7.9 - The Plot Thickens [T3]

9.

Sunday, November 12

Everyone at Chester got the morning off so they could attend a Remembrance Sunday church service, visit a war memorial, or do what I did - laze in bed with my wife and review the latest news from the world of footy.

After the final whistle yesterday, a progression fantasy had played out in the mainstream media. Chester getting a draw against one of the world's richest, most famous clubs had hit like the signing of a CA 150 striker.

An hour later, the news landed that Lee Croft had been sacked. That was a CA 180 news item for sure.

But an even bigger story had emerged, a CA 200 bombshell that sent my WhatsApp groups into overdrive. Lying next to me, Emma was on her phone, and from the way notifications kept popping up it seemed that her chats were as busy as mine. She sighed and turned to face me. "Explain this Tottenham thing to me again."

"Okay, this guy, Daniel Levy, he has been the CEO of Spurs for decades. In that time he turned the club into a cash machine, built them a billion-pound stadium, made them so big they were invited into the Super League."

"Boo."

"Boo indeed, but it explains why Spurs fans were the only ones who were hyped about it. Doesn't justify it but explains it. It was like the world was saying Spurs are massive, we couldn't have a serious competition without them. So this Levy, he's basically the single most powerful person in any Premier League club."

"More than you?"

"Um... Not sure. I suppose in some ways I have more because I don't have to rely on some idiot manager giving minutes to Roddy Jones - I can just do it myself, so I can make sure player values are increasing and all that stuff. But Levy did a lot of things that were unpopular with the fans, like raising ticket prices to extreme levels. I don't want to raise prices but if I did I would eventually find myself in trouble. Whereas Levy owns a third of the club so it's like, he's untouchable. In that way, he's got more power than me."

"He's untouchable until he isn't."

"Yeah." The bombshell was that Levy had been sacked. "What's gobsmacking about it is that Spurs fans have been unhappy for twenty years and all that time, everyone said there's no point chanting for him to quit - he owns the club! He's not going anywhere. It seemed literally impossible for him to be fired. It's like if you woke up and the main headline was that the King had been sacked."

"So... How...?"

"The family that owns the rest of Spurs have finally had enough of Levy and they've decided to bin him off. Everyone's saying it's like Succession - loads of grown-up children who want to be the ones who sit in the big chair."

"Why's it happening now?"

I stared at the ceiling while I played with her hair. "That's the million-dollar question. Spurs only won two trophies during the entire time Levy and that family owned the club, so maybe some billionaire laughed at them on their superyacht and they decided to get more involved.

"Or maybe it was because there was a shambolic summer transfer window. Levy handled all the deals himself and he was a total knob in negotiations. He always wanted to squeeze every last penny out of a deal and sometimes when all the terms had been agreed he would think hmm that was too easy and he would ask for more money. He was really unpopular and some clubs didn't want to do business with Spurs because of him. This summer there was this whole mess with the release clause."

Emma turned to check my face. "The one you were involved in?"

I smiled. "I wasn't involved. People are putting two and two together to make twenty-two. All that happened was that Spurs made a bid for a Notts Forest player. By 'coincidence', the bid was exactly the player's release clause. So it's a done deal, right? The player agreed terms, it was given a 'here we go' on social media. Except Forest's owner, the Jabba the Hut guy, said nah he's not going. Everyone was like, what do you mean? Jabba said no, that's a secret release clause and you're not supposed to know it. If you know it, someone blabbed, which makes it invalid, so the player's not going. It was chaos.

"It was only recently that someone got wind of the fact that I know the release clauses of everyone at Forest. Anyway, no-one actually blamed Levy for that deal falling through. They blamed him for not having a plan B, C, D, and for overspending on plan E. He's the definition of penny wise, pound foolish.

"Still, the whole sacking is mad and strange and everyone's scrambling to work out what happens next. Does it mean Spurs will be sold to a Middle-Eastern state? A tech bro? Or will the Succession family try to run it? They don't even like football! People are expecting Spurs to have more money for transfers and wages, that's for sure, because Levy kept an iron grip on the purse strings. And there's a lot of speculation about Lee Kennedy's future as head coach. If you take over a club, you normally sack the manager soon after. But they're not taking over the club, they have owned it for about thirty years. But they haven't been in control until just now so do we treat them like new owners?"

"Do we?"

"I think so. And it's not hard to fire Kennedy. Yeah, he's popular but Spurs are 12th in the league. They're only two points from fourth, but you could argue the side is underperforming. What makes it hard to understand is just how long have the Succession Kids been plotting this? Has this dagger-to-the-back been years in the planning or did it happen suddenly? One day the full story will come out and it will be amazing. But for now the manager merry-go-round is in full swing. Chelsea need someone, Spurs might need someone."

"Which of those jobs would you want?"

"If I was a normo? With Chelsea you get better players but they're young and hard to control. Spurs have less budget but it's enough money to compete at the top, but you'd want to be given full control of transfers. The stadium's amazing and there's a go-kart track inside, so probably Spurs."

Emma joined me in staring at the ceiling. After a while, she said, "Does any of this affect Chester?"

"Well, I have been ignoring calls from Tottenham pretty much since I started the job, but now there's a chance I would do business with them. Spurs could be a good club for Wibbers, if we get relegated and have to sell him. Could be perfect, actually. They've got the money to pay a big fee, like 60 mill, but they're probably not going to be a threat to us when it comes to winning trophies in the next five years. Wibbers would go to the next level and get in the England team, but there would still be levels above that he could aspire to reach."

"Some of me mates are saying what if Chester finish above Chelsea and Spurs."

"Ha. Next season, maybe."

"Not this time?"

I brought up the curse's league table screen. "Bottom half of the table goes like this. In eleventh, it's the greatest club in the world ever, according to some people. I wonder why they're eleventh if they're the best in the world ever?"

Emma groaned. "Are you going to be like this for Christmas dinner?"

"No," I said. "I'm going to be much worse. Twelfth is Spurs, who like the greatest club in the world ever have got 18 points. Chelsea are two points behind that. Fulham are next with 15 points. West Ham 14. Then come four clubs we would hope to overtake. In sixteenth place are Ipswich on 12 points. Leicester and Wolves have 11. Leeds have 10, Chester have 3."

"It doesn't seem like a huge gap. We had bigger when we were chasing down Grimsboo and Bradford."

"You're right, but there was a lot of low-hanging fruit in those leagues. In the Prem, we're not going to go on a long winning streak. We're just not. The good news is, neither are Leeds or any of the others. We're 13 points behind Spurs so you can forget all about them. No way are we getting anywhere near Chelsea." I turned to face her, grinned, and told her the biggest news of the month. "I'm plotting."

Her face lit up. "Ooh!"

"Something happened last night. How we played against Man United, Liverpool, Leeds, and even more so against Chelsea, yeah it's a struggle but we've got enough, we're on the right path, I don't need to catastrophise all the time. I sort of... emerged from survival mode and started to look ahead. I'm going to unleash scams and plots against all who stand before me! Finland, Albania, Fulham, West Ham. Premier League beware!"

Emma smiled. "I like it when you do plots." She touched me; her eyebrows rose and her smile twisted. "The plot thickens..."

***

I packed my case; Emma dropped me off at Bumpers. It was awash with action on our rental pitches, but there were a lot of first-teamers milling around, too. Guys who were going to join up with their international teams were getting in one last gym session or getting last-minute rehab with our medical team.

Jimmy McNeill and Magnus Evergreen were about to travel up to Scotland together. "Good luck, big man," I said, embracing Jimmy. "Good luck, wee man," I said, doing the same to Magnus.

"Wee man," laughed Jimmy, who was shorter than Magnus.

Magnus sighed. "Is it going to be all kilts and bagpipe jokes now?"

"I don't do ethnocentric humour," I said. "But you will be getting haggis cake for your birthday, and there might be something with a sporran."

I ambled away. The Slovakians had already gone, but Helge's car was here. I spotted Lewis, Dumi, Youngster, Cheb, and Bark at various spots around Bumpers. They would all be jetting off soon. I picked up a couple of XP as I lazily made my way past the pitches.

XP balance: 15,873

Not long left until I would hit 22 thousand, and then I could start creating my own perks. The ideas were starting to come thicker and faster...

I heard footsteps coming towards me, and saw Brooke. "Thought I'd find you here," she said.

"You did?"

"Where's Max? He's off on international duty so he is most likely staring at a tree. Oh! I was right."

My path had taken me towards the tree line besides the second 3G rental pitch. Had I gone straight instead of turning left, I would have walked past the Academy buildings (which were currently holes, some of which had the foundations in place). I gestured to the oldest trees. "We planted these, remember? A few the first year, a few the second. We've kept expanding it, kept levelling it up. Everyone was saying, just plant it all in one go but we didn't have the money and anyway, I preferred it like this. We get to see it grow in every direction, get to keep working at it. See what grows well, what doesn't. Pivot if needed. I love how it has turned out. To create an entirely new phrase, it sparks joy."

She tilted her head as she considered the trees. "It is satisfying, yes, but we need to plant a lot more and a lot more quickly if we're going to give some privacy to phases two and three."

She was right. Sometimes the quick version was the right version. "Yeah. That's fair. We'll have money for more mature trees on this side and I can do my slow-burn progression fantasy on the other boundaries. Hey, are you flying over to cheer for Zach?"

"Not this time. Way too much going on."

"Do you need me?"

"Just a couple things before you rush off." She slapped me on the arm. "Everyone's ecstatic about yesterday."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone. Zach managed to get home from Boro without knowing the Chester result and he watched it from the start, as live. He was wearing his heart rate watch and at times it was up 15, 20 bpm. He said that's the best Chester played, ever, no question, period."

"Huh. Good call. I'd have to think about that but it has to be top five, for sure."

"I'm sure you know it but the fans are picking up what we're putting down, our sponsors are pleased with the exposure, we're getting interest from potential brand partners, it's all go. If you can keep doing what you're doing on the pitch..." She made a gesture that I took to mean, 'the sky's the limit'. She dipped her head as though it was time to switch to the bad news. "Am I right that 'bangers and mash' is a British meal?"

"Course. Sausages with mashed potato. Drench that with gravy and... ugh, I want some now. My mouth's watering. Are they serving it in the canteen?"

"I don't know. Is bangers and mash a name everyone in the UK would know?"

"Course. That could be the whole citizenship test."

She seemed pleased, but didn't want to show that. Sometimes it's really hard being the only normal person in the world. Brooke continued, "Second thing is, I'm really not happy with the ticket sales for the women's team this season. Tomorrow night, we're hosting the champions, one of the biggest teams in women's sport, and we haven't sold five thousand tickets. In some ways it's not bad but, I don't know, I'm disappointed. You've given us a thrilling team, a winning team, based on genuine stars and home-grown talent. The documentary has been a hit, we're marketing our matches hard, but we're not quite breaking through."

"Yeah," I said. Attendances hadn't been a major priority for me so far this season, and the numbers were going up, but the curse was giving us a 10% bonus and without that, our numbers would be verging on lame. "Is this where you say you want to hire another five marketers?"

"No. I understand and agree with the limits you have placed on us. If we stay in the Prem, I'll be back onto that, big time."

"You'll get what you need," I said, warily, because I was starting to suspect she was going to tell me off for shipping out our most marketable player - Angel.

She nodded. "Swell. The staff we have is enough, because we don't need to do any extra work to sell tickets for the men's matches - we're sold out for the entire season. But we could change how we are marketing the women. Promise you won't bite my head off?"

"I promise times infinity."

She steeled herself anyway. "We have been treating women's football very seriously, just like with the men, just like you want, just like everyone wants. We have tried to let the sport do the talking. And our approach should be working! There are three million girls playing football in this country! Why can't we get them to the matches?"

I frowned. "Isn't it something to do with women and their kids playing on Sunday morning, which is when most WSL games take place?"

"That isn't helping, sure, but there are millions of other potential customers. The opening of the PetPride will help."

The PetPride Stand was, to a large extent, being fitted out as if it was part of a purpose-built women's stadium. The dressing rooms would be designed with women in mind, there would be many more women's toilets throughout, redesigned turnstiles and safety checks and so on. I said, "That's gonna let us market the entire experience better, and the men who go there to watch Chester Men won't give a shit. They won't even notice it's different. But that's coming, so what do you want from me today?"

"We learned a lot from Saltney Town in the Champions League qualifiers. Every match was a big party, great music, fun vibe, and it attracted an entirely different audience. Gay anthems? Goal music that made people laugh? The football purists still enjoyed it because the football was great.

"I want to lean into that and really try it at Chester. Fun, music, vibes, pre-match concerts on the pitch, post-match bands in the music venue, and there's high-quality football in the middle. If I suggested anything with the men's team that didn't have football front-and-centre you would berate me for Disneyfying your sport, sucking the soul out of it, all that, but I think it's worth trying it with the women. And I've got an amazing name for this marketing campaign. The name's so good you'll go weak at the knees for it."

I couldn't help but smile. "I'm ready."

"Music, vibes, food, football, remember?"

"Got it."

Brooke used her fingers to draw a huge headline. "Bangers and Match."

I blinked, then threw my hands up. "I surrender. That's too good not to use. Holy shit. Sold. Haha. Bangers and Match! That's glorious. And the football's right there in the name, so it's not like we're trying to trick people into liking footy. Yeah, done, go for it. Go for it with my blessing."

Brooke let out a huge, genuine smile. "Okay," she said, excited and pleased. "Okay. We should stop selling dual season tickets. People are paying the little bit extra to support the club but they're not goin' to the women's matches."

"Done."

"Is there no chance you'll be here tomorrow night?"

Our women were playing Chelsea in a top-of-the-table clash. If we won, we would soar to the top of the league! Top of the tree! The first Chester team to do that - ever. But reality had bitten. "I can't - I promised Gwen I would be super serious about managing Wales. It's going to pay off for the club, though. The Wales squad is spread out across loads of clubs and I'm going to plant little seed bombs with them that will explode all around the country. I'm plotting, Brooke! Plotting!"

She smiled. "What kind of seed bombs? Japanese knotweed?" That was an invasive species that could grow from a tiny clipping into a gigantic, house-crushing monster.

"Nothing so crude. Just a bit of light mischief. For example, I intend to be super defensive against Fulham, West Ham, and Bournemouth. Three draws in the next three matches isn't sexy, but I would be really happy with three points from those fixtures. It's three weeks of catching up to the rest of the league in terms of quality while not getting too much further away from our relegation rivals."

"We show that we have bottomed out."

"Exactly. So the scam is, I'm going to tell the Welsh lads who play for those teams that I'm going to go all-out attack because that's how we got our best results so far this season. They'll go to their clubs and tell their manager what I said, and he will either get more attacking in response, or more defensive. Either way suits me. What's hardest for us right now is to play against well-balanced teams like Everton. So we might get a slightly easier match, but when these managers realise I lied to them, indirectly, they won't be able to trust anything they hear about my plans because they know I'm a plotter. They will be off-balance every time they prepare against us. This season they will learn about bluffs. Next season I have a little surprise for them. I call it the double bluff. Mwahahahaaa!"

Brooke's eyebrows rose a little. "They will never see it coming." She smiled. "It's good to see you back up to your old tricks. I feel more positive about the season. I think this is called Stockholm Syndrome."

"The only syndrome here," I said, dramatically, rising to my full height, "is..." I sagged. "Nah, I've got nothing." I perked up again. "Remember when this plot of land was just fields? Now we've got pitches galore, the academy, offices, his 'n hers gyms, a zen garden, lush, dense foliage." I spread my arms while smiling widely. "The plot thickens!"

***

I got a text. It was in code.

Briggy: I'm doing a sponsored swim for a charity that's close to your heart. What's the max (lol) you would like to donate? Ten percent of people have donated 70.

Briggy was still hunting Temps Perdu shares for me, and it seemed the value of the company was the same as what I had paid last time: 70 million. 

I had added a few properties to my portfolio (Claverton Court, the No Stairs House, Barony Bay, and Yalley Valley), but overall I wasn't totally satisfied that I had created an utterly impenetrable financial buffer.

Scott Conrad was staying at the Premier League until the end of the season, but he was also taking over the day-to-day running of Lit, formerly Maxterplanalytics, which meant that its running costs would increase. He wanted to professionalise the operation, hire new staff, get products ready to launch, and market them. I needed to reserve at least a million for all that, I reckoned.

Still, I had pretty massive amounts in the bank and there was more to come this season. 

Me: I could go as high as 8. I mean, I could go to 10 but that would be stressful. 

She responded with an 'eyes bulging' emoji, followed by a thumbs up.

God, why had I said ten million?

***

I checked the canteen for bangers and mash - no luck - and made my way to Sealbiscuit 2.

Most of the members of the men's first team squad who weren't on international duty were coming down to The Vale with me. This was a scam I had used before - using a national team's HQ to give training boosts to my guys. But this time I was taking it a step further - I was the Wales manager and I had decreed it essential that Wales should train against Chester Remnants. (I told Gwen that I had trained my guys to play exactly like Finland and Albania. She didn't believe me but also, she didn't really give a shit.) Chester were paying for hotel rooms etc, so there was no real cost to Wales, and having some extra bodies would be good for the training sessions I had planned.

So behind me on the bus were Owen Elmham, Sticky, Cole Adams (nearly recovered from his long-term injury), Peter Bauer, Murray Burnett, Edgar Wilde, Matt Rush, Pascal Bochum, Wibbers, Gabriel, a few of the 'senior' youth teamers, plus Dylan and a few coaches, excluding Sandra and Colin Beckton, but including Luisa.

When I had lost my voice, the Portuguese temptress had tried talking to me about something, but she had let it drop. I hadn't wanted to investigate because I didn't want to go looking for more bad news, especially if it involved one of my only fit strikers. Now that the Chelsea match had shown the world that Chester were no joke, I had pulled my head out of the sand and I was feeling ready for anything. I went to get her and invited her to my office, i.e., my pair of seats at the front. We could have a private conversation there.

I made small talk, asking about Henri and Tiny Tino, the restaurant she used to work for, then got stuck in. I asked her what it was she had wanted to say to me.

She took a moment, in which she decided whether she wanted to talk about it or not. "It was the thing you did with Henri. Betting on the Manchester United share price."

"Oh," I said. That was not what I was expecting at all. "What about it?"

She looked behind us, then assessed the distance to our driver. "Insider trading. This is very illegal. This is a very big situation. You and Henri were rushing around with no pants on, laughing your heads off, waiting to be spanked."

I frowned. "Were you at the stag party?"

She didn't laugh. "It is very serious. I am very worried about it."

"Er, okay. Let's work this out." I took a few seconds to gather my thoughts, because the worst possible outcome was losing Luisa as a member of the team. Like so many of my staff, she was unique. Almost irreplaceable. A great coach with pertinent language skills, a warm, emotionally intelligent person who could give guys the hairdryer treatment, who was also gorgeous. "So, first thing, it's not insider trading."

"It is!"

I gave her my best, warmest smile. "It isn't. But listen, if it was, there's no way to trace it to me. My companies are registered across loads of countries. It's shells all the way down, like one of those Russian dolls. If an investigator works his butt off, maybe he could get my name at the end of the worldwide length of string, maybe. But they don't have that kind of resource. They just don't. And Henri didn't do anything in his own name, and he didn't even need to protect himself, because we're not insiders. Neither of us work for Man United.

"And we didn't have confidential information. What was the big announcement I made? That the Prem was not corrupt. Literally six thousand other people said the same thing. United said it, the Premier League said it. There was no new information. The share price moving was all vibes. I can't go to prison for vibes, Luisa. Seriously. The share price could have gone down and I would have lost a bunch of money. I was betting it would go up."

"Why didn't you use a prediction market?"

"I couldn't have leveraged my money there. With shares you can do options trading and get more profit from the same amount."

"If it's so clean, what you did, why haven't you said anything to anyone?"

I smiled. "I'm not stupid. I don't want to invite that kind of attention. I have enemies. Plus if I said it, people could trace the trades to certain companies and know they were mine." I smiled wider. "This isn't going to stop me getting into heaven, if that's what you're worried about."

For the first time, she smiled a little. "That is what I was worried about, yes." She turned stern again. "I don't like it. I don't like to see Henri in this way. So so happy because he tricked some rich people. It was unattractive. Also for you!" she said, as though that would be a great punishment.

I felt greatly punished. "Heyyy! I saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make some quick money. Safe money. Listen, if either Henri or I spend one single minute in prison because of this, I will give you one billion pounds, okay? That's how confident I am. And all right, maybe you think less of me but don't take it out on poor Henri! All he did was teach me how to do the mechanics. My favourite movie is Trading Places, the seminal 80s movie starring Eddie Murphy as a guy who does what I did, but his version was super illegal and we love him for it anyway."

"I don't love him for it."

"Let's watch it! We'll have loads of downtime in this trip. We'll watch it and we'll talk about how Eddie Murphy is low-key a brilliant actor and we'll talk about how the plot gets confusing in the middle but they still nail the landing. Yes! Great. I feel good about this. Problem resolved, next!"

Luisa sat still. Finally, she said, "I come to complain, I am forced to watch an old film. This is not justice."

I frowned. "But wait, this whole time I thought you were going to tell me something bad about Gabby. That he's homesick, that he's suffering, that he doesn't believe he will make it as a top player, something."

She seemed surprised. "No. He is suffering. Sometimes he has doubts. Less now that he has scored two goals and created others. Sometimes he is homesick. But he wants to repay the faith you have shown in him. He loves you for bringing his mother here." She got up and looked down on me. "When you are in prison, Gabby will visit you."

"Will you?"

"I will be busy spending my one billion pounds."

***

With one awkward situation dealt with splendidly, I decided to ride the high and talk to Murray Burnett. The guy was 22, six foot four, CA 156, PA 164, and had an average rating for the season of 6.8 out of 10. He had two messages in the Future section of his profile:

Is disappointed with the club's league position.

Thinks the club's poor league position may be affecting his reputation.

In the period between me walking off the pitch at Anfield and quitting, Murray's profile had also said, 'Has lost confidence in his manager's ability.' Which, like, that's just your opinion, man. League rules meant he wasn't allowed to play against Everton, but he hadn't featured in the squads before or after.

"Bro," I said, in an amiable tone, because I was trying to rise above petty grudges and shit. "I hear you have concerns."

His eyes widened a little, indicating a psychological switching of states. Oh, we doing this right now? He steeled himself for battle. "Why have you dropped me?"

"I think you are not happy at Chester. You're on the fence about me as a manager and you've got thoughts about playing for a club who are bottom of the league. You've realised that you had everything you need at Everton and maybe Willie Berwick is seeing you in a shit team and some of our stink is getting on to you. You're in survival mode, thinking how you can stop Chester from killing your career. How am I doing?"

His eyes were almost bulging. "I've never said that. I've never said that."

"Mate, can you relax? Just take it down like twenty percent. You don't have to say it for me to know. I know everything that happens at my football club. If two players fall out, I see it in training the next day. If someone isn't having me, I see it." I shrugged. "I don't like it, course I don't, but if it made no difference on the pitch I'd find a way to rise above it. But it does go on the pitch, so I can't have it. 

"You played almost every minute of the first nine games and we got two draws. I drop you and we win. It's not because you're a bad player or because you're disruptive, but you're not enjoying this and the other players can feel it and maybe you're making them doubt themselves when I need them to believe in themselves. You'd be great to have on the bench but I can't have any negativity around the place on a match day, so it's better if you're not even in the squad. This is a relegation dogfight and I need dogs of war. Either you're in or you're out. I look at you and see someone who's out.

"And that's fine, whatever, but I told you before you signed that this would be a fucking grind and there would be times when it would be grim and you heard me say that and you chose to come to the club and now that it is grim you don't fancy it."

His face had hardened, but he kept control of his volume. "You said it would be tough. You didn't say you would walk off the pitch and get us a three-point deduction! You didn't say you'd put kids on at the ends of matches where we could have got points! You didn't say you'd be playing for Saltney while we were getting hammered by Arsenal!"

"We're not in a contest with Arsenal; we're in a scrap with Leicester, Wolves, and Leeds. It's not as glamorous, I agree, but I think for all you present as a big tough defender you don't like adversity, you don't fancy the challenge, you don't want to take any responsibility. If you were dropping 8s and 9s every week and you were pissed off by how shit everyone else was, fine. But you're giving me 6s and 7s and still you're sneering and lording it over everyone else. Yeah, well, you can sneer from the terraces, can't you? While the rest of us get on with the fucking job."

He was torn between defending himself and attacking me. Mid-snarl, he saw me checking out his face like he was an interesting museum exhibit, and that made him bite his tongue and think harder. "You're saying you don't think I got the stomach for the fight. That's what you said to me that time and it stuck with me. You said that exact phrase because you thought I didn't have the stomach for the fight and now you're looking for evidence to back it up. But you ain't got none. I played hard every minute I been here."

I just looked at him.

He said, "If I'm not gonna play, why am I on this trip?"

"In summer, I looked you in the eye, your entourage, Everton's loans manager, and I said I would do my best to train you up. That was the deal. I paid 3.5 million to get you for the season and that's a big investment for this club. Everton would say I got a bargain, but they know how my players start a season and how they end it, and they're gonna make bank on you. You're not ready for their first team, but you will be by the time you leave Bumpers whether that's in January or summer.

"Going to The Vale isn't a birthday party where I only invite my mates. You'll come, you'll train at a national team's headquarters, you'll play against Wales. You're not so fucking arrogant you don't see that as a positive, do you? Do you want me to line up fucking Argentina?" I had started so well, so calmly, but I was getting steamed up.

"No, it's good," he said, taking his volume down as mine rose. "I just meant... If you're gonna bin me off, bin me off properly."

"I like you and I like Everton and I like having premium assets around and you haven't done anything harmful or disrespectful. You are as close to the bin as Wibbers or Youngster. We might agree that it's best for you to go back to Everton in Jan. You just say you couldn't work with me; they won't think less of you. I'm difficult, aren't I? Falling out with players happens at every club with every manager, even the best of the best. Everton already have my money and they won't give it back but I want to be a manager who always does what's best for a player. Neither of us benefit from you being here if you don't fancy a relegation scrap."

"Why do you - " His anger flared, but he controlled it. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because I know. Why are you being obtuse? You know. I know. I haven't told anyone, not even my wife, and I'm not going to, but you can't play for me. What I don't understand is why you came to Chester in the first place after I told you exactly how it was going to be. You could have stayed at Everton and trained hard and it wouldn't have been long until you got your break."

He was gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw, dragging his bottom lip against his top teeth, all the signs of someone trying to squash their anger. "I needed to play. I wanted to be first name on a team sheet for someone, anyone, and everyone told me Chester would be perfect because they didn't have quality players, didn't have bodies. Then you got Edgar and Dumi and I realised Magnus could play centre back. I thought, I've got a battle on here but you picked me every match." He stared ahead. "That meant something. But we kept losing and you weren't even around. We kept losing and you came back and made everything worse. Me mates were laughing at me in the chats. Me dad was... He didn't know what to say because he never slags off me managers but I knew he wanted to. Me agent was saying, keep your head down, just do the work, it's mad but this is good for you."

I scoffed. "You've got a good agent. Listen to him, Jesus. My take is that if we had played half the season and we were still utter dogshit, you would be right to lose patience and to worry about your rep. But we're not halfway and we're very clearly and obviously improving and I for one am fucking hyped about this challenge. I dreaded a relegation dogfight but now that I'm in it, with all the odds stacked against us, I'm exhilarated. This is never going to happen to Chester again. If we survive, next year we will finish top six. The year after we'll be gunning for the title.

"This will be my last ever top-tier scrap and fuck me, I'm ready for it. I want to get my hands dirty. I want to get down in the muck and dig up some nil-nils and grind out a zero xG win and fucking shithouse one of the big boys so bad they get two players sent off. That's what I want and I'm a fucking soy boy vegan hotdog utter woke madness winger. If I'm up for it, why isn't a hard man defender?"

"I am up for it."

"I just can't vibe with what I'm getting from you, Murray. Walking around with a face like a slapped arse going 'I'm too good for this'. You're living in everyone's dream house but you're complaining about the curtains. Fuck me. I'm getting fucking worked up just talking about this. You'll get top training, you'll come to the briefings and learn from the top minds in the game, but you're not getting on the pitch until I've seen that you're with us, and the sooner the better because if your Road to Damascus moment comes after we've won three matches back to back, then fuck you, that doesn't count. Do it now or go back to Everton on Jan first and strap in for a life of finishing 14th every season." I jabbed my thumb behind me. "You can go back to your seat. I've got some plots to hatch."

***

Monday, November 13

There were two main pitches at The Vale. On one, Well In drilled Wales for a while before a gaggle of Saltney Town's coaches took over. They taught the guys Relationism, except they called it Bestball. I say they 'taught' it, but really they let the players discover it for themselves through the drills we had perfected up in Saltney with our youth teams and the Welsh youth teams. These coaches were more expert in teaching it than I was, which was absolutely thrilling to me.

Much of the squad had picked up the basics before, and some were pretty good, but I had selected a few new faces for this round of matches, and anyway, it was always good to do Bestball training. It led to more pops in Decisions and Flair than an average session.

On the other pitch, Luisa, Elin, and Simone Ashton were coaching Chester Remnants.

To cap the session, we played Wales versus Chester, except that Wales were only allowed to attack down the sides, which basically forced them to use Bestball. I didn't join in, of course, because I was resting my foot. The bruising was almost gone, but I didn't want to start smashing thunderbastards just yet. Instead, I was watching Ed Heath very closely - Chester's next match was against Fulham, and I was secretly planning to man-mark him. A point in London would suit me fine, and getting it would be much easier if Ed Heath played the entire match in my pocket. Me plotting against my best player was slightly unusual, sure, but I found a great solution, which was not to think about it too much.

The match was chaotic and good-natured, and because I was solely focused on the Welsh team, the Chester boys were self-managing. Wibbers and Pascal seemed affronted to see Bestball be played so ineptly; they started to show off. 'This is how you do it, you muppets.' I hadn't planned for that to happen but it turned out great. First, it was a model of what was possible when playing Bestball, and second it triggered the natural competitiveness of the Welsh lads. 'I'm not being shown up by some kids!'

When possible, I took individual Welshmen aside and gave them tips and encouragement while incepting ideas into their head I might be able to detonate one day. Mostly this involved telling Premier League guys that I had developed a killer tactic that would work amazingly well against their clubs, but I also did some very mild destabilisation, asking if it was true that player X hated player Y, and so on.

***

That evening, I invited everyone who was interested to come to a meeting room to watch Chelsea Women play Chester Women. The WSL didn't always have matches on a Monday night, but they were pretty bold in filling the vacuum left by the men's international breaks. If there wasn't a Premier League match, why not watch a women's game? The organisers got lucky - very lucky - that there was such an enticing contest happening. The wannabes versus the champions. Nouveau riche versus old money.

It was a mouth-watering tie, but I was still surprised that almost everyone from Wales and the Remnants turned up. I wondered if I had been overly strident with my invitation, so much so that I stood on a chair and said, "Guys, you don't have to be here. If you want to go to your room and play games on your Switch, that's cool. Seriously. This will be a fun game but it's totally voluntary. Simone, did I say it's voluntary in a menacing way?"

"No, Max. And there's nothing menacing about the way you're looming over us."

I did an Italian-style gesture and said, "Mama mia! Fine, let's do it like this. Everyone out. Go away or you're binned."

Ray Jordan, the Wales captain, called out, "I already told my daughter I would be watching. We're gonna be texting each other; you couldn't pay me to leave. Can you tell me something that's likely to happen so I can impress her and make it seem like I know the first fucking thing about this sport?"

I threw my arms up. "How should I know what's going to happen? I'm a bald fraud."

"Seriously, boss, just one thing would be enough."

I looked at the big screen the hotel staff had dragged in for us. "Um... Chelsea are the best team in the country and have home advantage. We're the fourth best team but we're closing in fast. I expect Chelsea to have long periods of dominance but we will surprise them with our technical quality and if Macca Serra has a good game, we will probably be competitive. Jisook Kim has been neat and tidy so far this season without doing anything spectacular but she has been our best trainer in recent weeks and it wouldn't surprise me if she popped up with a key moment.

"Oh, another thing. Chelsea's bench is better than ours - for now - so I'm looking for a quality first half from us, a battling first half of the second half, and depending on the scores, for us to be fighting tooth and nail at the very end."

Ray Jordan looked down at his phone. "Could you condense that into a single sentence?"

"Could you get fucked?"

He laughed and got typing; I took my seat. Ed Heath, the best Welsh player, was to my right, while the delightful Simone Ashton was to my left. I got a text from Vikki, our set pieces coach.

Vikki: I've only been home for ten minutes and I've already had two ideas for super cool corner kick routines!

Me: Top! Let's check them out when we meet back up but I want to save our good stuff for December and our absolute best for Newcastle. I want to go on a Christmas rampage!

The match kicked off and the Chester lads cheered. "Come on, the Seals!" cried someone. I couldn't see Murray anywhere.

Ed Heath said, "You're the fourth best WSL club already?"

"Yep," I said. "In Soccer Supremo, Chelsea would be CA 144. We're just under 128. Off the top of my head, that's like a 50% chance of a home win, 30% draw, 20% Chester win. Not impossible but hard."

Chelsea took a grip of the match. I leaned forward to show that I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone. Why had I even arranged this watch party? Chelsea came close to scoring; I grunted in frustration. If I was there, I could have bridged some of the CA gap. But I was here, and on Friday we would play Man City but I would be getting ready to go to Albania. Was I doing the right thing? The Wales side quest was fun and there were benefits to Chester, but our best chance of winning the WSL was if I was there.

Chelsea scored. I let out an elongated, whiny howl. "Football is shit," I declared, as I stood and strode to the doorway. "Anyone caught playing football will be banned from football. Good evening."

I went to pee, returned, noted that Murray Burnett had slunk into the room at some point, and that was when Elsa Lund equalised after brilliant work from the Spanish players. "Football is so back," I declared, as I stomped around the perimeter. "If I ever hear you fucks complain about football again, there will be hell to pay."

Chelsea scored. "I can't take this!" I shrieked. "I can't take this!"

At half-time, I sat like a husk, a husk of a shell of a man. Ed Heath thought he knew how to cheer me up. "We've been stealing your tactics."

"Pardon me?" I said, turning to him with huskish, lifeless eyes.

"How you played against Leeds, stretching the pitch, that's what we did against them."

"We meaning Fulham?"

"Yes! My gaffer, he specifically said, our analysts lost their shit over Chester's approach, because there was the biggest xG variance in any match this season. To that point," he added. "We haven't heard their thoughts on you clipping Chels. I bet that one was bigger. So fucking awesome, boss."

"Soz, biggest xG variance? What does that mean?"

"Er..." He scrunched up his eyes. "Sort of... What the data guys expected going into the game versus what happened."

"So we outperformed our expected expected goals?"

Heathy leaned back and laughed. I couldn't help but notice that Simone Ashton, that goddess, was miring him. He said, "Is that a stat too far, boss? I thought you owned a data company."

"It starts to get nonsensical, doesn't it? It's like, if that's the number you're focusing on, you're missing some very, very significant others. Like which players are good and which are dogshit. Start there and then come to me with all this stuff that's not actionable."

Heathy stuck out his bottom lip, accepting the wisdom of what I was saying. "Are we going to beat Finland?"

"What the fuck?" I said. "What kind of question is that?"

Simone said, "That's a yes, Heathy."

A young forward from Liverpool rushed over. "Boss, boss! Have you seen dis?" He was waving his phone around. The headline said, 'Evaristo to become new Chelsea boss!'

"Oh, shit," I said. I checked the curse for confirmation, but there was none. Could it be the usual moronic speculation? I got my own phone out and found the same story appearing here, there, and everywhere. I sent texts to a bunch of people, including Wallace Wells, the Youth Cup winner I had sold to Chelsea. He would probably be the last to know who their new manager was going to be, but it was worth a shot.

Heathy said, "I've heard of him. Is he good?"

"He was manager of Bologna when I was at Bayern and he gave me nightmares. I beat him in the end but only because it was Bayern, you know? He's a phenomenal coach. He gets his players to do a Relationism hybrid that is fucking awesome to watch and a nightmare to play against. I mean, now I've got more skills than I had back then, so maybe it will be all right, but we're not getting an easy ride against him. Shit! The next time we play is almost the end of the season. We're gonna need to win that one. Shitsticks! Why couldn't they hire someone crap like they normally do?" I shook my head. "Things get harder. Of fucking course they do."

I sat and stewed in the news for a while - Wallace Wells replied saying that all the buzz in his chats was that Evaristo would be done before the end of the international break - and watched with a ton of frustration as Chelsea bossed the second half.

The problem was that Chester Women had four players who would get in the Chelsea side... and seven players who wouldn't get on the bench. Those players were crazily talented for the most part, but they were - 

I found myself on my chair, riding it like a Welsh pony. "Go on! Giddyup!"

Jisook Kim had taken the ball from Macca, and while the Korean normally one-touched the ball to someone else, this time she spun so quickly the nearest Chelsea player literally fell over. Jisook surged forward, got faster, touched the ball ahead to Elsa Lund, took the reverse pass, and blasted the ball into the net.

I literally nearly died jumping off that chair. I went - and this is not an exaggeration - one mile into the air, and when I landed I was nearly impaled on someone's lucky thermos flask.

"You called it!" yelled Ray Jordan, leaping into me. "You called it!"

"That's what you get!" I yelled back. "That's what you get when you train like you mean it!" I stomped around the little space, thumping my chest. "Train hard, play hard, get your rewards! I knew it when I saw her! I knew she was special! That's the champions she did that against. That's next level. That's next level!" I punched the air three times while hissing, "Come. The fuck. On!"

Jay waited until the 70th minute before he started making changes. Meredith Ann had looked like a good but unspectacular player, having been locked down by Chelsea's midfield and defence. She made way for Kit Hodges so that we could try going more direct. At the same time, Meghan was replaced by Femi. Youthful energy out, physicality in.

That helped, but then the fitness levels diverged to the point Jay had to act. Amongst his next raft of changes, he swapped Sarah Greene for Kisi. There were cheers in the meeting room as two Welsh girls, Dafina and Mari Hughes, got the chance to shine. I was all for it, but I knew the drop in CA was enormous. Dafina was the weakest player on the pitch at CA 91.

Inevitably, Chelsea pushed, pushed, pushed, and all we could do was defend for our lives. A 2-2 draw at Stamford Bridge would have been incredible.

In the last ten minutes, a simply brilliant Chelsea move suckered us into one part of the pitch, and three passes later they had carved us open and were swarming into our box. Another perfect pass and there was a certain goal...

Until Kisi stopped the shot from ever happening...

With a foul.

Red card, penalty!

But Chelsea had to score it. If they didn't, we could still hold out. Jay would be fixing the flaw in the instructions that had led to that one particular brain freeze.

Chelsea's Australian striker stepped up...

And Haley Goodhew saved the penalty!

One room in Wales went bonkers, for half a second. The Aussie got to the rebound and slammed it through Haley and into the net.

In The Vale, there were groans and anguished grunts. I stood and said, "Football is dead and we are all its murderers!"

I sent Kisi a message.

Me: That was beautiful. You were the first to react to the danger, you rushed to help, you took one for the team. And Haley saved the penalty! You did it all great. I am going to stop rinsing you about your defensive work for... seven weeks. No, days. Days. I said days.

***

Over the next few days, we kept training Bestball, always ending with a match against Chester Remnants. I got Luisa, Simone, and Elin to do some extra coaching with the Wales squad, to give those lads some different voices and different inputs.

On the Chester side, Murray Burnett trained well but not excessively so, and the messages in his profile showed no sign of going away. I had invited Jari Köngäs to come and train with us, because I thought that would be a kick-ass way to kiss his arse into shape before he officially joined us in January.

I told him all about my plans to use Bestball against Finland. He eyed me with great curiosity and said, "Are you not worried I will tell my friends at the national team?"

"Tell them! I welcome it. No offence but your head coach doesn't have the tactical chops to counter Bestball. It's invincible. It's unstoppable. The outcome of the match has been pre-determined, not by fate, but by Max Best. Tell your friends what awaits them so that they might prepare for a night of recrimination and self-loathing."

Yeah, I might have laid it on a bit thick, but when it comes to plots, thick is just how I like them.

***

On Wednesday night, Chester Women played another Nando's Cup group stage match. They had won the first three, which put them in a very strong position, so I told Jay to bin off the match against West Ham. He used Queenie in goal, our Welsh players, Femi, Charlotte, and so on. We had another huge match coming on Friday night, this time against Man City. Kisi would be suspended, but everyone else should be fully fit.

I stayed in my hotel room and watched the match on my own, and I was happy not to have to suffer in public. We were sloppy, lacked sharpness, lacked ideas. It was unpleasant on the eye, but it was all part of the learning curve for those young players. So what if we lost 2-0?

There was one bright spark, and that was the cameo from Devi Payed, a 16-year-old right midfielder who had CA 51, PA 149.

The way she played was absolutely crazy, like she had the zoomies. While the others moved in a predictable way, what we might call the Chester style, Devi was in her own little world. She reminded me of some little kids running around at random, but she was also the most compelling player on the pitch. She was electric, fast, and even though what she was doing was unpredictable, she seemed composed.

At full time, I closed the laptop and thought about what I had just seen. Devi had trained with us for a good while, but she was still very raw, very inexperienced. She played like a street footballer, and it was my job to either double down on that or train it out of her.

Something to discuss with her coaches when I got back.

I went for a walk around the hotel, had a late swim, and went to bed.

***

At 1 a.m., I woke with a start, and in true Hollywood movie fashion raced to the laptop. I got the match feed and watched the last 20 minutes again, skipping to the parts that featured Devi.

What had seemed immature on first glance was actually Devi doing 'push and run'. She would get the ball, give it to a teammate, then sprint forward, looking to get the return pass. It didn't always come back, but the move always created a gap, always got my pulse a little higher.

I blinked and looked around the room. Pitch black in Wales, watching the Nando's Cup. What the hell was I doing?

I closed the laptop, put it away, and tried to fall asleep.

Devi Payed, a PA 149 maverick. I liked the sound of that. 16 years old, getting her first proper minutes in the team. She would only benefit from experiences like these. The pipeline thickens!

***

Thursday, November 16

UEFA Nations League Group B Match 5 of 6: Wales vs Finland

Before this match, there was a very surprising incident. Scott Conrad, the new CEO of Lit (Formerly Maxterplanalytics) was wining and dining bigshots at the Millennium Stadium. He asked if I could pop into their executive box before the match? Or after?

It struck me that Scott was going to expense this box to Lit, meaning that I was paying for him to have a jolly night out. Even though I knew that was how a lot of business got done, I still found it annoying, so I left Well In to do the final prep. I really wanted to see how many supermodels Scott was schmoozing on my dime.

The answer turned out to be zero. He really was networking. There was Michael Ning, the Wolves owner, who was with Gong Bang. No surprises there. But there were also executives from Swansea City and Cardiff, the two biggest clubs in South Wales. There were a couple of guys from the advertising industry, but the guest that blew my mind was Tony Long, the CEO of Temps Perdu.

I smiled at everyone as I pulled Scott aside. "Did you invite Tony because he can vouch for the efficacy of DOVE even at lower levels of football?"

Scott's surprise was not faked. "No. Oh, because he's a big Tempsford fan? I didn't put two and two together. That's a great idea! I'll definitely circle back to that!"

"So why's he here?"

"Talk to him."

Tony was talking to Michael, so I sat next to them, declined a waiter's offer of a drink, and tried to switch my brain into a new mode. A big part of me was still in the dressing room, filling with testosterone. "Great to see you, Max!" said Tony.

"Likewise. Always a plesh."

"Saw you against Chelsea. What a match! In the first half, you would have thought Chester were the big club."

"Chelsea are big; Chester are massive." There was something about the way the guys were sitting. "Wait, you two know each other."

Tony nodded. "Michael has invested in three biotech firms."

"Four," said Michael.

"We meet at all the conferences," said Tony.

I eyed Michael. "Cars, medicines, is there anything you don't have a stake in?"

"Yes," said Tony. "A winning football team." Oof!

Michael winced. "We should have won the Championship last season! If that referee didn't hate Max, we would have beaten Ipswich to the title." He shook his head. "You don't even own Tempsford!"

Tony swirled a whisky. "Tempsford FC is a gift to the people of Tempsford, isn't it Max?"

"You betcha," I said, because I still didn't know why I was there and it was making me itchy.

"Here's a tip," said Tony, and it took me a second to realise he was talking to Michael. "You want to sack that Owen Roberts and get yourself a proper manager: Vimsy."

"What!" I said, laughing.

"Statistically," said Tony, "Vimsy is the best manager in England. His win percentage is in the 90s."

"So's his haircut," I said, which even got a laugh from Michael. To Tony, I said, "How's it going at Temps Perdu?"

Some of his humour left him. "Great. Tremendous. One or two setbacks, but people overreact to the smallest things." He sat up. "Max, I saw you with the Manchester United players with that little girl."

"Helen."

"Right. Very sweet, very adorable."

"She is, isn't she?"

"I meant you." He grinned so hard I was forced to grin back. He put his drink down and clasped his hands. "Please don't tell anyone this came from me, but if her treatment doesn't work, there are options."

"Options?"

He looked around. "Hainan."

I waited for an explanation but was forced to say, "I don't know what that is."

Michael took over. "Hainan is an island on the south of China. It is the world's number one destination for medical tourism. A treatment that costs 150 thousand in the United States can be had for 30 thousand in Hainan. Fly to a luxury hotel, get the treatment you need, fly home a hundred thousand dollars richer."

"Er, that sounds sketchy."

Tony said, "It is not. In my position I'm not permitted to be complimentary about China - politicians and the media get nervous around that word - but Chinese companies lead the world in medical patents, new medicines, research, they have eight of the top ten universities for chemistry, and so on and so on. If I were Helen's parents, I would be looking at Hainan. Personalised treatment. Precision medicine. The future is happening right there, right now. I know you're invested in Helen's story. Hainan could be a chapter." He leaned back and closed his eyes for longer than a happy person does. "Michael wants to invest in Temps Perdu but the end result would be that our operations would move to China. I really want to build a business in Britain." He rubbed his face. "If it's possible."

Michael let out a small sigh. "The headquarters would not move. There would still be an R+D space; Cambridge will always be a leader in research and innovation. But when you have a product to sell, you can't build a factory in England! The supply chains for everything are in China." He turned to me. "I want to collaborate, not to transplant. Tony doesn't want to give up his baby. This I understand very well. He is a good father, but there comes a time you have to let your child move out of the house."

I said, "And go to the big city and become a communist for a couple of years."

Tony laughed. "Is that a joke about China?" He pointed at Michael. "Does he look like a communist? You're closer to being one than he is."

"Wait," I said, because my brain had finally kicked into gear. "Is there anything for my mum on that island?"

"Nothing you should try," said Tony. "But when there is something, you can either wait ten years for it to be approved here, or you can fly her to Hainan and get the treatment. We both know what you will do, so it might be a good idea to travel there beforehand and see it for yourself." He scoffed. "Find Tempsford a couple of good players, while you're at it. But if they're working on AI, leave them in place."

"Ohhhh!" I said, as a dozen different strands of knowledge and information combined into one searing flash of insight. I shot to my feet and paced around, hands on my head. The guys from Cardiff and Swansea gawped at me but I didn't care.

Old Nick had told me I needed to buy Temps Perdu. Why? I thought it was to get my mum to the front of the queue for treatments, but that had never quite made sense.

What if Old Nick wanted me to buy the company to sell it to Michael Ning so that he could take Tony's research to China and supercharge it? According to Pradeep, China had the best AI models and the lowest cost of development, and maybe Tony had already made a breakthrough but didn't know it. Maybe the answer was on Temps Perdu's servers somewhere and once a giant Chinese computer got its hands on the findings it would spit out a solution.

Or maybe the key was collaboration, teamwork. Yes, teamwork! British megabrains allied to Chinese structural advantages. Or maybe this was just the start of a journey that would touch all parts of the world. A worldwide solution to a worldwide problem! Maybe it was my job to give it that initial push.

My pulse was going haywire. Ideas were fizzing out of me, losing direction, reversing course and exploding in my skull, unleashing new waves of creativity. In amongst it all, I saw images of Devi Payed. What was the message? Push and run. See a problem, run straight at it. Don't think, just act.

"Everything all right, Max?" said Tony.

"Yeah," I said. "I just realised I forgot to name a goalkeeper. Seeya."

***

When I was out of sight, I got my phone out.

Me: I would like to increase my contribution to the sponsored swim. 10, more to come.

More to come! Michael Ning was going to pay me a million quid to sponsor cars. Maybe that was Old Nick at work? Michael gives me money that I use to buy Temps Perdu so I can sell it to him? The chain seemed quite demonic.

But, you know, in a good way.

Me: Soz, make it 11.

***

The Match

The meeting with the biotech bros got my head spinning, so I was happy for the distraction of a mundane bit of football management. Don't get me wrong, the stadium was bouncing, the Welsh anthem was spine-tingling, and the stakes were decently high.

But as matches went, this one was pretty simple. Hit the perks at the right time, check match ratings, Conditions, tweak, throw in a couple of massive changes in formation just for the lolz, wait to see the panic in the oppo manager's eyes, go back to the default.

We started well, took the lead from a Clive Allen header at a corner, went two up from Ed Heath fizzing a low shot from the edge of the box.

I went super defensive for the last ten minutes of the half, as if that would be my plan for the rest of the match.

My half time speech was me getting to the front of the room, waiting for everyone to look at me, then shrugging.

In the second half, Finland threw more bodies forward and our reliable counter-attacking combo came to the party. Chris Morgan to Neco Price, three-nil, goodnight Finland, hello Roddy Jones.

As the ref blew for full time, I double-checked the Live Table, which confirmed that we had won League B with a game to spare. Wales would be promoted to League A with the Spains and the Englands and whoever, but more importantly, we were guaranteed a playoff spot for the World Cup qualifiers.

Shortcut!

It was a pretty big achievement, to be honest, but I couldn't quite enjoy it. I was thinking about my mum, and I was thinking about Albania. Nothing against the place but I wasn't stoked about going and the match was meaningless. There weren't many matches that I was happy to lose, but this would be one of them. Maybe I would give minutes to all the squad players. Ed Heath would play the whole ninety, of course. He was Wales's best player, so he had to play. Which is code for 'I needed to run him into the ground so he would be tired against Chester, lol'.

As I stood there, being buffeted by waves of crowd noise, I felt something had changed. I hunted around in the screens and found an update in the last place I looked. 

Your Reputation in England: Good

Your World Reputation: Good

Hey, now! My World Reputation had been stuck on Poor for ages, so that was pleasing. Winning five international matches in a row carried some weight, it seemed.

Something made me check the Chester squad. Murray Burnett still had one of his whiny messages, but the one where he was worried about his reputation was gone. Gone!

Me having a higher reputation made him less worried about being associated with me.

Well well well. Turns out I'm quite easy to motivate.

Albania were going to get it!

In the time it took to have all those thoughts, the Finland manager had shaken hands with Well In and the other coaches and he was waiting to talk to me. I snapped out of my reverie just in time, accepted his handshake, and smiled at what he said to me.

"We were sure you would play Bestball! We prepared for that. I think you were tricking us this whole time."

"Tricks? Me?" I said, with pure innocence. "I would never. I'm a Good boy."

***

Friday, November 17

There was no training for the lads who played the night before, but the rest of the squad, mixed in with the Chester Remnants, had a quick, early session while anyone who needed a bit of physio went to medical. Then we boarded the Welsh team buses and/or Sealbiscuit and drove to Caerphilly.

It was a pretty basic day out. Visit the famous castle, take selfies showing us holding up a Pisa-style leaning tower, buy some cheese from a local shop.

Henri and Banksy came up to hang out with us. Luisa and Henri seemed... okay?

Halfway through a specially-arranged cheese tasting session in which I relegated France to third place in the European Cheese League, I got a text from Briggy. I excused myself for a minute, and when I returned, I had bought another 4.71% of Temps Perdu for a cost of 3.3 million pounds. I controlled 9.05% of the shares.

***

The Chester staff went home, as did Henri and Banksy, and the Wales team went to Cardiff to stay in a hotel near the airport.

We had a huge team dinner, along with the Welsh FA, key sponsors, and all sorts. It was a fun crowd, I have to admit, but it meant I couldn't watch Chester Women at home to Man City.

Gwen said, "I've spoken to Brooke and she's more than happy if you aren't watching. They want to try some things out. Goal music, flashing lights..."

"Oh, shit," I said, clutching my hair. "Flame cannons! Don't tell me she's doing flame cannons. How am I just realising that was her plan all along?"

Gwen smiled. "She said the clue was in the name. Bangers and Match."

"Are cannons the banger or the match?"

"It works for both, doesn't it? I have to be honest, Max, I'm hoping the experiment works. If it works in Chester it'll work everywhere. Leave them alone, let them try things out. You're allowed to follow the scores on your phone."

"Oh, wonderful. Great. Thank you very much." I tutted. "I turn Wales into a powerhouse and this is the reward I get. I'm a literal prisoner in this fancy dinner."

"I got you a present."

"Yeah?"

"The Queen of Iceland. She's stuck in traffic but she'll be here."

My eyebrows shot up. "Conjugal visits! Okay, I'll behave."

"By the way, got some news. Someone dropped out of the squad. The women's squad," she explained, quickly. "So the manager decided to move Dafina up."

"Dafina's in the Wales squad? That's amazing! The first of our Ffamous Five. Your Mari will be next."

"Thanks to you."

Dafina's call-up was a great distraction for all of thirty seconds, but then my mind kept returning to the big match. I did my best to stay present in the room, and only checked my phone six times per minute. It was the last match before the women had their own international break.

Kisi couldn't play against her former club because of her suspension, but Sarah Greene and Meghan could. I had a feeling they would play great, and I was right.

Chester 1 (Meredith Ann) Man City 0.

I found the goal in potato resolution on social media in the ten seconds before DigiWorld nuked it. Meghan passed to Sarah, who dribbled at speed and was fouled. Meredith Ann took the free kick left-footed and scored. Really superior strike, that. She was inching towards greatness every single day.

I smiled all the way through the soup course, then got grumpy when my phone pinged. Chester 1 Man City 1.

The next course arrived. Chester 2 (Smith-Smithe) Man City 1. (Some penalty area mayhem put the ball at Elsa Lund's feet, but she passed to Dani, who had the better angles.)

Emma arrived, looking a little bit flustered. She walked straight to the nearest table, grabbed a player's drink, and downed it. She was satisfied for a maximum of one second, but then the liquid activated her taste buds. "Christ," she said. "What the crap is that?"

"It's non-alcoholic, Mrs. Best."

"Fuck that! Where's the good stuff?"

Yeah, she knew how to make an entrance. She distracted me for so long I forgot there was an important match taking place. When I looked next, it was Chester 2 Man City 2. "Shit," I mumbled. The next 15 minutes dragged and dragged. The minute counter went to 90, 90+1, 90+2, and three minutes later changed to FT.

I sagged back into my chair, relieved, disappointed, drained. 2-2 was a great result - for Chelsea. They were moving away from both us and City. A title charge looked slightly out of our reach, but we could definitely finish in the top three and get Champions League football next season.

"You kay, babes?"

"Yeah. We're competing against some of the biggest clubs in Europe and we're doing well. We will get better faster than them, so, yeah, I'm okay. I wonder what it was like? The Bangers and Match concept."

"Brooke asked people not to talk to you about tonight. No chat, no video. She wants to surprise you."

That was weird. "Er, what? What surprise? She can't know the results of the experiment before it's over..."

Emma leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. "Don't worry about it, oh mighty international manager. How do you feel about Albania?"

"Albania?" I exclaimed. "I barely know her!"

Emma rolled her eyes. "That is just a weird joke. Why do you persist with it?"

"Hang on, getting a voicemail. It's from SecJoe. Odd." I listened to it, and a smile spread across my face.

"What?" said Emma.

"There was an injury so someone dropped out of England under 17s. Devi Payed got called up to replace her." I stared at my phone. "They're finally realising that we've got the talent. Devi's moved from the fast lane to the even faster lane. This is mint. This is so mint. The more women we get in the England squads, the more pressure there will be on Alan Turner."

Emma held out her fist. "Bump that."

"Bosh."

***

Sunday, November 19

UEFA Nations League Group B Match 6 of 6: Albania vs Wales

Almost as soon as we landed in Tirana, I had a good feeling about the place. It was cleaner and more modern than I had been expecting. There were some really cool buildings and the stadium was a revelation. It was architectural, skinned in red LEDs for what I assumed would be some highly dynamic displays, while the ground level was home to high-end clothes shops, cafes, and restaurants, which spilled onto a vast plaza.

Inside, the stands were steep, which would give great views and retain all the noise. It was absolutely top. I could see Dylan thinking the same as me - I have to come back here one day and properly explore the city.

There were about ten thousand fans watching, with a fair number of those being Welshmen. The anthems were sung lustily and received with respect from the other fans. Booing the oppo's anthem was an English disease.

We lined up in a dour 4-4-2 but as soon as the match started, I smashed the Relationism button.

Where the module normally invoked some kind of feeling or emotion that it invited me to work through, like anxiety or excitement, today the theme was 'Ad-Venture!' When my players combined with one-twos or completed 'ladders', when they moved the ball forward or rushed back into defensive positions, various meters filled. When they filled, I was encouraged to 'pop' them to gather on-pitch bonuses that worked like my in-game perks.

Recently when doing Relationism, I had stopped popping the meters and activating the power-ups because it was addictive and I didn't like the feeling, but this one was so strange that I went along with it for a while.

When I popped one meter, it created a new, bigger one called 'Portfolio'. As others filled and were popped, I got the choice of filling the Portfolio bar or feeding the 'energy' back into my players. The first time I powered up my players, a worrying red bar appeared. This was labeled 'Socialism' and the vibe was very much that I shouldn't let that one fill up.

In this mini-game, hoarding wealth for myself was very much rewarded, but giving it away was punished.

"What the fuck," I said, after ten minutes, as I swiped the whole thing away.

Were the imps poking fun at me for being a hypocrite? Rinsing me for complaining about how private equity destroyed businesses while I was using my wealth to do the same thing? That made no sense. I wanted Temps Perdu to flourish and I didn't care where in the world that happened. The benefits of any health breakthrough would be felt worldwide and the only person who could conceivably be upset about it was Tony Long, and in the worst-case scenario where he 'lost' his company, he would still be obscenely wealthy and would be known as the man who cured a horrible illness.

"Fucking imps," I muttered.

I marched to the touchline and did things the old-fashioned way - by shouting at footballers until they played better. And why not? After all, Vimsy was statistically the best manager in England.

***

28'

Albania 0 Wales 1 (Ford)

31'

Albania 0 Wales 2 (Allen)

***

"Okay, lads, shut the fuck up. It's time for my big half-time speech." I pointed to my left, towards where I guessed the home dressing room was. "They're all in there wondering how the fuck they're supposed to play against Dragonball. The manager's there with his tactics board moving the pieces around, telling his guys what to do. Okay? So we're going to play 4-2-3-1, nothing special, no tricks, and that's going to fuck with their tiny minds. That's it. See you on the other side."

Well In came over to me. "You've been planning this since day one of camp."

"Before that, but yes."

His eyebrows twitched slightly. "Explain it to me."

"Yeah, it's not that complicated. Think beyond these two matches to the World Cup qualifiers and the World Cup itself. We very publicly train Bestball and the Finns get ready for that. We play normal, they've wasted some prep time, other managers are onto me. Then we actually use it in the first half against Albania. They're not expecting it, haven't prepared. Second half they pivot, but they pivot right into my fist. Next match, we train Bestball or we don't, we use it or we don't, no-one has any clue. To make things even more complicated, we can use it only in the first half or only in the second. Every oppo will need to prepare two plans, so half their prep will be wasted, every time."

He frowned. "Why don't you do this in the Prem?"

"Who says I won't?" I smiled. "The Prem's full of top managers, experienced managers. I'll break it out at the right time and it might get us a couple of points this season but the real trick will be getting the hybrid working." I rubbed my chin. "Maybe Evaristo coming to the Prem will be good for me. He's a knob but he was miles ahead of me when it came to developing new systems." I clapped Well In on the arm. "We'll have to go watch them, once he's had a chance to get his ideas across to the Chelsea boys."

"We'll all be dead and buried by the time someone gets through to that bunch of numbskulls."

***

The second half went perfectly. The home team spent ten minutes in confusion before their Italian head coach reorganised them to play exactly how they had done at the start. It was actually comical.

With both teams playing 'normal' football, we did some of our rapid counter-attacks and this proved too scary for the coach. He added bodies to his rest defence, and while Albania played some neat football, they didn't have enough attacking firepower to hurt us.

As the clock ticked down, I made changes. Roddy Jones got half an hour, and a bunch of lesser lights got ten or twenty minutes. Something to tell their grandchildren. It was like Well In could read my mind. "They will be buzzing off this, Max."

"I know. They'll get to tell people they played for Max Best."

Well In stared at me. "This equals the all-time longest win streak for Wales. Six in a row. We've only ever done it once before. If you win the next one, you'll go into the history books." He jerked his head towards the pitch. "And so will they."

"Yeah, first of all, you're co-manager, and your name is alphabetically before mine."

"It's not."

"Okay, well, sorry about that, but it's a Lennon-McCartney thing, isn't it? I'm Aaron Lennon."

"John Lennon."

"Sure. Huh, longest win streak. How come this is the first I've heard of it?"

"Because you don't do social media and you don't do the press conferences."

Good point. The subs all had Superb Morale. They would go home and receive the adoration of their friends and families. Everyone was happy! And I'm sure Fulham's manager was delighted when Ed Heath took a whack to the shins with two minutes of the match remaining.

"Run that off," I shouted. "Pain don't hurt."

***

XP balance: 18,555

XP required for the final perk: 22,000

Number of pushes needed: One last.

***

Monday, November 20

I awoke in a great mood in a great bed next to a great woman.

The first Wales side quest was complete. It had enhanced my reputation, which had more benefits than I would have predicted. I had doubled my stake in Temps Perdu.

Life was good, sometimes. "Babes," I said, as I pulled Emma close to me. "Think carefully about your next word, because something tells me it will be the four millionth word in my memoirs. Don't say 'Rosebud' because that's already taken. Ready? Go!"

She squirmed around and looked me deep in the eyes. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, "Omelette."

"That's the word, is it? That's the seminal four-millionth word in my story?"

"It would be easier if you gave me two words."

"Yeah, sure, I'll just delete some match action. Okay, go."

"Cheese omelette."

I laughed, kissed her, and skipped downstairs to start breakfast.

***

I drove to Bumpers, where Brooke had asked to meet me before I did anything else. I walked around, enjoying the feeling of progress. The trip to South Wales had knocked some CA into some players, and Magnus and Jimmy had both played twice for Scotland. International caps were flying!

Some of the new academy buildings were visibly higher. From one of the side pitches, a stray ball came to me. I gave it a satisfying clip through the nozzle and it floated majestically to Charlotte's foot.

Brooke was approaching from the side with a quizzical look on her face. "What?" I said.

"That was your right foot, wasn't it?"

I looked down, surprised. "Yeah. I didn't even think twice."

Brooke smiled. "Defence spending is set to rise."

"Shit, that's a great line. Can we use that?"

"I stole it," she said. She jerked her head. "Come with me."

We crossed Bumpers Lane, went through the McNally, and emerged onto the pitch. My jaw dropped. The PetPride Stand was... Well, it was standing! Almost. Kinda. Some of the frame was up. "When the fuck did this happen?"

She was delighted that she had been able to surprise me. "Remember you gave me five million to get it done faster? This is the result. We're getting it done, faster. You know how rapidly it goes up once we get all the groundworks done. The sides will be done this week, which means..."

"Which means!" I said, beaming. My smile faded. "I don't know."

She laughed. "Which means we can get temporary stands in the other two corners. We'll have them filled in before the next home match. That's another 1,560 tickets we can sell. Total capacity over 13,000."

"Holy shit," I said, getting excited. "Number go up!"

"More matchday revenue, more merch income, more food and drink sales."

"More atmosphere," I countered. "More first-timers, more memories. Wait, the next home match? Against West Ham? That's gonna be dreadful. I've got a stink and a half planned for that one."

She shook her head. "Sorry, I wasn't counting that because it's in eight days and no amount of money could get us ready. I meant the one after. Ipswich."

"The Tractor Boys? The Fash-curious? We will fuck them up! Yisss! Yiss, mate."

Brooke pointed to what used to be a big hole, but could no longer be described as such. "The stadium's becoming more dense, Bumpers is getting full." She fixed me with her version of a cheeky smile. "The plot thickens."

At that moment, so much had happened in the last eight days that I couldn't think why she had used that phrase, so I said, "Soz what?"

She let out a cute little grunt of frustration. "It's exactly what you said to me."

"It is?"

"Yeah, it was a great line. A real banger." She tapped me on my chest. "First I gave you Bangers and Match. Now I'm matching your bangers."

...

Thanks for your support!

I checked my weather app and for the 10-day forecast it just said YOU'RE GOING TO MELT, YOU STUPID WEAKLING! Maybe I should switch back to the default Apple app.

Last summer I kept my output pretty high but this year looks like being especially brutal, so let's see how that pans out. I would move to Iceland but they have mosquitos now and my wife has a hard no on Iceland. She won't say why, so I assume it was an incident with an elf.

OH OH OH I'm not happy with using 'plesh' as the short form of pleasure. But variants with a Z don't work. Plesz? Plezsch? If you have an upgrade on plesh, plz tell me. K thanks bye.