6.12 - An Ill Wind [T1]

12.

Emma and I crossed Bumpers Lane, back to the car park, back to the Mini. Another circle complete. Another thread closed. The story was tying up its loose ends.

Dumi Demetrescu and Edgar Wilde were grabbing kit bags from a car. They saw us and hurried over. "Tough day," said Edgar, whose accent continued to fascinate. His family were from Bristol or somewhere so there was a hint of pirate about his vowels, but he grew up in Portugal, lived in London for years, Munich for years.

He had more to say, but a sudden gust of wind smacked into us with unexpected violence, making Emma go, "Oooh, ha ha!"

Edgar nodded. "Storm Gammon. It's gonna be a big one."

Dumi, a dour pessimist by nature, had spent his entire life doing two things: getting good at football and getting even more dour and pessimistic. His eyes darkened and his tone got more shrouded. "It's an ill wind," he said.

Well, that was cheery. Just what I needed! Emma sensed my irritation and changed the vibe to one of friendly, upbeat enquiry. "Where are yous boys gannin'?" She got more Newcastle when she wanted to distract me or cheer me up.

Edgar gestured straight ahead. "Gym. Got to keep in shape at our age. The things I know now about carbs, sleep, energy release," he shook his head. "If I'd had all this when I was starting, I'd have been as good as Max."

They looked at me for a response, but I was in my head, reliving the feeling of the last ten minutes of the Brighton game. Stewing. Cooking. Raging. "Don't mind him," said Emma. "Wor lad's head is always knacksed after footy." She bundled me into the passenger seat. "C'mon, yer awld gadgie, let's have a deeks at some huus listuns."

***

I spent an hour in the garden while Emma lay in a hammock and browsed property listings in the Golden Triangle, the area near Manchester favoured by elite footballers. It had hipster restaurants, nail salons, and tanning beds, so it was perfect for players and their wives. I suppose there were good schools in the area, too, which was the sort of thing I needed to think about if I wanted kids. The Golden Triangle was technically Cheshire, so in buying a property there I could feel I was 'shopping local'.

Emma sometimes read out parts of the descriptions to make me laugh, or summoned me to look at a bedroom with hideous, tactile wallpaper. One WAG had glued rose petals in vertical lines stretching up to the ceiling in every corridor.

My mood was quite low, I must admit, and I could barely summon the appropriate level of disapproval slash amused horror.

Ems knew I would be like this for hours, possibly until the morning, maybe even longer. When the sun started to go down, we would throw Twilight on and I would complain about the... well, the everything. That would help.

My phone rang. "Who's that?" said Ems, without looking up.

"Briggy."

"Oh! Is she still doing her thing?"

"Yeah."

Briggy was somewhere in Europe hanging out with Don Pino. (I'll take 'sentences no-one ever expected' for 500, please.) As the head of REM Europe, Briggy needed to build her network and her contacts book. Travelling around to watch a bunch of UEFA qualifiers seemed a good place to start, so I had called Don Pino for advice and maybe for some help in getting introductions.

Don went further. He said Briggy could shadow him for a while, if she wanted, meet who he met, listen to his phone calls, talk through his ideas. They were based in his villa in Italy but were travelling together to games. Fair play to Don, he was a grafter, and there was barely a day that went by that he wasn't arriving in a new city, having lunch with bigshots, keeping his network warm. Not only was Briggy getting to see the master at work, but apparently he wasn't being remotely secretive about the numbers or the specific ways he was playing clubs off against each other.

The phone was still ringing. I picked up and started the password from Mission: Impossible. "Fate whispers to the warrior."

"I'm not doing that, Max. I've just seen what happened in the match. Is Helge okay?"

"Is Helge okay? What's that? Start with me."

"I know you're okay, Max, because you're a top international businessman and the greatest living Englishman and all that."

"You make a good point. Helge is..." I checked his Morale. "Helge is Okay. The Brighton guys heard my post-match interview and they went to talk to him and said they didn't have a plan to throw his arm up, that wasn't what the huddle was about. It was, like, they just wanted two guys to keep him from jumping so the guy behind would have a clear header. The handball thing was a total fluke."

"Do you believe them?"

"I don't know. No."

"Okay, well, two things. I've got you another very small batch of, ah, the thing that comes in batches."

Temps Perdu shares. Gotta catch 'em all! "Miiiiint."

"And I think I'm close to reeling in another one. A big fish. Like, twice as big as the previous biggest one. Do you want it?"

My previous biggest purchase had been 1.2% of the company. At current prices, getting 2.4% would cost something like 1.8 million pounds. I didn't see a pathway to getting a majority stake in Temps Perdu and there was a very real risk that all this money was going into a black hole and I would never see it again, but so what? The reason I was buying flats and mansions was so that whatever happened to me, Emma and our offspring would be set for life. The rest was just Monopoly money, wasn't it? "I want it. Amazing, thanks. You've cheered me up. I, uh... I think I really needed that."

"Don Pino wants to know if you want him to do a media blitz in the UK, taking your side."

"What? That's random. Er, no. Thanks. It doesn't matter. It'll be over soon. Okay, I have to get back to it. I'm in the middle of some very delicate negotiations." I turned a plant pot by about four degrees so that a big petal would face a bee hotel. First thing the bees would see in the morning would be a tasty snack. Optimisation complete!

"Max, I said I had two things to say!"

"You've said two things."

"That was item one, subsection one, subsection two. I've got more."

"Kay."

"Remember the other secret special project? The one we also shouldn't discuss on the phone?"

"Um... Helping you to seduce a married Polish woman?"

She sighed. "The first package has arrived."

"The first package has arrived," I repeated, trying to understand what she was getting at. A bee went to the flower, had a look, snubbed it. Are you blind, mate? It's right in front of you! I stood straight. The referee conspiracy. The first package! Had we finally got into someone's phone? "Oh, what! Yes! Amazing. Some answers at last. Which one?"

Which referee, I meant. "The one from today."

"What? Wow! When did - No, that's perfect. That's amazing. Oh, fuck, yes, inject it into my veins." When we looked through Anthony Castle's phone, we would get some clarity. Texts from billionaires, bets placed on gambling apps, emails threatening to chop him up if Brighton didn't win. Whatever it was, we would know. Soon, we would know. I flopped my head around, realising how tense I had been. "Oh my God, that was like a massage, Briggy. Haha, wow."

"The package can only be opened locally. As you remember, I am on the go, following Don Pino, and when I'm done with this you've got me meeting Chelli in the Azores to talk about getting Brazilian players to move there so you can quote make long-term bank lolz. So the question is, what's the priority? Do you want me to cut my training short?"

"Oh, there's a dilemma involved. One second." Right. How badly could I wait to see what was on Castle's phone?

Briggy was learning from a superagent, a slick operator, a master of the craft. Long-term, that was amazing for her, and as long as Briggy stayed in the REM network, amazing for me, too. There was a chance that Don Pino wanted to poach Briggy and bring her into his organisation, but I had too much on my plate to worry about that. "Can anyone else open the package?"

"They can, but they won't. That includes you. Not everything in the package is something you need to see. You'll see what you need to see and his private stuff will remain private. I will open the package alone."

I could live with that. I didn't really want to know about his kinks or his taste in music. "Is there a deadline?"

"No. The package is safely wrapped up. In fact, more gifts are being added all the time."

I nodded to myself, smiling. Briggy had cloned the referee's phone, which meant that when he got a new text, when he visited a website or made a call, we would know about it. What did it matter if we had a look now or in a couple of weeks? From what I knew, he couldn't delete texts without us having a record of them. Answers. Were. Coming. "Okay, so stay with Don. That's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you, and just knowing we will get something in the next few weeks has calmed me all the way down."

"All the way?"

"Yeah. I've perked up. I'm frisky. I'm gonna throw Emma over my shoulder and stomp around the garden and then we're gonna look at shit houses together."

"Tell Emma I said sorry."

"What? No. This is her best life. Emma, tell Briggy you want me to throw you over my shoulder and stomp around." I held the phone out, but Emma was engrossed in something so she used body language to reply. "She's doing a thumbs up, Briggy. She is, honest!"

Briggy sighed. "The worst part is that I believe you. I will see you on Wednesday in Switzerland."

Air rushed across the garden, pushing the trees, rustling the shrubs, swaying the wives. "Bring an umbrella. It's gonna be foul."

***

Sunday, August 20

Pre-Season Friendly 4 of 6: Saltney Town BridgeGirls versus Chester Women

"No," said Bonnie. "That is not our new name."

Pre-Season Friendly 4 of 6: Saltney Town Women versus Chester Women

There was a party vibe around The Legends. The stands were basically one big picnic with players, partners, Brazilian mums whose sons were in Gibraltar and needed people to cook for, the woman who ran the UK's fastest-growing sports agency, and above all, the Prince Who Was Promised, Godson to the stars, Jamie Lane-Beeks.

He was to my left, clambering all over the dugout while the physios and subs made sure he didn't fall, which tells you a lot about how serious the actual football was. Jay Cope was striding around the technical area, scanning, learning about his new players. There were loads of kids around, giddy at being so close to their idols, which was obviously cute but also obviously a source of free labour.

A 13-year-old boy had the job of rushing to Jay to drag him back into the shade when he ventured into the harsh sunlight. Jay was turning into a highly valuable commodity. In the last curse update, half his screen had gone green. He had improved in Coaching Goalkeepers (although only to 4 out of 20), Coaching Outfield Players (16), Judging Player Ability (14), Man Management (13), and Motivating (14). In short, he was going from being Tommy Tactics to a true all-round manager. Let's get his face on the cover of Soccer Supremo one day! The only thing I didn't like in his update was that he still preferred 4-3-3 as a formation. Not a big deal, but I thought he might switch to 3-4-3 after using it every week for a year.

Jay wasn't the only valuable thing in the area - the large parasol that was protecting him from the sun had cost a bomb. Thus two girls were guarding it. Every now and then, the wind picked up and nearly toppled the umbrella, and in exchange for getting selfies with the players, it was the girls' job to stop that from happening.

An ill wind...

Fucking Dumi. I guess that's why they call it Dumishadowing.

(Cut that? Nah, that was solid.)

Chester were moving the ball around neatly enough, but some of the passes were too short, others forced the receivers to turn back. A little bit sloppy, a little bit careless, but we were still in the process of blasting off the cobwebs, of getting to know the new squad members. There were some nerves, too. No-one wanted to play a shit pass to the new star players. Dani, Kisi, even Sarah Greene were inhibited.

There was movement from my right, where three coaches were sitting. Apart from Jay and Sandra, most of my staff did bits on the men's and women's teams plus the youth sides. Why not? But three coaches did most of their work with the women.

First, Elin, who helped Dani with sign language and was an improving coach in her own right. Second, Jude, who was one of our old-timers these days, and whose curse numbers had also been steadily rising. Third, Simone Ashton. She was a Welsh coach I had met on my UEFA Pro course and while certain people liked to tease me about how I 'only' ever employed beautiful women - I mean, have you seen Helge Hagen? - she had a high Coaching Outfield Players score. In other words, I was allowed to employ her. I had receipts!

She was slowly making her way down the dugout, pausing to make small talk with those she passed. When I realised she was going to sit next to me, I furiously wiped the seat clean. You know, the same exact thing I did for absolutely everyone. She smiled. "Thanks. Oh, it's a scorcher, isn't it? Boiling."

"You okay? Settling in?"

"Yes! Everyone's very friendly. I was wondering, can I ask a couple of things about the culture?"

"My favourite topic."

"It seems the first friendly every season is against Puddington Pirates."

"Yeah. That was the first match Chester Women ever played. I mean, this version of Chester Women. I was in charge. Puddington beat us 7-0 and they had to lend us a player, if I'm remembering that right. The men's team manager quit just after that, which I think was to make bloody sure I never got his job. He denies it, but he never looks me straight in the eye when he denies it, the bastard. Yeah, good times. I really like Puddington's manager. She created a whole thing from scratch with good standards. She was my role model for a long while, until I discovered mirrors and found my real mentor."

Simone laughed, which was like an angel playing a harp in field of golden wheat.

I continued, "Playing them every season is a good reminder for me to stay humble." She laughed again, which made me laugh. "Okay, I just heard myself, but I was joking before and being serious just now. If we lose sight of what's important we're gonna go into reverse. We follow the Puddington Pirates model and that's why we play them every season. This, what you're seeing, is the Puddington model taken to an extreme by a maniac with vast resources."

Simone didn't seem sure how seriously to take me, but she kept going. "Jude told me that one of your concepts is to play harder games through pre-season. But Saltney are a third-tier team in Wales. Are they really better than last week's oppo?"

"Yes. They're mostly former Chester players who couldn't keep coming up the leagues with us, but there's some quality there and they know each other's games inside out. This summer they got a couple more players in, so they will win the league this year. There's Pippa. Babs, the young goalie there. She's probably one of the three best goalies in the Welsh pyramid. Luxury Bell, back from having a baby. Great player but she doesn't have much time to train. Bea Pea's still there, Julie McKay is a good striker. Yeah, they will bosh the league this year but it's mostly about having fun and stuff."

"And you've lent them a few of our players. Is that just for today?"

"Yep, just for today. Charlotte, the Welsh girls, some of our youngsters. Today's about building fitness but I want there to be some level of challenge. Next week it's Durham, the weakest WSL 2 team, then Charlton, the strongest. We will go into the start of the WSL in good shape."

Simone watched as Saltney had a rare spell of possession, but as Elsa Lund pressed Bonnie, the centre back panicked and booted the ball away, where Meghan took control. Simone winced. "Is there anything you want from me today?"

"Er, yeah. Can you speed-learn Korean? That would be great." She laughed; I continued. "If you want, you could keep a special eye on Jisook. How she gets on in the next few weeks will determine how our season goes. Maybe take the footage and review it with her?"

Simone nodded, pleased. "I can do that!"

"She understands English much better than she speaks but get a translator if you want. We'll pay. And make sure she's getting English lessons. Someone's normally on top of that stuff but please double-check. Is she settled into her flat? Oh, and make sure she's being invited to parties and barbecues and stuff."

"She is, she is!"

"Top."

Simone returned to her place at the other end of the dugout - so achingly far! - and I focused on the match action. It was fairly sedate, what with the heat, but Chester looked formidable. Defensively secure, Haley in goal barking out warnings and commands, a midfield that would soon dominate the entire sport.

Macca Serra looked a class above everyone else, including Cheeky and Elsa. I watched as Macca jogged around, played one-touch passes sideways and backwards, two-touch passes forwards, how she positioned herself so that she was always available, how she kept the ball moving.

Saltney couldn't touch her. Even Charlotte and Mari Hughes got nowhere near her.

She was demonstrating exactly what I planned to do in Switzerland.

She was demonstrating exactly what Man City planned to do to me.

The wind picked up, just for a second. The girls flew into action, propping the umbrella up while squealing. Jay Cope and his shadow rushed to help. So did Simone and Jude, while Elin went to the touchline and signed to Dani.

Macca Serra jogged over. "What did you tell her?"

Elin glanced at me; I nodded. Elin explained. "I told her not to be intimidated by you. That she didn't have to play to impress you. Told her to try to be herself."

Macca thought about it. "Am I so scary?"

Elin pointedly looked at me; she wasn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole. "Yep," I said, slouching back, contentedly.

"Is that a problem?"

"Yeah," I said. "For the opposition." I pulled my sunglasses down and grinned.

***

At full time I did a quick stash check. 

XP balance: 2,680

When I hit 3,000 XP, I would buy The Stattoo Parlour. It provided in-skull statistics about teams (e.g. matches won in a row, average attendance), players (most yellow cards, highest average rating), and referees (how many cards given, how many trips to superyachts).

Well, not the last one, and the others were things I could get on the internet or with a quick text to the LIT boys, but hey ho, it had the potential to be useful in a pub quiz.

***

As spectators spilled onto the pitch and players moved into the stands, I mingled and had a couple of interesting chats.

The first started with Sophie, from Seal Studios, producer of Chesterness. She was with a woman I didn't know, plus she called over Pradeep, Spectrum, and Colin Beckton.

Sophie said, "Max, this is Harper. She was on my course at uni and she's an expert in gaussian splats."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, reaching out to take Harper's hand in both of mine. "My condolences."

Harper took it with good humour, but said, "I can make your goals look way cooler."

"No you can't," I said. "Take that back!"

Her eyes widened as she laughed again. I wasn't what she had been expecting. "That Bullet Time sequence your boys did? Really nice. You should string more cameras between the roofs."

"Because of the height difference, yeah. It was a bit jarring the way the image jumped."

"Yes, you should smooth that out. And it was a nice effect, but with limited applications. You could so easily expand on that."

I clicked my tongue. "Do I need to know what a splat is?"

Sophie said, "It's a little blob of colour, like the splat from a paintball gun. It's a childish term for something very sophisticated."

Harper nodded. "Gaussian splats are a highly-efficient way of rendering 3D models that you can see from whatever angle you want, which makes it even better than the Bullet Time effect you had on that goal. Way better. We could get the output you got quicker, cheaper, and from every angle. You could get the goalkeeper's view. We could give the ball eyes and follow it. If you flew a drone, or ideally several drones, over the pitch, we could do mind-blowing stuff."

Ah, okay, so this thing was already dead in the water. "We can't," I said. "Not safe. For a start, the ball could hit it and then there would be fucking blades everywhere. Have you seen those video games where you jump across platforms and there are spikes and saws you have to dodge? I don't play those games."

Harper was undeterred. "No drones. Okay, then a few more cameras at ground level to complement the ones along the roof. But what I can offer you is something like this."

She held up her phone and showed me a scene from a baseball stadium. Guy throws a pitch, guy hits the ball. The camera was off to the side, but as the guy struck the ball, the view moved smoothly, all around him. The shot rewound and the camera settled behind the batter. It was honestly startling. "The fuck?" I said. "Is that AI?"

"No. That's real action."

"How do you get a camera that close to the batsman?"

"You don't," said Sophie. 

"It's in front of the catcher!"

Sophie and Harper smiled at each other. They'd got their hooks into me; now to reel me in. Sophie said, "The cameras are all around. Like these," she said, pointing to the roof of The Legends Stadium. "You already have 95% of what you need. We can do this, through the power of gaussian splats. Well, Harper can do this. Which means we can, if you give her a job. Harper is the 5% that's missing. She is the Ruud Berkenbosch to your men's team."

I pushed my index fingers into my temples. "The biggest game of my life is on Wednesday. Do I have mental capacity for this right now?"

Sophie said, quickly, sensing that she had pushed too hard, "Let us set up a demo. Show you what the output would look like. Show you some of the many, many applications."

"Demo. Okay. That's low stakes for me. What do you need?"

"Some space," said Sophie.

"We own about 30 offices. Talk to Brooke. Don't you need cameras? Software licenses?"

"I can use the cameras from uni," said Harper. "And most of the software is open source. Just so you know, the work I do, the output, it's perfect for VR applications." She looked at Colin.

Colin said, "I've seen some of what's possible, Max. It's sick! You're busy the next few days, course, but after Wednesday, you've got to look into this. It's so sick."

I looked at Pradeep. "Have you seen this stuff?"

He grinned in that way that made him look slightly evil. "It's so sick!"

I thought about money. Chester's war chest was currently 6.4 million, which was enough to pay me off when I got sacked. I wanted to buy Des Walker from Celtic and I wanted to buy a hot young striker. Okay but let's see the demo and then worry about money. "Bosh," I said. "Splats away! Take whatever you need, guys. Talk to whoever you need. I promise to give you my full attention, er, next Monday or Tuesday or something. Can you have the demo thing ready by then?"

"We'll try," said Harper.

"Yes," said Sophie. "We will have something ready by then."

That seemed to be that, so I nodded and detached myself from the scene, but Spectrum came with me. "Boss, this stuff."

"Is it no good?" I said, stopping. "Why didn't you pipe up?"

"Oh, it's good," he said, smiling. "It's sick. But I was thinking..." He looked around and pulled me by the arm towards a more secluded area. "I was thinking you should hire Harper for LIT."

"For LIT? Not Seal Studios?"

"She would work with Sophie. Most of what Harper creates will be for our marketing team, so she'll see more of Brooke than you, but if this works it's going to be incredibly, incredibly cool. Other Premier League teams will want it. If we move fast, we can corner this market. Erling Haaland will come to Chester, record some content, Harper will turn it into splats, and we can do mad things with it. Put him on the moon or whatever Man City's content team want."

"Okay," I said, because I couldn't really imagine what he was saying.

He sensed he was going off-track. "Trust me, this is a business model that can't be run by Chester FC because every rival club will want in. Did you see the response to the Bullet Time? I mean, it was already cool enough but it flagged the referee's mistake, which got it even more visibility. Our phones are going to melt down tomorrow morning, aren't they? We need a sales team."

"We need a product first!"

"My idea is that we offer clubs the ability to get a Bullet Time and Harper Splat package. They pay a fee for us to set up their cameras just right, they pay a subscription to get high-quality renders they can sell to broadcasters or use on their socials. We could make a small profit on that, keep it nice and legit. But mostly..." He looked around again, leaned closer. "We can have DOVE running underneath the other stuff! Yeah, we're scanning every inch of the pitch at every moment, of course we are. We have to, to create these awesome videos! Do you want to see Omar Chanko's defence-splitting through ball from his real, actual eyeline? Slow it down, spin it round, close up of the shirt sponsors? We can do that! For a small fee. What the computer needs to create those images is indistinguishable, to outsiders, from the data that DOVE collects."

The true value of Harper hit me like a paintball to the face. "So all the time, we're sending player data back to DOVE. Real-time monitoring in every stadium that has our cameras. Every elite player, every wonderkid. Spectrum, you dog. You devil. That's pure evil. Obviously, I love it."

"We need Harper to make a product so good that every club in Europe will pay us to put up our cameras so that we can spy on them. Surveillance as a service. MwahahaHAHAAAA!"

***

A few minutes later, Ruth wandered over. She was on her way to Connah's Quay, to support the Nomads, the team the Brig owned. I assumed that Ruth had stumped up most of the money for that deal, but I didn't really know how much cash the Brig had made in his days as a gun-for-hire. Probably enough to buy the Nomads, but not enough to pay for the Brazilian players I had foisted on him. Soz not soz - those two players were worth their weight in gold.

"All good?" I said.

She smiled. "All good."

"No late hitches?"

"Not on my side," she said.

In the morning, we were going to sign the last contract renewals for the women's squad. Ruth had added Jisook Kim to REM, which would get 10% of the Korean's four grand a week. As Jisook's profile grew, the major opportunities for revenue would be in Korea, so Ruth was looking into potential partners there. The South Korean Don Pino had to be a formidable and fascinating character, but I would let Ruth deal with him. Maybe it would do her good not to get everything all her own way for once.

Ruth also represented Meghan, Kisi, Sarah Greene, Dani, and Meredith Ann. Angel, too, but she wasn't getting a new contract with Chester. Kisi's new wages would be 1,200 a week. Meghan, Meredith Ann, and Dani were getting two grand. Sarah Greene two thousand two hundred. Really good bumps, really nice money, but a long way behind the stupendous 9,000 a week that Macca Serra and Elsa Lund were bagging.

When the ink was dry on the new deals, my share of the REM agency's profits would be locked in for the season, unless we added more players. Ruth lowered her voice. "You're getting almost six hundred thousand a year from our little arrangement. That's decent, I'd say."

I smiled. "It's... That's how much the Weavers paid for my mum's bungalow. I mean... to have that coming in every year, that's wild."

"How is your mum?"

"Unchanged. That's good," I added.

"Who's with her now?"

"She's got Angela, her carer, and Aff is crashing there a few nights a week. Mum likes Aff. Thinks it's me. She finds the accent soothing."

"You've got family in Ireland, right?"

"Relatives. Not the same as family, if you ask me."

"You could play for Ireland, though."

I smiled. "What are you doing?"

She shook her head. "I was just thinking. Nothing. Listen, remember that time you said you could get into the top 100 highest-paid sportsmen this season? How are you getting on with that?"

I closed one eye. "Is this a lead-in to a discussion about me paying rent for the cottage?"

She tutted. "I said it's free as long as you're working for Chester." She gave me a little punch. "I know you can't brag about your swag while you're the champion of 20 quid tickets and wearing shit hoodies because of poor mums. But you can brag about it to me. I'm weirdly invested in it! I'm cheering you on. Come on, go full Wall Street. Greed is good. Hit me."

"Hmm. Seems gauche but I do want to tell someone. Okay. 600 grand from REM, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Another 600 from sponsors, until they get sick of my antics and pull the plug."

"Ugh, skip the whining. They've got a year's worth of publicity already, don't they?"

"I got half a mill for setting up Tranmere."

"Already worth it. What are they, ninth with a game in hand?"

"Don't know. Don't follow them. I'll get a mill if Newport are promoted again."

"They're second in the league?"

"Third," I said. "But I'm banking that money; they have more improvement in the squad than anyone else, plus Banksy is the best goalie in the league. I'll get about two hundred grand from my properties. More if the car park opens. Um, hang on. I've just realised I'm counting by season but I think the list I saw was per calendar year."

"Max, who gives a shit? Keep going."

"I'm Youngster's agent and he's on Prem money, so that's another 150. Not sure how to count my wages but if Chester keep me on as director of football on the same money, that's 2.5 mill. And I will get about 11 million from UEFA, I think."

Ruth looked impressed. "That's better than the Euromillions. A lottery where Max Best has all the tickets! In that calculation, does MD get any of his money back?"

"Yeah that 11 mill includes Gibraltar. MD's gonna get three million back and Saltney will have a war chest."

"So I make that 16 point 55 million, all told. How much do you need to get top 100 in the world?"

"I think it was 21," I said.

"Argh," said Ruth, amiably aggravated. "So close. What can we do to get you another five mill?"

"Sell me to Man City," I said. "But on Saturday I'll have played for two clubs this season, so that's not an option. If Saltney win three games in the Champions League, that's six million. We have to pay bonuses and stuff and I want to pay MD back but..." I smiled. "If Saltney won the whole Champions League, I would get into the top 50. Heh."

My thoughts turned, as they always did, to the match that was looming ever larger. Young Boys, the champions of Switzerland, were all that stood in my way. They played in a stadium that had once hosted a World Cup Final, and that match had been dubbed The Miracle of Bern.

Whatever happened on Wednesday, the following morning would see a few players depart. Me, Magnus, Peter, Edgar, and Dr. Doomy himself.

I heard his voice and shuddered: An ill wind...

Colin Beckton was enjoying his dual role of coaching Chester and being a star player for Saltney. With Ruud Berkenbosch coming, there was absolutely no reason for him to go back to Chester. On Thursday morning, when he was back in the UK, he would sign a proper playing contract. We had two ready, one for the Champions League, one for the Europa League.

Even with Colin staying, Saltney were going to lose a lot of talent. I had some irons in the fire, some ideas on how to bolster the team, but it all depended on whether Young Boys could pull off their miracle. If they didn't, there would be some new faces in North Wales, and Saltney would probably be able to win a couple of CL games. Depending on the draw they got, there was a half-decent chance that Saltney could finish in the top 24 clubs and make it through to the CL knockout rounds!

The whole thing was impossible and unreal, but it was also right there. I could see it! Kinda like the splat technology...

Ruth was watching my face, trying to work out what I was thinking. I said, "Saltney will get eight games against famous teams. We will sell out The Racecourse four times and get more prize money. It's going to be an absolute blast. I reckon there's an easy few million to be made, but in the end I'm gonna fall short of hitting the top 100. Sorry." I laughed. "I think I'll get over it. Oh! There's DOVE and our new gizmos. How soon could that be ready? Seems like it would take a while. Okay, I’m off." I said, giving her a hug and holding on. She had done so much for me; I wouldn't have been in the top million sportsmen without her. "I'm going to wrap myself in cotton wool until Wednesday night in Bern. My entire future is riding on one game, and it's in a stadium noted for its miracles."

"Max," said Ruth, eyeing me with unusual ferocity.

"Yeah?"

She jabbed me in the chest. "Make them feel the burn."

The air sizzled, sparkled, and I felt like I was going to levitate. But then gravity sucked me back down and I said, "Wait, what?"

"Young Boys. They play in Bern. Make them feel the burn." She tutted and shook her head. "I told John you would love that one. Guess I owe him ten quid."

***

Monday, August 21

In the morning, I trained, then watched clips of our Swiss opponents, helped by a gaggle of coaches and the Saltney players. Our guys spotted a few interesting things, but overall I was beyond confident that we would smash them up. My guys were too strong, too powerful, too experienced to imagine that Bern would score three goals against us.

"They need a miracle," said Ash Bradley, our ageing left winger.

"There's a storm coming," said Edgar.

Automatically, I turned towards Dumi, expecting him to chime in with some depressing bullshit, but it was Dan who spoke. "I am the storm."

"Yes!" I cried, scrambling towards him, offering a high five. "Someone did the Mission: Impossible homework. Yes, mate!"

Well In waited for me to get back to my spot, then said, "Right now they need a miracle but if we get a player sent off, all they need is a bit of luck." He didn't seem to get the reaction he wanted, so he restated the idea. "The only way they win is if one of us loses our head and gets sent off. Max."

"Agreed."

"The only way they win," said Well In, trying a third time, "is if you get sent off, Max. Max Best. I'm talking to you, Max, Max Best, right now."

"Me?" I said, astonished. "No chance."

"They're probably going to go after you."

"Me?" I said, astonished. "Why?" Well In looked up and muttered something while the rest of the lads laughed. I said, "Guys, everything I have done for the last six years has led to this moment. On Wednesday, I'm playing for Emma and for my unborn, unnamed children. I'm thinking Agamemnon if the first is a girl. If it's a boy... Stewart."

Tony Herbert said, "Boss, they kick you, you kick back. That's you. Can't stop."

"Mate, they can kick me all they want, I'm not getting involved. Not this match. That's a Maxy Two-Thumbs promise. I'm really serious about this. Tony, last season we came so close and a guy got a red card and we lost. Look around. Do you want to be the guy who let everyone down?" He shook his head. "Do you want to play in the Champions League?" He nodded. "So let them kick you. One time, yes? It's not weak. It's strong."

He didn't seem to agree with my logic, but he said, "I'll do it for leetle baby Agamemnon." He grinned as Peter turned to give him a fist bump.

Dan Badford stood, rolled his head around, shook his arms. "I'll handle the brawling."

"Fuck me," said Tony Herbert, but he got up and gave Dan a bear hug. Then he got an idea, squeezed Dan's biceps, and laughed. "Weak is strong. It is perfect, no?"

"Heyyyyy," complained Dan, rubbing his arm.

I leaned back, checked our Morale, checked for unexpected injuries. Fuck the storm, keep your ill winds. The Swiss were going to need more than a miracle to beat us.

***

After the fun stuff, I had a meeting with MD, Brooke, and Secretary Joe. We discussed certain incidents from the Brighton match. I took their feedback calmly and was totally reasonable about it all.

When SecJoe switched the topic to the details of exactly when Ruud Berkenbosch's player registration would switch from Go Ahead Eagles to Chester, I unpeeled my forehead from the table. "He won't register in time to play against Man City, if that's the question. My plan is to literally complete football on Wednesday night, and when the boys fly home, MD and I will go to Holland. We're gonna watch Go Ahead play against some Czech team and hopefully Ruud will fire his club into the league stage. All very optimal, very romantic.

"We're gonna do some photos and networking and whatnot on Friday morning, sign the final papers, then I'll fly back to do some private training in Manchester. Hang on, where am I going to train? Shit! I wish I owned a football stadium. Oh, wait. Lol."

"Very good, Max," said MD. He cleared his throat. "I'll just remind you again that there's a three-year contract with a blank space where your name should be."

Right! The contract! It would guarantee me six million when I was fired. 

I felt the fans in my skull kick into action as mathematics began to happen.

Six million quid in payoff. Sixteen point something something almost guaranteed.

Six million plus sixteen million equals many millions!

I could smash into the top 100 highest paid sportsmen in the world after all!

Brooke leaned a fraction closer. "Are you all right?"

"Er, yeah. I'm just doing some calculations I already did in the past. There's one data point I keep forgetting. Sign da ting, yeah. Soon. Before I forget, Brooke, there might be some requests for space from Sophie and her mate. I thought they wanted an office but when I thought about it more they must have meant a workshop or a studio."

"Max, it's arranged. They're already on location, already testing their ideas. Hard at work."

"Christ," I said, rubbing my nose. "These young people have too much energy."

On the way out, Brooke took me aside, which was happening a lot recently. "Max, I can't condone everything you did, but if we're saying all publicity is good publicity, well done. It's like the old saying - "

SecJoe came back to get something he had left, and the moment was gone.

***

But then it was back to the fun stuff! I posed for photos with the ladies who had signed new contracts.

As we moved towards the start of the new season, our first in the top tier, the entire squad, apart from Angel, had earned at least a small bump. Some contracts got extended, some didn't. Some players, like Charlotte, got a rise even though it wasn't necessary for squad planning purposes. It was necessary from a squad morale perspective. Charlotte couldn't be the only player who didn't get a raise, could she?

Take it from me that the new pay packets, along with the squad composition, were the work of a celestial watchmaker.

Squad building. I'm not saying I was the best who ever did it, but I can safely say no-one had ever done it better.

***

Then even more fun stuff!

In the evening, I finally got to scout the guy I had told myself would be the Welsh Wibbers.

Gwilym Roberts, a Playdar find who I had never actually laid eyes on, was going to train with Chester's under 16s.

He was as red as a lobster from his holiday in Spain, and he was both excited and petrified to be getting his big break. A trial! At Premier League Chester! I met him and his family, all the time wondering if I had made a mistake. Why had I set it up like this? I should have let him train with Saltney's youth teams. That would have meant a ten-minute trip for me, there and back. Having Gwilym come to Bumpers was very slightly more efficient. Was I really that lazy?

The lad himself was quite the Wibbers clone. Stocky, strong, with a bulldog-type pose, always leaning into the future, ready to fight and scrap at the drop of a hat.

He went with the lads to get changed, and came back outside in full Chester kit.

Ah! That was why I had told him to come to Bumpers. The looks on his Wrexham-supporting family's faces. Proud but utterly weirded out. Annoyed that I was so obviously teasing them, but hopeful I would rate Gwilym as a player. Yeah, this was perfect.

Gwilym had befriended Steven Watson and Jack Knapper, two stellar finds of the past, which seemed like a good omen. They walked towards their designated pitch.

Hurry up, you lazy bastards! Can't you hear my chest thumping?

Please be good, please be good.

Just in time, I remembered to turn away. I pretended to be on my phone, taking a call, and after about half a minute, I triggered Playdar. Had the training session started, the curse would have projected his player profile anyway. By finding him via Playdar, with the Feedback Loop token active, everything Gwilym ever achieved would earn me bonus XP.

Heh. Good scam.

The column of light and the other feedback from Playdar encouraged me to turn around and 'discover'...

Gwilym Roberts

Welsh. 15.

MC.

CA 1. PA 152.

Premier Leeeeeeague! Yeah!

Okay, so the Welsh Wibbers wasn't quite Wibbers, but he would be a hugely important player for the Welsh national team. A central midfielder? Yeah, great. Top.

CA 1? Yeah, that wasn't ideal but it didn't matter. He would improve fast and would catch up. I would make sure of it.

So where to send him? Chester or Saltney? Why not both? I had no doubt the little brat loved footy, played non-stop, would be happy to do extra training.

His Technique was poor, his Aggression too high, his Decisions mediocre. Yeah, kay. We could coach those. The lad had things that were hard to teach: Determination, Anticipation, Teamwork.

I watched the session for quarter of an hour.

Gwilym, of course, was terrible. Dogshit. He got more and more frantic, tried harder and harder, which of course made him perform even worse.

"Bro," I called out. He jogged over, blowing hard, trying not to show how hurt he was feeling, how embarrassing it was that I was bringing him out of training. "Mate. These kids have been with us for years. They've been coached by top guys for thousands of hours. Do you really think you can be at their level after three minutes?"

"Yeah," he said, defiantly.

I laughed. "Love that. But I also love players who can turn off the bullshit and turn on their brain. Think about my question and answer it again."

He didn't want to turn his brain on, but he wanted to be a footballer. "Yeah, no, maybe not."

"Okay. So I want you to go back over there - " his Morale leapt - "obviously do your best, but don't beat yourself up about it. You're here to learn. You're allowed to suck today, all right? You have my permission to be dogshit. You don't have my permission to be dogshit a year from now. That sounds fair to me. Does it sound fair to you?"

His cheeks were flushing. "Yeah."

"Kay," I said. He stood there until I flashed my eyes towards the session. He rushed away. Did better. His CA jumped to 2. Easy! Red on the face, green on the profile. Green for go. Get enough green and he could pull on the red shirt of Wales.

In a break, I summoned him again, brought him to his family.

"I've got bad news," I said, eying his Wrexham-supporting mum, dad, uncle, brothers and sisters. I put my hand on Gwilym's back and said, "You're all Chester fans now."

They took the bad news very well.

"More bad news," I said, when they had stopped whooping and jumping around. "Gwilym's behind the others, he needs to catch up, so he's going to have to train with the Welsh under 16s, too."

They took the bad news very well.

Strange family.

***

Tuesday, August 22

The Saltney Town boys flew to Switzerland. For whatever logistical reason, we flew to Zurich and took a train to Bern. The train ride was impressive. For all that it's the butt of easy jokes, Switzerland is amazingly beautiful, the first European country I had been to that could match the British Isles for the vibrancy of its greens.

Why are Swiss trains double-decker? To give you a better view of the lakes and mountains and to ram home the point: In this country, every angle could be a postcard.

And the city of Bern was just as nice as the countryside. We went for a walk in the old town, which is encircled by a river and has a fairytale charm. So picturesque! Much recommend!

In the evening, with the wind really starting to pick up in a serious and sustained way, as cafes started to lock up their tables and houses shuttered their windows, we piled back to our hotel for dinner and to watch the big games.

With Storm Gammon slamming into the side of the hotel, we prayed there wouldn't be a power cut, because on one large screen, the mighty College 1975 were hoping to overturn a 1-0 deficit against AEK Athens, in Athens. The game was worth just as much money as Saltney’s but I couldn't escape the feeling that the team I had assembled wasn't quite right. I couldn't put my finger on it. Did it lack pace? The X-factor? Maybe it was actually fine except that Emiliano needed 20 more points of CA. Or maybe they would win, and I was worried for no reason.

On the other screen, Chester Men were away to Barnsley in the AOK Cup Second Round. Barnsley were in League One and their average CA would be between 105 and 110. Easy match, right?

Kinda. Our CA was 139.5, but we had a pretty big problem. With Cole injured, we only had Murray Burnett as a guy who had played centre back for more than a few minutes. Okay, fine. Let's solve the problem with numbers. Three centre backs! Lewis on the left, Murray in the middle, Helge on the right.

We started Roddy Jones at right back, meaning we did actually have four in the back line, but asymmetrically.

That still gave plenty of protection for Owen in goal. More than he was likely to need.

The midfield was Cheb (on the left, with the expectation that his attacking threat would pin Barnsley back on that side), Youngster, Jimmy McNeill, and Bark.

Wibbers would support Gabriel.

We had a second problem: only two senior players on the bench. Leo Los and Pascal were talented, attack-minded midfield options but if Murray Burnett got injured, we were utterly effed.

I sat in a little group with Magnus, Davey Barnes, and Toquinho, guys I really, really liked, but I don't think I was good company. Dumi and Edgar were a couple of rows ahead.

"What the fuck," I said, as I watched the craziness unfold. "What the fuck," I said again. I said the phrase so many times that Edgar joked about making it into a drinking game.

First, Barnsley scored. Scored from an ugly long ball that went over Helge's head. How could a ball go over his head? He was a mile tall! The ball must have slammed into a gust, which slowed it just enough for a quick-thinking Barnsley player to get control and prod it beyond Owen. Talk about an ill wind. I glared at the back of Dumi's head, which you might think was broadly unfair.

On the other screen, Athens scored. That felt like game over.

Then Wibbers went up for a header, took an elbow to the ear, landed, and his legs wobbled. He said he was fine but while I couldn't see the match commentary, I had his player profile. Suspected concussion, red Attributes, case closed. I called Livia. The storm was interfering with the call quality, but I got the message through. "Get Wibbers off the pitch right now."

"We're doing the concussion check, Max."

"Yeah, fine," I said. "Go through the motions and then get him off the pitch." I hung up. "What the fuck," I said, and there were sniggers until I spun around, looking for the culprit.

On the screen, an angry Wibbers was saying he was all right, he was fine. What was it about head injuries that gave people Bravery 20? Stupidity 20, more like. They had to be protected from themselves, and you couldn't take their outbursts in those moments personally. Tockers said, "Is it bad?"

"Head injury is never good," I said. "But they saw it quickly. He'll go to lie down in a dark room and so on. There's a process."

Davey said, "Will he play against Man City at the weekend?"

"No, he's got to take, like 10 days out. He can come back for the Spurs match."

Magnus said, "What will Sandra do now?"

"Erm, Pascal, probably. He can do what Wibbers was doing."

We waited a while, and then came the sub. "Leo," said Magnus, worried.

I leaned forward and bit my nail. What was Sandra thinking? 4-5-1? The wind was making careful midfield build-up seem like a fool's errand. Tockers joked, "She thinks Pascal will blow away." When I eyed him, he held his hands up. "Sorry. Stupid joke."

"No," I said. "I think that might be right. Pascal's a lot of things but he's not a guy who's gonna hit a 30-yard screamer top bins into a gale-force wind." I rubbed my face.

Magnus rubbed my back. "What's wrong, boss?"

"I have a bad feeling about this, and it's gonna go on Sandra's CV. When I'm... Okay, fuck this. I need to go for a walk."

I wasn't getting XP so I didn't feel I had to sit and torture myself. I went to reception and discovered a fetching young woman whose name badge had a British flag to show that she spoke British. "Hi," I said.

"Hi," she said, taking her hands away from the computer.

"I'm new to Switzerland. I was wondering if you had a favourite Alp?"

She ever so slightly switched from helpful to flirty. "I do. It's the Jungfraujoch. Do you know it?"

"I only know the one on the Toblerone and the one from James Bond."

"Piz Gloria on the Schilthorn."

"Holy shit, I love your accent. Where are you from?"

"Lucerne."

"I'm guessing Lucerne is like the Newcastle of Switzerland."

She smiled. "You're with the Welsh team, aren't you? Are you one of the players?"

"No, I'm the masseuse."

The smile got cheekier. "I could use a massage. Do you do private sessions?"

"I do and they get me into all kinds of trouble."

She took a few beats while she assessed me. "What does Max Best say about that?"

"Who cares? He knows he can't get anyone better than me."

"What's he like to work for?"

"Oh, awful. He's terrible. Keeps shouting at everyone. I go, Max, booby, chill, yeah? It's only a game."

She smiled, crookedly, but then someone senior came to reception. The one who spoke British said, "There's an app that tells you which Alp you are looking at. Simply hold up the phone and it will identify it. It's very clever. Augmented reality."

"That does sound clever, and useful. AR is old tech, though. I should know; I'm something of a tech bro myself."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm a major player in gaussian splats."

"Haha, you're funny."

"True," I said. "But I wasn't joking."

"Oh." She gave me a significant look. "Do you want to explain it to me?"

"I would... but I don't have the first clue what it is." With a tiny smile, I added. "I just pay for it." She loved that, but the scene was over. I thanked her for her help and floated away, feeling much better about life...

Until I got back in front of the screens and had to watch the slow extinction of two campaigns. College crashed out, while Chester absolutely battered Barnsley, having 22 shots to the home team's 4, but couldn't get a goal.

I thought I had successfully compartmentalised those results, but I hadn't. I was absolutely gutted.

Dumi laid his hand on my shoulder and said, "It's an ill wind."

What the fuck was wrong with this guy?!

***

I went to bed early and lay looking at the ceiling, needling myself by dreaming up headlines. 

Couldn't Hit a Barn(sley) Door. 

Premier League? You're Having a Laugh. 

Sandra Lane Puts the You Suck Into Succession.

Chester Crash Out As Greedy Manager Cashes In.

And finally, in the Daily Mail:

Max Best is a Twat.

***

Final Scores

Barnsley 1 Chester 0 (Barnsley progress into the AOK Cup Third Round; Chester are eliminated.)

AEK Athens 2 College 1975 0 (Athens progress into the Champions League; College drop to the Europa League.)

***

Wednesday, August 23

Matt Rush has rejoined Chester FC after the end of his loan spell at College 1975. Thomazella and Nasa will remain in Gibraltar for the rest of the season, gaining first-team experience plus exposure to the Europa League, UEFA's second-tier competition. Alby McHugh praised the trio, saying they had performed admirably as his unfancied team progressed through three rounds of qualifiers.

***

I had breakfast, which was an eye opener. The Swiss provided their guests with normal food, but they themselves only ate a kind of yoghurty goo. Really curious, worthy of future investigation, but there was no way I was getting sidetracked, not today.

We had a light training session, then went back to the hotel to our 'day beds', to relax and prepare for the game.

Well In and I got together and lazily discussed our options over coffee. The construction of the squad didn't leave us with much room for fancy tactics, but it was good practice to discuss everything anyway.

There had been a few good pops in the week. Magnus and Colin Beckton both hit CA 140. One was getting there for the first time, the other was rolling back the years, returning to his former glory.

A few lads had stalled in an unexpected way. These included Tockers, Davey Barnes, and Dan. Why? Too much travel, not enough stability? Not enough minutes on the pitch? Statistical anomalies?

I tapped my pencil on the table. "I think our first lineup, the one against Pestis, is still our best."

"Agreed," he said.

"It's stodgy," I said, by way of a complaint that I didn't really feel.

"We're three-nil up; stodgy is fine."

I nodded and wrote it out. 

Snakey in goal. 

A mass of defenders arranged in a way that would spike the wheels of most enemy attacks: Tony Herbert, Peter, Gloomy, Edgar, Magnus, Henry Dunston. I stopped and shook my head. "Christ. There's stodgy and there's this."

"How would you score against that defence?"

I stuck my bottom lip out. "Loads of creative midfielders. Loads of rotations, movement, neat passing, keep the ball going, work the space, move into the openings, repeat for 90 minutes, win 6-0."

"Yep," said Well In. "How many players do Young Boys have who can do that?"

I wagged the pencil at him. "Good point." I added the remainder of our starting eleven to the sheet: Davey Barnes, Dan Badford, Max Best, Colin Beckton.

Well In pointed to the names. "What does DOVE say?"

I wrote a number and circled it. "133.5. Excluding me."

"Because DOVE isn't good at rating you," he said. When I didn't reply, he said, "So we're, like, ten points more than Young Boys. Plus you. Plus we have a three-goal lead. What, er... Is there anything you would worry about?"

I looked out of a window, where some trees were being bent back. "Yeah. Getting struck by lightning."

***

Young Boys play in the Wankdorf Stadium.

That is the end of this paragraph.

***

It was a dark and stormy night in a stadium that is often called the Stade de Suisse. (Can't think why.)

From outside, the stadium was not very pleasing on the eye. It was too boxy, basically just a charmless rectangle, but on the inside it was pretty great, I had to admit, with good viewing angles from every seat, and an imposing height. Saltney Town were not an attractive opponent, with virtually zero name recognition in Bern. That had obviously depressed the ticket sales that YB would have expected, and on top of that, the storm had kept a lot of their paying customers away. I doubted that even ten thousand would be inside the stadium for what was the most important match of the club's season.

One thing was for sure, this venue would not be intimidating. Not like Athens had been the night before.

While we were warming up, Dan Badford came over. "Boss. Did you know that the 1954 World Cup Final was played on this spot?"

"I did, yeah. It finished Leave Me Alone 5, I'm Trying to Concentrate 3."

"Nah, it was West Germany 3, Hungary 2. People say the defeat made Hungarians question their entire regime and led to a revolution two years later."

"That can't be true, Dan. Sports and politics don't mix."

"Haha. But Hungary were the best team in the world so it was amazing that West Germany won. The match is known as 'The Miracle of Bern'."

I held an imaginary microphone to my mouth. "And Young Boys will be hoping for a miracle of their own tonight!"

Dan laughed and started a slow clap. I pointed. He stopped clapping and jogged round the next set of cones.

***

There wasn't much of interest on the Swiss team's tactics board - they were set up exactly the same as last week.

Nothing to fear. Nothing could go wrong.

Saltney Town were about to do the impossible. The unthinkable. The prize money would set me up for life. My wife would always be able to shop at Morrison's instead of Tesco, and my kids would always have good hoodies.

This story had started with me eating dry kebabs, no onions. Onions cost extra. Now I was 90 minutes away from wealth beyond imagination. Full circle. Threads closing.

I remembered what Sandra told me about how much prams cost. A good baby buggy cost as much as a good left-back! What if I had a boy and he wanted to go to Oxford to learn about gaussian splats? What if I had a girl and she got into horses? What if I had twins and they were both into horses and paintball?

In the ten minutes before kickoff I had a major freakout.

Everything to fear. Everything on the verge of collapse.

The Miracle, Part Two: Max Feels the Burn.

***

Things happened. Wind swirled around the pitch, pushing the corner flags at crazy, contrary angles. People pushed me into place. The match started.

The ball was pumped high, into our box. It went above Tony Herbert's head, caught in the wind, and my brain imploded. This was exactly the goal Chester had conceded last night! The ball moved peacefully, like a monastic fish, and I calculated that it would end up at the feet of a Swiss striker.

Yeah, boss, nah. Snakey didn't care about the narrative building in my head - he punched it away. Edgar flicked it on. Dan looked over his shoulder before the ball came to him, deflected it to Davey. The Welshman fizzed it at me at high speed.

From his point of view, anyway.

I was in a gaussian splat slow-mo. 

The ball crawled towards me, with individual flecks of water shooting off it, making it look like it had a Mohican. I went, "Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh?" as though I had never seen anything spherical in my life before...

And then I was away. Sprinting, cutting, feinting. Two guys were on the grass before I even got up to 70% speed. I accelerated, pushed through a feeble tackle, smashed the ball top bins... but the goalie was well-placed, jumped, and tipped the ball behind for a corner.

As I slowly walked to the corner flag, with everything that had slipped and slid clicking back into place, Dan Badford raced past, joyously telling a stocky, muscular defender, "Whoo! You're gonna get it today! You're gonna get it! Best 9000, yeah!"

The defender, an Albanian guy called Bogdani, spat out a stream of invective. By eyeing him for more than a fraction of a second, I spotted that his Morale was fluctuating madly. Was it the wind? It did that to some people. Someone had told me about a holiday resort in the north of Germany, a wind-swept island, which some people loved but others couldn't hack. They turned up and noped out right away. The hotels were used to it.

Colin threw his arms out. "Max! What's the plan?"

Right, yeah. The plan.

I eyed Bogdani, who was a centre back playing at left back. Weak link for sure.

What to do with this situation? Load the box with my beefy boys and take the corner myself?

A fourth goal would be game over, but corners could be risky. If I took it, I would be as far away from our goal as was possible, and all my best defenders would be almost as far. Counter attacks could be deadly.

The most obvious solution was to let Davey Barnes take the kick while I stayed back to sweep up. Not as much chance of us scoring, much much less chance of Young Boys scoring.

Or how about something a bit more left field...?

I set Dan as the corner taker and told all my defenders to stay back. I stood near Dan. He rolled the ball to me and I did some kick-ups in the corner. When Bogdani came at me, I whacked the ball into the stand for a throw-in to the home team.

Bogdani booted me up the arse.

Free kick to Saltney Town!

Dan said something to Bogdani, but that conversation was cut short when I used Masterpiece Theatre to place Dan right next to me. When he was in situ, I set him as the free kick taker. He rolled the ball to me, I turned to face the stand, did some kick-ups, then booted the ball as high as I could. Bogdani rushed past to pick up another ball, barging into me as he did so. The ref didn't think it was enough to get another free kick; I shrugged.

Me, Dan, Colin, and Magnus put pressure on everyone around the throw-in taker. With the wind and the rain it was going to be hard for Bogdani to get any distance on the throw. He launched it down the line. Magnus won the header. Dan nudged it to me. I raced away from the scene, but then turned back into the crowd, Relationism-style.

A glorious, flair-filled minute was about to happen, right?

Nah. I booted that ball high into the stand again. My match rating sunk to 5 out of 10. Storms, ill winds, angry Albanians, but no Sentinels. I laughed for five seconds straight.

Bogdani had another throw-in, by the corner flag. He would need to get good purchase on this one if he wanted to clear Magnus.

The ball slipped out of his hands. Dan suggested a different method; Bogdani didn't like that.

We went again.

Magnus won the header, Dan flicked the ball to me, I dodged a tackle and did a rabona pass... just to the right of the corner flag. Throw in! When the ball slipped out of Bogdani's hands, I creased up laughing.

He spent the next 15 minutes trying to break my legs.

***

His third reckless challenge was one I very nearly didn't dodge; I had to throw myself aside and do something like a somersault. What the fuck? (Drink.)

The Slovenian ref had his whistle in his mouth, ready to blow for a foul, but he looked to his left and saw that we had a decent chance to attack so he let the move continue. Magnus combined with Edgar, who touched the ball to Davey, who surged forward and passed to Dan, whose pass split the defence.

Colin gathered it, but couldn't shoot from that angle, much as he wanted to. Colin spotted that I had got to my feet and was going flat-out to support the attack, so he passed it... to Dan.

Dan fired the ball first-time into my path. I took it, threatened to dribble left, brought the ball onto my right, let the goalie come at me, rolled it past him into the bottom left corner.

No celebration. The job wasn't done. If anything, I ascended into a higher mode of calculation. Condition scores, match ratings, but most of all, the game state.

One-nil on the night.

Four-nil on aggregate.

That was...

That was...

That was enough, man. I dared to smile. Colin Beckton threw himself at me and I had to dodge, laughing, laughing bigger and louder. We had done it! Surely we had done it!

What did normal people do when six years of work ended in spectacular triumph? All I could think was that I should cluck around like a chicken.

But there was a roar from the crowd. I snapped my head around and saw aggro on the edge of the penalty area. Dan Badford was flat on his back, holding his face. "What the fuck?" I said. Drink! I sprinted closer. "What?"

Tony Herbert, a massive, unbridled mass of pure rage, had steam coming out of his ears, black smoke billowing from his eyes. Peter Bauer was trying to keep him away from someone.

Bogdani!

I went into the curse commentary.

Max Best with a sublime finish! He made it look so simple. He jogs away towards the corner flag.

Dan Badford has words with Bogdani.

The Albanian defender has struck Badford!

Badford falls flat on his back. The Saltney players are incensed.

The referee has a big decision to make here.

My fists clenched. Fuck what I said in the team meeting, Bogdani was gonna get it. I would knock him into the fucking moon. I would splatter his gaussians all over a three-dimensional space. Bogdani had sown the wind, now he would reap the whirlwind.

Magnus grabbed me, held me in place, and pointed.

The referee had a red card in his hand.

My blood ran cold.

The Miracle of Bern.

Lightning strikes twice.

No no no no no...

The referee reaches into his pocket...

And shows the red card to Bogdani!

Young Boys are down to ten men.

The Swiss champions are in big trouble now!

Miracle! A miracle! Justice had been served. On a football pitch!

There was... This was...

We were going to the Champions League!

Stupefied that something had gone right for once, I stumbled closer to Dan. Two physios were checking on him, keeping him partially upright. "Bro," I said, kneeling beside him. "How are you doing?" I eyed the damage. There was blood everywhere. Bogdani wasn't tall but he was a unit; that punch would have hurt like fuck.

Dan tried to sit up more; the physios allowed him. One guy was holding Dan's nose in place, it looked like. Dan nudged the guy's hand away, eyed me, and said, "I am the storm."

The effect was undermined by all the blood that came pouring out. The physio quickly put his hands back into place. It was ghastly but I couldn't help laughing. "Mate, what is wrong with you? I am the storm? We're off storms. We're doing 'feel the burn' stuff. Try to keep up!"

"Soz," he said, but he suddenly seemed woozy.

"Whoa whoa whoa," said the physio, as his assistant grabbed Dan behind the head.

The curse showed some red in Dan's Attributes but it didn't look overly serious. Pain would pass, glory was eternal. There was something I needed to know before escalating the sitch. "What did you say to the prick?"

The junior physio had a pretty good idea. "He said, no Champions League for you, get back in your crevice you stupid little bitch."

I left a few beats, and even in his woozy state, Dan focused on me. I wagged my finger at him. "Dan, that's completely unacceptable language." Another couple of beats. "Get back in your crevice is my phrase. My trademark." I stood up. "Get your own material."

Dan's Morale jumped to maximum, but soon crashed as the pain hit.

The senior physio said, "Max, we need to get him to a hospital."

"Yep, on it," I said. I sprinted to the side of the pitch and found the team doctor from Young Boys. He was on his phone within seconds. Cogs turned, wheels were set in motion. I shouldn't have been surprised by how smoothly it all went - Switzerland, after all, is famous for hosting the celestial watchmaker in maybe the most consequential match of his career.

***

I went to Tony Herbert. "The ref did his job. Bogdani will pay a lot of money. That? That is over, yeah?" Tony's eyes flashed. There were still ten Young Boys left, weren't there? "Mate," I said. "I need to know I can trust you, otherwise you're going off and I'll bring two midfielders on." I put my hand on his shoulder. "Dan wants you to stay on the pitch and stay clean. We do this clean. Clean, yes or no?"

He leaned back, tall, hulking, and his eyes flashed once again. Then he looked at me and nodded, once. "No red card. For your babies."

"My babies are fine, mate. We're going to the Champions League and I need you in the team on match day one. What if it's Liverpool? You can punch someone then, no problem. I'll pay your fine."

He gave me a little shove. "Go. One change."

Well In had been preparing Ludo, Bertie, and Tockers for me to choose from. I called out, "Ludo."

Going from Dan to Ludo was a loss of 39 points of CA, but they had a similar playing style.

When the game restarted, there was a five-minute lull as everyone on the pitch tried to absorb what had happened. The extreme change in the game state, the sudden violence, the stretchers and the fast but careful medical attention. Things calmed on the pitch just as the storm did the most damage.

Around Switzerland, roof tiles crashed to the ground. Saltney Town passed sideways and backwards.

Weak trees were torn from the soil. Young Boys shuffled and slid.

In one poor town, an entire hillside collapsed in a torrent of fast-paced mud and rock. So Switzerland's UEFA coefficient took an almighty tumble.

(Christ, no, that's awful. Cut that ten times over!)

***

In the dressing room, I was quiet. Surely there was no danger, no risk, but isn't that exactly what a fucking clown would say?

45 good minutes and I would turn this fucking curse into 8 million quid, cash. That was fuck-you money. That was 'I don't need this job' money. That was 'say whatever you want about UEFA, the FA, and the Daily Mail' money.

It was worth crafting a great speech. Delivering an all-time banger.

But when I looked around, I only saw warriors. Guys who had won everything with Bayern Munich. A world champion bodybuilder. Guys who had battled tremendous personal loss. A dude who had grown up in Australia and lived to tell the tale.

I stood at the front of the room, which was enough to get their attention. "Hey lads," I said, quietly. "Dan's gonna be all right. One of the physios has gone with him; he'll stay overnight in hospital. Apparently healthcare here is pretty much the best in the world... and I'm told these Swiss nurses are super hot."

"Yes," said Dumi. "That is because they are all from Romania."

"Whoa there," I said, because his comment triggered a wave of silly boyish nonsense. "Whoa... Is everyone calm? You can't fly off the handle every time someone says the words Romanian nurse." I looked to my left. "French nurse." I looked to my right. "Puerto Rican nurse. Huh. There was definitely a stronger reaction to French nurse. I feel that there's a really interesting research paper someone could write about that..." I shook my head rapidly. "Topic's over. What did I want to say?" I looked up while I thought back.

Ah, that was it. In 45 minutes, this group would split up. It wasn't only some of the key figures going to Chester, but a bunch of the younger lads were going to Chester's under 18s to help me win the Youth Cup.

This was our last hoorah. We were four goals ahead. Did I really want to grind things out for 45 minutes? Nah, bruv. Jamie Lane-Beeks and Agamemnon Best would grow up in a world of fantasy football.

"All right," I said, but paused. Dumi had been pissing me off all week with his doom-laden proclamations. Maybe I would sub him off now so I could enjoy myself to the max. "Yeah, so, we're about to do something unprecedented. We're going to do something everyone said was impossible... We're going to have a good time in Switzerland."

Huge laughter, guys slamming their palms against the surfaces, some stamping their feet.

Dumi said, "I told you it would be all right."

I genuinely couldn't believe my ears. I stepped closer to him and said, "Excuse me? You have spent days saying 'an ill wind, it's an ill wind'."

"Yes, of course. It's an ill wind that blows no good."

I spread my arms, exasperated. "What?"

He looked slightly puzzled. "It's an ill wind that blows no good. You don't know this? The wind that slows one ship speeds another. The storm is bad for Chester and College, that means it is good for us."

I wanted to punch myself in the head until it smashed like a pumpkin. "Wait wait wait. Are you trying to tell me you have been positive this whole time? You have been trying to make me see the bright side?"

He clicked his fingers. "Always look on the bright side of life! That is the other idiom I like. Because of the storm, I could only think of this one." He shook his head. "I do not like the storms. I lost my second wife to a storm."

Edgar cracked up, grabbed his mate, shook him.

"What the fuck," I said, which made twenty people reach for their water bottles and laugh. "Okay, okay. Listen. This team, this group, we've got 45 minutes together. I think we're a really fucking good team but we have been playing safety-first football. Handbrake on. That's fine because we're all gonna get rich. Oh," I said, laughing to myself. "I just got this image of Dumi and Edgar. The bonus drops into their bank accounts, they rub their hands, they go ‘awesome, now where's the rest?’"

Big laugh, and even Dumi showed his back teeth.

I bit my lip, got serious. "I know you didn't do this for money. So listen, what I want to do now is play high-tempo, high back line, pressing, all-out, all over the pitch. Do that for 15, 20 minutes, just to see what this team can do. What it can really do." I paused and looked down. "But maybe that's just one of my manias. If you want to do what we've been doing, run down the clock, I'm okay with that."

Peter Bauer stood. "I wanna know how good we are."

Peter 'Snakey' Schnakenberg stood. "Go get 'em, lads. I got you covered."

Magnus Evergreen stood. "The most attractive nurses are in Vietnam."

I put my hands to my head. "That thread is closed, mate! That was ten minutes ago. What the fuuuuuuuck."

Everyone drank.

***

Storm Gammon battered Europe. We battered the Young Boys of Bern.

I spread our guys wide and flitted around like a butterfly, keeping the ball moving, making sure YB didn't get the slightest moment to breathe. We played like that for five minutes, then I tweaked things to crank up the pressure.

The home team cracked like a tree branch.

I fired a few long shots to get their aggro on me, then the next time Ludo fired a pass to my feet, I let it go through my legs into the path of Davey Barnes. I sprinted to the far post like my life depended on it, and jumped for joy when Colin turned Davey's low cross into the near post.

Two-nil!

"One more!" I cried.

I dropped deep and exchanged about 20 passes in ten seconds with Peter Bauer. YB weren't interested in pressing us and my match rating was creeping up, so I abandoned that plan. I sprayed the ball to Davey, ran forward, and waited.

Colin made a sudden move, which was my cue to make the same exact move but five yards further right. We took four defenders with us. Davey's cross went over the top, to Magnus, alone in the penalty area. He took the ball on his chest, it popped up crazily high, and when it dropped, he cracked his foot through the ball.

The goalie probably should have saved it, but let's be honest... he didn't.

We ran around like a bunch of idiots, hugged each other like water molecules.

As I skipped around, looking for someone to leapfrog over, I wondered why we were making so much noise. I looked around. The stadium was virtually empty.

***

I sent on three subs, the ones with the most potential: Toquinho, Engelbert Kornek, and the Welsh box-to-box starlet, Charlie Cullen.

With five minutes to go, I summoned a 17-year-old Welsh winger called Luke Evans. He was only CA 35 but he had PA 131 and maybe, just maybe, these Champions League minutes would prove useful for the rest of the season, which he would play in the under eighteens of a team called Chester FC.

MwahahaHAHAAAA!!!!!!

***

At the final whistle, I'm not ashamed to say I went a tiny bit tonto. A wee bit bonkers. Ever so slightly bananas.

Emma, her parents, MD, Briggy, Don Pino, and some others had made their way down the almost-deserted rows of seats. I rushed towards them, leapt, grabbed Emma, spun her romantically over the advertising hoardings (just like in Romeo and Juliet), got down on one knee, and bellowed, "Ems, me hinny! Will you go house-hunting with me?"

She clapped her hands. "Yes! Yes! A million times yes!"

We smooched. We snogged. We remembered her parents were literally right there.

We looked up at the giant screens:

Saltney Town advance into the Champions League!

I don't know what happened next.

Some people say I burst into tears.

I say that I stood with one foot on a stool, gazing with paternal wisdom over the squad, staff, friends and family who meant so much to me.

You decide which image you want to save to disc.

***

There was one last piece of business to attend to: the contractually-obligated post-match interview. My favourite!

I could have let Well In do it, but it didn't feel right.

And boy was I right to do it! The interviewer was a long-haired beauty who looked just like Gemma! I could have gotten her phone number so easily, just by asking if she had the app that showed which mountain you were looking at. 'Oh by the way, while your phone is open, lol...'

I didn't do that, obvs, but I gave strong consideration to role-playing the scenario with Emma back at our hotel.

The Swiss storm-in-a-D-cup was smiling crazy hard for some reason. 

- Max! Amazing! Well done!

- I have ascended!

- You're in the Champions League!

- Saltney Town are in the Champions League. I am but a humble functionary of... What was the question?

- Are you going to stay at Saltney now that you have made it?

- No, no, I'm a Chester boy. Chester boys for life, yo! Rooooooarrrr! Lol. Ahhhh, I'm so hyped. What the fuck did I just do?

- It looked very much like you proposed to your wife at full time. But, er, you're already married, I think?

- Yeah yeah yeah but it's like we're not satisfied with normality, you know? That was me asking her to move to marriage level 2. I'm gonna ask her to move up a level every time I do something awesome. Level 9000, here we come, babeeeeehhhhhh!

- It has to be said your task was made easier by the red card. What was your view on that incident?

- Holy shit, that voice. Are you from Lucerne?

- I am.

- I knew it! It's like the Newcastle of Switzerland. God, that's awesome. Nah, we're not talking about that guy. We're talking about my players. Now, look, I don't want to start a culture war in Australia, god fucking knows I would never, ever want to do that.

But Peter Schnakenberg, the Snake, Snakey, just did the single greatest thing in Aussie sports, ever, bar none, including all the frog jumping championships. Seven clean sheets in seven Champions League qualifiers. What? What the actual what? I hear some of your viewers going, bro, why seven, why not eight? Ask UEFA, cuz. Go to UEFA dot com slash shame on you, you pricks, dot EU. Or whatever.

But Snakey just did the single most impressive thing an Australian sportsman has ever done, and I include the guy who rescued a little ram in that video. Mate, that was sick and I love you for doing that but Snakey, whuuuuut?

- Was it - 

- Okay but did you see Colin Beckton? We're all just chilling, knocking the ball around, then Colin goes hello! And the entire fucking Swiss defence just scatters? How does he do that? He's a wizard! Peter Bauer slicing passes through teams like he's selling the Slap Chop! Have you got Slap Chops in Switzerland? It chops things! Dumi was our vibesman.

Did you see we've got two Welsh players starting? That's two more than Wrexham! Shit, I promised not to make fun of them. Well, fuck it. Do you want four Champions League games at your gaff or not? Champions League, baby!

Gwen! Gwen! Are you watching this? Are you counting the coefficients? I hope you are because I still don't really understand them. What! What!

- [Laughing.] Max, you have finished the qualifying rounds with ten goals. We are checking it but we think it's a record.

- It's not that impressive. Most of the goals were scuffed or shinned. Anyway. I promise not to score any more. Can I say something? In the last few years, I've done three impossible things. Chester Women barely existed when I took over, and now they're in England's top tier. I've taken Chester Men from the sixth tier to the Premier League. And now I've taken a tiny Welsh team with 50 fans into the Champions League.

That is an incontrovertible body of work. If you doubt me at this point, you're fucking stupid. They say it's an ill wind that blows no good, and there will be many people in England who see this result as an ill wind, but let me propose a deal. I'm in a great mood, a celestial mood, and I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. Drop your smear campaigns, drop your cabals, and I'll let it go. You can't say fairer than that, can you?

- One more question.

- Sorry, gorgeous, but no. I'm done talking to outsiders. I have tried to explain myself but no-one listens. In my world, it's just us. I'm gonna go celebrate with my boys, drink champagne, dance all night. Because what I have done with this football club isn't a 100 to 1 long shot. It isn't a 5,000 to 1 miracle, like Leicester winning the Prem. Welsh third-tier club Saltney Town, with its 50 fans, getting into the premier club competition in the world? That's eight million to one. Eight million to one, baby! Come on!!

[Max sticks his tongue out, smoulders at the camera, leaves.]

...

Thanks for your support, babeeehhhh!

Thanks to Fred in the Discord who told me about gaussian splatting! It's fun stuff.