans Trophy.

  "This week takes us closer to promotion and a trip to Wembley, lads. Yes? Yes? Are you with me?"

  Henri put his hand up. "And the Cheshire Cup next Tuesday night? Are we going to bin it off?"

  I gritted my teeth. "What do you think, mate? It's Winsford United. They're tier ten. You want to shit the bed in front of Peter Bauer? You want Sandra's baby coming into this world thinking Winsford United are the biggest team in Cheshire? The fuck kind of question is that? Didn't you hear me say we're going to win every game?"

  "I did, Max, yes. I thought I might clarify."

  "Oh, wonderful. What wonderful clarity we are all enjoying thanks to that question." I pinched my nose while I imagined I had a massive throbbing vein on my forehead that everyone could see. I inhaled slowly and treated the squad to a dose of laser eyes. "I'm about to inherit a million pounds, lads, with which I could replace the entire fucking squad in January. Anyone picked for the Cheshire Cup needs to treat it with the respect it deserves. That's my cup, that's Sandra's cup, I want it, we want it, if you don't want it, I don't want you. Get fucking warmed up."

  ***

  I seethed for a while, which was partly performative. Drawing Man United was immense, incredible, for some of the squad a once-in-a-lifetime event, but it had the potential to derail our entire season. I'd grown up on stories of players shirking tackles in the league matches before a cup final, tales of players losing focus.

  The million pound threat was some protection against that.

  I left the lads with Vimsy and walked off to find out where Sandra and Peter had disappeared to. I needed Peter to start a session in order to see his attributes. High and I might lean on him, low and I'd give him busy work.

  I found my assistant managers with the Brig. The scene looked ominous. "Sir," said the Brig. "I hate to bring the mood down but there was an incident over the weekend I've just been told about. Bonnie, Angel, and some of the women were out on Saturday night celebrating a friend's birthday. It's not entirely clear what happened," he said, flicking his eyes towards Peter. The Brig knew more than he would say in front of a stranger. "What's beyond doubt is that a young man became enraged and Bonnie and Angel fled into a bathroom and locked the door. Bonnie called a member of 3 R Welsh and he raced there with some mates. They, ah, subdued the aggressor and the women were able to escape unharmed."

  "Jesus fuck," I said. About eighty thoughts danced around, each demanding attention. I cut through them. "What do I need to do?"

  "As of now, nothing. If they are shaken, it is possible they will miss training tonight. I will inform Jackie Reaper."

  A suspicion hit me. "Don't," I said.

  "Sir?"

  "Who knows about this?"

  "All the women, I should think."

  I pulled at my lip. I had a premonition that one of the women involved in the incident would be extremely excited and more than happy to be the centre of attention. I would tell Sophie not to bring the cameras to training. "I want to see how it plays out this evening."

  "Very good, sir."

  "One thing, though." I nodded to the left and the Brig and I moved away from Sandra and Peter. They didn't need to get involved in any grey mode shenanigans. When we were a fair distance away, I mumbled, "Bonnie called Dylan?"

  "Yes, sir." He glanced to his left, checking no-one had come near. "She called me when I was at the gym but my phone was in my locker. When I called back, her phone was off. What I know, I heard from the police this morning. The detective whose career we helped has her ear to the ground, keeping us ahead of bad news. Shortly after Dylan and his mates cleared out, the police arrived and got the gist from the men and the bar staff. The men say that Angel was flirting with them, teasing one in particular. Leading him on, we used to call it. Then, abruptly, the hosepipe of attention was shut off. He took it badly. I suspect Angel will tell a different story. The detective expects it went rather like the men said, though that doesn't excuse an outburst of anger so severe the women had to flee."

  "A lot of men think a woman even talking to them means she wants his body. Fuckwits everywhere, John. We'll get something close to the truth from Bonnie, if she talks to us. I've been expecting something like this. If Angel created this mess, why now? She's not getting more publicity than she already is. I'd better text Ruth and Emma that I don't want this appearing on her socials in any form." I got my phone out and typed. While I did so, I asked, "How did Dylan do?"

  The Brig did something like an eye roll. "He... achieved his targets, sir. Mission accomplished."

  I scratched my nose. "No elegance."

  "No, sir."

  I finished typing. "Can you... teach Dylan to be briggier? It would be amazing to have a mini-Brig looking after Bonnie and anyone who might happen to be around Bonnie."

  The Brig scoffed at my barely-disguised dissembling, but gave my idea some thought. "I'm not sure there's quite enough polish in the world for the task." He straightened. "It's a good idea, sir. It's a very good idea and now's a good chance to pitch it to him. We can do some basic field training but I would always recommend a professional starter course. Bodyguard 101. It would cost in the region of three thousand pounds."

  "The agency will pay." I inhaled through my nose and exhaled. Three grand would buy a few hours of protection from a guy like the Brig. In theory, best case, it could buy Bonnie and Angel years. "Yeah, please have a chat with him."

  "Very good, sir."

  I walked off, shaking my head at the strangeness of my life, the way mornings could flip dark and turn back again. I collected Sandra and Peter and smiled. "Bet the Bayern manager doesn't have to put up with half the crap I do."

  Peter didn't smile. "He has different problems."

  "Yeah," I said. "Dealing with half a billion pounds of man-baby talent must be a fucking nightmare."

  "I don't know," said Sandra. "I think I deal with you pretty well." I frowned at her for a while trying to understand what she meant. She cracked a smile, bumped sideways into Peter, and said, "That's how you suck up to the boss."

  ***

  Sandra got the lads doing some fun, skills-based drills that got them moving without tiring them out.

  Peter Bauer, grandson of one of the game's true legends, helped out. He had retired from playing so he didn't have a player profile but his coaching profile was interesting.

  The most important things were his high Coaching Outfield Players score - he would fill in for Sandra just fine - and his superb tactical knowledge. Tactics 20 meant I would be able to trust his recommendations for in-game tweaks even more than Sandra, whose score of 18 was more than enough in most cases. Of course, Sandra knew the players inside out, which helped. Then again, Peter was coming at the task with fresh eyes, so it was possible he might see something in a player Sandra and I had missed.

  I asked myself if I would hire him as a coach. Yes, of course, absolutely.

  As an assistant manager? Sandra had much better Man Management and Motivating, things that were as important in the lower leagues as tactics. She also crushed him on Working With Youngsters. It wasn't clear to me what that attribute meant on a day to day basis. Did it mean working with the younger players in the first team squad or was it about working with the under eighteens, sixteens, and so on? Years after unlocking the staff profile page I was still guessing what half of it really meant. One thing was clear - for Chester, the higher that number the better.

  And would I employ him as a manager? Probably. Coaching was by far the most important part of the job and he would back up the improvements he made to players by optimising them on the pitch. So he lacked a bit of verve and drive. So what? He had a very good Judging Player Ability score, which most coaches didn't have. That would give me the confidence to give him a squad - West or Saltney, for example - and let him get on with it.

  Plus, over time, as he aged, some of his scores would surely increase. He would learn ways to motivate players and how to deal with them. Christ, his Man Management score was probably better than mine.

  An interesting thought experiment but a futile one - Peter Bauer worked for Bayern Munich. He wouldn't take twenty career steps down and a ninety percent pay cut in order to join Chester.

  ***

  I got Sandra, Peter, and Vimsy in the Sin Bin to discuss the coming matches.

  "Right," I said, tossing a marker up and catching it. "Tuesday night, Thursday night. My overall concept is we have a strong first half against Accrington and a strong second half against Blackpool. Peter, you happy with that?"

  "Happy?" he said, looking down at some notes. "The schedule is absurd. There is no good way to do it. Blackpool have the same schedule, though. Perhaps they will rotate for the cup game?"

  "That would help," I said. "Let's start with the Thursday match and work back to tomorrow's. Blackpool away. They're managed by a former Man United defender. Nice guy, apparently, but basically a caveman. 4-4-2, no frills."

  I'd already used Bench Boost and Triple Captain in the league, FA Cup, and AOK Cup, but I still had it in reserve for the Cheshire Cup and Vans Trophy. Blackpool would have CA over 100 so our only hope was to use all my jokers.

  "I'd like to do the last twenty minutes with 4-2-3-1, blast through their middle. Me, Pascal, Wibbers."

  "Wibbers?" said Peter, turning to a folder full of laminated sheets.

  "William Roberts," said Sandra.

  "Wibbers," he said, nodding. I didn't get the sense that Peter was terribly happy to be in Chester but he was determined to be professional. Maybe he was worried about what feedback I would give his grandad.

  "Pascal's not fully fit and during December I think he and I can come on for twenty minutes at a time. Wibbers can go on at half time unless we use him too much against Accrington."

  Sandra was making notes. "Tell us what you want from that match."

  "Accrington do 3-4-1-2. Quite a lot goes through their CAM so obviously we'll use Youngster at DM and he will snuff out most of their attacks. I'm thinking 4-3-3. If Pascal and I start as forwards we can go wide, but if we go Dazza, Henri, and Tom it's a narrow formation."

  Peter frowned. "Question. Why is it narrow?"

  Okay, deep breath. It had been a while since I'd had to explain the limits of the curse to anyone. "This is the fourth tier of English football. We have some good players but they're learning, and I'm learning, too. We have some set formations, ones we know. If we stick to them, we do well. I know where everyone's supposed to be and so do they. We're slowly getting more flexible but for now that's a limitation when I'm the manager. If we want to go crazy like against Newcastle, Sandra's in charge. It's normally better to accept these boundaries, though. What we can do is move one guy out of place. I can process that and so can the players. Do you get me? Our version of 4-3-3 comes with narrow strikers but we can move one to a wide forward role."

  "Or drop him to be a CAM," said Peter.

  "Yes and we do that quite a lot and we will do it more as Wibbers develops. He's amazing there and he has a wicked long shot. Looking at Accrington's wide areas I'm thinking we want to attack wide - I'd love a 4-2-4 - but having Youngster in his proper DM slot is something of a cheat code. So Pascal goes wide left. The other concept is that there's no problem with me going wherever I want. The players are used to it and obviously because it's me I know where I am." I laughed; so stupid. "Pascal wide left, me right, Dazza in the middle. Twenty-minute onslaught, get a lead, we switch to four-one-four-one and turtle up. Swap Dazza at half time and we've rested three of the guys who will end the game on Thursday."

  Peter looked at his notes. "The rules are arbitrary."

  "They work. One thing to know is that we have pretty much the best technique in the league. Top three, anyway. That means we can pass the ball around comfortably against most teams, kill the clock. We can do a decent low block, and we can shift mentality better than anyone. Defend, defend, all-out-attack, defend. Example - an oppo is off the pitch getting stitches, we'll blitz until he comes back on, turtle up again, seamless. We'll set up the basic plan but constantly be tweaking and optimising depending on who's playing shit etc."

  Peter frowned. I wasn't sure he believed me. "Okay."

  "Here's what I think. Sticky in goal. Eddie, Christian, Zach, Lee H."

  Sandra made a gesture. "Eddie left-back? I would have thought you'd use him against Blackpool."

  "We'll use Cole against them." I turned to Peter. "He's taller. Helps with set pieces. Back to Accrington. Midfield: Youngster, Ryan, Lee C. Forwards: Dazza, Pascal, me." I didn't know my own CA for sure but the other ten players had an average CA of 80.8. A red letter day! Our first starting eleven that broke the 80 barrier. "We reserve three changes to bring off Pascal, me, and Dazza. If we can swap Ryan for Andrew or Magnus at half time, great. More legs, more energy. Sharky probably won't play against Blackpool so let's plan to finish with Sharky left mid, Magnus and Lee C in the middle, Andrew right, Tom Westwood up top." Ending the match with an average CA of 75 was a step down in quality but came with an increase in work rate. "If we can get away with not using Henri, that's going to pay off."

  Peter was fast on the uptake. "You would use two subs after twenty minutes and three at half time? 45 minutes is a long time with no subs. A lot can happen."

  "Yep," I said. "Totes agree. We'll keep one in reserve for the last twenty. Okay, let's talk Blackpool."

  ***

  It must have been bewildering for Peter. We picked two teams and planned the subs for two matches without referring to video or data, and I sketched how I thought the Forest Green match would play out, too.

  He went to have lunch with Sandra; she had a bunch of tips for him.

  I left them to it while I wondered how strong to go on the Angel thing. Pretty strong, I reckoned. If she was dialling her persona up to eleven on the back of her fame, that was potentially deadly, and it was partially my fault. I'd made her progress a cakewalk. Maybe she needed to experience a setback. A small bump in the road that would make her realise she was driving too fast.

  When Sandra was done she went to the medical room and talked to its occupants, then sought out JoJo and said goodbye to her.

  I caught up with my assistant manager in the car park. She was being stoic but there was a certain stiffness to her back as she threw her bag onto the passenger seat.

  "You're on leave," I said. "Startiiiiiing now."

  She smiled. "Okay?"

  "That means we don't currently have an employer-employee relationship."

  "Okay?"

  "That means it's not inappropriate for me to ask for a hug."

  She shut the door and wrapped her arms around me. "You're still my boss, boss."

  I tried to be stoic and failed big time. Lips wobbled. Dementors crept closer. "I've got baby name ideas, remember. Just saying."

  "You have one idea," she said.

  "Max Lane-Beeks. Maxy two-names. It's so money."

  "It's on the list."

  "Is it?"

  "It's on the bottom of the list."

  I beamed. "I'll take it."

  She walked around to the other side of the car and opened the driver's door. "Boss," she said. "Gaffer."

  Uh-oh. Whatever this was, she was having a hard time saying it. "Yes?"

  "Don't do anything mad, will you?"

  I tried to look offended, but who knows what actually happened on my face; I was a wreck. "Mad? Like what?"

  She looked down at the bare surface of the car park. "Like buy a new striker. We've already got enough. And don't do Bestball against Man United."

  "Wow," I said, because I hadn't even thought about doing that for the slightest one-tenth of a second. Relationism against Man United? Live on TV in front of millions? It would cause a fucking sensation. "Wow," I said again, and I was no longer moored to this grubby earth. I was afloat on a cloud of possibilities.

  "Noooo," she said, banging herself in the forehead with her fist. "Please. Please, no."

  But I was already thinking about the rest of the week's training. We couldn't do anything strenuous, could we? There were too many matches. What about a few one-two drills? What about a couple of games of Take Me to the River, AKA Staircase to Heaven? Just for the lols.

  If nothing else, doing some Relationism drills ahead of the time I bought the perk would help me explain to Peter how we were suddenly able to utterly transform the way we were playing.

  "I probably won't," I said, honestly. My narrative sense was telling me to use it with the youth teams first and slowly introduce it to the first team. Putting it on national TV before I'd mastered it was the kind of stupid that I hated. I slapped the top of the car. "Good chat! You're in our hearts and in our thoughts. Call if you need anything."

  "I need to see us at Old Trafford doing 4-4-2, low block, keeping the score down, Max."

  "Mmm. That's certainly one way we could approach the fixture. Toodle-pip!"

  ***

  That evening, I went back to Bumpers to watch the women train. As I suspected, Angel told the story of her narrow escape again and again, and since there wasn't a camera crew around she was filming it on her phone.

  Bonnie brushed me off when I tried to ask what had happened in the bar, so I had to go on my instinct.

  "Angel," I said, calling her over to a spot where we could talk.

  She started out filming but thought better of it and put her phone away. "Yes, Max?"

  "Heard there was a bit of an incident."

  "Oh, it was nothing really. A boy got drunk and Bonnie arranged for a rescue. It was only so she could meet up with her army man. She's crushing on him pretty bad."

  "Right, except she called the Brig first."

  Angel's eyes narrowed and her bubbly persona diminished. "Did she? So what? It was a storm in a teacup. I hope you aren't going to do one of your overreactions."

  I eyed her. "I was cracked over the head with a metal bar. When it comes to safety, I don't believe anything I do is an overreaction. I'm not blaming you for a guy going tonto the same way I don't blame myself for cutting a player who was never going to make it. How other people react is up to them, that's clear. But if your fame is putting you in danger, and Bonnie in danger, and anyone who happens to be around you in danger, the solution seems obvious to me."

  She didn't like where this was going. "What's that?"

  "There are eight episodes planned for season two of the documentary. I've asked Sophie and Henri to cut you out of one."

  Absolute, instant fury, replaced by cold, dead eyes. "Cut me out?"

  "Yeah. And I'm thinking if there are any more incidents like this one, you know, ones that aren't your fault, I'll cut you out of another two and another three. If there are scenes where you say something important, Sophie can cut to a reaction shot from one of the others and we'll hear your voice or even just put subtitles. You know, we'll pretend the microphone failed in that moment. Do you get me? I suppose you could say it's a choice between getting famous in a bar with some nobody, or being on TV."

  Another flash of rage as she realised I had absolutely stitched her up. "It's my choice, is it?"

  "Everything's a choice."

  Her eyes went from left to right. The jerky motion reminded me of an old-fashioned typewriter. "You can't cut me out completely. I'm in the title sequence."

  Before she'd even finished the last word I got my phone out and called Sophie. "Hey, it's Max. I want a new title sequence. Can you have a think about some concepts? Game of Thrones, Westworld, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, whatever you want. Yes, I'll give you budget. Yes. Okay, top."

  Angel glared at me. "This is unfair. I didn't do anything wrong."

  "No-one said you did."

  I had thought this was a genius way of getting through to her, but to my surprise she got angrier. She had enough presence of mind to glance at the rest of the players. Some had their phones out, and many were wondering what we were discussing. If Angel exploded, it would be caught on video and could come out at any time. Instead of blowing up, she got quiet and practically hissed, "I'm the best striker in this whole city. You need me if you want to get promoted and live out your Soccer Supremo fantasy. Don't piss me off."

  She strode off. I turned and walked to my office. She had made a good point, to be fair.

  ***

  Tuesday, December 2

  Match 18 of 46: Chester versus Accrington Stanley

  There were no surprises from Accrington. They came with the expected 3-4-1-2 formation and an average CA of 74. It was the kind of match we needed to win if we still harboured hopes of winning the league.

  I paraded Peter on the pitch before the match, giving big waves to three stands. The Accrington lot chanted 'Who the fucking 'ell are you?'

  Peter took us through the warm-ups, doing it quite different from Sandra. That kind of change can be exciting but I was worried the warm up was too intense given the schedule.

  "Mate," I said, blowing as though I had played ten minutes against Newcastle. "Remember the fixture list. Can you give us the fifty percent version?"

  "This is the fifty percent version!"

  I wasn't sure what he thought about me, the squad, and our tiny little stadium, but he can't have had any complaints about how we came out of the blocks, or about my strategy.

  Accrington had the second-lowest budget in the league and if they had a data guy, he obviously wasn't qualified to analyse me because our wide forwards destroyed their back line and they took their sweet time responding.

  Youngster to Jack.

  Jack looks up. He clips it into space on the wing.

  Best hares after it. First time cross.

  Darren Smith...

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  An inch-perfect cross and a header to match!

  Accrington's manager eventually dropped a wide player to help contain me so I switched to the left and shifted Pascal into a CAM role. Accrington's wing-back was therefore defending against no-one, and he could only watch and admire as we built through the other two-thirds of the pitch.

  Good energy from Contreras.

  He breaks the lines and feeds Smith.

  Smith holds the ball up well.

  He lays it off for Best.

  Best looks to line up a shot.

  Accrington know he can hit them from there!

  A defender leaps in to make a block.

  Best skips past him. He looks up, likes what he sees...

  Cocks his leg...

  But he passes!

  The ball's slipped through and Bochum is onto it in a flash.

  Bochum with only the keeper to beat...

  GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

  Never in doubt!

  Accrington appeal for offside but the referee isn't interested.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  At two-nil, I went through with the changes I'd planned. I felt good, felt like I could have played longer, but when a plan is mint you have to stick to it. Four-one-four-one and the great December rotation had begun.

  I spent the rest of the half eating marathon paste and pointing out to Peter the strengths and weaknesses of our players, paying particular attention to what it meant in terms of formations and styles. He absorbed everything quickly; I didn't need to tell him twice.

  At half time we made two more changes and the fifth on 70 minutes.

  Exactly as planned. Accrington huffed and puffed but we dealt with their threat comfortably enough.

  The curse gave man of the match to Lee Contreras.

  ***

  I took Peter with me to talk to a few people. The first were Secretary Joe and MD, who couldn't stop babbling about the upcoming Man United match.

  I tried to be patient. "Guys, we've just moved up to ninth in the league. We're picking up steam. Live in the moment, yeah?"

  They didn't want to live in the moment. They wanted to live on January 11th. True to form, MD was already worrying about being humiliated.

  I gave MD a blank look and turned to Joe. "Where are we with bonds?"

  "Amazing. The Man United news, followed by your hints that you would use the gate receipts to take some bonds off the market, drove a lot of sales. Today's announcement about Dieter Bauer's grandson was another jolt. We're up to something like 3.4 million but they're going fast again. I really think we'll sell out by the United game."

  "Good, thanks."

  "Peter, will your grandfather come? I will organise tickets if so."

  Peter's eyes darted around. "I will find out."

  ***

  Wednesday, December 3

  Peter did the first half of training - very advanced, very exciting for the players even if we were taking it easy.

  I did the second half, keeping Peter as the 'official coach' in case it helped us to get some pops. We did the building blocks of Relationism and there were no complaints about how remedial the drills were. Perhaps it would have been better if there had been - it might have made us seem like a more serious club. Peter can't have been impressed seeing how enthusiastically the squad did one-twos and slow rondos.

  But I wasn't running Chester FC for the benefit of Peter Bauer. I still wasn't totally sure what he wanted to get out of the experience, if anything. Things were going so fast we didn't have time for a heart-to-heart. Maybe when the day came it would go easier with four or five wins under our belt, after we had been in the trenches together.

  I asked him to come back to Bumpers before the eighteens trained. We waited in my office and he asked why I had a large bucket of chestnuts.

  "We've got a horse chestnut tree out there and it went nuts, literally. We have a game here called Conkers. You tie strings through the chestnuts. You hold yours up and I give it a whack with mine. Then it's your turn. When one conker is smashed to bits, that's the loser."

  "I see why England is associated with 4-4-2."

  "It's top fun. I haven't done it since I was little so I thought as part of the Christmas fun we might have a tournament." Two people arrived and I waved them in. "Peter, this is Fleur. She's our scouting department."

  He was getting used to my humour. "The entire department?"

  "Yes." He shook her hand and did the same with her son. I said, "That's Henk. Centre back from our under eighteens. I've been asking Fleur to scout Bradford City for us. They seem likely to be our main rivals for the title but I can't understand what changed there."

  "Changed?" said Peter.

  "They were a shambles and they switched, just like that. They play efficient football, take sensible risks, have players in the right positions, do some rotation, there's good spirit."

  Fleur said, "I've been to see them five times this season. Max has never asked me to watch a team more than once. He's obsessed." She smiled at Peter, who smiled back. Sparks? Henk thought so - he frowned. Fleur didn't notice her son's reaction; she was busy flipping through her notebook. "Max, it's the same. Four-four-one-one. Raffi Brown as the CAM arriving late on the end of crosses, getting up to support Chipper. There's no magic. It's solid football like you said. Efficient and sensible. I'll say that they look to be getting better. Brown and Chipper are developing a great understanding and the overall speed and quality of play is faster and more intense. They're really good but I can't see the secret sauce you're looking for."

  "Sudden formation shifts?"

  "No."

  "Instant reaction to oppo changes?"

  "No."

  "R. Brown is actually Jude Bellingham who drank Polyjuice Potion?"

  She smiled. "I did notice that he drinks exclusively from a small metal flask."

  I tapped the arm of my chair. "Folke Wester is calling the shots?"

  "Definitely."

  I didn't know what to do about Bradford. Fleur couldn't spot anything different at that club and I couldn't go myself because we were always playing at the same time. I'd seen their second half switch with my own two eyes and I couldn't explain it. Sending the Brig to spy on them or hack into their emails felt like it would cross a line.

  I sighed. "Hickman? The Exit Trial kids?"

  She shook her head.

  I would have to drop it for now - sending Fleur again and again was moronic. I clicked my teeth a few times. "All right, fine. Thanks. I'll talk to Peter for a bit and I'll be out in a minute. Henk, you can get them warmed up if you want."

  "I'll do it," said Peter.

  "What, really?"

  "Yes. I'll show you how we do it in Bavaria."

  I was about to make a joke but it died on my lips. "Thanks! That'll be top. Henk, gather the lads and tell a story without using the letter E." Fleur and Henk left.

  "You wanted to say something," said Peter.

  "It's not important, really. I mean it's important but... Look, you're my Sandra for a few weeks so I need to say things to you. Dump thoughts into you. Do you know what I mean?"

  "No."

  "Micro-therapy. Things I need to get off my chest. Things someone who has played the game understands better than a sports psychologist."

  "Oh. I see." He looked uncomfortable. Man Management 8.

  "I keep hearing the phrase 'cursed child' and I wonder who it's about. You look at Bonnie and Angel and think it's easy to know which one's blessed and which one's cursed. Just look at them, right? But you go deeper and it's the opposite because one can never be happy. Wait long enough it switches around again because the first can have moments of superficial happiness but the other can't ever be happy.

  "And think about Henk and Benny and Tyson. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing them wrong by boosting them the way I am. Henk's a tier 6 player but he looks like a top quality defender. You watch him in a minute - he moves like Virgil Van Dijk. Isn't that horrible? Better to look shit, right? How can you move so gracefully and appear to tick all the boxes and not get anywhere?

  "And Benny. Is he the most cursed? His dad's a legend around here." I pushed my finger against my lips. "He has two first team goals. He's got that, if he can find peace with it. Two goals and a Youth Cup win. Wouldn't that be something? Can't just tell him he's shit and dump him, can I? He could be a legend for Warrington Town. Is Tyson cursed? He's good enough to win three or four National League North titles, play hundreds of games. His dad's got some money. He's good-looking. He'll be able to accept he's not EFL quality easier than the others. Or will he?"

  "I do not know the players," said Peter, looking somehow even more uncomfortable.

  "I wonder if these thoughts are so present because of the Angel chat? A guy tried to kill me, Peter."

  "I know."

  "You could say he did it because his son wasn't good enough. That's not the reason - the reason is that he's a fucking psycho - but it's a warning, isn't it? Maybe I'm the cursed child after all. I know how good they're going to be and I want to push them to their limit but if you stop improving when you hit 18, wow. That's mental, isn't it? That's a mindfuck. I don't know how to prepare them for the realisation while keeping them motivated to play. I know with me I get demotivated if I stop improving but they're here and they're working their nuts off so I should let them get on with it and make their own decisions, right?"

  "Are you asking what my grandfather would advise you?"

  I blinked. What a strange thing to say. It felt important, but my phone beeped. Time to start the session. "Good chat. Thanks. Let's curse some children, yeah?"

  ***

  Thursday, December 4

  Vans Trophy Round of 32: Blackpool versus Chester

  To: DB

  From: PB

  Subject: Blackpool

  Lieber Opi,

  I apologise for not writing a review of the Accrington match but they really dropped me in at the deep end. Sandra Lane showed me the lie of the land in a few hours and then I was left to sink or swim.

  Max Best does not suspect the true purpose of my visit. He has a mercenary view of my skills, seeing me as a coach who can improve his players and while he bounces tactical ideas off me, he might as well be talking to a mirror. I should perhaps be annoyed but I find it refreshing; the only reflection he sees is that of himself.

  Before the Accrington match, Max made some predictions and outlined a plan and in real time I thought that's exactly how the match went, but later in my hotel room I watched it back and was bewildered by what I saw. Max had all but ruled out using a CAM but there were stretches where your friend Pascal played in that very spot. Meanwhile Max was on the left and we didn't attack at all down the right. All because what they call the 'oppo' manager had strengthened the right flank. When the oppo adjusted, so did Max, instantly. Instantly, Opi! Perhaps it is because he only plays for 20 minutes and there is no time to waste, but most managers wait to see how a change affects the flow of the match before they counter it.

  That was two days ago. A few hours ago we took the eco-bus north to Blackpool. Max's video analysis of the opposition was to watch clips of Stanley Matthews from the 1950s.

  He predicted 4-4-2 and a strong opposition, and that is what we got. The first half was extremely tedious, very English. Many long balls disguised as 'big diags'. Max had selected a tall left back to help cope with the aerial bombardment and to rest the first-choice left back.

  We started with 4-1-4-1 and an instruction to 'keep things tight first 45', which was taken as a joke but is also what they attempted to do. Chester have some good players - the two centre backs, the right back, Youngster, Lee Contreras, and Henri Lyons, the charming striker whose German is perfect. They competed well against their counterparts, but Cole Adams, the young left back, Andrew Harrison, Wes Hayward, and even Ryan Jack, formerly of Everton, were a marked step below the rest and the gulf between them and the Blackpool starters was visible. Being level at nil-nil going into the break was deserved in terms of work rate and application, but was not sustainable.

  Max praised his players at half time. It's a feature of his dressing room that it is quiet and reflective. Near the end of the break he gives a few simple instructions and an image or thought for the players to carry with them. Today was 'do it for little baby Max'. Henri asked if Sandra had promised to call the baby that. Max said no but she would if we won. It stood to reason.

  Funny, but a simple reminder that they were playing for others. Their families, their friends, the community. I find myself looking at most of Max's work as being very simple. Clear, simple formations with clear, simple tasks for the players. But is it the simplicity of the amateur or the simplicity of the master?

  I was enjoying the mental discussion until, with 25 minutes to go he brought five players off and sent five on, including himself. This was where, to quote Vimsy, I should 'strap in because all hell is about to break loose.'

  Three of the weaker players: Wes, Andrew, and Ryan went off. Magnus Evergreen joined Youngster as the DMs in the promised 4-2-3-1. The 3 were Max, Pascal, and Wibbers. Dazza the striker.

  But Max couldn't keep still. I need to watch the tape to see if it's ADHD or if he was looking for pockets of space to exploit. He popped up on the far right, left, and even as a third DM. Pascal moved with great intelligence and with the ball looked for clever interplay. Wibbers took long shots, went on dribbles, and attracted defenders to him like he was magnetic.

  Blackpool were reeling but Chester's goal came from a free kick. We don't practise free kick routines on the training ground, according to the sample schedule Sandra gave me, but this was perfectly executed. It was too far for a cross so Pascal sprinted along the edge of the penalty area like a wide receiver in motion in the NFL. He continued his run, Max passed to him, Pascal touched it back, and Best, from fifteen yards closer, crossed left-footed for Christian Fierce to head down into the goal. Very nice but when I asked Pascal how he knew to make that run he simply said 'it felt right'. Perhaps the football here is too much based on what they call 'vibes'.

  But while Max's two-match plan had been executed pretty much perfectly until that moment, the flaws in it were apparent. Cole Adams was targeted and while he can win a header, his positioning is not currently up to scratch. In his defence, Max offered him little protection from midfield, choosing instead to station himself as a left-winger. He told me afterwards that it was a risk-reward play in Chester's favour because if he got the ball he would have ripped Blackpool 'several new arses'.

  Blackpool scored, however, and after a frantic few minutes where both sides really went for it, the match finished one-all.

  No extra time - straight to penalties.

  Max was incredibly confident - Sticky in goal is imposing and for once Chester won the coin toss to go first. I didn't have much to contribute to the order so I tried to say positive things to those who would take the five penalties.

  Max was the first. He was extremely fatigued but sent the keeper the wrong way and rolled the ball into the net.

  Blackpool took their first penalty, Sticky dived the wrong way, goal. One-all.

  Wibbers scored, as did Blackpool.

  Pascal scored. Ditto.

  Darren Smith, the Australian striker who after a tough start had scored 7 in 9, took an abysmal penalty that was easily saved.

  Blackpool scored to lead 4-3.

  I was surprised to see Magnus Evergreen stride forward as the fifth taker, but he took an ice-cold penalty.

  If Blackpool scored, they won.

  I haven't mentioned the atmosphere because the turnout was low and the game only really got going when Best made the five changes. It was noisy now, though. A few hundred Chester fans pounded whatever was nearby...

  And the shot was saved!

  Sticky had got his timing spot on, guessed the right way, and reached out a long arm and a huge hand to deflect the ball behind.

  He ran off, crunching his abs as he shouted in triumph.

  Until he heard the repeated whistle. The referee had judged that Sticky had moved off his line too soon and forced the penalty to be retaken.

  Despair!

  So now the game theory. Should the penalty taker go the same way? Should Sticky?

  In the end, they both chose the same as before, but the penalty strike was cleaner and it zipped along the ground and into the net.

  Defeat on penalties, again.

  Worse news was to come. Four minor injuries were reported: Cole, Ryan, Lee C and Wes Hayward. Normally not a problem, but with another two-day turnaround, there's no chance they can make the squad on Saturday. Cole is not a big loss because there are two other left back options, but Max has leaned on the other three. I am going to spend the rest of the ride home trying to piece together a formation that fits the players who remain.

  Match summary: Max is a gambler and today not all his bets paid off. He has taken it hard.

  P.S. In a lame attempt to cheer him up, I told him I had looked up The Cursed Child and found the story heavily featured 'Time Turners'. I asked Max if he had a Time Turner, what would he change from his lineup or substitutions? 'Nothing,' he said. 'I absolutely nailed it.' 'Then you cannot feel sad.' 'I'm not sad. I'm fucking devastated.'

  P.P.S. It's five minutes later. Max just handed me a team sheet for Saturday. 3-4-3 against Forest Green Rovers' 4-5-1. A rest for Youngster, with Pascal and Wibbers on the bench to replace Dazza and anyone else who shows signs of fatigue. Max said he might have to play the second half as a centre back to give one of those lads a break. He didn't seem to be joking but then he did smile. 'Unless YOU want to play.' I said, 'I'm not as good as my grandfather, Max.' He got annoyed. 'I don't need you to be as good as him, do I? I need you to be better than Sunday Sowumni so I can rest Christian Fierce for fucking once.' He calmed a little and said, 'I bet your grandad wasn't as good as your grandad half the time.' With that cryptic comment, he put his big headphones on and listened to music while, inexplicably, he looked at photos of commercial bathrooms on an antique iPad.

  From: DB

  To: PB

  Subject: Blackpool

  'I bet your grandad wasn't as good as your grandad half the time.'

  He's right! Wonderful line. I might steal it.

  Please pay attention, Peter. Max Best knows a lot, including how far he can push his players. I am more convinced than ever that this is just what you need. Stick with it.

  ***

  Friday, December 5

  I had a bad morning when I realised the mad schedule, the disrupted training, the injuries, the travel, and the cup defeat had left us with an entire week of training that featured zero pops. Zero improvement!

  It wasn't Peter's fault - he was good. Without the curse, I might have had some doubts about that because a few players had come to me to low-level complain about his methods. The drills were new, fresh, interesting, but Peter stopped them when a player made a mistake. He would explain what had gone wrong and restart the drill from the beginning.

  Sandra, Jude, and Well In tended to allow the drills to flow and give corrections at the end. Peter's way was jarring.

  One such complaint came from Lee C, who was watching training while waiting for a free physio. I replied, "Yeah it's a bit fussy and you're frustrated in the moment but this is the kind of precision they demand at a superclub. This is what elite training looks like. Don't you want a taste of it?"

  He did.

  I went into the curse shop and looked at the monthly special offer. Secret Sandra would let me boost someone's training rate - at a cost. At two costs, in fact, since I had to buy the fucking thing before I started piling XP into it.

  I had to give the imps some credit - they knew how to press my buttons. Since it had appeared in the shop it had been nagging at me. I had two left backs, Josh and Cole, who had been improving at almost identical rates since their arrival. With Secret Sandra I could gift one of them ten or twenty XP per day and track what difference it made to their CA levels over, say, three months. That would give me an extremely solid idea of what the perk did.

  It would also delay me from buying Relationism and lock me into some element of future grinding. But I was getting 250 XP a week just from hanging around Bumpers Bank - I could invest some of that into Cole Adams, right?

  If I was careful, I would be able to afford Relationism before the West Ham United match.

  Fuck it - the perk was solid and I'd always wanted a training boost. I spent the 2,000 XP to unlock it, and since it was too late to use it on the men's first team, I went to the women's squad page and gifted 10 XP to Dani.

  After training, Peter and I walked along Bumpers Lane to the Deva. "I don't think Dieter was being totally honest when he sent you over, Peter. I think he wants me to show you what it's like being the manager of a small club because he wants you to go off on your own and do it. How close am I?"

  He didn't break stride. "Somewhat close."

  "Okay. You'll come to this meeting and get a taste of the behind-the-scenes work. Depending on the size of the club you're managing you'll need to get involved with all sorts of crap. I doubt you'd go low enough that you'd need to wash the kits yourself."

  "Why do you say that?" he said, in what might have been a sharp tone.

  "Because not even I started that low. Here's something interesting: Lee Contreras. When I met him he was in the direction of manic, put more effort into his TikToks than his game. Now he's really serious and focused."

  "This is bad?"

  I smiled. "I wish it was something I had done, right? So I could take the credit."

  "Perhaps you can."

  He didn't explain and we crossed the road. By the time we got to the other side, I had a new topic. "Okay, you're going to meet a few of the admin team. The money people. MD's the closest thing I have to a boss but the interesting character is Brooke. You'll find she's smart and determined and has a big heart. Her brother is Chip, the fucking hateful dipshit who is running Bradford City. They're, what, fifteen points ahead of us? He is gobby as fuck right now so we need to shut him up on January 4. If this was a fairytale, who would you say is the one who'd been cursed?

  "Chip, cursed by stupidity, winning by pure luck on the back of other people's labour and daddy's money, thinking it makes him big and strong? Or Brooke, who should be turning a three hundred million dollar business into a three billion dollar one but would like to go out and see the world while she's young. Instead she's turning a three million pound business into a four million pound one while people write glowing profiles about her shitty brother.

  "She's in a Greek tragedy." I stopped walking. "We all are. Maybe that's the answer. We're all cursed. None of us are ever going to be happy. We'll never get what we want if we look for it from other people because we live in a world where Chip Star is popular and if I lose on penalties to a team with four times our budget I'm a figure of fun and mockery."

  Peter didn't say anything and didn't seem very interested in the conversation so I shut my gob. We went up and into the boardroom.

  ***

  I made the introductions and noted the older men were starstruck by Peter while Peter was Star struck. There followed the usual small talk - yes, I'm disappointed about losing another penalty shoot-out, yes Dazza is practising penalties, no it isn't as easy as it looks - and we got to business.

  Secretary Joe confirmed that we were past 3.5 million in bond sales. MD said he was in discussions with Man United about our ticket allocation (we would likely get about five thousand tickets to sell to our fans, but MD was hoping to get 9,000). Brooke updated us on the 3G pitch income. The pitch at Bumpers was rammed and was bringing in a solid 2,000 a week. Hoole was slightly less popular but had more hours available on it, and the income had settled down at 2,300 a week, though we didn't own a nearby watering hole where we could extract even more money from the players. Brooke said we were vanishingly unlikely to ever be allowed to build a pub anywhere close.

  Ah, well. It was all good. MD agreed to increase my budget by 4,300 pounds a week starting on the first of January.

  "Great," I said, sarcastically. "That'll pay for four days of Peter's hair gel."

  We turned to look at him while his hand shot up to touch his hair. "Is it - ? Does it look - ?"

  Brooke said, "It suits you. Ignore Max, he's not used to having competition in the best hair stakes."

  While she was lying straight to our guest's face, I got up and walked behind MD. As best I could, I bear-hugged him and squeezed. "Fank ooooooh. Fank ooh, MD. Do you want a little peck on the cheek?"

  "Not in the workplace, Max."

  "Kay. Shoulder massage?" I suggested. "Looks like a lot of tension there. If you don't want a shoulder rub, can I give you a voucher for a spa day? Peter, when you get a job don't forget you need to manage up, too."

  MD made a scoffing noise.

  Secretary Joe said, "What if he's a future Bayern manager?"

  I shrugged. "What's the difference? Even bosses deserve relaxation."

  Peter shook his head with a slight smile. "I don't think I would offer my boss at Bayern a shoulder rub, even as a joke. Our president ran Adidas for fifteen years. He would not find it charming."

  "Who said I found it charming?" said MD.

  I finger-gunned Peter. "We need more sponsors out here. The club and the players. Get me an in with Adidas and I'll let you beat me at Conkers."

  Brooke said, "Ruth would love to meet someone from Adidas. The big sports companies don't seem to value her agency's young stars to the same level Max does."

  I felt I had made a mistake in introducing the Adidas chat, so I killed it. "Peter isn't here to get Angel another sponsor; he's here to learn to be a football manager. To learn from the best. Max Best." I laughed at how pompous I sounded and walked over to my trusty flipchart and turned to a fresh page. "All this info gets released in the accounts, Peter, so don't worry that you're hearing secret stuff, but I'm about to find out my transfer budget so please don't let that out of this room. And there will be some brainstorming and I'm liable to say some fucking outrageous things - " MD groaned. "So, yeah, embargo this until the summer at least, please."

  "I will say nothing."

  "Top top top. Okay our budget right now is 30 grand." I wrote that on the board. "From Jan 1 it's plus 4,300. We've got Foquita coming in for two thousand and I promised Andrew two hundred."

  All eyes were on me and I briefly felt absurd and out of place. When Brooke's father died, unless he was incredibly spiteful, she was going to be a billionaire. MD had fat stacks. Peter came from a background of top-tier footballer wealth. Only Secretary Joe understood what two hundred pounds meant when you didn't have it.

  I pressed on. "We're freeing up 950 from Eddie, 600 from Sharky, 640 from Ben. Bark's coming in at 700. Therefore," I said, grandly, "the amount of money remaining in my wage budget will be... What the fuck, guys? I'm waiting for someone to do the maths for me."

  "Three thousand, seven hundred and ninety pounds a week," said Joe.

  I wrote 3790 on the flipchart and drew a rectangle around it. "That," I mused, "is very fucking decent. I want two players, I think. A goalie and someone who can play left-mid. Or I could get a huge batch of prospects."

  "You're short on centre backs," said Peter.

  "Yeah," I said, rubbing my forehead. The gap from the first choice guys to Sunday Sowumni was so enormous I had barely been able to use him. Lee H could play centre back, as could Magnus, but things were strained. On the other hand, our latest cup exit snipped off three fixtures we might potentially have had. More rest for the lads over the coming months. I had five reliable centre backs and one prospect. That had to be enough, right? "I think we'll have to tough it out. If we get an Aff type or some kind of skilful left-footer who can play wide or as a CAM, that will make 3-5-2 and 3-4-3 more viable. And there's always..."

  I checked the perk store. The next formation I could buy was 3-4-2-1, the cutting-edge formation favoured by Man United's new manager. What if I surprised him by using his own formation against him? It would make even more sense if I had another creative forward to go with Pascal and Wibbers. Unlocking the formation would cost 5,000 XP...

  "Peter, can you give me an analysis on 3-4-2-1? Obviously an emphasis on how United use it, but also do you think it would work for us? From what I know of it, one of the midfielders sits and patrols so that would suit Youngster."

  "I would be happy to."

  "Bosh," I mumbled. "I'd love another top centre back, though. If there's a bargain on the market I might consider it. Could be worth it just to let Zach and Christian spend more time on the training pitch. Another guy like Lee H but with more of a ceiling. Yeah. Okay this has cheered me up. Let's talk about my millions of pounds."

  I thought I saw MD's shoulders tense again so I made a massaging motion and raised my eyebrows. Do you want...? He did not want.

  On the board I wrote 158,000. "Our cup prize money. Half goes to the players, as agreed. It's about three grand per man depending on whether they were named in squads or not. I hope it isn't overly pessimistic to say we probably won't be adding to that. I'd like to use the club's half to invest in equipment for the players but there's nowhere to store anything right now so..."

  I crossed out that number and wrote 79,000. Below that, I wrote 75,000, 50,000, 100,000, and 300,000. "Incoming transfer fees for Simon Black, Ben, Eddie, and Sharky." Minus 75,000. "Outgoing fee for Bark. MD, what are we projecting from Man U?"

  "I'm budgeting 1.1 million from our share of the ticket sales, plus over 100,000 from TV. I've assigned that hundred for extra marketing efforts and sundry expenses but the ticket sales you can keep."

  Brooke said, "We'll shift a lot of merch and Grindhog are saying we might sell out on home kits again. They're pulling their hair out."

  MD said, "We won't know the numbers at the start of the transfer window so I wouldn't want to plan around them."

  "No stress," I said. "I'm not going to be nagging you about the half-and-half scarf sales."

  "Do you promise?"

  "Let's just round this 79 up to 80 so my tiny head can deal with the numbers. Good?"

  "I think we can agree to that."

  I tapped the marker pen against my temple. "Prize money, transfers, Man United. Is there anything I've forgotten?"

  MD said, "We got the money from FIFA for Youngster playing in the World Cup."

  "Oh, cool," I said. "It's a few thousand, right? Why don't we give that to the food bank Youngster helps at? Would that go down well? Shift some bonds?"

  Brooke said, "I don't think so. More likely the opposite effect because people would think we don't need the money and they don't want to invest in us if we're being political."

  I gritted my teeth and simmered. "Feeding the hungry is political. Helping people in need is political. Right. It's like Jesus said, fuck thy neighbour."

  "Max," complained MD, but I had come to the boil.

  I stared out the window onto the green, green grass of home. One last push and I'd be free of the gammons forever. This was the last time I would ever need outside help. When the fund hit five million I was free to go full anti-gammon, from here till eternity, till death do us part, and if the sponsors didn't like it, we could go blank because there would always be a market for strikers and I knew how to find them. Gammons weren't born to this world to be happy. They weren't supposed to be enjoying it.

  As a football manager I could wind them up better than almost anyone in the country. I would establish the Premier League's first ever hedgehog-specific veterinarian clinic. I would fly a pride flag next to those of Wales, Germany, and France. I would give a room at Bumpers over to a migrant from a war-torn country. There would be regular spikes in the incidence of ulcers nationwide. Put that number on my Wikipedia page.

  Gammons were the cursed children and there were millions of them shuffling around, as apocalyptic and damaging as a zombie horde. Unlike zombies, they weren't interested in brains.

  "Max?" said MD, which brought me back to the here and now. I had to pretend to be puny and weak for just a little while longer.

  "Look at the pretty numbers," said Joe in a soothing tone, which made me smile. "It's one point six three million total, Max."

  I wrote it down. "Number go up," I said. The magnificent heft of the number calmed me all the way down. "And we'll get a million in the summer when Foquita moves on. Plus the TV money goes up by half a million. Printer go brr." I walked to the window and looked out onto the pitch. Next season it would be modern and one entire stand would have been rebuilt. If I bought the right players now, next season would be one of the greatest in the history of the sport.

  "We are likely to need some cash to kit out the McNally," said Brooke. "I think we can get the stand up in time for the season but the food and drink provision will be extremely limited and the hospitality boxes will be shells."

  I nodded. The budget was tight and any slippage or extra costs meant some of the finishing touches would be postponed. Of course, those finishing touches were the ones that generated revenue. "It'll be fine," I said. "Every home match we'll open a new section of the concourse. It'll be more exciting than if it was all ready on day one."

  "We might have to offer a discount on season tickets."

  "No problem. Open the poverty mindset document. Control A, select all, delete. Bosh. We'll be playing Newcastle and Man United every season. Write that down."

  MD chuckled. "Max, be serious."

  I gave him a level stare. "I'm being serious. Our first eleven is getting to be a match for anyone in League Two and if I spend wisely we'll extend that to League One soon enough. The new challenge is to get two good players in every position. I want to be able to cope with weeks like these, and we need to start preparing for life in the Championship."

  "League One," said MD.

  "Nope. Control F, find League One. Find and replace with Championship. We are on the march and we need to prepare." From what I'd seen, CAs in the Championship ranged from 110 to 149. 110 to 130 were the bottom half teams. 131 to 149 included well-managed playoff teams and the big dogs who'd come down from the Prem. I had a few lads who wouldn't make the grade - Omari and Tom, for example - plus a few who would be good squad players - Andrew, Sticky, Josh. Christian would fit in that category but it wasn't his destiny to be fourth choice centre back for anyone. "We need to use this money to get some proper mega quality in. But we can't let training suffer so I'm thinking we should commit to getting the showers done."

  "The showers?" said Peter.

  "Yeah. Think of Bumpers. There's a meeting room we don't use much. That would be one corner of the building and the opposite corner would be the viewing room that overlooks the 3G pitch. Make sense?"

  "Yes, I can picture it."

  "Control A on all those cabins, delete. Open new file: six changing rooms with showers, two boot rooms, a laundry room, disabled toilets, loads of lockers for when we're hosting tournaments."

  Brooke said, "The architects had more time to think about it, Max, and they've offered another option. You can get the basic one for 400,000, or add a second floor for 600."

  "What goes on the second floor?"

  "Whatever you want. Offices. The charity needs an office. Meeting rooms, media rooms, classrooms. You could put some golf simulators up there; the players would love it. Or the vast dental clinic you keep talking about. You wouldn't need to decide immediately but it's a chance to think ahead. You told me you want most of the site's footprint used for pitches so if we keep adding rooms, we will need to get vertical at some stage."

  Another one of those dilemmas! The basic version would be a huge upgrade on what we had, but the deluxe version would pay off manyfold in the long term. Two hundred thousand was nothing in comparison to getting an extra floor, but the difference between having a transfer budget of one million versus one point two, at this stage of our project, instinctively felt enormous and significant.

  Brooke continued. "Just a reminder that doing the restaurant would generate revenue. And to put it out there, there's enough in the budget to do the deluxe versions of both."

  I thought about Chip Star. He was having a ball running a football club, spending all his money on players. He was prune juicing it, though. Money in, money out. He would leave nothing except a Wikipedia mention of a second-place finish. I wanted to leave behind tangible proof that I had been there, and I wanted the club to be able to sustain itself. Replacing a handful of ugly cabins with a beautiful building that contained a restaurant and a sports bar supported by two massive kitchens, with function rooms, even a roof terrace... It would be a solid investment that would last after I was gone. "That one has to wait, I'm afraid, but I want it bad. And I want more 3G pitches all over Cheshire and North Wales. Soon. Soooon. For now, let me see what I can do in the transfer market and I'll let you know about the shower block asap."

  That was pretty much the meeting. I took one last look at the number on the board. 1.63 million pounds.

  That was a lot of Exit Triallists.

  ***

  Saturday, December 6

  Match 19 of 46: Forest Green Rovers versus Chester

  To: DB

  From: PB

  We are on the bus coming back from a tiny village that somehow has an English football league team. Final score 0-0, so Chester are still 9th in the table but they are now 17 points behind Bradford City.

  The match was more interesting than expected. I have seen reporters on social media say Chester played for a draw. Not true - Max prioritised fitness and avoiding injury over winning, which is not something I can say I have ever seen before.

  There were prominent roles for Andrew Harrison and Tom Westwood, two men who can run and run. Dazza, Wibbers, and Pascal shared two slots, and there was an injury scare for Henri. Max subbed him off immediately and went up front himself. Shame - I was interested to see him play as a centre back!

  He was even more drained than he looked, though, and Forest Green's 4-5-1 didn't leave him any space to exploit. He nearly created a goal from a crossed free kick but with five minutes to go he came to me and asked if I had any good scams up my sleeve. I told him the side looked shattered and the only way to generate threat would be to send defenders forward but that the risk/return was horrible.

  He said he agreed with me and finished the match as a defensive midfielder, but in the dressing room he was very down and there was a remarkable exchange. It started when Max asked for everyone's attention.

  'Lads, we had a bad week and I know a few of you are as sick about it as I am. But look, it's on me. No-one could fault your commitment, quality, or desire. I hold my hands up. I looked at the fixtures and wanted to win them all. It might have been better to bin one off. Get six points, or three and go through in the cup. There's a saying, a man who chases two rabbits catches none. I chased three rabbits this week and got none.'

  Henri stood up. 'Sorry, my friend, but you are speaking crap. We took a League One side to penalties and got four points from six. It is, at worst, a 7 out of 10 week.'

  'We were lucky we didn't get even more injuries than we did.'

  'It is December in England and the matches come thick and fast. Players get injured. Thanks to you we do not have months of fatigue in our legs and thanks to the Brig we have resilience in our joints. Stop being so dramatic. Sit down and suffer in silence.'

  'No. We've been through the grind and now it's time to win every match. For Sandra and little baby Max.'

  'Little baby Henri has not been born and by the way, that is very good news. We should focus on the positives. We have two easy weeks ahead, do we not? There is no club in the world that can play four matches in seven days and expect to win them all. But since you are miserable, I will cheer you up. I volunteer to start against Winsford United on Tuesday.'

  'Whoa!' said Dazza, jumping up. 'I only played a half today. I'm fit for Tuesday.'

  'What about me?' cried Tom, who had just run like a ferret for ninety minutes. 'I'm supposed to play the Cheshire Cup! I want to score for little baby Tom.'

  Suddenly the entire squad was on its feet, shouting out reasons they should be picked. Max had already told me he expects to use players almost exclusively from the under eighteens, but this show of support brought a smile to his face. He held up his hands. 'All right, all right, you've cheered me up. You're allowed to talk about Man United on the bus home.'

  Youngster clenched a fist and hissed 'yessss!'

  Pascal yelled, 'Are we still going up, boss?'

  'Of course we're fucking going up,' said Max, and he got ready to deliver a monologue, but Pascal interrupted by shouting 'We. Are. Going up! Said we are going up.'

  The chant was taken up by the others and the mood was as though we had won.

  I'm learning to expect the unexpected. Which is exactly what you told me to expect.

  ***

  Sunday, December 7

  The women went down to Bristol to play their FA Cup third round match. Since it was likely to be the team's last competitive match of the season - Bristol were seventh in the Championship, two levels higher - I decided to show my face. I invited Peter, not really expecting him to want to come, but he accepted and sat in the back with Emma.

  I picked up a tasty 547 experience points that put me right back on track to affording Relationism.

  XP balance: 23,890

  I was 2,400 XP away from picking up the perk, and after that, if I went absolutely bonkers, I would also be able to afford a new formation before the Man United game.

  "Babes," said Emma.

  I realised I was driving like a fucking nutjob. "Soz," I said.

  Extra grinding? No chance. I couldn't push myself any harder than I already was. Not at Christmas.

  Instead of piling on future responsibilities, I thought back to what I'd just seen.

  The match itself had been an all-time classic. Jackie Reaper's 3-4-2-1 used Ridley T, a left back, at left midfield, but she was told not to make forward runs. Putting our strongest eleven on the pitch - Maddy might disagree - gave us an average CA of 58.

  Bristol's was 77.

  They were playing 3-4-3 and had two young players I started lusting after immediately, but there was no way they would drop two tiers to play for us. On the other hand, they were being paid buttons. Maybe they would!

  I would need to wait to watch the documentary to know what Jackie said to our players, but they came out firing on all cylinders. All the things that bothered me when they got complacent - the slow passes, the lack of intensity, not getting into position to support a teammate - there was none of that. Given the quality of the opposition, it might have been the best 45 minutes from any Chester team so far that season.

  At the heart of it was Sarah Greene. She had learned to pass at Man City but she was born to run. For the first goal she danced through four defenders, sat the goalie on her arse, and dinked the ball up, over, and in. For the second she exchanged passes with Dani and struck an early shot before Bristol's goalie had set herself.

  Our third came from a corner, when Femi showed more desire than any defender and powered in a header.

  I was keeping a close eye on Angel and she played well in the first half. The curse rated her 7 out of 10 and she was selfless with her work off the ball, often moving into space to create gaps for Sarah and Dani, and twice she won a free kick in a dangerous position by holding the ball up as the coaches had been teaching her.

  In the second half, though, as Bristol struggled to get back into the match, Angel was clearly thinking about how the fixture would look in the documentary. The episode would be called The Sarah Greene Show, wouldn't it, and I wouldn't need to artificially cut Angel out.

  Angel decided to get herself some attention by faking an injury. She lay on the grass until treatment came, and the physio made the 'sub' gesture. I could imagine the narrator's voice. "This injury comes at a terrible time for Chester. Angel is so important for the team. What will they do without her?"

  Jackie chose Bea Pea as her replacement ahead of the slightly more able Julie McKay. Bea Pea, lacking match sharpness, struggled from the off and Bristol sensed that the tide had turned. One of the centre backs pushed out to man-mark Sarah and their midfield established dominance over ours.

  Suddenly we were hanging on.

  The first of the two players I liked was Penny Wise, a fast, powerful left-midfielder who was basically my dream Aff replacement. She caused mayhem with her dribbling and crossing.

  The second was a redhead striker called Hodges. 22 years old, high CA, high PA, and my opinion was that she would be even more stunning in blue and white instead of red. She scored a header followed by a screamer from the edge of the penalty area.

  The last fifteen minutes were torture. We got pushed back, and back... but held firm.

  Bristol City 2, Chester 3.

  Yes, Jackie mate!

  Peter had got sucked into the drama and tension. He had been quiet on the way down but was now chatting away with Emma and I realised the topic was his grandfather.

  "I'm his legacy but all I can ever be is a disappointment. He was one of the best defenders who ever played the game. Some say the best. He was one of the best managers who ever managed. Some say the best. I can never even get close to that. People look at me and all they see is a shadow."

  I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Sorry, wrong answer. I think you're fucking mint."

  "Max!" said Emma, outraged. "Peter is talking about his feelings."

  "Yeah? Living up to your name? How about living up to yourself? I was the best player in the world for a few months. Now I'm shit. That's the shadow. I read that book Moneyball and one of the older players hits a shot that goes quite far but he's disappointed. That used to be a home run, he says. That's how it was for me. Imagine being able to do anything with a football to the extent you're trying to defy physics."

  "What is that in reference to?" said Peter.

  "I was trying to create a new kind of free kick. I wanted it to spin madly when it bounced so it would pop off the goalie and whoever was first to the ball could score."

  "Why not score yourself?"

  "My goal bonuses would have bankrupted the club," I said, smiling at the memory. I'd come a long way since Darlo.

  "Why not renegotiate your contract?"

  I smiled. "It was easier to rewrite physics. That's what I'm saying. You can't believe how good I was." I let out a sigh. Would I get back to those levels? If I kept going, yes. I would have a year or two of pure mystery winger and I would be able to play full 90 minute matches if I chose. That wasn't compatible with being a top manager but perhaps I'd treat myself to one match a month. In a packed Deva stadium, twenty thousand singing my name, defenders begging me to stop dribbling.

  "How do you stand it? Not being as good as you're supposed to be?"

  "Erm," I said, as I carefully overtook a caravan. Who caravans in the British winter? "It's easier because I'm the manager, I think. I live through the team, the club. On the pitch I do my small part but it doesn't really matter if it's me or Dazza or Wibbers scoring. Better if it's them, actually, because it increases their value and I'll get more money when I sell. If I score every goal, like at the start of the season, it's not a good sign. That said, it helps that I create chances and threat. If I was a centre back like you it'd be harder to go on for twenty minutes and make a difference. Maybe I'd go to DM - that's overpowered - or man-mark a troublesome opponent. I think if I was a CB I'd play the whole 90 or not at all."

  It got quiet in the back so I tried to put myself in Peter's shoes. He was struggling with his legacy. It would be every boy's dream to have a grandfather like Dieter, but what if it wasn't as good as it seemed? Maybe it was better to be Jamie Brotherhood and be better than your dad.

  "No-one can say I'm failing because I have different aims to everyone else in football. Chip Star's goal is to make a big splash and, presumably, sell Bradford for a big profit. They come second, he ten exes his dad's investment, he gets a child of the week trophy. Alan Turner wants to manage England. Bristol City's women, today, they're in a tough spot because they can't compete in the Super League so they're finding it hard to keep hold of talent when they get it. They're just bumbling along and they're out of the cup. What's the point of their season now? None. But they'll play their hearts out every week, won't they?"

  "Yes," said Peter.

  "My long-term ambitions are massive but sometimes it's the little things that make my day. We have a dentist, did you know that? A club dentist. That's healthcare for the people I'm responsible for, plus their families. I'm proud of that. The struggle is worth it. By the way, any hack can win the Bundesliga with Bayern and loads of shit managers have won World Cups. Your grandad was great, no doubt about it, but could he beat Winsford United away on a cold Tuesday night?"

  "Absolutely yes."

  I laughed. "I think I'm supposed to get you to do some managing. You can do that game if you want."

  The astonishment he was feeling was evident. "Are you for real?"

  "Sure, why not? It's the easiest win of all time."

  "Don't you want it for your own legacy? Your own win percentage?"

  "Nah," I said. "I cared about that stuff at first but it's not a good measure of the job I'm doing, is it? What about the overall value of the squad? I've won two leagues and sold players for over a million and a half. If you knew what I had when I started you'd know how astonishing that is. I care even less about my personal stats since I hired Sandra. I give her as many matches as I can, especially the easy ones. She's going to be part of my legacy when she takes over a men's team."

  Emma said, "Sandra's a ledge."

  "The offer's there, Peter. It'd be fun, wouldn't it? Cool story for the Winsford United players, too. I really like your grandad and if he wants you to be a manager this will put a smile on his face. You can always say you didn't like it and that's that, right? I don't really mind either way because I'll get credit just for making the offer." I laughed. "You can let me down as long as you tell Dieter how great I am." I laughed some more. "Seriously, though, I don't like being told what to do by anyone and that's not what's happening here. Ah, that reminds me. I do need to tell you what to do... Tomorrow morning the lads will still be tired so can we do some of my Relationism drills and then have a slow-motion game?"

  "Of course."

  "The rest of the week's yours and you can push them hard. We'll beat Crewe if we get enough players fully fit."

  "Good. It will be nice to have a win on the board for when little baby Peter is born."

  I bounced and punched the steering wheel with delight. "Yes! Peter Bauer in the area! We'll fill you with Chesterness, don't you doubt it."

  Emma pushed him and chanted, "One of us! One of us!"

  Peter did a goofy grin for a while.

  I looked through the squad screen. We had far too many players with low Condition. "Ems," I said. "Can we get you in a Chester training kit tomorrow morning? We need some bodies for a slow-motion session. You just have to move around in a big blob. No running, guaranteed."

  "Can't, babes. Not sure if I ever told you this but I'm actually a superstar lawyer star. I'm doing a legacy. My Wikipedia page doesn't say 'slacked off every Monday morning to have lukewarm showers with loads of hot, sweaty elite athletes'. Actually, hang on. I'm not that busy tomorrow."

  Peter laughed. "I'll do it, Max. I'm incredibly interested in Relationism. Pascal is an effective evangelist."

  "Oh, top," I said, relieved. All he had to do was stroll around and he wouldn't need to be told who was on his team every five seconds unlike certain other people. "Babes, you're sacked."

  "Oi," she said.

  That conversation, believe it or not, had far-reaching consequences and I would soon realise that Peter Bauer had not been sent to Chester for the reason I thought.

  ***

  Monday, December 8

  It struck me over the weekend that I had exactly one chance to get seriously good data about the Secret Sandra perk. I might never again have a pair of players who had grown at the exact same pace for such a long period as Cole and Josh. It made more sense to dump a substantial chunk of XP into Cole's development in order to see what was possible and how much the perk could benefit me and the club.

  My initial plan had to be to 'gift' him 10 XP per day, but of course we didn't train on weekends. If I bumped it up to 50 a day, that would cost me 250 a week. If I consistently did that over three months I would get very, very solid results and I would know if it was ever going to be worth investing more.

  I gifted Cole 50 XP and watched to see if he glowed or if a sky-high pillar of light shot out from his crown. Nothing of the sort happened, but then again, most curse effects were not visible.

  Peter did some German recovery session drills and then I asked Dan, Wibbers, and Pascal to demonstrate some of the basic principles of Relationism. Their enthusiasm was cute but they veered into wild-eyed explanations of using the touchline as a defender and the importance of using flicks to move the ball away from the press so I shushed them and said it was better to learn by doing. I made Dan and Wibbers team captains for one side, Pascal for the other, and we did a very simple, slow, match.

  Peter Bauer was on Pascal's team and sometimes they shouted incomprehensible things to each other like 'Rechts!' and 'Achtung' and 'tiptop, super.'

  We were only doing the sessions in case I ended up using Relationism in the Man United match so I didn't care how good it was or how it looked. It was all about establishing plausible deniability. I couldn't just turn up and force a football team into a blob. Making some randos play 4-4-2 better was completely believable. Having the entire team move to the side of the pitch without a word from me was going to get me covered in electrodes and put in a glass case.

  Yeah, I had to put some token amount of work in.

  What did the rest of my day look like? Busy getting ready for Christmas with Emma, Henri, and Luisa. Lots of different things to buy that would take us from one side of Chester to the other. Was there a gap where I could trigger Playdar? While I was passing a school, maybe. It was one of those days when it would be pretty crazy if I suddenly got out of the car and signed a kid. Nah, forget it. As always, it was a shame to waste the gift; it was a once-per-24-hour shot.

  I watched as Peter Bauer took a pass and played it simply on, deeper into the blob.

  A crazy thought struck me. What if I used Playdar now? Wouldn't it show me his profile? Perhaps not, because he had retired from football. I hadn't asked about his injuries because it was always the same - knees - and because he was probably sick of talking about them. That was also why I'd never asked him about Dieter. He wanted to be his own man, didn't he? The more time I spent with him, the more I understood how it was. People didn't see Peter, they saw Dieter. It would drive you tonto.

  It wouldn't cost me anything to have a peek, though, would it? He was there kicking the ball. Any kid in the world, any demon, any imp, would say that Peter Bauer was playing football, but if the curse chose not to show me his profile, it wouldn't have cost me anything.

  Fuck it. Let's see how much worse than his grandad he actually was. I reckoned it was a safe bet to say that Dieter was PA 200 and had maxed his talent.

  I waited for the ball to be rolling towards my target and hit Playdar.

  A bright yellow column of light erupted from Peter just as he took a touch, looked up, and saw Pascal making a slow run. Peter made to clip the ball over the top but then remembered his shit knees. He held a hand up in apology and played a short pass instead. Pascal looked annoyed, realised why the pass hadn't come, and gave a thumbs up, big smile, moved back into the blob.

  Pascal had surprised me by falling in love with Relationism. The space invader, the positional master, loved the hectic intensity of the blob, and he loved being on the same team as the legend's shadow.

  The legend's shadow.

  I took a shaky half-step backwards. Playdar had revealed Peter's player profile.

  Peter Bauer, it read. German. Centre back. Aged 25. Yeah yeah yeah.

  Positioning 19. Passing 18. Technique 18. Influence 17. Tell me you're Dieter Bauer's grandson without telling me.

  Current Ability: 40. Yeah. The guy took training with Bayern Munich every day. He hadn't completely lost it.

  Potential Ability: 166. We had Lee Hudson, Lee Contreras, and now we had hooooooo-lee fuck.

  Peter Bauer could have been earning two hundred grand a week playing for a top six Premier League team. He could have had ten caps for Germany by now.

  It was such a shame that...

  Hang on.

  I clicked in, out, in, out. I closed the curse. I walked away until the player profiles vanished, walked back.

  One more time I went to Peter Bauer's inner tabs, saw again that he was earning an utterly insane seven thousand pounds a week, and found myself getting absolutely furious, incandescently angry. It wasn’t that fact that he was being paid more than twice what I was.

  Two words were winding me all the way up. All the way up and more!

  Injuries, said the curse, which was never, ever wrong about this stuff.

  Injuries, it said... none.

  ***

  Tuesday, December 9

  To: DB

  From: PB

  Subject: Cheshire Cup Second Round

  The Cheshire Cup is a regional trophy and was won by Chester in the past two seasons. Sandra Lane is normally in charge of these matches and negotiates with Max about the line up. Her motivation is to win the match and thus she pushes for the strongest possible starting eleven. Max tries to assure victory while giving minutes to players returning from injury, youth prospects, squad players, and so on. He puts himself on the bench in case anything goes wrong because he is unusually motivated to win this competition.

  'It's the Cheshire Cup', he says. 'Chester is in Cheshire. I want us to be the number one team in Cheshire. Fuck, I want us to be the number one team in Europe but we're not in the Champions League yet. We're in this so we win this. End of conversation.'

  Max picked a youthful team. Basically the under eighteens plus Sunday Sowunmi and Tom Westwood with some big names on the bench in case of emergency.

  The manager picked a very English 4-4-2 and had fun tweaking things. Lucas Friend, a left back, was outstanding and the manager gave him licence to attack. To ensure defensive stability, the manager kept Jamie Brotherhood, the right back, in defensive pose.

  The players listened to the manager and tried their best to follow his instructions. At times they were unable to and the manager had to undo his error but they showed great spirit and a complete lack of ego. They play for the team and if they are asked to do something they will try. It is up to the manager to ask them the right questions.

  The score at half time was two-nil thanks to goals from the striker Tom Westwood, a player who redefines the word indefatigable.

  In the dressing room, Max asked who among the subs wanted to play for their legendary manager and eleven hands went up. There are five subs in this competition, which means every sub put both hands up and one man cheated.

  The manager kept faith with his young players, who went three-nil ahead, then made three changes. He put Max Best on at right-midfield but immediately regretted it as Max did all kinds of inane things such as touching his knee to the ball and spraying pointless but incredible 70-yard passes from right wing to left back.

  He persuaded Max to play properly for a moment. It was enough. Four-nil! The manager was content.

  The manager was me.

  I was the manager.

  By the time you read this I will have been added to Wikipedia's list of managers of Chester Football Club. Max Best, Sandra Lane, Peter Bauer.

  My win percentage is one hundred percent. I managed Max Best. I helped with the development of many young players. A player called Fungrieve scored his first goal for the club under my watchful eye.

  Just before we got on the coach after the victory, Max put his hand on my shoulder and gazed into my soul. 'Every blessing ignored becomes a curse.'

  I said, 'I don't believe in curses.'

  He leaned closer. 'Believe in this one, because I know what you are. I know what you have to offer.'

  'I'm just a coach.'

  'You're the same as me. Those kids tonight. Henk, Tyson, Benny, they loved it. I loved it. You lifted our curses and I'm going to make your life miserable until you fall back in love with football. That's a fucking Maxy two-thumbs triple-lock promise for the ages, mate.'

  Message delivered, he wandered off. This was a meaningless match in a provincial tournament watched by one man and his dog. How does he make it feel so monumental?

  And whatever did he mean?