7.11 - Live Laugh Love [T3]

11.

Tuesday, December 5

UEFA Champions League Match 6 of 8: Inter Milan versus Saltney Town

89'

Schnakenberg saves!

And he keeps the ball, too. Good handling by the big Aussie.

He gets to his feet and hurls the ball to his left.

Toquinho gathers and plays forward to Kornek.

Kornek resists a challenge and lays the ball back to Badford.

Badford shapes to drive to his left, draws a challenge, and glides to his right.

Smooth play from the young Englishman. He nudges the ball into the path of Peeters.

Peeters accelerates, then plays a clever pass for Kornek to chase.

The Pole shoots!

But it's a comfortable save for the keeper.

The Saltney Town bench are all up and applauding. That was a lovely passage of play from the youngsters.

The fourth official signals that there will be three minutes of injury time.

***

"That were lovely, that," said Well In, as the minute counter hit 90.

"Gorgeous. Playing fantasy football in the San Siro? They'll remember tonight for as long as they live."

We were losing 3-0 to one of the most famous football clubs in the world, in one of the most famous stadiums in the world. The San Siro was a landmark, a museum, but it was outdated - a word which here means 'unable to generate cash by the bucketload' - so a replacement was being constructed nearby, a modern marvel that AC and Inter Milan hoped would beef up their bottom line and generate enough money to bring them back in line with other European giants.

It was unclear if the new stadium would be built on schedule, but the number of matches that would be played in this brutalist beauty was rapidly decreasing and it was an honour to compete here before it was demolished. I had taken an unusual amount of photos, had enjoyed simply walking around looking at things while thinking of all the great players who had come before, all the times these concrete walls had been shaken by the roar of the crowd.

Inter had started with an average CA of 152 (20 points lower than the top Prem teams or Bayern, which showed why they needed the new stadium). Saltney had come to the party with 133. We'd had loads of training pops in the past six weeks, and multiple members of the first team squad had capped out. Snakey, Davey Barnes, and the lads on loan from Wrexham had peaked. Colin Beckton had found a couple of CA down the back of a sofa, long after I thought he had hit his age cap.

But as ever, the most interesting players were the young ones with huge potential. Tockers, the Brazilian winger, was a slow burn - he was only CA 104, still had 50 points to go, and was taking his sweet time getting them. As far as I could tell he was training hard and being professional - I hoped he was simply a late bloomer. Tony Herbert, the hulking Panamanian centre back, was looking seriously good, and had given another overwhelmingly positive showing of himself, even in defeat. The Inter strikers might not remember his face, but they would certainly remember the feel of his studs. Tony was 132/150 and was so perfectly suited to English football that when he peaked, I would be tempted to feed him some Attribute improvements. (Please please please give me more God Save the King slots!)

Dan was up to CA 135. That was close enough to Prem levels that I was starting to think about taking him back to Chester in January. I probably wouldn't, but he was so easy on the eye it was ridiculous. He was playing in the San Siro the way he played in casual kickabouts - languid, unhurried, unflappable. His personal motto: I break hearts without breaking a sweat.

Bertie Kornek, the Polish striker, was 95/180. Rapid improvement, loving Champions League football. Ten minutes against Arsenal, twenty against Inter. Not long ago, he had been a reserve in the Polish second division.

Ludo Peeters, the Belgian phenom, was just a joy to watch. For me, anyway. I saw a PA 196 genius trying to play at his peak before his body was ready. Other football insiders saw a guy with a reputation for being difficult who dribbled into trouble, gave the ball away trying impossible passes, and was often caught out of position when defending. His data was that of a CA 99 player, but it wouldn't stay that way. He was still growing taller and stronger and his decision-making was improving rapidly. He wasn't even a difficult character. Explain things to him, let him give feedback, don't take it personally, job done.

The ref looked at his watch.

If Chester stayed up, Dan and Tony would probably rejoin the first team squad next season. They would be 140+, I reckoned, which was close enough to the cut off of 150 to be a squad player, and both would improve fast with PL minutes.

Tockers, Ludo, and Bertie needed another season of regular first-team football. Probably still at Saltney, since exposure to the CL was really beneficial, but the bread and butter games, the Welsh league itself, was already no challenge to them. But where else would they have access to two different training compounds, two different sets of coaches? A mad idea suggested itself - what if we moved Saltney into the English pyramid? Ha, that would be hilarious, but no. I had to improve the Welsh league.

The ref looked at his watch again.

This defeat would mean three in a row in the Champions League, as expected. 7 points from 3 games had become 7 points from 6. We needed to have 9 after 8. Next up was Union Berlin, in Wales, and I quite fancied us to get at least a point. A win would be spectacular. A win would put us into the Champions League knockouts!

One single win would earn Saltney at least three million quid, with the chance to grab a load more. In other words, it was free money that would pay for the single biggest indulgence of my entire life - a car as expensive as my mum's bungalow. Not that lack of money would be the thing to stop me buying it. I had the money, and I was netting 200 grand a month after tax, so this car was 'only' going to cost three months' income. The question was, would the maverick craftsman who hand-built the cars want to sell one to me? I wasn't a car guy, wasn't cool, didn't care much about appearances. He would take one look at me and think, this British dullard is not worthy of my car. Only fifteen will ever be made, I must be discerning.

Peep peep peeeep!

I rubbed my hands together. Maybe the carmaker was an Inter Milan fan and he would be pleased that his team had beaten mine so easily. But just in case, I wanted to practice being charming to Italian men. I walked over to Inter's head coach, hugged him warmly, slapped him on the back, and told him he smelled nice.

***

Saltney were flying home after the match, but since my appointment to meet the carmaker was on Friday, I had invited Dan Badford to stay another day so we could go to a museum. Dan had invited Ludo and Bertie - apparently his trainee culture vultures - so the four of us showered, changed, said bye to the others, and went up in a lift, getting more excited with every floor. We had been in the inner sanctums and secret chambers of many stadiums, but this was the San Siro. This hit different.

In a private box with a sensational view of the pitch, in a space that reeked of history, we ate with Inter's director of football and some of his lackeys. I didn't much like the guy, but whatevs. The food was just as spectacular as the pitch, and we talked about the teams we had faced in the CL. I told him how I would set Inter up to play Arsenal, though I didn't think he was paying much attention. To him, I was the brash manager of one of the worst PL teams of all time.

He cracked the top of a panna cotta with a little spoon. "Do you still wish to visit the women's training ground in the morning? To see your Angel?"

"Nah," I said, gesturing to Ludo and Bertie. "I've got more kids to babysit. I need to keep them busy, tire them out so they don't get fussy. Angel's a big girl; I'm sure she's fine." Dan eyed me sharply but didn't say anything. I continued, "We're gonna explore Milan. Milano with the boyos! Gonna kick up a storm in the piazzas. Dos cafes and dos agua minerales, per favore."

Dan frowned slightly, but brightened as he said, "We want to visit La Scala. Get a guided tour, if possible. We know it's out of season. Or we'll visit the Pinacoteca di Brera. We're going to try to convince Max that his favourite Italian painter should be Tintoretto, not Caravaggio."

I scoffed. "They're so young. So naive. Yeah, anyway, we'll be busy all day tomorrow. Hey, what do you think about the changes at Spurs?"

***

On the drive to the hotel, Dan asked me why I had spoken Spanish and pretended to be an idiot. 

"That's my secret," I explained. "I don't need to pretend."

The lads were too hyper from the match to even think about sleep, so they went to the bar to play Polish card games with millions of rules. I was hyper, too, but I went straight up to my room. I needed to be alone to play with my new toys.

The photos I had taken would remind me that I had been one of the last managers in the San Siro, but they would also remind me of the time I completed the curse shop. Having blasted past 22,000 XP, I had bought Match Archive.

This perk allowed me to see every professional match that had happened anywhere in the world from the moment I picked up the curse, as if I had been present. (Almost as if I had been present - there were a couple of limitations.)

I navigated to the first match played by Chester's next opponent, Ipswich Town, over each of the last five seasons, noting how their approach had changed and how their lineup was almost totally different. I went to a club with more stability - Arsenal - and saw a very slight evolution in the tactics screens. Their xG (expected goals) trended up in that time while their xGA (expected goals against) trended down. Good coaching.

I went to Grimsby Town to see who their last Man of the Match was. I went to Kilmarnock's last five fixtures to see how many minutes our striker Lucas Cook was getting. I went to matches in the MLS, Australia, and Korea to see if every line of commentary was in English, and if words were spelled properly. (They were.)

I went back to old Chester matches that now included all the stats I didn't have access to in the old days. We had bloody battered Kidderminster in that Christian Fierce match! I knew it!

Yeah, the Match Archive was a handy resource, something with lots of obvious applications. If a club got a new manager, I would be able to see years of matches from his previous teams. The commentary would tell me if he liked to get defensive after going a goal up. Even if he came from a country that didn't have great data coverage, I would be able to draw some simple conclusions that I could give to my coaches.

What Match Archive didn't do was let me click on players I hadn't scouted. And if I did click on guys I had in my database, it showed the latest data I had in my head, not how the player looked on that particular day. Such info would probably have been too powerful, since I would have been able to learn a ton about how other clubs trained, and maybe even have drawn concrete conclusions about negative PAs, and nailed the link between high PA and training speeds.

Ah, well. It was good and I was glad to have a new tool.

XP balance: 724

I sat on my bed and looked through the window onto the city lights. It was time for the OTHER new toy!

Replacing the bland old perk shop was a bold, colourful new tab labelled PCK. This was the Perk Construction Kit, and it allowed me to suggest perks. The imps (or The Sentinel) would give my personalised perk a price, and I could decide to pay it or not. As with the custom-made car I wanted to buy, I expected to pay a premium compared to the usual prices. Also, I could only suggest one perk per day, and I wasn't sure if I would be able to load the new shop with perk ideas and build a stock of options or if, in the words of my favourite movie, there could only be one.

Visually, the new screen was deeply irritating, in that it had been based on Apple's 'Liquid Glass' effect, all shimmering occlusions and transparencies and icons that vanished and text you could barely read. My first thought was 'How many XP would I spend to get a plain, usable screen?' For now at least, the screen comprised two elements.

The lower half was a large space in which I could input text - I quickly started to think of it as the 'suggestion box'. Above the box was what passed for a tutorial in these parts, which told me that I was basically dealing with an AI chatbot interface. A hellish step backwards, with a graphical style to match.

Fucking imps.

The tutorial gave three examples of prompts I might use, and I suspected that the third one had been written by a different imp.

I would like a perk that allows me to voluntarily donate experience points to my kindly benefactor, the man I affectionately call Old Nick.

I would like a perk that gives me electric shocks when I go onto the pitch, to remind me that I'm supposed to be a manager.

Please create a perk that makes an oppo need to go to the potty very urgently!! And when they come back, everyone knows what they did and everyone laughs!!!

At the bottom of the guidance, it said, 'Try me now! There is no cost to requesting a perk, though the more complicated the request, the longer it will take to generate a fair price.'

Yeah, so, that was interesting. If I asked for a multi-part God Save the King upgrade, I was going to be made to wait for ages, so it would be smart to split that request into three. And it might also be smart to load up a few small, simple options so that if I accidentally stumbled upon something that took ages to process, I would still have stuff to buy and would still be able to maintain a feeling of forward momentum.

I had promised myself that I would ask for a perk that gave me injury info for referees. If one had a head injury or was about to pull a hamstring, I wanted to know about it. Such a perk was about trying to be a decent person and there was no chance of me getting a competitive advantage from it, so surely it would be cheap. A great test case for the Perk Construction Kit!

I mentally filled in the field, experimented with different phrasing, and settled on:

Show me Condition, Morale, and Injuries for referees and their crew.

I hit 'send' and struck a dramatic pose. "What do we do now?"

I settled into a chair, kicked my feet onto the corner of the bed, and tipped an imaginary cowboy hat over my head.

"Now, we wait."

***

(And then I replied to some texts and emails and went to bed like a normal person.)

***

Wednesday, December 6

When I woke up, I had a reply. Custom Perk 001 had been accepted and was available to buy for the princely sum of 100 XP.

I wasn't sure if Old Nick had artificially lowered the price to prevent me from having another referee-based meltdown or if it was cheap because it was effectively worthless, but whatevs. I very nearly bought it right away, but remembered I wanted to see if I could stack perks in the new shop. My next match was on Monday, so I had time to experiment.

So while I showered, I thought about a couple of other quick, simple upgrades I could get.

Give me a perk that says how injury-prone a player is.

I hit send, expecting to hear back the next morning with a price of 1 to 2,000 XP. But I got an immediate reply.

Function not available.

Oh. What? So did that mean I had wasted today's shot?

Show me player Attributes beyond 20.

Function not available.

Show my own player profile.

Function not available.

Argh! The imps had captured the essence of modern user interfaces all too well. This was aggravating!

I leaned my forehead against a shower tile and tried to calm down. It was quite possible that on this trip I would have a meal with Don Pino and his agent friends - they had helped me to beef up the Saltney first eleven, so the least I could do was let them buy me dinner. Foreigners always complained that I gave player wages in weekly terms; there could be an easy fix to that.

I want a perk that lets me switch between weekly, monthly, or yearly amounts. 

Word perfect. Send that!

One minute later... nothing happened, which meant they were processing my request.

***

I met Dan, Bertie, and Ludo in the hotel's lobby, pushed them into my rental car, and zoomed off.

Dan said, "Where are we going?"

"There's no time to explain!" I said, dramatically, just as we hit our first red light. "Okay, fine, there is time but I don't want to." We hopped out of the car near Parco Nord, and walked south towards a cluster of yellow buildings. The closer we got, the more we heard whistles and the distinctive barks of football coaches.

While we walked, I checked out the clothes the lads had chosen for our big day out. Dan was in cream pants, smart shoes, a green woollen top, big coat, matching beanie. Ten out of ten, no notes. Ludo was in bright red trousers with a crisp white shirt and bling that matched his belt buckle. Trying a little too hard, dressing how he thought a superstar midfielder should dress, and he had obviously underestimated how cold it was. I asked if he needed a jacket and with him being a man the question annoyed him. In my head canon, Bertie had gone to the lobby in a tracksuit and Dan had sent him back upstairs. 'We're going to a nice restaurant, mate!' So now the Pole was in big white trainers, dark pants, with a white top under a denim jacket. Not great, not terrible.

Me? Oh, how polite of you to ask. Premium hoodie, mate. Premium hoodie and top trim.

We arrived at the compound and it became clear to the lads that I didn't know exactly where to go. Surrounding the pitches were the yellow buildings, a six-foot-high fence to offer privacy, and a ten-foot high security fence. I was leading us away from the front entrance, scurrying around the sides of the fence like a handsome rat. Dan said, "Max, what are we doing?"

"I was flirting with a server at the match last night and she told me this place has the best waffles in Milan. Now shush." I walked around, three elite footballers in tow, looking for a good place to see without being seen. Such skills were taught on day one for every new employee at Southampton FC, but I wasn't a natural spy and Ludo's pants were dazzlingly bright, which made hiding our presence tricky. There were a couple of false dawns and the lads started to grumble until I told them if they didn't shut the fuck up I would fine them a week's wages. "This'll do," I said, as I found the place I was looking for. From here, I would be able to stand on tiptoes and see onto the pitches. I turned to the lads. "I thought this would be a good place to give you a performance review."

"What?" said Ludo. "Here? Why here?"

"It's thematic. Have you seen the movie Patton? It's wild. General Patton is driving around Italy or Greece doing a war and he stops his jeep in a random field and goes, it was here! Dude goes, what was here? Patton goes, the battle. He describes some ancient battle, says he knows it was on that very spot, he can smell it. When I first watched Patton, aged 7 - that was my first run-through of all the Oscar winners - I thought that scene was far-fetched, but now I know that those who are supremely well-versed in their particular areas of expertise can smell knowledge. To those such as I, knowledge is a timeless commodity. This," I said, sniffing the air, "is where it happened."

"Where what happened?" said Dan.

"The first ever nutmeg in Italy. Okay, so listen. Bertie, you are making great progress. Movement, playing with your back to goal, working the channels, pressing as part of a pack, and your left foot is already ten times more reliable than since I signed you. I'm already thinking about what to do with you next season. Are you happy at Saltney? Think you could stick it out another year?"

"I'm playing Champions League at The Emirates and the San Siro. I'm happy. Hungry but happy."

"Yeah, good. Staying put looks optimal for now but if the situation changes, we'll talk about it."

He said, "What kind of change do you mean?"

Ludo answered. "If Chester are relegated, we could get minutes there next season."

"Ludo is clever," I said. "But right now I would still say it's a year early to make that move, for both of you. Let's see. Are you enjoying it, mate?"

Ludo gave the question a lot of thought. "Yes, I am. The Welsh league is too easy and the step to the Champions League is enormous, but I understand why you think I should develop more before going to a more serious club." He smiled. "And I don't mind starting my career with a flurry of medals and honours. And the win bonuses are very generous."

On the other side of the fence, the action was heating up. Women were shouting, the whistling was getting more intense. I hit Playdar, noted that the beam of light was pointing exactly where I expected, and I stood on tiptoes to peer through the mesh, over the barrier. Information flooded into me, and not much of it was good.

I closed my eyes and processed what I had seen. There wasn't much I could do right now so I continued my impromptu performance review. "Dan, I'm really loving the moves you've been working on. This thing where you feint left but go right, you've really perfected it. Have you been doing that on your own?"

Dan saw something in my reaction and raised himself to take a peek at the pitch for himself. He came back to earth. "Nikos Iliades said I play like Toni Kroos, the Real Madrid and Germany midfielder, so I watched loads of videos and how he beat the press was a lot like what I do. There's a compilation video of him like a bullfighter with oppos storming at him and going flying just from the way he nudged the ball to the side. Sometimes he stopped the ball dead and that worked, too. He was silky-smooth and it just spoke to me so I've been trying to master that so I get even more press-resistant."

"It's fucking mint. You're like a matador out there. Gorgeous."

He thumbed behind him. "Why are we watching Angel from inside a bush?"

"What bush? Be serious, dude." He pointed. I said, "That's a shrub! That's a shrub!"

"Yeah but you told that DoF you didn't want to scout Angel this morning."

"Duh," I said, "I lied. I didn't want them to set things up all nice and pretty; I wanted to see what it's really like. You know in tennis where they have the drug inspectors who just turn up at your house at random times? If you know exactly when the test is going to be, you can hide what you're really doing. This," I said, pointing to the training session beyond the fence, "is real and unfiltered."

Bertie said, "Wait, so there are no waffles?"

Ludo laughed hard and flicked him on the ear. "Come on, Bertie! What the hell."

The Pole said, "I'm starving! We weren't allowed breakfast."

I said, "We're going to a fancy restaurant for lunch! I don't want you stuffing your face with fucking muesli, ruining your appetite!"

Dan lifted himself up and peered at the pitch. "What did you see that you didn't like, boss?"

I rubbed my face and peered over the fence again. There were two dozen women running around, chasing balls, yelling, barking out instructions. There wasn't much laughter. Angel was to my right, one of the only players not wearing gloves. Her Strength score had gone up, and it did seem like she had a bit more mass on the upper arms.

Her Morale was 'Okay' and she wasn't injured, but she had barely improved since she had got here, and there were some clues as to why. Four of her squad mates had 'Dislikes Angel' in their profiles, so something had happened. In contrast, two of the women had 'Thinks Angel is a talented player', which only appeared when the target player was liked, so it wasn't as though she was going round pissing everyone off on purpose.

The head coach was a stern, unsmiling guy in his 50s, a former Inter player who very much gave the vibe that women's football was beneath him. That was probably unfair of me, and my prejudices were probably kicking in, but that's how he looked. Certainly every instruction that came from him or his coaches was in Italian. That was fine, of course, this was Italy, but Angel was a little slow to react to everything, a little out of sync with the others, and the head coach was making it very clear that he had no patience for her. 

I turned and rested my back against the outer fence. "They're doing 4v4 plus 3, which is a solid drill but it's pretty 2018, if you know what I mean. Angel has done far more sophisticated stuff than this but the coach is chuntering under his breath like he can't believe how shit she is. If Dani was here, he'd be the same. I don't think the sesh should be in English just because there's an English person here - "

Ludo said, "You do a bit."

I had to laugh. "Mate." I shrugged. "Maybe?" My cheeky smile faded. "You just need to take five seconds to let someone help her. She was already studying Italian before she left and I'm sure she's still grinding. If she's absolutely refusing to make an effort then yeah, it's fair to be like that, but his job isn't to judge her language skills, it's to improve her as a player and he's not doing that. Every training session comes with the risk of injury, and it's not fair to ask players to take that risk and not give them anything in return."

It struck me that Angel's gains in CA might have come completely from her own efforts in the gym. Meanwhile, she was always one bad landing from wrecking an ACL. As I pictured her in a hospital bed, glumly staring at the ceiling, something exploded inside me. I formed a fist and hit the fence, but it was so well-built that only the nearest wires shook, the impact was absorbed.

I calmed down, got into technocratic mode. My name is Max Best and I am solutions-oriented. "Lads, this is a little bit worse than I expected, tbh. I have to stay and watch more. Hopefully they will play a training match so I can get a proper look, and I should hang around and talk to Angel."

Dan said, "We could invite her to lunch."

"That might work," I said.

"I'll call to change the booking," he said.

"Steady!" I said, pulling on imaginary reins. "Whoa, Nellie. She might have plans. She might not want to talk to me. She might be banned from that restaurant. If she wants to come, she can just rock up with us."

"We can't just rock up with five people when we booked for four."

I sighed. "Mate, I don't want to spend the morning bickering about fucking restaurant reservation protocols! It's Angel! If we turn up with her, they will find another chair, do you know what I mean? And if they're weirdly insistent that we can only have four, one of you three is going to McDonalds. Here, why don't you go get a coffee? Have a couple of little biscuits to take the edge off."

Dan eyed Ludo, then looked back at me. "Are you gonna just stand here for, like, half an hour?"

"Yeah. Longer. Whatever it takes."

Dan turned, spotted a low wall, and went to sit on it. Ludo and Bertie followed, and soon they had their phones out and were showing each other clips and memes and slop.

I turned to face the twin fences, listening, sometimes peeking over, and spent more and more time pulling at my bottom lip.

This was muy muy no bueno.

***

After a mixed bag of drills - some good, some average - a training match broke out, and it was clear that Angel was on the B team. Worse, she was playing left midfield. Worse still, her team mates barely passed to her, so when they did, she was more focused on not fucking up than doing anything useful. She played safe return passes, trying to earn their trust.

Angel, a PA 155 natural goalscorer, was gamely trying to be the best left midfielder she could be. She was sprinting back to do her defensive duties and running into space to give her team options, but only once did she raise her hand and voice to demand the ball. She didn't get it, and didn't bother calling again.

My piss was starting to boil.

In a break, the head coach called the first team over and gave them some instructions. The B team got nothing. They just stood around, taking on water, chatting. Two of the women who disliked Angel were on her team; they stood away from her.

The match resumed, and for two whole minutes, Angel didn't get a kick. The first team scored. Angel leaned forward, hands on her knees, then pushed herself upright, walked back to her spot, and slapped her hands together. "Andiamo ragazze!"

Two more minutes passed without her getting a touch.

My frustration had definitely reached my jaw because I could hear my teeth grinding. I took a healing breath and summoned my spirit animal, a cheeky little hedgehog who winked at me and told me everything was going to be all right.

Angel was CA 101. That meant she had improved, what, three points since the end of last season? Tonight, Chester Women would play Sunderland in the Nando's Cup, and there was so much improvement across the board that our squad players were getting good enough to handle the early stages of the Nando's without having their hands held by the senior ladies. Those senior players were improving fast, too. Playing Chelsea and Man City in the space of a week had been a catalyst for a very welcome growth spurt. 

I checked the latest CAs of three women who had started the season around the same level as Angel. Kisi Yalley was up 9 points. Meredith Ann was up 11. Jisook Kim, who like Angel had moved to a whole new country where she didn't know the language very well and had every excuse to falter, was also up 11. 

10% growth versus 3%. Statisticians often called numbers like 3% 'within the margin of error'. This was an error, all right. Someone had fucked up.

I punched the wire mesh and once again noted that it was really solid. I had been shit at climbing things when I was a kid, and I never really had the temperament to break into places I shouldn't, not since I heard the story of the kid from my estate who fell through a greenhouse roof and bled to death. But in my current physical state, this barrier wouldn't be much of a challenge.

The ball went to Angel and she surprised the first-team right back by dribbling past. She made ten yards down the left wing but with no support in the middle she had to turn to face the touchline, then with another touch she was facing her own goal. Absolutely fine to go back and start again instead of hitting a hopeful cross into oppo-infested waters, but when Angel needed a passing option, no-one was there. Her marker pounced on the moment of hesitation, nabbed the ball, and broke clear.

The head coach went mental, and while Angel gamely tried to get goal-side of her opponent, the guy let out a stream of invective.

I took four big steps back, ran at the fence, and raced up. I heard a shocked cry from Dan, but I was already at the top. I gripped the mesh tight as I poured myself onto the other side, grunted as I lowered myself. Near the bottom, I leaped off and strode onto the pitch with smoke billowing from my ears, hot fiery damnation coming from my eye sockets.

Some of the players scattered in fear, but the head coach, to his credit, came towards me, ready to defend his group. Angel had been one of the first to flee, but she looked again and said, "Max?" 

The ball was near me. I pushed it to the right and yelled, "Angel, go!"

It must have been my artificially-inflated Influence score at work, because she obeyed. She hared towards the penalty area. I leaned back and clipped a long pass over the last defender. Angel took it on her chest and lashed it on the half-volley, top bins. Have some of that!

I walked towards her; she jogged towards me. She had the biggest smile I had ever seen on her. She was elated, over the moon, Morale 9000. She was so happy she could barely form her mouth into shapes. "Max? What?"

"I'm Luke Skywalker," I said. "I'm here to rescue you."

The smile didn't dim. "I haven't seen that movie; I don't know what to say."

"You say, 'Aren't you a little short to be a centre back?'"

"Aren't you a little short to be a centre back?"

I smiled, then waved my index finger in a circle, indicating the campus, indicating Milan. "Yes or no, this is complete bullshit."

She thought about it. "Not complete..."

"Yeah, we're done here. Let's go."

She hesitated. "Where are we going?"

"Lunch at McDonalds with some of the boys." I turned towards the place I had climbed over and saw the lads peering at us, wide-eyed. I yelled at them to go round the front, then said to Angel, "We want to hear your side of the story. You in?"

She glanced left and right at her team mates, soon to be her former team mates. "What about them?"

"They're not invited." I gave her a little push towards what had to be the exit. A gaggle of wide-eyed players and coaches took tiny steps out of our way, but the head coach stepped into our path, gesticulating, shouting into his phone. I did a nifty little piece of footwork to put myself between Angel and the dude. As he yelled at us, I met his gaze, moved closer, and said, "You blew it, bro. I gave you an elite goalscorer and you played her left wing." I should have left it there, but let's face it, we both know that was never gonna happen. I pressed my finger and thumb together to let him know that I was making a delicate and precise point. "You're fucking shit."

Yeah, well, he didn't like that, but what was he gonna do? Deck me? Angel and I strode away while Inter Milan Femminile exploded behind us.

***

After Angel showered and dressed, we went out the front and found the lads waiting, nervous because there were loads of men running around shouting into phones. Angel hugged Dan and shook hands with Ludo and Bertie. We organised ourselves in the cars and since it was too early for our reservation, we went to Angel's flat.

It was tiny, which pissed me off. Okay, Milan was a big city and she wasn't on mega wages, but she was paying a thousand Euro a month and she didn't even have a view. It was decorated in typical Airbnb style. The two-seater sofa was covered in clothes and bags. Angel cleared them away, revealing three cushions. One said LIVE. The next said LAUGH. A third said LOVE. The most insipid, vapid slogan of all time. Philosophy for people who don't like thinking. "Please tell me they were here when you moved in."

She continued tidying up. "They were."

"Yeah, thing is, Angel, I know they were not because I've seen this exact set at Bonnie's. You, Angel, you, you love these cushions."

"They remind me of home, okay?" She took the clothes she was holding to the bed, but the three boys had sat on it, awkwardly and respectfully staying as close to the edge as possible. Angel looked around and didn't see any option but to throw the pile onto Dan. "Soz."

"It's all right. What the shit has been going on? Why did the gaffer freak out?"

She shrugged, then pulled Bertie off the bed and pushed him to sit next to me while she took his place. "Ask Max. I'm as surprised as you; Bonnie told him I wasn't having a good time."

I sat on the right of the sofa, closest to the window that looked out onto the street. The glass seemed paper thin. Surely it was insanely loud at night? I adjusted the LIVE cushion to give me more back support. "I'm far from an expert in management but there's one thing I do know and that's that footballers need a bit of adversity. A smooth sea never made a skilful sailor. Moving to another country is difficult, it's a challenge, something to overcome and be proud of. That kind of experience makes you a better person and ultimately, a better player. Bonnie's always going to be overprotective of Angel so it's not that I discounted the whole thing but I can't say to her, I'm happy your baby sister is struggling because I think it's good for her long-term prospects. She would rip my head off!

"All right, but Angel, look. I want to hear the whole story before we make a final decision about what to do but if I have any say in it, you're not going back there. It's utterly pointless, a complete waste of your time, absolutely the wrong kind of suffering. I vote we take you back to Chester. You can train with the group until the winter break, spend Christmas with your peeps, and we will take it from there."

"What about my loan?"

I held my phone up. "I'm ready to fucking cancel it right now. I'm livid."

For a second, she looked as thrilled as when I gatecrashed training. "I want to stay and fight for my place... but you called the manager a knob. I don't think he's picking me any time soon whatever I do."

Dan eyed me. "You said what?"

I pointed at Angel. "She's lying. She's a liar. Look at that innocent face! Only a liar could look so honest."

Dan shook his head. "I can't believe you have done this."

I waved my hand. "Fuck that guy! I actually didn't call him a knob, but I wish I had."

Angel said, "What did you say?"

"I said he was shit."

Her face lit up again. "That's right, he did! Shit not knob." She laughed way too hard at that, months of stress being shaken off. The laughter stopped as she saw my expectant expression. "What?"

"We agreed you would come back to England, right?"

She closed her eyes slowly, then looked in the direction of the training ground. "I suppose?"

"So get packing!"

"What?"

"I've got three big strong lads who can help carry your stuff."

Dan sat up. "Yes! We can squash up our gear and give you space in our suitcases."

Angel looked at us like we were crazy. "I came here with five cases of stuff and I've bought more."

Ludo said, "How did you carry all that?"

"Bonnie and Dylan, Ruth and the Brig came over the first day to help me settle in. I had a year of stuff. I thought I'd be here at least that long."

"Top," I said. "Chuck your year of stuff into your cases and we're good to go."

"Are you seriously saying I can just... go? Wait, but Max, they didn't leave those cases, they took them with."

"Can you fit all your stuff into five cases, yes or no?"

She made Dan and Ludo get off the bed, opened a cupboard, dumped dozens of outfits onto the bed. Then she picked up about 800 pairs of shoes and made a pile. We would need a minimum of fifty suitcases. "Yeah, I can do it. Five and a carry-on, yeah."

I poked my fingers into my temples. "Right, give me a minute to think about this. Er, yeah, here we go. We stuff three suitcases with girl crap, and the lads take one each with them when they fly home tonight. I can maybe bring one with me to Venice; I packed light."

I was about to say that we would look to see if there was a spare seat on the flight with the boys, but two things happened. First, Ludo picked up one of Angel's shoes and gawped at it. High heel, open toe, with thin straps reaching towards the knee. If he didn't have a shoe fetish before, he did now. Second, Angel turned to me, almost wistful. "You're going to Venice?"

My brain started fizzing. A scheme emerged from the fog, fully formed and beautiful. "Yeah. Want to come with? I'm sure we can get you on the same flight as me. And it might be good if you don't rush out of the country straight away, in case there's some paperwork or something... Yeah, this is the new plan, this is mint. Angel comes with me to Venice, we fly home Friday. You three will grab one case each and take as much as you can today."

"Great plan," said Dan, "except one thing. We don't have enough cases!"

"Did you spend all your bonus?" I threw my car keys at him. "Go and buy some!"

***

When the guys had left, Angel dug out her big suitcase and a smaller carry-on. She unzipped them and said, "I can't believe this is happening. I thought you were done with me."

I tapped the carry-on. "Start to think about what clothes you need. I was joking about McDonald's; we're going to a fancy place for lunch. I have no plans for this evening; I was gonna amble around, see where the wind blew me. Tomorrow I'm slowly making my way towards Venice, gonna stop off and see some Italian shit along the way. There's a chance Don Pino and his agent buddies will meet us but you don't need to dress up for that. Last time you met him, you were dressed as a perfume bottle so you're not gonna outdo that. Friday morning I'm visiting a carmaker in Venice, and I'm flying back that day." I switched to a Darth Vader voice. "I would be honoured if you would join me."

She counted on her fingers. "You really want to spend three days with me?"

I smiled. "Four would be better." Such a charmer!

That particular charisma check failed. "Where's Emma? You're going to Venice without her?"

"She can't come, she's busy. I'll tell you all about it on the trip. It's a great story, you'll love it. It's about your agency."

"Huh. Mysterious. Um, I'm really, really happy you're here so don't take this the wrong way but do I have a choice?"

"Course you do! Absolutely. I stole you and need to smuggle you out of the country and I have more experience of heists and reverse heists than you, but you can do whatever you want. We can hire a little van and load all your stuff in and you can drive back to England. Actually, that's not bad. I'll get Dylan or Brick or someone to meet you in Switzerland and take over the drive. Bosh! Escaping is fun!"

"A van?" she said, unimpressed. She picked up a slinky, silvery gown. "Did you say a fancy place for lunch?"

I plucked the garment from her fingers. "Not that fancy. You saw what Bertie was wearing. Go one level above that." I tossed the dress into the big case. "If you're coming with me, pack some comfy, warm things, trainers. Expect some minor sightseeing, normal restaurants that locals go to. I might check out some five-a-side places and stuff like that. Venice to Manchester is only low-cost airlines. No first class or even business, so there's no point dolling up; you'll still need to pay for luxuries such as water." I heard myself. "This is actually a very shit offer, now that I think about it. Maybe the van's not such a bad idea."

She smiled. "I get why Emma isn't coming. It's not tempting at all."

"Okay, so..."

She shook her head. "I just want to go. If this is how that happens, fine. But tell me the real reason you want me to go with you?" She examined my face. "It's something to do with Don Pino. I'm right, aren't I? Well, anything's better than what I did yesterday and what I was doing this morning." She lifted a pair of comfy trainers and put them in the smaller case. She inhaled, exhaled, and said, "I can do this."

"Cool. I'm gonna make some phone calls and prepare people for what might be happening. You start organising yourself. Don't forget your motivational sofa cushions."

***

There was a flurry of activity during which I marvelled at how quickly human beings were able to change states: 

I play for Inter Milan. I am on the run. I am packed and ready to flee the country, but first: a two-Michelin-star meal.

I am sad to have been soundly beaten by Inter Milan but I'm excited to spend the day being cultural. I am watching my boss climb a ten-foot fence like a salamander. I am helping the hottest girl I have ever seen pack her suitcases while gently teasing her.

Angel is dead to me. People are being mean to Angel. I am rescuing her. She is a key but unwitting participant in my latest dastardly scheme. Mwahahaha! (Also, I can't wait to hear what she has to say.)

With Angel 98% packed and the lads carrying one suitcase each, we set off for our hotel to dump the luggage, then headed to Verso, said to be one of the best eateries in Milan.

I wondered what Ludo and Bertie were making of it all. They had been expecting a sedate day of exploration and quiet reflection and they had been sucked into my latest caper. Did they think my behaviour was unprofessional? Impulsive? Immature? As far as I could tell, they were fucking loving it. I had rung the village bell and they had come rushing to help.

***

As expected, the staff at Verso were not minded to tell Angel to get on her bike. "No problem, no problem."

So we settled at our table, which had an extraordinary view of the chefs at work. The entire kitchen was arrayed in front of us, on the other side of a long, long counter. There were no hidden parts, no secret back rooms where they microwaved the pasta. It was great showmanship.

We were doing the 250 Euro-a-head tasting menu, and before a rather attractive waitress brought the first course, she asked what we wanted to drink. "Okay, here's the thing," I said. I pointed to the lads. "These elite athletes are allowed one glass of wine. That can be one glass of your best plonk, or sips of different ones if you think that'll be more fun. The lady can have as much as she wants."

"Can I?" said Angel.

"Yeah, because you can't play until January first. You'll start back in training on Monday. I think you deserve to enjoy yourself."

"What if you hear my story and you don't like it and you make me stay here?"

I scoffed and pointed to the display of fine wines to my right. "You'll learn more about football from any of those bottles than from that prick. You'll join the first team on Monday. Max has spoken."

Angel nodded. "I want to be professional. I'll have water, please."

"Me too," I said.

The waitress eyed me. "You are driving?"

"Yes, and I'm getting ready for Monday."

"Monday?"

"Yeah, I have a date." I gently squeezed her wrist and eyed her intensely. "A date with destiny." I maintained eye contact for about three seconds, then let go and dialled the intensity back to zero. "Was that fun? Did you enjoy that?"

She laughed. "Yes."

I slapped my hands so that my right came level with my left shoulder, and vice versa. "Still got it! Yeah, Monday's a big match for us. I'm gonna cook some fools."

She jerked her head. "You could come in the kitchen and show us your recipe."

"That would be disrespectful; my skills don't compare to your chef's. You know who could do it?"

"Who?" she said.

I pointed. "Dan. He's a superstar. Man for all seasons. We're footballers, which you might have guessed from Bertie's clothes. A while back, I did some special training for the British army and as a thank-you, they let my team go on their elite driving course. Special instructors, special course, supremely difficult. They were very polite, you know. Oh, that was very good. Good show, old chap. But they obviously thought we were a bunch of clowns. Then came Dan. He zipped around the course, and suddenly there was a frenzy. Men coming out of buildings, rushing trackside. They made him go again. Their eyes were popping out of their heads! When he got out of the car, this one guy who wasn't wearing a uniform took him aside. I snuck up close so I could listen. Dan, he said, you've got the skills, you've got the speed, you've got the cool, you've got the looks. Quit this football crap; we want you to be a real-life James Bond."

The waitress gave Dan a fairly wicked smile. "What did you say?"

Dan was too fucking cool for this world. "I said, sure, why not, but I can do both."

The waitress's eyebrows shot up in mock amazement. "So! Are you undercover?"

"I do my best work under the covers."

The waitress covered her mouth with the wine list. Angel said, "You know what? I'll have some plonk after all."

***

The first course was 'lobster with almond cream and dandelion', three things I would never normally choose, three things I would never want to combine, but I had placed myself in the chef's hands and the dish proved to be incredible.

"Okay, go," I said, gesturing towards Angel as I dabbed at my mouth.

"What do you want to know?"

"I dunno. Start from the beginning."

"The beginning," she said, with some heat. "The beginning set the tone. I told you everyone came to help me with my cases, but I didn't know anything about anything, so I didn't even start unpacking just in case it was the wrong flat or whatever. This guy turned up after the others had gone. He's, like, the guy who sorts out accommodation for foreign players. He doesn't actually work for Inter, I think he's just a friend of someone. As far as I can tell, he books things on Airbnb and takes a cut. From both sides, probably." Angel paused and eyed Ludo. "Is this really boring?"

"It is very much not boring. My experience at Saltney was very much the opposite. I was helped every step of the way, so it's interesting to hear what happens at other clubs. Please continue."

Angel gave a tiny nod. "It was just my luck that when the guy was telling me about the bins and how to get to the training ground and so on, the landlady came. She told him that the heating costs were up again so she was going to have to put up the rent. She said it would go from 700 to 750."

"Okay..." said Dan, slowly.

Angel gave him a 'gotcha' smile. "I'm paying a thousand."

"Fuuuuck," said Bertie.

Ludo was impressed. "So your Italian is very good, then."

Angel said, "No, it's appalling. I try, but... Here, look." She held up her phone. On the back was something like a credit card. She pulled it off and let it click back into place. "It's magnetic," she explained.

"But what is it?" said Bertie.

"AI translator. We use it at Chester so we can talk to Dani. It's next level, even generates transcripts and learns the names of the speakers. I've got the whole transcript of the landlady conversation, in case you need to verify what I'm saying, Max. It does translations, too, obvs, so I realised I could use it while I was over here. When possible, I leave my phone near the coaches and it records everything they say - without them knowing - then later I can review it. Doesn't help me in the moment but I can get better next time."

"Does it do Polish?"

Angel tapped on her screen a couple of times, said, "Does it do Polish?" and showed the output to Bertie.

"I need this!"

Angel shook her head. "You don't want to know what people are saying about you. I wasn't getting picked, wasn't playing, so one day in the warm-ups I did, like, five extra laps after everyone else had finished. Just to work my legs, you know?" Everyone nodded. We had all been there in one form or another. She continued, "I heard the coach say something and later I got the exact phrase. He'd said, 'Typical English.' I mean, what the fuck? He's mad at me for training hard? I'm supposed to wither and die?"

I was rubbing my temples hard. "Jesus Christ."

Angel was just getting started. "First day in Italy, I learn I'm being ripped off by the agent guy. Second day, I go to work. The marketing team has this big, splashy campaign they want to do with me. I'm gonna dress up in a Union Jack like the Spice Girls. Er, no. I tell them that's not my brand, let's talk about alternatives. They can't believe I'm pushing back. Put on the dress! We're all ready for the photoshoot! I go, that's not my brand."

"You go, girl!" said Dan.

Ludo was nodding hard. "Stand up for yourself."

I said, "Too fucking right."

Angel said, "So I refuse to get in the fucking dress and there's a shit vibe but whatever, it's their mistake. So I go about my day and when I get home, they've only got me on Instagram wearing a Union Jack dress!"

"What?" I said.

Dan tutted. "AI?"

Angel nodded. "They just fucking ignored me and did whatever the fuck they wanted. And the worst part was, they used a pic from my Insta." She seethed for a moment, then said, "I called Ruth - my agent - and she bashed some heads together. They took the post down but I was just fuming. They'd given me a list of hashtags and shit they wanted me to use when I posted. What? Get real. I stopped posting altogether so they wouldn't get anything from my social presence. Not until they apologised, which they never did. In fact, they treated me like a troublemaker, like I was hard work. I don't know if that got through to the coach. I don't think so, because he was on my case from the start."

"Christ," I said. "Why didn't Ruth tell me?"

"Er, maybe because you're hurtling towards relegation and you don't need another thing to worry about?"

I scoffed. "Relegation. As if. But... oh my God. You haven't even got to the football. Why do those women not like you?"

Angel stopped dead. "Which women?"

I looked up and sighed, very very slowly. "Are we gonna pretend I can't read a football pitch? Can't see everything that's going on?"

Angel glared at me, then relented ever so slightly. "There's something very strange about you. Either you're the greatest body language expert in history or you've got spies everywhere."

I pointed to Dan. "Got the world's top spy right there."

The second course arrived as we were mid-laugh. Veal and sea urchins flavoured with coffee. Angel poked at it but was hungrier to explain. "All that happened was we had a pre-season house party. At first I was so happy. Everyone was so cool, so well-dressed, so exotic and cultured. It was my absolute dream and I realised I didn't give a shit if some marketing idiots didn't like me. But then I talked to the wrong boy and apparently he was smiling too much or some bullshit."

Dan said, "His girlfriend didn't like it."

"Yeah. That was it. That was my whole crime: talking to a boy at a party." Angel pointed at me. "Use your weird powers to tell me I'm lying."

I held my hands up. "I believe you. But you made a couple of friends, too."

Angel dropped her cutlery and put her hands on her head. "You can't know that. You can't see that from watching some drills and ten minutes of a training match."

I made a buzzing noise. "Wrong answer. I can. Stay friends with them. That right wing back's contract is up in the summer."

"You're unbelievable." She poked at her food. "It's like I said, it hasn't been complete bullshit. They were really kind; I'll miss them. I tried to make the best of it. Hit the gym a lot, built up my core strength. There's a physio who's brilliant."

I said, "And your coach. He just doesn't rate you? Or did something happen?"

"You can't tell that just by looking?" I didn't reply. Angel sighed and said, "I think he never wanted me. The DoF signed me, maybe because I've got enough followers on Insta and I can sell a few Inter Milan kits. But the manager not rating you is normal, isn't it? You've just got to show him what you can do. Bide your time, be patient, all that jazz. That's what I thought at first. I was getting little bits of minutes as a striker, but then we played a game against a weaker team and we were 2-0 down at half time and it could have been six. The coach was yelling and screaming at the girls, and when he finally shut his stupid gob I said, 'Have you noticed we're being dicked on the wings? Maybe we should change formation.'"

"Which match was that?" I said, already bringing up the Match Archive.

"Parma away."

I speed-read the match data and the commentary. "5-3-2 against 4-5-1. Fuck me, Angel, I didn't realise you were such a tactico. You were bang on!"

She eyed me with curiosity. Had I been following her matches more closely than I was pretending? She shook it off - it was just me being weird again. "Yeah, well, that was one mistake I'll own up to because he did not like my input. He never played me as a striker after that. It was always left wing, right wing. If you know so much about the wings, fucking play there."

Ludo was so outraged he slammed the table. "I apologise. But I have had many such coaches. I feel your pain, Angel." He nodded rapidly. "I am very glad that Dan is planning to pay for the excess baggage so you can leave this place."

Dan said, "Huh? What's this now? I bought the suitcases!"

"Stop complaining," I said. "What's it going to cost? Ten quid, tops."

"It'll be like three hundo!"

Angel was softly smiling. "I'll pay you back, Dan."

I held up a finger. "Whoever is responsible for this mess should pay."

Dan said, "That would be you then." He exchanged a high five with Angel.

I tutted. "The person responsible for this mess is... Angel for trying to steal someone's boy."

"That's not funny," said Angel, as she laughed.

"I bet he was a total uggo anyway."

"Nah, he was a smokeshow."

"I knew it!" I said, half getting up out of my chair in mock accusation. I settled back and got more serious. "All right, here's the sitch from my point of view. Hang on, the guy's calling me again." It was the DoF of Inter, calling me for the tenth time. I picked up and listened to him as he freaked out about my dramatic appearance at training, asked where I was, where Angel was, and so on and so forth. When he took a breath, I said, "Bro, listen. If you want to talk to me about Angel, find out what she was paying in rent and what the cost of the apartment actually was. Okay? Start there." I hung up and fumed until I saw Angel gazing at me with undisguised admiration. "What?"

"Don't you care about having a good relationship with him? He's in charge of Inter Milan!"

"Fuck him," I said.

Dan said, "You were saying about the sitch from your point of view."

"Yeah." I leaned over the table, towards Angel. "You pissed me off and I wanted to punish you. That punishment was me binning you off from Chester. That was the end of it. I want you to do well and to be happy and ideally, to play for England and to get rich. I thought that you coming here would be mint. Food, weather, fashion, all the stuff you like. This wasn't supposed to be shit."

She eyed me steadily. "I know."

"This was supposed to be where you kicked on to the next level. To spite me, or just because you loved it here so much and you wanted to get a contract. Sometimes, players and clubs don't mesh for absolutely no reason. Me at Grimsby. It just didn't click. What I saw this morning was a top professional grafting and grinding in a futile situation. I can't bear to see you put in that much effort and get so little back in return. I can't think of a club where you're guaranteed a good end to the season. WSL 2 is too easy, WSL you might not play much. I think you should finish the season with Chester. We'll get you minutes in the Nando's, the FA Cup - depending on the draw - and bits in the league. Enough to get you back on track, make up some of the lost ground."

Her eyes were shining, but she was wary. "My contract's up at the end of the season. What then?"

I shrugged. "Who knows? Let's start by unfucking this fuck-up."

She took a beat, then said, softly, "I'll drink to that."

"A toast!" I proclaimed. "To Angel's motto, the words she lives by. Her ethos." I raised my glass high. "Live, laugh, love."

Angel dipped her head almost all the way to the table. She peeked up. "Tell me again about my options in WSL 2."

***

The lunch was spectacular, as it should be when you're paying 1500 Euro for five people, and after talking to the chefs and admiring the setup, we spilled out onto the piazza, right in front of the Duomo. We explored the cathedral and the piazza for the best part of an hour, a leisurely walk the Victorians would have called a 'constitutional'.

We went back to the hotel, where the boys picked up their cases and three of Angel's. We parted, and this time Angel upgraded Ludo and Bertie to hugs.

I checked her into a room that was almost as big as her flat and made some calls from the lobby. Bonnie, your sister's coming home on Friday. Ruth, your client is coming home. Milan, deal's terminated. Jay, new body joining training on Monday, available to play from January. 

Angel listened while tapping away on her own phone. Sometimes she looked up and said what was on her mind. "There was a time I was beating you in the sponsorship race but you've blown me out of the water. This move was supposed to build my profile but it's lowered it."

"You need to get in the England team," I said. "Do that and you'll 10x my numbers, and I will be very happy about it."

"Because if I make money, Emma will make money. So you've got a stake."

"I have a tiny stake but more than that, I want England to win."

"Tell that to Alan Turner."

I smiled. Touché. "I want the Lionesses to win. I want you to succeed because when you're scoring hat tricks in the Euros, everyone will be going, ah, Max Best has done it again. He doesn't miss." I switched to commentator voice. "Best doesn't miss, and neither does Angel! She has scored again! Four goals in the World Cup final!"

"You said the Euros."

"Don't remember things, please."

"Are we just gonna sit here?"

"Are you bored already? Jesus Christ." I put my phone down. "In a bit, I'm gonna hit the hotel gym, do a big sesh, then it's dinner. Want to choose a place?"

She sat up. "All right. But tell me the thing with Emma and the agency."

"It's so cool," I said, smiling. "You know you can call Ruth and rent a footballer to go to a grand opening of a hairdresser or whatever, or do an advert for crisps and stuff. She kept noticing that the footballers were often booked alongside a reality star. That way, companies are hitting more demographics, getting more social media coverage, whatever. So Ruth thought, hmm, maybe I should get a few of those on my books so we can offer a Love Islander alongside a Premier League player."

Angel's eyes had widened. "She's branching out from football?"

"Yeah. Footy's always gonna be the main thing but Reality is a logical expansion and it's fun for everyone. Now Emma has a reason to watch crap shows - not that she needed one before! - because it's her homework. She's looking for the next breakout stars and they're gonna try to snap them up before they get massive. That's what she's doing this week - meeting potential clients, dipping her toes into the murky waters of showbusiness. She's stoked. Ruth says this whole thing will help attract more players, too. Picture this. You're 15 years old again, you've been scouted by Chester, you're excited. There's a knock on the door. Ruth's there with the runner-up from Love Island: Grimsby Shore and says, we're just on our way to a photoshoot! What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking, where do I sign?"

"Exactly."

"Who have they got so far?"

I tutted. "I don't know, do I? No-one who can get to the byline and whip in a cross, that's for sure." I paused. "Why are you laughing?"

***

I went bonkers on the treadmill, had an amazing shower, and went to meet Angel in the lobby. She had chosen a restaurant called 142, which had another tasting menu. "Christ," I said, eyeing the menu on her phone. "Seven plates. That's a year's worth of butter."

She scrolled down. "One of the dishes is a little something called fish and chips."

"Fish and chips in Milan? Sold, bosh, let's go."

***

142 was an amazing place, superb atmosphere and service, incredible food. I ruminated on the number 142, scanning my squad lists until I found someone with a matching CA or PA. There were none in Chester Men, Women, or the entire youth system, which got my head spinning about the statistical likelihood, but then I found one in Saltney: Colin Beckton was CA 142. Were we teaching an old dog new tricks, or an old dog old tricks?

Angel took a bite of Chicken galantine and said, "You're distracted."

"Hmm? I'm waiting for a call."

"Is it secret?"

"No. While you were gone, I reinvented football again. No big deal, barely even worth a mention. Before I left, I taught the secret to Pascal, and he's trying it out with the under eighteens."

"You told Pascal the secret?"

"Yeah," I said, realising how out of character that seemed. "Yeah, in the past I would have scrabbled about on my own, making sure the thing worked. I would have wanted to be involved, you know, in the whole process. But whatevs. Ain't nobody got time for that. If Pascal can make it work, great. If he can't, it's probably not even a thing. It's not a killer tactic if you have to be twelve years old to do it."

"What is it? What's the secret?"

"You pass the ball and then run like a blue-arsed fly."

"Sophisticated."

"I know. Laugh all you want because what's really funny is that you'll be doing it soon." She smiled to acknowledge that I'd scored a point. My phone pinged. "Voice note from Pascal! I need to hear this."

Angel shook her head. "Look at you! It's like you're just starting a relationship and you're dead nervous, hanging on her every word. Quick, she sent a text, stop everything, there's not a moment to lose!"

I waited patiently for her to stop rinsing me, then said, "When I get new information, I process it through one, simple lens. I ask myself, does this help me to live? Or to laugh? Or to love? And if it does - "

"Okay, okay. Listen to your love letter."

"Ah, but is it a love letter or a laugh letter?"

She was trying not to smile. "That doesn't even make sense."

I popped outside and listened to the note.

Pascal: Max, boss, I love it! It's so good! It is breaking my brain to think of the applications! 

We need to give the players freedom but also to coach the good moves so they are repeated. I think, yes, when they do something good, we show it back to them, design drills to replicate those behaviours. And of course it is very susceptible to counter-attacks so we need to formalise the defensive rotation process and what I have seen is that the centre backs are not tracked when they go forward and this is a risk but also an opportunity but we simply must give the defenders training time in the opposition box, not just to head set pieces but to receive passes to feet and to join the play. 

This is total football! 

It could be that our CBs rotate into attack while the strikers are in the rest defence. It's crazy but it's highly entertaining and the players love it. It's a winner. We can use this. We have to use this for the good of football! [Pause.] Oh my God, we're gonna score so many goals...

I went back inside with a big grin on my face. Hybridism had the Pascal Bochum Seal of Approval!

Angel said, "So, what was it?"

"Love letter," I said. "Definitely a love letter."

***

Thursday, December 7

I woke up feeling groggy but amazing, as though I had eaten an entire tub of butter.

The curse had news for me.

Forex for Dummies 2, which would allow me to switch between weekly, monthly, or yearly amounts, was available for 100 XP. So now there were two items in the perk shop. That meant I could design loads of upgrades and let them stack up. Top.

In the 'suggestion box', I asked for a perk that would have the same function as God Save the King, but for Attributes not covered by the original.

Simple. Impossible to refuse. Right?

With a bit of luck, I would know the next morning.

***

We popped to Angel's flat to check for any last items she had left, gave the key to the landlady, then drove to Bergamo and had a croissant and coffee after a quick walk around the town.

We drove to Brescia and had lunch with Don Pino and his agent friends. We did some biz, which was mostly me promising to talk up the Italian and Greek players who had joined Saltney. I was more than happy to do that - the guys were great professionals.

When we got back in the car, Angel said, "But you didn't need me for that."

"Didn't I?" I said, with a knowing smile.

We drove to our final city for the day, Verona. First stop, the Romeo and Juliet balcony. Second stop, wherever Playdar sent me. It directed me to a kid's match where I found a PA 137 centre back who was currently not attached to a big club. There was nothing I could do with the lad, so as a thank you for lunch (and for helping me to earn literal squillions of pounds in the Champions League) I called Don Pino and told him about the player. I said the lad probably had a limit of the Championship, maybe the bottom end of Serie A. Don had a think, and decided to pass him onto one of the other agents. I handled the introductions - aided by Angel's language skills and her AI attachment - then we went to find somewhere to have dinner.

***

It was a simple place, out of the tourist zone, with a wood-fired pizza oven.

After we ordered, Angel eyed me and said, "So is that how you do it?"

"What?"

"How you keep things running. You do a twenty-second phone call that ends with someone getting more work to do."

Was that how I had been operating over the last couple of days? "I don't give out work, I assign missions. But yeah, that's pretty much it. What, you think I should do long chats? If I spent five minutes on each call I would still be in 2026."

"I don't know, it just seems brusque."

"Didn't you pack one of those in your carry-on?"

She gave me a flat look, then said, "I suppose that's how you have to do it, but you're missing the connection you get when you spend time with someone and you're present. I've spent two days with you and I always feel you're talking to someone else."

"Er, yeah, those people are called waiters. Can you... Can you not see them?"

She didn't smile. "I want to talk."

"We're talking! What! Ask me a question. Go."

That frustrated her. "Friends don't just sit around asking each other questions. They make statements. They start conversations unprompted."

"I ordered a pizza. You ordered a girl salad. It's our last night in Italy; one of us understood the assignment."

She inhaled, filling her cheeks with air. "I don't know how Emma stands it. She must be a saint."

"She's not a saint. Everyone thinks we're the perfect couple or something but we're absolutely normal, just more attractive."

"Do you have fights?"

I tutted. "Of course we have fights. We bicker. Take the bag out of the bin in the kitchen. Stop spraying toothpaste on the mirror. Don't taunt the Newcastle fans the day before Christmas dinner."

"Why have you given Bonnie a half-price house?"

"Tax scam."

"Yeah that's what you told her but what's the real reason?"

I shook my head. "Why is everyone so suspicious and paranoid?"

"Tell me."

I shrugged. "I made some money in a slightly dubious way so I wanted to do something good with it. I bought the one next door to Kisi's parents, too. Low rent for good people."

"Slightly dubious. You mean like promoting a Chinese car company."

"If you find that dubious, then yeah, that's what I mean."

She picked up her phone then put it back down. "I think it's because she's pregnant. You're trying to look after her or something."

"I mean, yeah, a bit. It's expensive, isn't it? Having a kid. They're too proud to take charity but I want little baby Bob Dylan to have every chance."

Angel stared at me in amazement. "Bob? Bonnie's never gonna call - Hey, did she tell you it would be a boy?"

"No. I'm just teasing Dylan. It's too early to know isn't it? Is it?"

Her gaze swept from left to right across the restaurant, briefly locking onto mine, darting back swiftly to see the reaction to her question. "Do you want kids?"

I winced and scratched my head. "Yeah, maybe. Later."

"Later?"

I squirmed. "Yeah, like, later. When we're ready."

"You can never be ready."

"Right, maybe, but... There's this idea, I think it's from one of those Malcolm Gladwell books. They studied tons and tons of kids, how they did in school, how much they earned from their jobs, and they tried to work out if you could predict which kids would do well. They found that if the mums were over 30, that helped. It's not that you can't be an amazing parent if you're 18 or 20 or holy shit are you pergununt?"

She shook her head a little. "No."

"Okay. So it's not that you can't be good if you're young, it's just that it helps if you're older. On average. Older parents read more to their kids, help them with homework, stuff like that. The more time you spend with your kids, the better, so that has to be the goal. I mean, all this Malcolm Gladwell stuff gets debunked so I don't exactly have a calendar at home tracking the date Emma turns 30, you know what I mean? It's just stuff I think about when I think about how I manage Chester."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Sorry, what? I don't follow. What's Chester got to do with it?"

I took a drink of water. "Okay, so what's the difference between a 20-year-old mum and a 30-year-old? Most likely the older one has a bit of money so she can hire a babysitter sometimes, which helps her to be less stressed and frantic. She's just... got more experience of life. Maybe she can multi-task or she watched her friends have babies and picked up some tricks. I would summarise it as: she has more capacity."

"More capacity," repeated Angel, flatly.

"And that's the difference between Max Best the brash 22-year-old manager and me now. When I was starting, I had been thrown into the deep end, was just trying to stay afloat. I was floundering, to be honest. Every day was a life or death struggle."

"Literally." Angel looked guilty. "Sorry."

"Cut to now and I've got Sandra and great coaches. I don't need to give tons of input into every player's development. Sometimes I say things like, I want Helge to be more comfortable playing chipped passes down the line with his left foot and the guys take care of that. I don't need to be there, pushing it, driving it. Do you get me? So in the last few years I've created that spare capacity. I can use that time to rest, to look after myself, to go scouting, to strategise."

"Okay," said Angel. "I'm with you now. You stepping back from training is like a mum who can pay for a babysitter and get herself some me-time."

"Or do a side hustle or something, improve her situation even more. Look," I said, then hesitated. There was a risk to telling Angel what I was really thinking, but on the other hand, she could be my best ally. "My mum was great, but dad wasn't around. She did her best and I think I turned out all right, more or less, but why should Bonnie have to struggle? Let's make it easy for her. Paying half rent means a bit more money in her pocket, and when Dylan quits the army he'll have a great job and he can be around and read to little baby Bob and sit with him while he's doing his homework. I can't help everyone, Angel, but I can help some people a lot."

She said, "That should be my job. I'd be buying them houses if I hadn't fucked up."

"No you wouldn't, not yet. You're free to take over from me in a couple of years, if that's what you want, but if you want to chip in now, find a way to get Dylan to quit the army."

I thought she nodded, but she changed the subject so completely I wasn't sure if I was mistaken. "Why do you want this expensive sports car? It's not like you. It's almost like a mid-life crisis."

"It's not that. It's a few different things. One is that I've got the cash now. Most of my money has been going into two pots. The first is property that will provide an income for Emma long after I'm dead and buried. That pot is full, or full enough. Second is for my mum. I want to have a big stash set aside so that when there's a cure, she's first in line. And if the cure's close but needs one last push, I'll finance it. That's a bottomless pit; I'll never have enough."

I turned to the wall, where a few Christmas decorations had been put up.

"When I was a kid, I got a bag of presents every Crimbo. Every Christmas without fail. We never had enough money, never had luxuries, but somehow there was always a bag of toys. Mum made it happen. She should have used that money to buy fucking, I don't know, Bitcoin at ten pence each..."

Angel smiled. "Yeah. But she spoiled you."

"She did her best to spoil me." I felt the first tiny sting of tears and willed them away. "I've got three cushions on my sofa, one word each. Boys. Don't. Cry."

"I would throw a fucking cushion at you right now..."

"Okay, so this car, in one way it's obscene, but I think mum would, you know..."

"Tell you to treat yourself."

"Yeah. And she'd want me to make a big fuss over Emma. God, she would love Emma. If we broke up, mum would bin me off and try to adopt her."

Angel smiled. "She wouldn't. You're her number one and you always will be."

Boys don't cry. "It was one of our first dates, I picked her up in The Duchess - remember my brown Subaru? - and Henri was in a Lotus Seven, the prick, whizzing Gemma around. I don't normally get jealous but I did that time. It was a thorn in my side for a while; I suppose it stuck. Emma doesn't mind that I don't shower her with jewellery and that our holidays involve going to five-a-side centres in Wales. We have a good life. But maybe it's all right to buy a car that's a ten out of ten, you know? And this one's eco, it's crafted, it's keeping leather-makers and guys like that employed. It fits my personal ethos so completely I can't even think of wanting a Lambo or Mercedes or something.

"And yeah, I get this feeling that it's now or never. One day soon there's gonna be a breakthrough and I'm going to send every penny that isn't locked down to Tempsford or China or Japan or wherever that cure is. Oh, and the guy's only making 15 of these cars and they take ages to build. Like, over a year, so I need to get on the list, pay, and that's done. I can make more money. I can work harder. I can't buy this opportunity again."

Angel looked up at the decorations, thought for a while, then softly said, "If you ever need money for your mum, I'll buy Bonnie's house from you."

"That's a deal." We shook hands. I smiled a little. "You gonna charge them rent?"

"It'll go lower if they name their child Bob, higher if Dylan's still in the army."

"Genius." My phone pinged, and I was glad of the excuse to end that conversational thread. "Text from Camila, Foquita's girlfriend. She goes, Max, we're worried. You are maybe too far at the bottom? Too big the gap?"

Angel reacted strongly. "Why are you doing a sultry accent?"

"That's my default Spanish accent. Let me reply quick. Watch what we do to Ipswich on Monday. Foquita will be drooling. Him in this team? He will score ten goals a game. And... send!"

"Are you really not worried?"

"If we lose to Ipswich, that's a disaster, because yeah, Foquita's gonna think, what's the point of me coming? Same with Willi Tillmann. But we've got my favourite ref against Ipswich and I'm feeling amazing. It has been a tough start, yes, but guess what? Chester are back, Chester are back, whoa-oh, oh-whoa, Chester are back. God, I'm starving. Where's that food? Do you want to hear about something else that's exciting me? It's related to the whole building capacity thing."

"Sure."

She seemed genuinely interested, so I ploughed ahead. "I'm in a good spot now because, yeah, I have a lot going on but most of the time I have spare capacity that I can use to scout or think about tactics or think about challenges we might face two, three years down the line. But the best thing is, the thing I'm loving most right now, is that the little worlds I've created have taken on lives of their own. They're driving themselves forward, without my input."

Angel picked up a breadstick and pointed it at me. "Go ahead and explain that."

"Yeah, like the agency thing. I'm sure you know that I recommend players to Ruth and she tries to sign them up. That's how it has been since the start."

"But now they're doing the reality thing without you."

"Yeah, and it's a completely organic and natural extension. Perfect. And there's more. I can give Pascal the bare bones of a super tactic and let him develop it. Matt Rush is thinking, I need more tools in my mental toolkit. How do I get myself an elite mentality? So he's found Stoicism."

Angel groaned. "Broicism at Chester? Perfect."

"What? Broicism?"

"Yeah it's all tech bros and manosphere losers trying to be more alpha. It's a huge red flag for me."

"Oof. Okay." I frowned. Had I encouraged Rushy down a dark path?

Angel leaned forward and said, "It's probably fine. Rushy's a great guy. Don't worry. I'll talk to him, okay? Talk to me about capacity."

"That thrilling subject," I said, eyeing a pizza that was coming out of the oven. Was that mine? My mouth started to water. "Pascal's gone vegan. Or gluten-free. Something like that. He wants to push himself to a higher level of performance. When I started at Chester, I had to push every rock up every hill, again and again, and now it's, er... The rock has legs and walks itself. And it talks to other rocks about posture and they share mental health tips. It's great. Lets me focus on my personal mantra." My pizza arrived right on cue. "Live: eat well, exercise, sleep." I took a bite and groaned with pleasure as the tomato hit my taste buds. "Laugh: it's hilarious how good this is."

Angel said, "Love: I'd love you to shut up. It's just some cushions!"

***

Friday, December 8

As the song goes, 'I wish it could be Christmas every day of the year.' And with the Perk Construction Kit, it was!

New Perk Available: God Save the King 2: Let's Get Physical

Cost: 6,000 XP

Effects: Why did the football quit the sport? It was tired of being kicked around! If you need to turn a weak, puny pawn into a strong, manly king, use this perk. Raise one of the following attributes by one point for any male player in your database: Acceleration, Pace, Agility, Balance, Stamina, Jumping, Reflexes, Handling.

One use per season.

I leaped out of bed and punched the air. "Yiss! Yiss, mate!"

Six grand was nothing! Pascal had Acceleration 19, Pace 18, so giving him a boost to either one would probably expand his PA by 2 points. Or I could use it on a goalkeeper - most of the goalie Attributes were listed here.

This was exciting; it meant two things. First, I would almost certainly be able to add a further two God Save the Kings to cover the 15 Attributes I couldn't currently upgrade: Influence, Long Shots and so on. With the Attributes distributed across four perks, I would be able to give one player four boosts, or four players one boost each. Per season! Toooppppp.

Second, there was no doubt I would be able to replicate this for the women's team.

I floated down to the lobby, spun Angel around, grabbed her suitcases, and zoomed to my rental.

Since I would be dishing out upgrades like nobody's business, it was time to treat myself to new wheels.

***

I let Angel choose the music for the drive to Venice, a phase in my life that lasted 11 minutes. Once my ears had stopped bleeding, I put some proper tunes on and went back to enjoying the morning.

The trip only took about an hour, then I got off the big roads and slowed considerably as I looked for the place. There were wide fields, little villages with bog-standard apartment blocks, a few hairdressers and nail salons. "This isn't Venice," said Angel, who had dressed up, which I don't think had anything to do with me raving about how the women in Venice were known for their taste.

"VE postcode, check it. Welcome to Venice, baby!"

She inhaled. "Where are the canals, Max?"

"Don't know. Underground? It's definitely Venice."

She sighed and thumped her head against the head rest. "Now I know why Emma didn't want to come. What the fuuu..."

We pulled up in front of an unassuming three-storey block of flats. The ground floor had four retail units. The first was a tanning shop, the next sold beauty products, and the last one was unoccupied. The third one was a car showroom, sort of. When we went inside, I found a desk and a computer, a cardboard cutout, sales brochures. Stuff you could load into your car and take to an expo, which seemed efficient. No wasted signage at this small business.

No-one was around, so we poked our head into a storage area filled with wrenches and wheels and washers. We heard power tools and light music. We followed the sounds through a wide-open door to the back of the property, where sat a long, low workshop.

It smelled of cars, and I had the mad impulse to hit Playdar, in anticipation of discovering a Dragonball, a PA 200 box-to-box midfielder.

"Oh my God," I said. "This is it."

Angel eyed me. "You've seen the car, right? You know what it looks like."

"You've seen photos of the Duomo in Milan but you wanted to visit anyway. I'm not buying an NFT, I'm buying a physical, tangible product. Oh, shit, I forgot the thing. Wait here. Don't talk to anyone." I double-timed it back to my car and grabbed a plastic bag. I rushed back just as the owner of the company - also its chief mechanic - came out, rubbing his hands on a cloth. 

He was younger than I expected, maybe in his 30s, short, handsome, frizzy hair. "Mr. Best?"

I stepped towards him, hand outstretched. "Max, please. Call me Max. This is Angel. My Angel," I said, before realising how stupid that sounded. I looked away, guiltily.

Angel shook his hand. "Ricki," he said. "It is my great pleasure to meet you."

"Angel brought you a gift," I said, handing her the bag. "Maybe you like football?"

He smiled. "Naturally."

Angel reached in and pulled out an Inter Milan kit with Angel 9 on the back. She hid her surprise beautifully but as she presented it to Ricki, she eyed me. We hadn't been together non-stop, but there was no way I had snuck out of the hotel to get this made, certainly not in Verona! So I had been planning this for how long?

Ricki loved the gift, joked that it was a little too small for him but perhaps his daughter would wear it, and asked if we wanted to see the car.

I looked to Angel, as if asking for permission. "What do you think?"

Again she hid her surprise. "Of course."

"Okay, then!" I said, doing a weird little snorting laugh. I stepped towards the workshop but immediately stopped. "Ladies first," I said. "Bellas before fellas."

Ricki loved that, and repeated it a few times as he led the way. When she passed me, Angel whispered, "What are you doing?"

"What?" I said.

When we turned the corner, I gasped. There she was. 

It was live laugh love at first sight.

"La duchessa," I said.

Ricki grinned. "You like it?" He launched into his sales pitch, spoke of the classic Alfa Romeo shell, the modern drivetrain with its torque - nought to a hundred in under three seconds - the obsessive attention to detail, the concealed roll cage, the subframe, the limited-slip differential. Everything was the best of the best, as you would expect from a car that cost 600 thousand Euros.

As he spoke, I walked around, forgetting the role I was playing, dragging my fingers along the buttery-smooth surfaces, smelling the leather, smiling at myself in the wing mirrors. When he finished, I said, "Ricki, I am a football manager. I have a small club and I take players from anywhere. I put them together and try to make it work. I love my pieces. I have a small, fast German, a big, ugly Slovakian, a Viking, an interceptor, a man who identifies as Scottish. I get it to work, just about. But you? You refuse to compromise. You don't say this piece is good enough, that weave will do. Everything has to be perfect, everything has to fit your vision. I am a craftsman; you are an artist."

I thought back to Henri's Lotus Seven. This machine was that car's equal in beauty and it had it beat in every other respect. I could afford pretty much any car in the world, but this was the only one my heart desired. Only 15 would ever be produced. I had exactly one shot at this. I got back in character.

"I'm just picturing it," I said. "I'm driving around the Alps, feeling like James Bond. Beautiful weather, beautiful car, beautiful - " I hesitated as I glanced at Angel. "Beautiful music," I said, feeling my cheeks go red. "Does it have, er...?"

Ricki explained about the sound system. The insides were ultra-modern, best in class, but the front looked like it had been made in 1970. Superb. They had even tuned the engine to make it sound like the original Gran Turismos.

Ricki demanded I get in and take it for a test drive. I said, "Aren't you working on it?"

"No problem!" he said. "We go up the street and back. Two minutes, but then you feel it. You will fall even more in love."

"Haha," I said, as I glanced at Angel before looking down at my feet and swallowing hard.

Ricki got in the passenger seat, and Angel got in the driver's side. She drove off before I had even processed what just happened. She was gone for far more than two minutes, and the other two guys in the workshop thought the whole thing was hilarious. "Eh, Madonna," I said, which got another laugh.

Angel came back, got out, and that huge smile was back. I took the wheel, and I drove it out, up, down, back. Honestly, it was just like my Mini, but with more power. Power I wouldn't be using on my daily drive from home to Bumpers, that was for sure. This thing was all about the looks, about the feel, about the story, about taking a beautiful woman home for Christmas in style.

I parked it where I found it, lived in the seat for a couple of minutes, waited until I stopped grinning.

I got out and reluctantly closed the door behind me. This one was some other customer's; mine would take a year to build, if not more. First I had to seal the deal. "Angel, what do you think, should I buy one? Do you think you - ? Do you think a girl like you would, you know, come on a date with me if I, you know, had a car like this?"

Angel's brows twitched again, but she was sweetness and light as she said, "It might help, yes."

I slapped the hood. "That's all I needed to hear!" I nodded faster and faster as though hyping myself up. "In England, we have a famous saying: To live is to laugh is to love. For me, this car represents that. It is a masterpiece. I would be honoured to be the custodian of such a machine. Ricki, can we step into your office?"

He grinned. "Certainly! Let me finish something here and I will follow. You know the way, yes?"

I nodded, admiring the car one last time as I exited the workshop.

We were all smiles until we got into the storage room. That's where Angel punched me. "What the hell was all that?"

"What?"

"Simpering, blushing, acting like a wet lettuce, all that crap. No," she said, as I opened my mouth. "No jokes. Tell me quickly or I'll blow this up."

I doubted she would, but I couldn't take the chance. I tutted and said, "He's an artist. He's a romantic. I was worried he wouldn't sell his car to me because I'm not his dream customer but I realised, it's not about me, it's about the woman who's with me. He wants to imagine his cars, his life's work, being used for romance and love and adventure. Emma's busy, you're not, perfect!"

"You're crazy! This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He makes cars and sells them. He doesn't turn away Premier League footballers. If you've got the cash, you've got the car."

I sighed. "You sound like Emma. But men like Ricki and I, we're the same. We're romantic, we're dreamweavers. We think different. It's men like us who - "

Angel brutally interrupted my grandstanding. "What if he turns you down because he's into Broicism and he won't sell to someone who isn't alpha?"

"Er... No, that won't happen because you're the alpha."

She was stunned by the beauty of my logic. "You've cracked. What about that gift? What's he gonna think when he looks me up and finds I've left Inter?"

I shrugged. "We're gonna sign the papers right now. I'm gonna pay in full; he'll have the money by Monday. It's not that we lied - you are an Inter player. Technically, you will be until the end of the year. Play along and we can wrap this up; everyone's a winner."

"I want to borrow it."

"What?"

"You've kept me prisoner in Italy for three days to use me to buy a car that you could just have bought. So I want in. When you get it, I want to drive it."

"No way." Her eyes flashed. Ah, well, why not? I wasn't gonna drive the thing to Tesco, was I? "You get one day a year."

"A week."

"Two days a year."

She tutted. "Long weekend. Romantic mini-break."

I pointed at her. "You drive, not your fucking try-hard show-off Broicist boyfriends."

She held her hand out; we shook. Her face changed; she was miring me. She laughed, louder than was rational, and gripped my arm with both hands, leaning into me. "Oh, Max, you're so funny."

Ricki entered and when he saw us getting along, he smiled. Just a few minutes with his car had brought a young couple together. Out of sight, I knocked my knee against Angel's. See?

She bit her lip, annoyed, amused. She spotted a photo of Ricki with a woman. "Is that your wife? How did you meet?"

He had started tapping away on his computer, but he stopped and beamed. "It's a funny story!"

"Does it involve cars?" I asked.

"Of course! We were at a house party and as we were leaving, the heavens opened. Rain like from the Bible! I offered a lift. I had a little brown Fiat, unreliable, noisy, dirty, but it was mine and I loved it. As we drove, she said, 'This car is so cute I could eat it'. That was the moment she won my heart." He leaned back. "I have had many cars, but I will never have another woman." He smiled, then resumed typing. "But that is just me. Others need more time to find their love. They need more luck. I do not judge. I am a simple carmaker, that is all." Angel nudged me with light savagery. See? Ricki said, "I looked for FC Chester. It is a hard time for you, no?"

I flapped a hand. "It's fine. The Premier League is like the Monaco Grand Prix. It's hard to overtake but when you do, you stay in front. We will beat Ipswich on Monday and that will be the start of our move. It's like I always say to my players: live for the win, laugh at the win, love to win."

Angel nodded. "He does say that, yes, and it really gets us worked up. Really ready to punch someone, you know?" She demonstrated on my arm. She wasn't finished punishing me. "Ricki, tell us about the optional extras. We want this beauty fully loaded. Don't we, Max?"

...

Thanks for your support! There are two more days of this heat dome and I need to do a couple of things for Podium. NEXT CHAPTER FRIDAY.

I did an achievement: Soccer Supremo 1 exists! I'll do a bigger announcement when the audiobook is uploaded, which should be soonish. I will also be offering that for sale here on Patreon because unlike Amazon, they don't take 70% of the money. The cost of production is as brutal as the heat!

Max's car.