7.14 - Twenty Nineteen [T3]

[This is long. Get coffee. Thanks for your support!]

14.

Wednesday, December 20

It was a dark, gloomy morning, but the Deva's pitch was glowing and growing. Four wide metal machines that looked like fallen pylons on wheels were lined on the left wing as though they were doing Relationism. They were blasting special light onto the grass, bathing their zones in pink neon. Jonny Planter, our groundsman, was patrolling, checking the nitrogen levels, organising his team, insisting on perfection.

"Mate," I said, clapping him on the back. "Congratulations on the world's first cyberpunk football pitch."

He smiled. "The 440 is such a game-changer, Max. Did you get my request for the 120?"

"I did," I said. "It's smaller, more intense, perfect for focusing on worn areas of turf, such as in the penalty area. You're impressed but I do read the emails. I want you to have everything you want and more. I want you to want more things so that I can give them to you. I live to attend the grass. All hail the grass!"

"You always forget the soil. That's important, too."

"I'm such an acolyte of the grass I do forget the soil, it's true. I will flagellate myself later. If we stay up this season, the grass will get everything it wants, everything it deserves."

He took my gentle mockery in good humour, then said, "Grass disease management robot?"

"Sure. You can have three."

He stuck his tongue out. "Two's enough. Oh, God, amazing result last night. All the lads are buzzing this morning. They've got a spring in their step and that's for sure. I filled up on petrol this morning and everyone was talking about it."

"Talking about the petrol?"

He pulled a face, but decided not to stoop to my level. "People are worried you're gonna get another ban, but... Yeah, city's buzzing and so are the lads."

There were something like ten members of Jonny's team these days, and with so many pitches to maintain, plus the grounds and our 3G pitch empire, they were never short on work. "What did they think about my speech at the end?"

Jonny suddenly had something important to do on an iPad. He saw that I was going to wait for a reply, then ventured, "They'd rather you didn't."

"Okay."

"But they know you mean well."

"Oh, great. That's nice of them." I shook my head and took a few steps away, taking in the magnificence that was the PetPride Stand. It was substantially bigger than the McNally and the away end and I fretted about the aesthetics. Was it too much bigger? The original design didn't have so many executive boxes, but those boxes were going to drive our revenue growth. Aberdeen's ground was like this, with one stand crazily bigger than the others, and that one was behind a goal. Weird but you got used to it, and over time, you started to like it. This was fine, right?

I stuck a nail between my teeth and tried to assure myself that we had done it right. We just had to drive revenues otherwise the whole project would come to a crashing halt with us about 7th in the Prem. To raise our ceiling, we had to raise the roof.

Scurrying around the PetPride were about 50 guys in hardhats, laying cables, drilling and hammering in front of massive construction lights, whistling tunelessly, calling out jokes. There were two separate crews, one on the left, one on the right. Two crews to get the work done twice as quick. Brooke had calculated that if we doubled the speed of the construction, we would get our money back while attracting new fans and delighting our sponsors. It would also make us look less tinpot on TV and the only cost was having less transfer budget at the start of the season. Obviously, that made my life harder but the logic was irresistible.

My gaze drifted up to the three layers of executive boxes - which would generate as much income as all the cheap seats combined - up to the roof. A third crew was hard at work up there, installing another vast solar array plus batteries. Every year both the photovoltaic panels and the batteries got more efficient, and we had so many now. The stadium was a power plant.

We were upping our eco game on this one, with more heat pumps, more rainwater collection tanks, all kinds of gadgets and efficiencies. Much of the stand would benefit from underfloor heating and most internal spaces would have some amount of air conditioning, vital for our increasingly brutal summers.

We were packing so much great stuff into the PetPride that my thoughts, as was happening so often these days, turned to perks. I had asked for one that allowed me to create 'accounts' for my experience points. My intention was to make it so that everything I earned at Bumpers Bank and on scouting trips would go directly into a 'Secret Sandra' pot while everything I got from other sources was sent into the main 'upgrades' pot.

It was basically cosmetic but I felt it would help me plan ahead and would stop me dipping my grubby fingers into the training boost pot. Giving Roddy Jones tiny training boosts every day was not sexy, not immediately satisfying, but it was important and the new regime would bring absolute clarity. This is the amount I have to spend on upgrading myself, this is the amount I can spend improving my players.

The perk was only 100 XP so I bought it as soon as I woke up. I set it up the way I wanted and boom, one less thing to think about.

XP balance: 1,358

(Jonny put his hands on my shoulders and moved me five yards away. Someone in his team said, "Is he all right?" Jonny replied, "He's in one of his trances. You'll get used to it. If in doubt, work around him.")

What about a perk that automated my Secret Sandra spending? I didn't know how to code but it would be something like, IF Roddy Jones is training with the first team, GIVE 20% of the budget. IF Roddy isn't training but Meredith Ann is, GIVE her the budget.

Something like that?

I shook my head. My experience with 'time-saving' crap like that was universally negative.

No, what I really needed, and quite a lot more urgently than I had previously thought, was the Facilities perk. We had all this stuff arriving in the next six months. The PetPride would get a sizeable dental clinic, a tattoo parlour, a hairdresser, quite a few offices. In the bowels would be a bigger referee's room, four female-friendly dressing rooms, a bigger, nicer medical area, a recovery area (ice baths), and even a couple of mini gyms.

All that would be needed for when we demolished the Main Stand and in the long-term would be used by the women's team so they could have their own space, personalise it. (There would be four dressing rooms in the PetPride and four in the new Main Stand, which would allow us to host summer tournaments without asking Bayern Munich, for example, to change at Bumpers Bank and walk across the road in their full kit.)

I was sure that everything would contribute to our Facilities Score, but if I didn't have the perk, how would I know what each element's contribution was?

And it wasn't just the new stand. Bumpers was getting a new gym, two pitches with exactly the same technology as the Deva's, a third one almost as good that would be covered by a UFO, an academy, more equipment, more training gear, more of everything.

If I bought the Facilities perk (for 4,000 XP), I would know how much everything was contributing to our Facilities Score as soon as it came online. The dentist turns up to work on a Monday and the Facilities Score climbs from 17 to 17.02. We drag a treatment table and a first aid kit into a new medical room and it goes to 17.03. We erect a 100-foot statue of Max Best and the score climbs to 9000.

I'm joking, obvs, but I needed to know. It wasn't the most vital perk I had ever bought, but it offered a rare glimpse into the inner workings of the curse. Yes, I hoped one day to get an upgraded Facilities perk, one that would show me an itemised list of everything that contributed to a score, but something told me I wasn't going to get it. If I bought Facilities soon, there would be far less guesswork in my future, far less wasted money.

It was a hell of a rush to make Pascal a better player, but maybe his next upgrade would have to be pushed back a couple of weeks.

I nodded to myself. Facilities, Pascal, Kit.

Jonny was ten yards away and I wasn't even facing him, but he somehow read my mind. "Don't forget my new robots."

I grinned and pointed to the halfway line. "You missed a spot."

***

I ambled across the grass to the Main Stand and made my way up to the boardroom, where MD had called a meeting. That was commonplace. I expected to get a slap on the wrist for talking to the crowd after the match, an update on the club's cash position, news about Christmas merch sales, requests to do media and sponsor events. Secretary Joe would cheekily inquire about the transfer window. Might we squeeze someone else into the squad?

I felt a surge of affection. He knew there was no budget but he would ask anyway because at heart, he was as much a fan as anyone in the city.

The trophy cabinet was bulging, comically stuffed with replica cups and shields even though we had created a temporary second cabinet in the McNally. I made myself a coffee and parked my bottom, facing away from the main entrance like a bad guy in a Bond movie. MD, Brooke, and Secretary Joe came in, chatting away. They stopped instantly when I turned around. That was the moment I got a sinking feeling.

We got pretty much straight into it.

MD, unsmiling, said, "I've heard on the grapevine that the FA have decided your punishment. It was going to be a one match ban - Newcastle - but because you did it again, it will be a two-match ban."

I felt my neck and cheeks heat up. Ban me for the Newcastle match? What the fuck! That was the one I had been looking forward to ever since the fixtures had come out. Even when I was sure Chester would be relegated, that was the one game I knew would bring me joy. Bench boost, prance around the pitch playing like a CA 200 imp, Christmas dinner the next day. And now they were taking it away from me! I saw spots on the edges of my vision.

"They will meet to formalise the new punishment, but they can't work so quickly. The ban will cover Leeds and Brentford, player and manager."

I would play against Newcastle. My fury went from an 11 down to about a 6.

SecJoe was in a far better mood than the other two. He tried to bring some levity by saying, "Free from Christmas to New Year. You get a winter break, Max! It'll be like working in Germany. Again," he added, with a bigger smile.

I didn't return his smile because I was furiously calculating. Missing Leeds would be a pain because with me there, that was a very bankable three points. Brentford was also one I didn't want to miss, because in the away match in October I had scored two goals to earn us a draw. Really, anything less than four points from those fixtures would be a problem...

I would return against Aston Villa - very tricky indeed - and for the trip to Rotherham in the third round of the FA Cup. Rotherham were riding high in League Two, setting a pace that Henri's Newport County were struggling to match, but I would have Foquita and Willi Tillmann in the squad. After that came Liverpool at home, and that one would be all kinds of spicy after what I had done at Anfield.

On the whole, the timing of the ban felt like it was going to be extremely damaging. If Leeds beat us it would throw a gigantic spanner in the works. All my calculations for the rest of the season were based around winning that particular match. Someone at the FA was probably feeling very pleased with themselves...

I tuned back into what MD was saying and soon found myself gawping at him, amazed and aghast. I literally could not believe my ears.

"... has been a wonderful ride, an honour, a rollercoaster with dizzying highs, but with equal lows. Ipswich was a new low, and last night was almost as bad. Why are we at war with our local member of parliament and the entire national media? How have I allowed this to happen? It is my job to stop you from bankrupting the club and to your credit, that has been easier than I expected, I have no complaints on that score, but it is also my job to rein you in when you are going off the rails and I have spectacularly failed to do so. 

"It's not only that I lack the skills, but our business relationship is a stumbling block. How can I put my foot down about Chester when I have five and a half million pounds tied up in Saltney Town? I'm not in a position to do what my position calls for; I'm compromised by the need to maintain a good relationship with you, perhaps even at the cost of what's best for the club. And it is for those reasons that I feel I have to step away from my post."

I closed my eyes, slowly, my head sliding off my neck like I was drunk. "Stepping away." I wanted to say: you mean quitting. You mean leaving me in the lurch. You mean dumping me in the shit when I'm trying to save us from relegation and win the FA fucking Cup.

"At the end of the season, of course. Unless you make my position so untenable that I can't bear another minute."

I blinked but the world didn't come back into focus. "Soz, hang on. I'm just remembering this image of me in a hospital bed, ten minutes after waking up from a coma, and you're there begging me to take this job. Like, I can't even feel my toes and you're telling me I have to take the role. I wanted to be the director of football but you said no, this is what's happening, you're in charge. Did I dream that?"

"You didn't dream that. That's exactly what happened and I don't regret it. That's the best thing I ever did because this is a football club and we exist to win matches and there's no-one better. But I no longer have the stomach to fight your wars and clean up your messes. You're competitive, it makes you who you are, but you're not satisfied with taking shots at goalkeepers - you want to take on the rich and powerful and the richer and the more powerful the better! I'm just a normal person. I'm a competent businessman, that's all. These Premier League types would run rings around me if they weren't perpetually stunned into silence by your latest antics."

He looked down at the boardroom table.

"It's funny. I used to enjoy dealing with my fellows in the National League. Chester were something of a sleeping giant, the name had some cachet at that level, and we would bring a lot of fans to away matches for which most clubs were grateful. That Chester was the right size for me. The club has long since outgrown Mike Dean. I've known it for a long time but last night was the final nail in my coffin."

"Mine too," said Brooke. "I'm also going to step down at season's end."

Two seconds before she said that, I was thinking: Promote Brooke to MD's role, job done.

I closed my eyes, but otherwise remained motionless. There were too many thoughts swirling around my brain, yet also too few.

Brooke said, "Last night, more fans requested a refund of their season tickets. They don't like your politics, don't like you preaching at 'em."

"How many," I said, so flatly the sentence doesn't merit a question mark.

"Four."

I came close to glaring at her. "So I raised the average IQ of the fanbase."

Her jaw tensed. "This is why I'm leaving."

To my left, work on the PetPride was surging ahead. Across the road, Phases Two and Three of Bumpers would be fully completed by the summer. We had the architects working on the final plans for the Main Stand. Brooke had taken care of almost everything, had built everything I wanted. There wasn't much left to do on that score, and while we remained a Premier League side, we would have no trouble filling a stadium up to a capacity of 20,000. Probably 25,000. Right? "We've got a big waiting list for season tickets."

"Yes," she said, a coiled spring just waiting to say 'but that's not the point'.

"Sponsors are locked in for next season."

"Apart from CFC, yes."

She meant the Chinese car company owned by Michael Ning. They wanted my endorsement and they wanted the naming rights to the rebuilt main stand. I hadn't heard anything from Michael to say the recent controversy would affect us, but it stood to reason that one or both deals could collapse.

But if the stadium would sell out, which it would, and if we didn't urgently need to replace key sponsors, it wouldn't be a knockout blow to lose Brooke next season. It would be quietly devastating over the long-term, of course, because the extra few percent of revenue she could attract per season would compound and grow. Losing her was like subtracting fifty million a year from our revenues five years from now, a hundred million a year in a decade.

Replace MD. Replace Brooke. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

What about perks? I had a perk that gave us an attendance boost if we kept winning trophies. What about one that did something similar with our sponsorship income? One that made our Foundation's fundraising efforts more effective?

Yeah, I could replace MD and Brooke if I diverted my attention away from what was happening on the pitch.

Fuck you, Pascal, you don't get more PA boosts, you don't get near the Germany squad, these guys want to stay friends with the nice fascists.

"Christ," I spat.

"Max," said MD, but I cut him off.

"Got it, thanks." To be honest, I was raging. Fuming. But this duo had done so much for me and for Chester that I couldn't lash out at them. I wouldn't. And one day, the dust of this meeting would settle and I would be civilised to them, even cordial, but for now I didn't want to discuss it. If they wanted to move on, I would move on. "SecJoe," I said. "Are you leaving?"

"No chance," he said, urgently. He added, in a sad voice, "You'll need help finding a new CEO and COO."

"No," I said. I stared at the trophy cabinet, gold and silver, prized and polished, the word Chester repeated again and again. If MD and Brooke weren't going to help me turn that name into one of the biggest brands in world sport, I would do it alone. Don't back down, double down. "I'll do it."

Joe said, "You'll find the new people?"

"No. I've got six months to find a new COO but MD's replacement is right here. I'll be the CEO. I'll do it."

"You can't!" said MD, but I barely heard him.

On a football pitch, anger heightened my ability to cut out noise and allowed me to focus on what I needed to do next. In here, on this morning at least, anger pushed me into full problem-solving mode. MD's Ambition score was 4 out of 20, which maybe explained why he had chosen to replace Jackie Reaper with a 22-year-old who couldn't walk. Under MD, the club had always spent within its means, had never taken a risk. The most ambitious thing we had done had been to sell mini-bonds to build a new stand, and that stand had been full ever since. The safest investment in the history of sports was the craziest thing MD had let me do.

What if I didn't have a boss? What if I had no restrictions of any kind?

MD had started the meeting as the big dog, the sheriff laying down the law to the young pup, but now he was turning pale. "You'll be the CEO?"

"Acting CEO, yes. Starting today. Starting now." I stood up, mentally going through the men's first team squad again and again. 

Murray was leaving in a few days. How about a new centre back? Could I get a goalscoring wide forward? My database was bursting with options. The timing of the FA ban had gone from being painful to giving me a much-needed opportunity to take care of biz. Never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake. Anyone who thought these events would slow me down would be left with whiplash as they watched me whizz into the distance.

I spoke in the direction of my former boss. "No need to rush the press release. Any time before 4 p.m. is fine." I drained my coffee, opened my mouth to say something awesome, but thought: what's the point? Two-thirds of these guys just quit. I grabbed my coat and walked rapidly away from the old table, the old photos and trophies, towards Chester FC's new future.

***

I jogged towards Bumpers Lane, slowing to check for traffic, stopping because I didn't know where I was going.

No MD, soon to be no Brooke. No brakes, but a financial black hole that would grow bigger every year.

I had to generate money for Chester to replace this lost income the way I had bought Bakers Court to replace the money I was sending to West Didsbury. Unlike Brooke, I didn't have business skills, so I couldn't squeeze more money out of our sponsors, couldn't discuss merch segmentation with Grindhog, and I had already ruled out money-spinners like partnering with gambling companies, crypto, or arranging post- and pre-season tours.

Ahead of me lay Bumpers Bank. I didn't know our Facilities Score, but so far in the Prem, we didn't appear to have run into any training caps. We didn't have any players at 160 yet, but our training speeds were exactly in line with what I had expected. Roddy Jones was improving fast, and while the top guys like Cheb were going somewhat slower, it was to be expected. If there was a cap, for example at CA 165, all our new facilities would surely raise it.

Bumpers - in conjunction with the Saltney campus - was not a hindrance to taking a guy from CA 160 to 170, I felt almost certain.

How could I replace the income Brooke would have delivered?

Transfers.

The January window was approaching and I had an unfair advantage over every club in the world.

Time to use it.

***

I pushed the door of the Mini closed and automatically stepped to the rear of the car, intending to get my equipment bag from the back seat. But what equipment bag? "Old habits die hard," I said, shaking my head.

I was at BoshCard HQ, formerly Chester's training base. I followed the well-worn paths, first right, right again, through the double doors. I went upstairs and was welcomed by a very surprised personal assistant, still here and still gorgeous. There were a few Christmas decorations up, but there were also tons of cardboard boxes and plastic crates. "What's this?" I said.

"We're moving to bigger offices."

"Bigger?" I said.

"We've come a long way since you boys moved out." I loved the way she said 'boys'. "Do you want to see Agatha?"

"If it's possible, yes. If it's not possible, also yes."

"Anyone else, I'd send away with a clip around the ear. For Max Best..." She went to her desk and made a hushed call. "Straight in," she said. "Can I get you anything?"

"Er, yeah. On my way out, can I get that clip around the ear?"

She eyed me, appreciatively. "I know why you keep making your stadium bigger. Need a place to keep all that testosterone."

"Busted," I said, giving her one final tiny smile before heading in to see Agatha, the head honcho of BoshCard UK.

***

Agatha was in her sixties, thin, intelligent, hard, a taskmaster, but a good boss. I liked her a lot, but I hadn't seen her much since we moved out of this building. BoshCard were our shirt sponsors but she wasn't a massive football fan and rarely attended matches. She knew enough to congratulate me about beating Leicester.

I glanced left and right. "I should compliment you, too, it seems. Bigger offices? When you started sponsoring us, you were just as tiny as we were."

"That's true," she said. "Sponsoring Chester was the best thing we ever did. We started as a niche credit card company, an offshoot of an American firm, but thanks to all the publicity, we have grown rapidly and we're a substantial operation in our own right. We're doing better than our parent company, in some ways. We're all surprised."

"On behalf of everyone at the football club I'll say 'you're welcome'." She liked it when I got cocky, as long as I didn't push it. "Sounds like you've got plenty of cash sloshing around."

Her expression changed slightly. "Isn't it Brooke Star who comes to ask for more money?"

"I'm handling such matters for the time being."

"Oh," she said, piecing together the rest of the story from that one comment. "I see. It isn't time to re-negotiate our arrangement, Max."

I held up a hand. "Nothing like that. I want your name on our shirt for as long as poss. I hate when clubs change the sponsor too often. It feels grubby and wrong. And you're based in Chester so your success - wait, is the new office in Chester?"

"It is."

"Great, perfect. So you're a growing company, creating jobs. That's symbiotic." I threaded my fingers together, forming a synergistic mesh. "But listen, I'm sure even a top company like BoshCard wouldn't mind some free money."

She grinned and cupped her hand to her ear. "I'm hearing sirens. Danger, danger!"

I scoffed, then leaned forward, giving my pitch. "You probably don't follow us all that closely but we're in the Premier League. Last night's result increases the chance we'll stay there, but it will be tough. I think we'll do it. Call it 50-50 for the moment. At the start of January, I can sign new players. If I sign the right men, they will play in the Premier League and if they are good, their value will go up. I'm the best judge of talent in the entire sport and with two or three very well-chosen signings, I can make a quick profit on those players. A quick, large profit. As a side-effect, those guys will likely be better than the ones I've got, which will help us to stay in the Prem, and which will help us win a trophy, both of which will generate tons of revenue."

"You're presenting this to me like it's a change in the plan. Forgive me if I ask, why wasn't this always the plan?"

"Because MD was very careful not to over-extend."

"MD... was," she said, her eyebrows rising. So he was out, too!

"He was cautious and I was happy to work under that framework because it meant not risking the club's stability, but I'm in charge now and there is no way I will let this club go bankrupt. We have more financial muscle than we are using and it's time to use it. I'm here to ask for a revolving credit facility." This was a football club's equivalent of an approved overdraft, and was very common. Chester were surely the only club in the top two divisions that didn't have one. It was probable we were the only club in the top five divisions. "You're going to ask about security and risk and it's simple. We've got a hundred mill in TV revenue, we could sell 20,000 season tickets, and we've got a squad worth half a billion pounds. If we borrow money and can't pay it back, there are three economic levers to pull. Sell future broadcast streams; sell next year's season tickets; sell players. If all that failed - and it's hard to describe how vanishingly small the chance is - I would tell the fans to sell to a rich prick."

"Specifically he must be a prick?"

"To have that much money, yes. We're in the Prem. There are three hundred guys who would pay three hundred million to own a Premier League team. Even in the Champ, given our squad, we would attract dozens of very serious bids. We have no debt so all he has to do is cover whatever financing you would give me. Your money would be totally safe. I genuinely couldn't think of anything safer. If I had enough, I would do it with my own money."

"How much would you want?"

"Two hundred million."

She poured herself a glass of water, drank some of it, and eyed me. "That's a lot of money, Max Best."

I shrugged. "I wouldn't use all of it in one go. I couldn't, for various footballing reasons."

She interrupted me. "Explain that."

I nodded. She who pays the piper calls the tune. "A top player would go for a hundred mill, easy, but I couldn't afford his wages and he wouldn't want to come. I'm looking at being second from bottom of the league on January first, which rules out the top top players. I'm not even shopping in the next best stores. I would be looking at players in the 20 to 40 million pound range, mostly signed from European teams. My squad is big and I don't want to completely stifle the growth of my younger players so I would sign a maximum of three new guys."

"Which means a maximum outlay of 120 million."

"Yep. I would also want to hold 50 million back for the redevelopment of the Main Stand. Generally speaking I don't tend to buy on credit. I grew up poor and don't like paying the interest and the fees, so it's better for me psychologically to buy stuff from what we've got in the bank, but I'm comfortable taking on debt when I know for sure that I'm going to make bank on a deal. If you give me what I want, I will spend Christmas Day and every day until New Year hammering the phones getting deals in place. The right deals for hungry players who want to put themselves in the world's best shop window."

"It all seems rather rushed. I liked working with MD and Brooke. They never rushed. They were always very sober. Long-term thinking, you know?"

"Er, yeah, I think we have a different definition of long-term. I sign 8-year-old players and draft 10-year training plans for them. I could write out the Welsh team that will start the 2034 World Cup and I'll get most of the names right."

She smiled. "A fair point."

"But if you feel I'm rushing, that's understandable. This opportunity has arrived unexpectedly. We have eleven points and I have a killer tactic against our next opponent. Then come two games against teams we've already played this season and we got four points when we were weaker than we are now. So, like, we could have 18 points by the turn of the year. Trust me, that's amazing. We won't be the bottom team and we already have two continental-class players arriving on January first. With two or three more, we will be awesome and we will stay in the Premier League, with its hundred-mill-a-year TV deal. Because there's so much excitement about our recent form, we can sign a better calibre of player, and because the purse strings are loosened, we can afford to do it."

She looked at the base of a wall, where a blue-and-white Chester kit was propped up, ready to be taken to its new, bigger office. I wondered if she was thinking 'Always bet on Best' or 'this guy's a nutter'. "There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads to fortune."

"Yes," I said, relieved that she understood me. "That's it, exactly. Strike while the iron is hot. We would be fine without the money but I'm not happy with fine. Fine's shit. Fine's terrible. You know," I started, but I thought better of it and shut my gob.

Agatha gave me a quizzical smile. "Finish that thought. I won't hold it against you."

I scoffed. "You might." I lowered my voice as if telling her a secret. "Two hundred million is a good amount, an amount I can work with, but part of me wants to ask for a billion."

"Why don't you?"

I shook my head. "It would be spectacular. Chester would be one of the top five teams in Europe within a matter of years but it would actually be too risky. If I died, it could unravel. No, I know too much about the history of the sport to repeat past mistakes. Leeds United overspent so much on a gamble they could break into the top four that they crashed all the way down to League One. With Chester it would be worse, so I'm not doing that. I'll still build the foundations of the house while I'm building the plane that I'm flying. You can imagine it's quite complicated to do that, but hey, I never said I wasn't a megabrain."

She poured herself some more water. "What will you do if I say no?"

I shrugged. "I'll pivot. I know a few rich people and there are other financial institutions, but who else could move as fast as I want, and who else is going to give me such low interest rates?"

Her face hardened. "Who said anything about low rates?"

I did puppy dog eyes. "Pwease?"

To my everlasting relief, she cracked into a huge smile. "Scandalous!" She tapped her desk and glanced at the Chester top. I wondered which match it had come from. Must have been a banger. "I think we can come to an arrangement..."

***

In the driver's seat of my Mini, I dialled. Don Pino, the superagent, picked up. "Don," I said. "It's Max on Chester business. Premier League business. How would you like to make some money?"

***

I paced around Bumpers, wired, manic, and spotted a guy in a big coat with a profile that showed he worked for The Sun. I grabbed him and pushed him towards the main entrance. "Leave of your own free will, while you can still walk."

"The fuck are you doing?" he said. "This is assault! I'll call the police!"

"And I'll call my lawyer who will call your desk editor." Telling him I knew he was a journo shut him up, and when I grabbed him by the collar and snarled at him, he knew I wasn't bluffing. "Don't come back. Next time I see you here will be the last time I see you." I shoved him; he scurried to his car.

Glaring at him while pretending to be calling someone was satisfying, but I knew I needed to calm down. Where better than in the zen garden?

Don Pino was going to help me get some targets. Even with the sexiest credit card in the North West, I couldn't just go round buying superstar players. This was still Chester and we were still in a parlous position in the league, but there were plenty of great players who were coming back from injury, who had fallen out with their managers, or who had some other troubles that could be solved quickly.

There was a big, tall centre back who was not getting games. There was a midfielder who always seemed to be injured, but wasn't that because his idiot manager overused him? There was a wide forward who had starred in the 2022 World Cup, got a good move, and had largely vanished from sight. His contract was running down so in theory I'd be able to pay his club a fee to release him early, remind the world how good he was, and sell him on. Bosh. Total cost, a hundred million? Sell for one fifty in the summer?

I strode into the zen garden; instantly my strides shortened and my heart rate dropped by 10 points.

On a bench, Angel was reading a book, while Matt Rush was lying sideways beside her with his knees up, his head probably touching her leg. Huh. I pottered over and saw that Angel was reading Marcus Aurelius, and was sharing a pair of AirPods with Rushy. "Phone," I said, holding my hand out. Angel looked up, amused, and handed over her device. I tapped the screen and saw that they were listening to the music she had played in my car. I sighed and returned the phone. "What did I say about torturing my players?"

Rushy said, "I love it, boss. Big fan."

As if. I had been planning to make more phone calls in the zen garden, but I would leave them to it. Unless they would be fucking off soon? "What are you doing?"

"Gonna have lunch with Bonnie."

"Bonnie," I said, going internal. Angel's big sister was running Saltney Town, doing all the admin, basic marketing, taking calls, going to league meetings. Could she step up into Brooke's position? She was on the path to being able to do that, but it would have been like putting a youth team player into the line-up against Newcastle - only an idiot would do that. Bonnie needed a couple of years in her current role before she could think about moving to a bigger club.

"Max? You're looming."

"That's because the future's luminous," I said, but I decided to leave them alone. I stepped away, went the long way round to the same gate through which I had entered, paced to my office block, hurried past the Wall of Shame, bounded up the steps and into my office. Through the windows I saw non-stop construction. New pitches were being laid, the academy buildings were starting to go up, and ahead to my right there would soon be a giant UFO. I had to buy the Facilities perk before any of this stuff came online. At some point today I would sit and sketch out how many experience points I was likely to earn in January. That could wait, though. MD was out and Brooke would be leaving in the summer; replacing her had to be the priority.

I threw myself onto a massive bean bag, plugged in my phone, and thought.

A minute later, I called Chester FC's next Chief Operating Officer.

***

"Max," he said, and his accent was so distinctive it ended the suspense for audiobook listeners. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's all kicking off, mate. It's all kicking off and as always when I'm in the shit, I turn to the one person I can trust in this whole world."

"What is kicking off?"

"MD is out. Brooke is leaving at the end of the season. There are massive holes at the top of the organisation and I need a massive plug and that plug is you."

There was a pause. "I am confused but let me tell you that I do not feel seduced."

"I know, I couldn't help it. Henri, listen. You've got the skills. You can run a football club. Not on the pitch, that would be crazy, but - "

"I say again, I do not feel seduced."

I laughed. "I don't know why I'm teasing you. I think I'm just enjoying picturing your face. Listen, real talk, I need someone to run a Premier League football club and I want it to be you. Let's think what the job is. It's the football industry and while having Brooke's outside perspective and her fresh ideas has been really good, there are obvious advantages to having a football insider in the post. You won't have to ask me if we should decorate our away end in Wrexham colours when they come to play, things like that.

"Second, the day to day business and management. You don't have mega experience of it but I've seen you in the dressing room and with Seal Studios. You are firm when you need to be, diplomatic when you need to be. You're far, far, better at all that than I am. You're methodical and precise but you know when to step back and look at the bigger picture.

"Third, going to meetings with high-level people from sponsors and the Premier League and so on. Well, you've been doing that since you were a kid, haven't you?"

"With my mother, yes. She brought me to many of the happenings."

"Right, so you're not scared of billionaires. You've been telling rich dudes and snobs their proposals are not adequate since you were old enough to walk.

"What else? Brooke oversees the Foundation. You'll keep an eye on the charities, check their numbers stack up, and if we're relegated and the budgets are slashed, you'll decide which programmes are the ones to get cut and you'll be a cold-hearted bastard about it."

"Is that good?"

"Of course it is! You will make a decision that leaves the club doing the most good for the most people. It's my job to make sure disaster doesn't happen, but if it does, the COO can't be overly sentimental. The money's gone, here's what happens next. I think you'd handle that kind of thing with absolute class and tact. I'm glowing with admiration just imagining you in that scene, mate.

"Another thing Brooke does is to manage our assets. We've got the 3G pitches, Tiki Tekkers, and the start of a property empire. All those commercial units in Deeside, remember? And she has done all the planning for Bumpers and the Deva. There won't be much left to do but you've been buying and selling properties since you were young and you have a lot of skills. You can make good commercial decisions, that's for sure.

"And the best thing of all is that if you're sitting next to the CEO of Ipswich Town and I give him a bollocking in front of the entire world, you're not going to be embarrassed. You're going to look at him, shrug magnificently, and say, 'If you don't want to be shamed for being a fascist, don't be a fascist.' And then you'd munch on an apple or something awesome."

Henri took a few beats. "I feel seduced. I have enjoyed this phone call very much. But Max, be serious, there is not a vacancy. Brooke loves Chester and she loves the job. She can be a cut-throat capitalist while helping the needy. You have been a pain in the arse one time too many, but you can also be charming. Go to her, apologise for causing distress, explain yourself, discuss, chat, weep, renew the bonds of friendship. If you ask her to stay, she will."

"Not this time," I said. "It's over. And by the way, what I did recently was actually pretty mild. If she hated that, what's she gonna make of what's coming up?"

Henri sighed. "What have you got coming up? You must tell me if you are serious about this job offer."

"I'm going to create a political party."

There was some muffled swearing in French - must have been a crossed line.

I continued. "I'm going to create a political party and run it in Chester North, Chester South, and Deeside. We're going to get three members of parliament who aren't trying to get cushy jobs in the government, who aren't trying to get social media famous so they can go on talk shows and write books. Their entire job will be to look after the interests of their constituents. Oh, and to use parliamentary privilege to blast people in the House of Commons. That's a minor thing, forget I mentioned it. Basically they'll be local campaigners, running around Chester, getting shit done."

Henri tutted. "Yes, I can see why you think Brooke would not enjoy hearing about this plan. Keep politics out of football. Republicans buy sneakers, too."

"I'm not trying to take over the government, Henri. One of our three local MPs has positioned herself in opposition to me. What happens when I've got the money to build my bridge and she uses her position to stop it from happening? They are obstacles and they have to be cleared out of the way. All of them, just in case. I'm more popular in Chester than any politician and I can use the Deva and Saltney Town as, like, campaign headquarters. Huge free, weekly publicity for The Chester Party. We will steamroller everyone." I mimicked a BBC voice as I said, "This overhead kick last minute winner was brought to you by The Chester Party."

"You have had many crazy ideas but I think this takes the prize."

I nodded. "So you won't consider the job."

"Hmm let me see," he said, and I thought I could hear him tapping his lips. "Do I want to be in the room when a stream of people very carefully and patiently explain why everything you want to do is both illegal and unethical?" He laughed. "Your schemes don't scare me, Max. We would need to discuss certain very hard boundaries, but if you want to remove a right-winger from parliament, who am I to stand in your way? But I think in your rush to find the ideal candidate to replace Brooke - someone just as attractive, someone just as charming, someone just as urbane and wise - you might have overlooked the fact that I already have a job. I play for Newport County. I am a League Two Legend."

I tutted. "Bin that. Call this your last season. Look, you've achieved loads. If Newport get back-to-back promotions, that's a hell of a way to go out. Yes, you're young, you could go another five years, but I'm offering you the chance to run a Premier League club! We will win the Prem, win stuff in Europe." He didn't reply, so I switched tone, got wistful. "Remember we talked about you hitting your peak and how the challenge would be to stay there? You've done it. I have no doubt you could stay at your level for another four years. I've never been so confident about anything in my life. In my head, you've actually done it, so it's boring and it's time for something new."

"If Brooke had stayed, you would have said my continuing to play would be the most noble of all things."

"Yeah, probably, I'm quite shameless."

"Oh, Max," he said, then fell quiet. What I was proposing was the end of his football career. It wasn't something to take lightly. I gave him space. Finally, he said, softly, "I need to return to Chester."

"Right, yeah, because of Luisa. You get back often enough but it's still long-distance. I get it. I should have thought of that and used it to get what I want."

I heard him smile as he said, "Shameless. Yes, I want to return for Luisa, but she understands the needs of the job. This year I am in Wales, next year might be somewhere else. She is very comfortable with me being gone. Too comfortable for my ego, in truth." He paused again, then said, "She's pregnant."

I gasped. "Luisa pergunent?"

"Poganant, Max. It's new information. We wanted to tell you to your face, but..."

"Congrats, bruv! Er..."

"What? Max? Hello?" Henri tutted. "You're thinking of baby names, are you not?"

"Little Baby Just Fontaine." Just Fontaine scored 13 goals in a single World Cup and the name was so wonderfully French.

Henri laughed. "That is not as terrible as I feared. Do you wish to withdraw your job offer? I will not take it personally."

"What?"

"No sooner will I take up the role than I will be preparing for paternity leave."

"Yeah, so? What? I don't care. Why would I care? I don't make Brooke work seven days a week, mate. I have to beg her to take time off."

"I hope to persuade Luisa to marry me. I think she will come around. Do you want to be my best man?"

The weight of the responsibility crushed me. "Uh..."

"I will not feel bad if you say no. I rather expect you to. But I have to ask you first, do I not? You like to feel special."

"I feel seduced. But Henri, I'm swamped. I'd want to take a month off everything and go crazy with the stag night."

"But you cannot. I understand. I have made the offer and you have declined with absolute class and tact. You have made an offer and I am very tempted. I am minded to accept but I will discuss it with the mother of my child."

"The mother of your child... Wow. I'm... When you put it like that, it's actually stunning. It's gonna take some time to process. Little Baby Joan of Arc. Little Baby Voltaire. Little Baby Three Musketeers."

Henri laughed hard. "I am hanging up now, Max. Au revoir."

"Au revoir, mate."

***

I trawled through the player database looking for centre backs, centre mids, and wide forwards who were out of contract in the summer, who were not playing, who were currently injured and hadn't played much this season. When I found players who might fit the bill of improving our starting eleven in January while generating a profit in June I went deep into their careers, not just eyeing the raw goals and assists data but going through the Match Archive, reading the Match Commentary, getting a feel of how they performed in various scenarios.

One guy played great at home and against weaker teams, but crumbled against top sides. There was a Hidden Attribute for that, right? He wasn't a big-game player. Would that stop me from buying him? Course not. I would use him at home and against weaker teams. Make him look amazing, bosh, profit on that.

I made calls, I sent messages, I hit the gym.

Then I drove to St. Helens to co-manage our women against Liverpool in the final match in the first stage of the Nando's Cup. We were already through to the next round, but there was a lot of XP to be had. With more responsibility than ever, I had to pick all the low-hanging fruit, try to make things easy for myself.

***

An hour before kickoff, I went into the dressing room. "Max!" said Elsa Lund, who wasn't in the squad but had elected to travel and be part of the night. "We heard about MD and Brooke and assumed you wouldn't come, since we are already qualified."

Meghan was captain for the night. She said, "Nah, this is typical Max. This is exactly the kind of game where shit players switch off, go through the motions, get beat." She punched her palm as her volume rose, and I noted that the entire dressing room was spellbound. "He's here to say hell no. He's here to lay into us if we don't play like a Chester team. If we treat this like a jolly, like a fun little training match, he's gonna rip our heads off and I'll be helping him. We're playing Liverpool, ladies. They've got a shop in our city. They've got a fucking shop in our city!"

The squad yelled, stomped their boots, clapped.

Megs continued, "We never, ever take it easy against Liverpool. Anyone who isn't feeling it, fess up right now." That was met by a wave of jeers and boos. Meghan eyed me. "We got this, boss."

Captaincy suited her, bloody hell. "Top," I said. "Quick thing about today's news. I'll tell you what I told the men: nothing changes. We keep going forward, nothing else to say. Enjoy the ride." I double-checked everyone's Condition score, and departed.

***

I stood on the touchline doing kick-ups while receiving texts and voice notes from agents and directors of football all over Europe. When the teams came out for their first warm-ups, I scanned.

Liverpool's best eleven was around the CA 120 mark, but they were sensibly not using their key players tonight, and their backups were quite a lot worse than the starters. Tonight's eleven had an average of 99.

We were doing 3-5-2, giving minutes to youngsters and squad players. Queenie in goal was CA 93, one point away from capping.

Dafina (98) was on the left of Meghan (118) and Femi (111).

The midfield from left to right was Fioled (94), Mari Hughes (97), Charlotte (101), Saffron Walden (97), and Kisi, who was CA 112. 

The forwards were Alwen, who like Charlotte was capped on 101, and Kit Hodges (125), who would be showing off her boosts. Boosts! I said boosts!

At various points, we would push Saffron forward into the CAM slot, but mostly we wanted to dominate possession and win in an energy-efficient way. The women had a winter break coming, but I was still very wary of injuries. There was incentive to play well in this match - some of our fans were here, we were playing our local rivals, and playing well was literally the job - but there was absolutely no reason to go flat-out.

Our average CA of 104.3 compared very well with Liverpool's, and showed that our squad was far more talented. Tanwen, Amy Shone, Devi Payed, and Taz Murphy would get minutes. When I first scouted Taz, the Feedback Loop token had been in place, so her Nando's Cup debut would give me a tiny XP boost. Leaning into the Feedback Loop was a good way to get a little more XP into my system, which I supposed was the entire point. It incentivised me to give chances to young players, not just to build a superteam by brute force by sticking all the bills on a credit card.

Hmm. The incentive sort of worked as intended.

The match kicked off and it was a spicy affair. Tackles, pushing, shoving, players giving each other lip, and some neat and tidy football from both teams. Without our Spanish geniuses we lacked some of our usual midfield control. Without Dani, Meredith Ann, and Sarah Greene we were short on dribblers. But there was plenty to admire in our play. Kisi, Saffron, and Alwen were a technical, exuberant triangle who created a hatful of chances for Kit to tuck away.

Liverpool had a couple of brilliant youngsters - I would be looking to poach them - and Queenie's limitations as a goalie were exposed. At half-time, we were winning 3-2 and the crowd were well and truly entertained. Perfect.

One of the physios tugged at my arm. "Boss, your wife is here."

"What?" I spun around and spotted Emma. She looked small and fragile and worried. I floated over the barrier and put my hands on her cheeks before realising how cold they were. I moved them to her waist. Smiling, I said, "What are you doing?"

She leaned into me. "I'm worried about you, babes. I couldn't stay home."

My smile widened. "What do you mean?"

"With MD and Brooke and everything. I know you said you're fine but I know you. I couldn't wait."

She was taking the news badly, that was clear. I squeezed her and glanced at the pitch. If I stayed for the second half, I would be certain to get to 4,000 XP before Christmas. Enough to buy Facilities. One last perk this year, a Christmas present to myself.

But Ems was suffering. Jay didn't need me and the women didn't need me. "Okay, let's bail."

"What?" she said, confused. "Go? What about the match?"

"What about it? Their standards won't slip; they won't even know I'm gone. Let's get you a greasy kebab."

She winced. "That's not what I need. I need to know you're okay."

I did a convincing 'I'm okay' stance. "I'm luminous!"

"You're not luminous."

There were some Liverpool fans nearby, gawping at us. "Excuse me. Would you say I'm luminous?"

"You're loopy, is what you are," said one.

"Ludicrous," said another.

I smiled at Emma. "See?"

She turned me away from the randos slightly. "Oh, babes, don't. You can't take on MD's job and Brooke's job on top of ten other jobs. I'm worried. I've got, like, mega anxiety."

"Mega anxiety?" I said, brushing one of her hairs back into place. "No, come on. MD's got one job, which is to stop me from crashing the club, which I'm very capable of doing. Er, stopping me from crashing the club, I mean. You know what I'm saying. And I've already replaced Brooke."

She blinked. "What?"

I looked around, then leaned close and whispered. "Don't say anything to anyone and it's not confirmed, but I've asked Henri to do it and he wants to."

Her eyes got wider. "Whaaaaat." She shook her head. "That's crazy. That's bonkers. That's... That's quite good."

I smiled. "See?" I took her hands in mine and got serious, and as I spoke I felt the tension leaving her body. "This morning was bad news but I don't have time to dwell on it. I have worked too hard at this to let everything turn to shit. We had a plan but we've got a new plan. We are going forward faster and it's going to be even more epic and more intense. I promise I will look after myself - and you; I'm not going to turn into a burned-out husk. The FA are very kindly building natural breaks into my schedule and in those breaks I will take you to spas and gin tastings and we'll learn how to do pottery and we'll do that competitive pony-dressing thing you were joking about.

"Okay but it does mean I have to work hard in the next, like, well, until the transfer window closes. Six weeks? I'm probably going to be out most nights watching matches and doing deals. You can come every night or never, whatever you feel like, and I'll make sure to keep some afternoons free. And in February the men's team only have four matches so we can do some mini-breaks, spend some time in Gibraltar, all kinds of lovely things. Oh, we could invite your parents to Gib. By then, your dad will have forgotten the pasting Newcastle got. Good?" She nodded. I smiled nice and wide. "And hey, if I'm out most nights, it's more time you can spend watching Christmas Love Island. Who's that guy you like? Dodgy Dave?"

"Dishy Dave," said Emma.

The two Scousers burst back into life. "No, Emma, lush, not him! He's awwwwwful."

The other one said, "Not being funny like but if you think Dishy Dave is an upgrade on Max Best, you need yer 'ed checked."

Emma squeezed me. "I don't." She took a long, slow breath, eyed me, then released it. She tapped me. "This isn't the time or the place. I'm still worried but let's talk about it later. In the meantime, we've both got a job to do."

I frowned. "My job is to delight and entertain you and make every day of your life better than the last. What's your job?"

She stood on tiptoes, kissed me, and turned to the Scousers. She flapped her hands and said, "Budge up." They slid one seat over and Emma sat next to them. "What do you think about a Dishy Dave redemption arc? He slows his gob down, shows his sensitive side, opens up about his feelings."

"You mean about his first wife who died?"

Emma's jaw dropped. "What's this? I haven't heard this!"

"Babes," I said, stupefied. "What are you doing?"

"Getting the hot goss, babes."

"What about my emotional turmoil? I'm a real-life fucked up hottie, not one of your cartoon boys."

The nearest Scouser fell into Emma, laughing, and they started to communicate in code, using names and phrases beyond my comprehension. I was so confused that it took me almost twenty seconds to realise my wife was doing market research for our agency. Was Dishy Dave a potential client for REM? It seemed so.

What a world.

I clambered inelegantly over the advertising hoardings, and bumbled back into the dugout.

***

Near the end of a very enjoyable match that we won 5-3, a Cestrian called Taz Murphy sprinted onto the pitch. She was an 18 year old midfielder who could play in the middle or on the right, CA 58, PA 133.

Bit of a late developer but I hoped she would turn into a great squad player for us. For making her debut in the Nando's Cup, she boosted my stash by 200 XP.

Yes, queen!

***

Thursday, December 21

The highest-profile match being played in the UK was Luton Town versus Birmingham and although Emma claimed to have better things to do than travel to Luton, I was looking forward to it. It was my first time visiting Luton's beautiful new stadium, and with it being a Christmas match against a high-profile opponent, it was a sell-out.

Luton squeezed me in with VIPs from the away team, and I found myself sitting next to one of Birmingham's co-owners, a beefy American who seemed to be famous. Tom Gravy, something like that? I would have been happy to be left alone with my thoughts, but I spent much of the first half answering his questions, such as what I looked for when scouting a player - first touch, swiftness of decision, quality of decision, clarity of decision. He seemed genuinely interested and asked how Birmingham stacked up.

"Not well," I said. "My analytics score gives you an average team rating of 121 out of 200. That's pathetic given how much money you've spent."

"Pathetic," he said, flatly.

"Luton are 138 and they also waste most of their money, so think how bad you guys are doing."

"You really don't hold back, do you?"

"You asked," I said, still staring at the pitch. "It's not like I went over to your country and told you how to run your sports. Not like I assumed that being good at soccer would make me good at the NFL."

He stayed quiet, so I glanced away from the pitch to see him giving me a very interested stare. "Diggy Doggy said you fixed his team in one morning, made yourself a chunk of change. You still in that business?"

"Oof, I would have been but now I don't have the capacity to do..." I slowed down, because some very obvious things were occurring to me. A team with an average rating below 130. A Chester player who would increase the level. Three new signings who would kill that player's minutes. Bark wasn't going to play much in the rest of the season, so why not bring forward his departure? "Here's how I can help you. Calabash Barkley. He's a right midfielder about the level of Zach Green. You know him?"

"Sure, yeah, I love him. Should be a starter for the USMNT. I was asking my boys here, why didn't we go in for him?"

I jabbed him in the arm, but not so hard it would deflate. "Now you're talking. Now you sound like a megabrain. Bark is that level but he's younger, he has 11 caps for Jamaica, and he has played in the Prem. He would walk into this team, make it better from day one."

"Why would you let him go?"

I shook my head. "The Prem is cut-throat. I've always given my young players minutes so they could learn but in the PL it's almost impossible. If you finish a match with two sixteen-year-olds, you've lost that match. You know what I'm talking about. You didn't have many downs when half your teammates were guys still learning the basics."

"Max, half my team mates were guys who never learned the basics." He chuckled to himself, then said, "That's a joke. Joking. Don't put that on Instagram."

"I'm not on Instagram. I'm saying that Bark isn't in my first eleven but he's ready for regular action. He would give you something you don't have much of - experience of winning promotion from this division. And he's a great guy, great in the locker room."

"Locker room," smiled Tom. "You're playing me. What would this cost?"

I thought about similar players. Zach Green went for 3.3 million. Joel Reid had slightly higher CA and I had sold him for 3.5 mill, but that was before we were a Premier League club. Bark had done all right in the Prem, which would mislead clubs as to his ceiling. "Five million," I said, but regretted it. "Ah, fuck, no. I want him to get a good move. 4.4 mill and you throw six catches to him."

Tom laughed. "A hundred grand per completion? Hell of a pay cut..." He watched as one of Birmingham's midfielders played a pass ten yards behind his team mate, who had to sprint just to keep the ball in play. The most lucrative failed pass of my life! "Jeez," said Tom. He looked to his left, towards the Brum leadership. "I'll talk to my guys, see what they think. But give it to me straight. Would you pay 4.4 million English pounds for Calabash Bark?"

"If I were you, yes, because he's a hassle-free way to improve the team. If I were me, no, because I live in abject poverty the likes of which an American sports franchise owner cannot comprehend. But then again, maybe I would because he's not a player who will lose value. Give him 20 starts a season and you'll get your money back, or most of it. Okay, listen, maybe there's a very slight premium on that price but I don't want to sell him. I don't want to see him go, but I can't be completely selfish about it. He's ready to be a first-team regular. I wanted to keep him until the summer so I could make sure he got a really good move but Birmingham City would be a phenomenal move.

"Bark's been with me for years, he's like my little brother. He came on one of my early dates with Emma, when he wasn't sure he was gonna make it. I knew. I saw his talent and I've watched him grow, taken care of him, and now it's like I've got to send him off to the army." I rubbed my eyebrow. "4.3 million and you promise to take care of him."

He eyed me, weighing up whether I was being authentic. "I'll talk to my team. We don't make any moves without consulting the data."

I scoffed. "If your data team don't agree with me, bin them off. There's a million quid in free advice."

"Gee, thanks."

***

Friday, December 22

There was one day until the Newcastle match, which in one sense was the biggest game of my season, and instead of being on my sofa watching video of the Magpies, I was out grinding, thinking about perks that might help me meet the new challenge, sending and reading fifty texts an hour.

Many were from Chelli, head of REMSA, telling me about great Brazilian players who would love to join Chester. I loved his enthusiasm but for this particular window I couldn't sign players who would need time to adapt. I already had one of those: Jari Köngäs. King Kongas. I would make sure the new signings didn't disrupt his development too much, but if I signed a midfielder and another forward, it was likely that he would finish the season a few points of CA lower than he otherwise might have. Another victim of MD and Brooke's bombshell. It pissed me off.

In the stands at The Racecourse, I tutted and scowled and annoyed the Welshmen who were sitting nearby. I had recently watched Swansea versus Wrexham and now was at the return fixture. There were a good number of Welsh guys on the pitch, plus coaches and physios, though tonight there was nobody new.

At full time, I stayed in my seat for a while, because thanks to the bonus experience points I'd got from Taz, this match gave me enough to buy the Facilities perk.

XP balance: 4,028

Okay, but no new facilities would be finished in the next few weeks, would they? I had done some rudimentary maths and I was pretty sure that I could save up, give Pascal another boost, and have Facilities unlocked well in time for the first seats to be screwed into the PetPride. Doing it that way round was far more desirable, since it would give me an extra few matches with a boosted forward.

My head was mush from making decisions - I decided to postpone the whole thing.

"Mr. Best?"

I looked away from the pitch and found a Wrexham fan and his teenage son were standing a polite distance back. "Shoo-my," I said, which was Welsh for 'aight?'

"I just wanted to say that we listened to that radio programme about you with the Welsh army boys and we know what you've done with the Welsh youth teams and we come to every match Saltney Town plays here at the Racecourse and next season we're going to the ones in Saltney, too. We think you're brilliant and we hope you stay on as Wales manager."

Morale plus a million! "Thanks, guys, that's very kind of you. I hope so, too. It's out of my hands."

The kid said, "You could stop saying things."

The little brat was telling me to shut up and dribble! But I rose above it, magnificently, and even found capacity to reward the duo with a cheeky grin. "You make it sound so easy."

He grinned back. His dad said, "What do you think of the Reds?"

"It's good; they're getting better. Another playoff run, I reckon. No geniuses to stop you this time."

The kid said, "Do you want us to get promoted?"

"Oof," I said. "Good question." I bit back the impulse to say that it would be an easy six points for Chester. "Yeah, why not? It's good for Wales, isn't it? And when Ryan Reynolds smiles, the world smiles with him. Yeah. Do it for Ryan. The lad deserves a bit of luck, doesn't he?"

"Come on, Steve," said the dad, grinning amiably. "Let's go before he says something that gets him into trouble."

The pair started to shuffle away. "Hang on," I said. "Wait a sec. I've got a big game tomorrow. Say something horrible about me that I can use as fuel."

The kid looked at his dad, then at me. "You're a shit dancer."

I tutted, sighed, and shook my head. "Mate."

"Hwyl, Mr. Best," said the dad, as they once more shuffled down the steps.

"Yeah, hwyl, yeah, sure. Wait!" They looked back. I said, "Tell me to go to hwyl."

The dad laughed. "I can't do that, Mr. Best. It offends my sense of grammar."

***

Saturday, December 23

I stayed in Chester overnight and in the morning drove the Mini up to Newcastle. It would have been nice to go with the lads on Sealbiscuit 2, but I needed my car to be in town in case I needed to make a quick getaway from Christmas dinner.

Before going to my hotel, I popped to the Weaver residence and dropped off all the Christmas presents. Rachel invited me in, but I said I couldn't step foot over the threshold in case Sebastian had set traps for me, like in Home Alone. Rachel correctly pointed out that they didn't know I was coming, and I said yeah but what if he has a time machine? She accepted my logic, then asked if I was okay and how was I handling the news?

"We're gonna find out," I said. "Are you coming to the match?"

"Wouldn't miss it. We're gonna smash you. Up the mighty Toon!"

"Oh dear," I said, in a posh voice. "How embarrassing for you. Give Sebastian my fondest regards, won't you? Toodle-pips!"

***

I checked into a hotel under the name Cliff Daps, went to the room, lay on the bed. I told myself this was just another game, just another day, but it wasn't. It was my one chance to use Bench Boost in the Premier League this season. Winning would make every conversation with agents and players in the following week a piece of cake. Winning would move us off the bottom of the table.

Winning would be a massive fucking rebuke to people who doubted me.

I stewed for a minute, told myself it was stupid to waste this precious mental energy, then reflected on some of the various perk ideas that had been rejected by the imps.

Explain what negative PA means. REJECTED.

Give me itemised Facilities Scores. REJECTED.

Could I tweak the wording? Come at problems from a different angle?

I dozed off, was woken by my phone's alarm.

Sleep before a match?

That was a great omen. (Seriously.)

I rose from the bed, stretched, bent, touched my toes. My body felt immense. In recent weeks I had been tweaking my personal build towards a sweet spot of speed, skill, and stamina; I had absolutely nailed it.

This match wasn't just me getting under my father-in-law's skin because it was funny.

After the week I'd had, it was therapy.

***

English Premier League Match 19 of 38: Newcastle Arabia versus Chester

A 53,000 sell-out in a UEFA grade 4 stadium. Guaranteed enormous atmosphere, helter-skelter football, ear-splitting volume, passion leaking everywhere. A match I had been thinking about, dreaming about, plotting towards for months.

The halfway point in the season. After this, we would play teams we had already played, and we would have some idea on how to approach them. Those teams would also have some idea on how to approach us.

This was the last time I could use my tricks on players and a manager who had never seen them before.

I threw open the doors of the dressing room like I was entering a saloon in the wild west, scanned the place looking for lusty wenches - the closest we had was Youngster - and moseyed on over to my spot. I got changed into a luminous pink top, then sat and rested my head on the shelf behind me. Thoughts crept in - betrayals, enemies, media hit jobs - but I shoved them down, deep down, and moved towards the tactics board.

"All right, listen up," I said. "Opposition analysis review. Tobias Berger likes to play 4-2-3-1, which makes him number 14 out of 19, yawn, and his teams are always good going forward but flakey in defence. He had a mixed career in the Bundesliga but he generally outperformed the level of his team, and it's thought that Newcastle appointed him because he is used to dealing with teams in a state of permanent transition.

"Why's that useful at Newcastle? Because their Saudi paymasters have relegated the Toon to a side quest. Not even a side quest. What's it called in a game where it's just a thing you do but there's no point to it? Newcastle United are a collectible. Buy one team in five sports to unlock new bragging rights. Yay.

"Obviously this isn't the dream that the Newcastle fans were sold. Remember they used to dress up as sheiks and defend Saudi Arabian foreign policy on social media? Little bit of light treason in exchange for getting a new left back every year? Well, someone blew up a bunch of stuff in the Kingdom and here we are. The pipeline of cash to Newcastle got turned off, and they've had to sell all their best players. But don't get complacent, lads. Alan Turner, the prick, did a good job coaching these fuckers, and they have done a half-decent job of replacing the guys who left. This match will be fast, furious, fiery, and, er, fffflipping exciting."

"Terrible," said Peter. "Boo."

"You're just upset I'm gonna dismantle another German football manager. If I keep exposing their flaws, who's gonna be left to manage Bayern?"

"You?"

I scoffed. "They wish. Right, I'm gonna say it again for the hard of thinking. Today is not as tough as it could have been, but it's still incredibly tough. It will be hard. We will lose duels, we will be outrun, the crowd will intimidate the ref and the oppo will get away with murder. Let me say it a third fucking time. Montoya is an amazing striker. Halteman is better than he looks. Paul Johnson is a menace. Their defence is tight and their goalie is one of the best shot-stoppers in the biz. This is going to be an absolute bastard of a game! Steel your fucking selves!"

Even with the sales of four key players and the retirements of some stalwarts, Newcastle were CA 161.

My tactical planning started with the concept of Bench Boost. I wanted to be on the pitch for almost the whole match, but wanted to be boosted, which meant I was planning to let a kid start. He would only play for two minutes, so why not go Full Max on that one? In the under 18s there were two midfielders with an asterisk next to their name denoting that they had been scouted with the Feedback Loop. Rocco Andrews was a DM with PA 117. Chris Ross was an MC with PA 114. Chris had already played in the Premier League, against Man City no less, so Rocco was gonna make his Premier League debut and get me 700 much-needed XP. I had explained it to him saying that it was going to infuriate Newcastle and help us win. He didn't give a shit that his debut would be two minutes long. 'Better two minutes at the start than at the end!' Great kids. They were all great kids.

Who else did I want boosted for the end of the match? I expected to make three changes at half time and keep one sub spare in case of injury. It made sense to me that the fifth guy should be Magnus, since he could play almost anywhere, but in the end I decided to take a risk and use Magnus from the start. 

So who else?

The obvious candidates were the guys with the highest CA: Cheb, Edgar, Owen, Youngster, Dumi, Wibbers. No way was I messing about with goalies in this match, so Owen was not gonna be subbed on.

I tapped the tactics board. "Remember I told you I'd spent ages looking into formations that did well against 4-2-3-1 in general, against Tobias Berger, and against Newcastle? There were two stand-outs. The first was 4-4-2. That's right, kids, I'm going to use 4-4-2 in the biggest match of the season. Magnus, hear that sound? It's the sound of Ian Evans's laughter." Magnus and the rest of the old guard wore affectionate smiles. "For those who don't know, Ian Evans was the guy before Jackie Reaper, the dinosaur who was manager when I got here. The first time I advised him to play 3-5-2 or whatever he snorted and said, 'You can play with your silly toys as much as you like; in the end, everyone comes back to 4-4-fucking-2.' To be fair to my tactical skills, my 4-4-2 comes with a twist. Not only a false 9 but a false 10, too. Shove it, Ian!" 

That got plenty of laughs. I felt myself getting energised.

"The second formation that slayed was 4-2-2-2. Narrow, but with rampaging full-backs." Boosting the DMs in that formation would be awesome, would give us an amazing platform from which to attack, but experience had taught me to reserve Bench Boost for attacking players in almost all cases. It was easier to defend than to score a goal, after all.

So my final concept, honed after months of thought, was this:

We would play the last 20-30 minutes with a lineup of Owen in goal and a back four of Lewis, Peter, Edgar, and Cheb. Cheb would be boosted, while Lewis would be extra motivated to play against his former club, the club that had allowed him to rot in the reserves for the crime of banging Alan Turner's daughter.

The two DMs would be Youngster and Magnus. Rock solid.

The CAMs would be me and Pascal. Why had I decided to go for Pascal over Leo Los? Pascal was a more natural fit in that role, and he was so intelligent he would be amazing against a tiring, stretched defence. My theory was that Bench Boost was worth ten percent extra CA, so Pascal would be effectively CA 154 with extremely targeted skills. If things went well, he would be devastating. If not, we would effectively be playing with ten men.

And up top we had our two strikers, Gabby and Wibbers. Newcastle's defence was good but I felt sure we could hurt them.

If all went to plan, our final CA would be 152.3, but we would play like a CA 158 team. Excluding me, of course. I was pretty sure I brought us up to Newcastle's levels, at least.

But to get anything from the match, we needed to survive the first half. I tapped the 4-4-2 magnets.

"Owen, Helge, Peter, Edgar, and Magnus. Midfield four is Lewis, Jimmy, Youngster, and Bark. Lining up as strikers but being moved around where needed: Leo Los and Rocco. Rocco to be replaced by Max Best after two or three minutes for reasons I will explain to you..." I glanced at an imaginary wristwatch, "... never."

Crazily, that got another good laugh.

With Rocco on the pitch, our average CA would be 139.6, but it would be more productive to look at the CA without him: 149.2. That was low but not painfully low, and I would be on the pitch.

Did I detect a cynical frown when you heard the name Bark? Nah, bruv. He wasn't playing to convince Birmingham to stump up the cash. I had planned to use Bark in this match for a very long time. He was a diligent, hard-working player who would do his defensive work without making too many mistakes in possession. He was perfect to give us first-half solidity when using Bench Boost.

I clicked my neck left and right, checked the clock. Kick-off was fast approaching. Destiny awaited.

"Guys," I said. "Last couple of things. Vikki has been dreaming up killer set piece routines for months and we're going to deploy them in this match if the angles are right and we have the right players on the pitch. If I've told you you're only gonna play the first half, please please please understand that you're vital to the win. If we're level at half time and go wild at the end, it's because you set it up for us. That's not me trying to manage you, trying to fob you off, that's facts. Every duel we win in the first half sets up the mayhem that's coming in the second. You know how much this match means to me. What we're doing is the absolute best of the best of Max Best. If you're on the pitch, you're playing a part.

"Second. Remember I said the theme of the year was the friction between patience and impatience? That's this match today. We need to be patient because there will be times when we're under the cosh, being pushed back, crowd getting uppity, blah blah blah. Stay chill. If they score and the crowd go nuts, enjoy it, enjoy the soundwaves, then know that we're gonna shove that noise right back down their throats. This is our day, our win, our points. Keep cool, keep your heads, then go psycho when it's time to go psycho." I nodded at Peter, our Triple Captain. "Last preparations, please."

***

1'

The teams were read out. My name was booed twice - once as a sub, once as co-manager. Some prick pointed a camera in my face. I smiled down the lens. 'Guys, guys, don't bother, I'm already at peak motivation.'

In the Gallowgate end, the home fans produced an enormous tifo, a giant picture with some text on. If you want to know what it said, ask someone who gave a shit. Around the rest of the stadium, black-and-white flags of all sizes were waved, anthems were sung. Somewhere in the stadium, Emma was with her parents and their friends, her loyalties torn. I had insisted on Brick being nearby, because if I scored and Emma celebrated in the home end, there would be trouble. There was an empty seat reserved for the away team's CEO, so if there was the slightest hint of aggro towards Emma, Brick was under instructions to take her to the VIP suites.

The whistle blew and thanks to Rocco's Premier League debut, I got a bonus of 700 XP.

Lolz. There might have been curse users better at hacking the system than me, but I bet most of them had been turned into imps. That was probably what happened, wasn't it? The best players got invited to become immortal. Just one catch...

Urgh. What a thought. Veto.

XP balance: 4,728

2'

Newcastle came at us fast and furious.

Their fans shouted at the ref and sang songs abusing me. Yawn. Boring. I'm massive, I've got 200 mill on my credit card, your owners cut off the spigots. Get back in your fucking crevice.

3'

It looks like Chester are making a change. It's Max Best replacing Rocco Andrews.

Did the young midfielder pick up an injury? He appears to be moving well enough.

Best gives him a prolonged embrace on the touchline, then is given a standing boovation by the home fans.

I ambled around, arms aloft, soaking up the, er, what's the opposite of acclaim? I soaked up the declaim. I bathed in the censure. I breathed red-hot Newcastle fog and because I was basically a Paul Atreides regen, I turned it into spice.

***

4'

Leo dribbles towards the Newcastle area. He cuts inside but the ball drifts too far away.

Youngster takes over. He whacks the ball wide left towards Lamarre.

The former Newcastle man touches the ball towards the corner flag, hoping that Best will get there first.

Best controls the pass but is immediately under great pressure from the full back.

Best shrugs off the challenge and moves to the goal line, near the edge of the box.

A Newcastle DM rushes to block Best's options, but he is far too slow.

Best approaches the ball with his left foot, does a curious little shuffle to rearrange his body weight, and smacks a cross into the middle.

It's a delight! It's too high for the goalie, too precise for the defenders, and it lands on Leo Los's forehead!

Leo can't miss...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

The bottom club take the lead!

Max Best rushes to the nearest stand, points at a Newcastle fan, tells him to shush.

He moves to the next fan and tells her to shush.

There are 53,000 in the stadium. Is he planning to shush them all?

***

I paced around feeling seven feet tall, which in metres is also seven. Seven metres tall, mate. The stupid 4-4-2 thing was supposed to be a defensive masterclass. In no cheese-fuelled fever dream had I envisaged Leo Los scoring against Newcastle United from a header. Their defenders were massive, genetically modified to win aerial duels. Their goalie was huge, and half of the point of him was that he would catch crosses.

Not that one, bro. That one was far too good.

"Fucking bunch of clowns," I muttered, before switching to a rather louder volume. "FUCKING BUNCH OF CLOWNS!"

I set my jaw and paced up and down the half way line waiting for the match to restart so I could fuck things up again. Emma Weaver - what? No, Emma Best - would be in the safety of the director's box in no time at all.

***

10'

Newcastle have a throw-in on the right of midfield.

It's tossed to Johnson, who has drifted across from his starting position.

Johnson with a sublime first touch, dinks it round the corner to Montoya.

Montoya turns on the edge of the area, approaches Hagen.

And nutmegs him!

Montoya with some space in the box.

He hits a low pass across goal. It's too far behind Halterman.

Halterman controls and takes a snap shot.

Oh my word, it has gone in!

How did that go in?

Peter Bauer couldn't block it.

It looked an easy save, but Elmham didn't flinch!

Newcastle are level, and their fans are delighted! Halterman has given them an early Christmas present: an equaliser.

***

After the initial euphoria died down, the Geordies launched into some songs about me. They didn't seem to like me much. Was it because I had once scored against them from 60 yards in humiliating fashion? Because I had gone in two-footed on their former manager, Alan Turner? Because the Mail et al had branded me a traitor? Because Newcastle was a hotbed of support for Regress? Or was it that I had stolen their loveliest flower and whisked her away?

"Come on, Jimmy," I called out, giving our Scottish midfielder a thumbs up. "Head up, Helge. Patience, yeah? Keep scrapping. We're still in this."

Peter yelled, "Come on, boys!" and was joined by Owen, Edgar, and Magnus.

Morale was good. We wouldn't be knocked off course by one little setback. It's not like our entire leadership had bailed on us earlier in the week.

***

14'

Fantastic play from Chester!

Their combinations and slick passing moves are pushing the home team deep into their own half.

It is wonderful football.

But Newcastle break up the attack and feed the ball to their right back.

He curls a pass down the line, aiming for the right forward - it is nearly intercepted by Youngster.

But what's this?

The ball has curled almost to the centre circle. Halterman sticks up his long leg and brings the ball down along with his foot.

Chester step up to play the home team offside, but Halterman plays the pass earlier than expected!

It's brilliant, into the path of Johnson.

The sometime England international has Magnus storming back.

Magnus is catching up to him.

Johnson is running out of time. He gets the ball into the penalty area on the left. He has to shoot early.

Oh, that's brilliant! He moved across the ball so that any contact from Magnus would draw a penalty.

That gives him half a second to get his shot away. He strikes left-footed...

And curls it around Elmham at the near post!

A tremendous goal! A quality finish. Newcastle take the lead!

***

I stood in the centre circle with my hands on my head. Not in a distraught way, not in a disappointed way. It just felt good to stand like that and sway slightly while I waited patiently for the oppo to get ready.

The first goal had come because the striker had hit an early shot from a mad angle. Peter and Owen, two experienced players, had not expected it. The second was from a clumsy first touch that the lanky German forward turned into a piece of silky smooth playmaking. At this level, opponents could do things. They could fuck you up with a moment of magic, a moment of inspiration, a touch of class.

The trick was to not let it get to you.

"Hey, boys?" I called out. The ones in earshot turned to me. "Pain don't hurt."

Jimmy said, "What the fuck?"

Youngster explained it. "Mr. Best is saying he believes in us."

***

It looks like Newcastle are adopting a more cautious approach.

Tobias Berger was a good coach with good tactical skills but shared the same flaw as most guys whose jobs were at risk if he lost too many matches - he was happy to get more defensive after taking a lead. Sit back, wreck us on transitions. It was the world's most universal tactic for a reason - it worked. I would hold my hands up and say it was a tactic I often used. But in this case, I thought it was a mistake. When his men had gone toe-to-toe with us, they had outscored us two to one. Keep doing that, bro!

I assumed he thought we would crumble or start to do stupid things and he could save his players' legs. After this, Newcastle had three matches in seven days, same as we did.

We didn't crumble.

I hit Seal It Up, tweaked our defensive positioning and the pitch margins, and jogged around playing one-twos with the midfielders. I wanted us to keep the ball, move it, spread it out, share energy around the group, starve the Newcastle players of that same energy.

So much time passed with us doing that, the home fans got restless.

That was one thing I really appreciated about Newcastle fans - they loved attacking football. This sitting back against the worst team in the league? It didn't sit right with them, not even close.

Delighted, I doubled down on what we were doing, and near the end of the half, started to get more frisky again.

I created hotkeys that would move Peter and the central midfielders into higher zones so that I could approximate Hybridism.

***

40'

Chester are moving the ball around midfield. Youngster plays a pass and rushes forward.

McNeill plays a pass and rushes forward.

This triggers a huge press from the home team! The home fans urge them on.

Newcastle are swarming around the ball.

Best drops to offer support. He takes a pass from Peter, who surges into midfield. With so many Newcastle shirts in Chester's final third, that seems reckless!

Best to Edgar. Edgar fizzes a pass to Peter.

The German touches the ball dead in the centre circle and stands back - he's letting Max Best take it further.

Best with a burst of speed moves into the opposition half. All of Chester's combinations have scattered the Magpies. There's no-one within ten yards of Best, except for the referee!

The ref gamely tries to keep up as Best surges forward.

He's pushing the ball with his left foot, like he has jam on his boots.

At last, a defender thinks about attacking him, but Leo makes a diagonal run that makes the defender hesitate.

Best has a clear sight of goal. He shifts his body weight onto his right and cracks a long-range shot from all of 35 yards. It's on target and it's travelling at some speed!

Peter Bauer throws his hands up in celebration...

But the ball veers just wide.

Best can't believe it! Peter Bauer can't believe it! The home fans hug their neighbours in relief.

***

43'

Foul on Lewis.

Best will take the free kick from the left touchline. He lifts his left arm, lifts his right, drops his right, raises it again, then drops both hands.

What does that signal? Best whips it into a crowded penalty area.

Hagen leaps to head the ball... but makes no contact.

The ball lands at the feet of Peter Bauer. Was that an intentional miss by Hagen?

Peter Bauer nudges the ball out from under him and toe-pokes it towards goal...

It goes just wide!

Shit, I thought. That would have been a beauty. That was one of Vikki's set piece designs. She had spotted that if we gave Helge headers between the penalty spot and the edge of goal, most teams wouldn't even bother competing for them since they knew he would win more often than not. It was much more efficient to deal with what came next.

But what if nothing came next? Vikki had taught the guys to get in line with the ball and assume it would go all the way through. She was right, and Peter's reaction time was impressive, but we had needed a tiny bit of luck on that one.

***

At half time, I reflected that we'd had the most passes, the most shots, and spent the most time in the oppo's half. Pretty good performance, all things considered. One that would have been unthinkable the day MD turned up in my hospital room and told me I was the new manager of Chester FC.

Emma had virtually camped in the hospital, needing to be there when I woke up, when I talked. I wondered what she was making of this first half. Sandra Lane asked Bark to clear off so she could sit next to me. "What do you think Emma's thinking?"

I blinked, but the question was just a coincidence. "She's probably relieved. I got an assist and look like a good player she can be proud of, but her dad's team are winning. It's probably ideal for her."

Sandra nodded. "Okay, yeah, so let's let them win."

I laughed. "Let me check with the boss." I touched my ear and pretended to listen. "Nah, he says it's go time."

She nodded and called out. "Subs, you ready?" Gabby, Wibbers, and Cheb nodded that they were. We were going to make all three changes in the first stoppage after half time so that Tobias Berger wouldn't get any clues or help. Gabby fell to the floor and did some push-ups, which the others thought was a great idea. "Kin hell, lads," complained Sandra. "You're muckier than Jamie. Go and wash your hands before dinner, yes?"

Wibbers grinned. "What are we having?"

Sandra said, "We're gonna eat Newcastle's lunch." The lads cheered. "Boss," she said. "Have you got a favourite movie?"

I stood. "My favourite movie is Die Hard. It's an all-action blockbuster that gets even more explosive in the second half. Bosh, nailed it, Merry Christmas, now let's make my father-in-law cry. Hands in." As many guys as could fit surrounded me; we made a tower of hands (to symbolise Nakatomi Plaza, perhaps). I yelled, "Awkward Christmas dinner on three. One, two..."

Sandra shouted, "No no no." That put a stop to my fun. She eyed me, grinning but serious. "Do it properly. Don't be self-indulgent. Come on. Give us one for the team."

Using the word team was like throwing a match; she ignited something deep within. Eyes blazing, I looked around at the faces of my team. Owen, Lewis, Cheb, Wibbers, the coaches and physios, Sandra. "Listen up, men. If we win today, we stop being twentieth. We move off the bottom. We ascend and spend Christmas Day floating, dreamlike, euphoric. Do you know what I mean? We are a team. In this world, it's just us, and that has never been more true. Whatever happens, we sink together, we float together, we ascend into the fucking stratosphere together! It starts with one number: nineteen. Nineteen on three. One, two, three..."

The entire room shouted, "Nineteen!"

I had an out of body experience. I tipped my head back, eyed the ceiling, and roared.

I wasn't the only one.

***

46'

Tobias Berger didn't change anything tactically, but he got his players fired up. They came out hot. So hot that I delayed our subs for a minute, thinking that I could use that break to disrupt the home team's momentum.

Chester are going to make some changes.

Jimmy McNeill, Bark, and Helge Hagen are replaced by Cheb, Wibbers, and Gabby.

Leo Los will play as a CAM alongside his manager.

***

We disrupted their momentum, sure, but it came right back.

48'

Newcastle move the ball through the centre, cutting through Chester's press easily.

The ball is played towards the right forward, but Lamarre comes in with a huge, crunching tackle!

He meant that one!

But the ball breaks kindly for Halterman. He surges towards the penalty area.

Peter tracks him. Edgar can't help because he has to keep an eye on Montoya.

Halterman has the edge on Peter. He shapes to shoot - Peter slides in, doesn't get the ball.

Halterman shoots low...

Saved by Elmham!

The rebound could go anywhere...

It falls between Peter, Halterman, Edgar, and Montoya! They scramble to be first...

Elmham bravely dives on top of the ball!

Montoya was inches away from it! He holds his head in his hands.

***

50'

Corner to Chester.

Max Best places the ball outside of the corner arc. The home fans bay for justice.

The linesman asks Best to move the ball.

Best moves the ball three atoms to the left. The home fans are apoplectic.

Best signals: right arm up, left arm up, both arms flapping, both arms down.

That causes a great deal of commotion in the penalty area. Chester's big guns rush the near post.

Best whips in the corner, away from the crowd, smack onto the forehead of Leo Los!

One of the shortest players in the box with a free header!

He nods it powerfully towards goal...

Straight at Wibbers, who is in front of the goalkeeper!

Wibbers adjusts his neck, trying to divert the ball top bins, but he miscalculates and it goes out for a goal kick.

It was an interesting routine from Chester, but surely they didn't plan it exactly like that!

***

54'

Montoya can't keep the ball under pressure from Edgar.

Youngster works the ball wide right, to Cheb.

Cheb, halfway inside his own half, spots Best making a run.

That's a lovely, floated pass down the line.

Best gathers and races towards Newcastle's left back, Downing.

A slight hush falls on St. James' Park. If Best gets past Downing, he'll be through on goal.

Best weaves right, left, right, dribbling into the penalty area. The defender is struggling!

Three more Newcastle players are sprinting to help their team mate.

Best plays a pass into space, in line with the penalty spot, near the edge of the box.

Into the path of Wibbers!

Wibbers with a crisp, clean, side-footer...

Scores!

Chester have equalised! Wibbers follows his shot and slides head-first into the back of the net!

Best follows him. Chester have a back-of-the-net party!

Delirium in the away end!

***

High on adrenaline, we sensed that we had the chance to smack the Toon up in a very serious way. Pressing, yes. Tackling, hard. Pitch margins, tight. One quick turnover and we could get ahead and stay there.

***

55'

Newcastle are trying to build from the back.

Four Chester players surge towards Johnson. He's under immense pressure and he has no options!

What's this? Van der Linden is steaming out of defence!

Johnson plays a sublime diagonal pass through the mass of bodies into space for Van der Linden to run onto.

Chester have been carved open!

Van der Linden crosses halfway, keeps running, wants to feed Montoya.

Chester are trying to hold their offside line.

Van der Linden passes the ball between Lewis and Peter into the path of Montoya.

Lewis raises his arm. He's claiming offside!

But Cheb was too deep! No offside.

Elmham sees the danger and races out of his penalty area. That looks reckless.

Montoya runs onto the ball...

Bends it around Elmham with the outside of his foot...

And scores!

That is astonishing technique! Brilliant individualism after a brilliant team goal.

Montoya celebrates with a somersault, Tobias Berger dances, the stadium shakes.

3-2! Chester were level for one minute!

***

I stood with my hands on my head again, this time in dismay.

That was a fucking unbelievable goal. Everything about it was mint. The finish was impudent, creative, cheeky. Did Owen really need to leave his penalty area? Er, no. That kind of thing was why he got the nickname 'Mad Owen'. That and blasting his mum's phone with a shotgun. The drive from Van der Linden looked exactly like Hybridism. Was that coached or was it him reacting to his mate being in the shit? It fucking worked, I can tell you that.

Oh, but the pass from Johnson was pure silk. We were swarming him, we were about to eat his lunch, but he had stayed ice cool, spotted Van der Linden's run, played the perfect pass. It made us look stupid and amateur and it wasn't often that an oppo player did that to us.

Eat his lunch. As if. Tomorrow at the Weaver residence I would have to eat crow. I would have to eat humble pie.

Bottom of the league. Potential new signings looking at us going, yeah, nah. A crumbling org chart, relegation, sackcloth and ashes, the flame that burns twice as bright gets put in the bin with all the other defective products. That goal had cost us our future. That goal had cost me the Wales job. Little Baby Three Musketeers would be ashamed to call me his godfather.

Wibbers put his hand on my back. "Boss, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just treating myself to a ten-second meltdown. Bit of catastrophising. You know, for Christmas."

"I bought myself a puffer jacket. One of those ones the pope wears." He patted me. "We're still in this, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said. "It would help if they stopped scoring bangers. Jesus."

"Let's get a banger ourselves."

"Fuck that," I said. "Shinners, tap-ins, deflections, own goals. Win ugly for all I care. All the beauty's in the league table, do you know what I mean?"

"Nineteen," he said. He clapped and yelled, "Come on, lads! Still in this!"

***

Chances at either end. Breaks. Corners. Geordie sure turned to Geordie tension.

The Magpies got fouly, cheaty, spent five minutes trying to knock us off our stride with delays and shithousery. They gave away one free kick too many and the ref got his yellow card out. I had a free kick 35 yards from goal that I smacked with three toes, Pirlo-style.

Boosted by the Free Hit perk, the ball rose and dipped like an attack drone, crashed into the crossbar.

"Ooh!" went our fans.

"Holy fuck!" went the Geordies.

I stomped to the dugout and got in Tobias Berger's face. "You're cheating against the worst team in the league. How's that gonna look good on your CV? You fucking knob."

That led to a bit of pushing and shoving, and I was pleased to note that Marek and Sticky stayed out of it so they could keep aggro away from Sandra and Livia.

My chat with Tobias Berger reignited the atmosphere, made it massive again.

With the home fans fired up, the Newcastle players charged around looking for chances to smash into us. Good. Aim for my shins, not the goal. Obey the crowd, not your manager. What a bunch of muppets.

***

68'

Lamarre rolls the ball down the line for Best to collect.

Best jumps to avoid a wild tackle!

He bends and touches the ball with his knee.

The home fans don't like that, and neither do the players!

With two opponents storming towards him, Best plays a simple pass to Youngster.

He moves it to Magnus, who pushes the ball five yards ahead of Cheb.

Cheb, on the right of midfield, dribbles halfway into enemy territory.

Newcastle are keeping a disciplined offside line, using the edge of the penalty area as a guide.

Will Cheb try to dribble past Downing? No, he leans back and aims a cross from deep.

Cheb curls the ball behind the defenders but too far in front of the goalie for him to collect it.

The pass has a beautiful arc, but has Cheb put too much pace on it?

Who's that attacking the far post?

Gabriel leaps and flings out a leg.

He flicks the ball goalwards...

And in!

The Chester players surge towards Cheb. His cross was perfect. Unstoppable!

And the scores are level once more!

***

When we'd stopped jumping around like idiots, I gathered the guys into a quick huddle. "Let's have five calm minutes, yeah? There's still ages to go!"

The guys said yes, can do. They actually said that to my face.

***

71'

Chester thundering forward once more! Peter Bauer is marauding!

They're pushing for a winner.

The pass is cut out, and Van der Linden hoiks the ball clear. Anywhere will do!

It goes sky-high and comes down with snow on it.

Montoya and Edgar are wrestling each other. The ball bounces and they have to reposition themselves.

Elmham comes to the edge of his box, three yards away from Edgar. What is the goalie thinking?

Montoya wins the physical duel, cuts onto his left foot beautifully, moves the ball away so he can generate more power...

But Elmham smothers the shot!

The goalkeeper's process was questionable but he was well-placed when it mattered.

72'

Best collects the ball in midfield, fakes to pump a ball over the top. He switches onto his left foot, gets his head down, dribbles.

Wibbers comes out of the penalty area to offer Best an option.

Best points to the feet of his teammate, shapes to pass, but surges past Downing.

Best is to the right of goal, a difficult angle.

He strikes the ball with venom!

The keeper palms it away. That must have stung!

***

Shit shit shit, should have gone low, should have gone low, shake it off, shake it off. Focus, Max. What's next?

I scanned our Match Ratings and Condition scores. Everything was okay. Leo was having a good game but it was Pascal time. I signalled to Sandra, but the little German was already ready.

Of course he was.

***

73'

Chester are making their final change. Leo Los is replaced by Pascal Bochum.

Chester have used all their substitutes. They will be hoping they don't get an injury.

***

74'

Newcastle are making some changes. They are replacing Montoya with a defender.

Is Tobias Berger trying to avoid losing?

The home fans are not happy with the decision and they are making their feelings known.

***

75'

We passed the ball around mindlessly for a minute while I tried to understand what had just happened. Newcastle had gone to five at the back. It was 5-2-2-1. What the actual fuck was that supposed to be? Was it genius or cowardice? My head was throbbing from the effort of keeping afloat in the game, so we kept things tight and we kept things simple.

Next time there was an injury, I jogged to Sandra and said, "What's this? Some weird turtling up or is it clever or what?"

She shook her head. "I think he's seeing that we're playing through the middle and he's getting another body there. Maybe he wants his guys to catch their breath and go big in the last ten? Get the full backs bombing on, still have five in the rest defence."

I rubbed my temples. "So... They strengthened the middle. Should we change formation? Go wide?"

"Let's stay like this. He's made it harder for us to attack down the middle but if we give the ball away we've got loads of bodies around it. You can take risks because you've got four guys behind you. Maybe let Lewis and Cheb attack at the same time."

"Right, yeah, that makes sense. Okay, bosh, thanks."

I walked away, briefly felt light-headed, and changed our team instructions. Peter and Edgar got locked into place, as did Youngster and Magnus. If we lost the ball in attack, we would always have four men between the ball and Owen. I felt pretty good about it. Safe. Warm. Fuzzy.

The game restarted, the ball zipped around, and through the chaos the ball came to me and sat up so perfectly my eyes lit up. I smacked it hard, true, and it went like an arrow. The goalie rose, got half a hand to it, fell, scrambled back to his feet, collected it on the second attempt.

I felt a ripple of something go round the massive arena - fear.

Lock up your daughters, Max Best is in town.

While I was scowling at the goalie, I heard something that made me frown. The Chester fans had a new song.

He's fast!

He's woke!

He makes the gammons choke.

Max Best.

Max Best!

There was a lot to unpack in that, but for now it brought a smile to my face, restored some of my energy.

***

77'

Youngster intercepts and passes to Pascal.

Pascal to Best.

Best to Cheb to Wibbers to Best.

Stunning one-touch football from Chester!

Best clips a pass over the top for Gabby...

But the Brazilian is crowded out by defenders.

***

79'

Cheb sweeps in a cross.

It's another good one!

But there are too many defenders in the way. The ball is cleared.

***

I rubbed my chin. "Pascal, Wibbers." We held an impromptu tactics session. "We're getting bogged down in there. Too many defenders in the way. Ideas?"

Pascal said, "Hybridism."

Wibbers said, "Long shots. Might as well keep smacking them, boss. One will go in or we'll get a rebound."

Pascal said, "We could drop back, let them come at us. If they don't, the crowd will get on their case."

I nodded. "All good ideas, but... What about if we do a compromise? Use Relationism for a few minutes, see if we can't drag some bodies over to the touchline. We could get a transition from there and they probably don't train for counters coming from such mad angles."

Pascal said, "It's worth a try, no?"

I moved away, swirled a finger around, and mentally switched us into Relationism.

***

81'

Magnus returns the ball to Cheb, who is at the base of the blob.

Cheb passes to Best, who flicks the ball up and keeps it on his foot.

Halterman clatters into him, but as Best crashes to the turf, he passes to Pascal.

Pascal with a flurry of stepovers. He, too, is clattered.

Magnus shoulder-barges the nearest Newcastle player. This is getting spicy!

Wibbers slides in and tackles the ball to Cheb, who flicks it up, does two kick-ups, and lobs the ball to Best, now back on his feet.

Best takes the ball on his chest, defies gravity to keep it there, bounces the ball on his knee, backheel nutmegs Halterman.

Wibbers touches the ball to stop it dead, fakes to accelerate, pretends to be letting his manager run away with the ball, then flicks it to himself, spins, and plays the ball behind the defenders.

Best is onto it in a flash!

He hits a low cross first time.

Gabby is between two defenders, just inside the penalty area. Can he get his second goal of the game?

No.

That went miles wide.

***

Tobias Berger and his assistant stood on the touchline, screaming, reorganising.

Next time we formed the blob, the home players were more judicious in how they attacked it. Not so many players went in, and not so aggressively.

We were able to progress the ball up the pitch, but couldn't sucker defenders into leaving their zones.

Okay, well, at least it let me live my dream of pissing off 50,000 Geordies.

***

84'

Time is running out. Can either side find a winner?

Who wants it more?

***

I crouched and tried to think straight. Getting a draw at St. James' Park would be great. It would. Losing from here would be absolutely gutting. A draw would make Christmas dinner fun for everyone - banter all round, no losers.

I pinched my nose. We couldn't play for a draw, not when we had used Bench Boost. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that I had massively fucked up. I should have saved Bench Boost until later in the season when it would have guaranteed us three points. Doing all this to get one over Sebastian Weaver? It was childish. Moronic.

But I had done it, so now we had to go for it.

Double down.

I took off the handbrake and the handcuffs. Peter could go marauding if he wanted. So could everyone else. That wasn't nearly dramatic enough, so I moved the full backs one zone forward.

It was as attacking as I could go without being stupid. We had ten minutes to put together a move. One good move, that's all it would take. Surely we had one decent piece of play in us? We had five Bench Boosted players, for fuck's sake.

***

86'

Brilliant running from Pascal! He popped up in a dangerous area, but Van der Linden reacted fast and the chance was gone.

***

87'

Corner to Newcastle! 

Best orders three players to wait on the halfway line.

Tobias Berger is taking no chances - he sends three defenders back as cover.

The cross is claimed by Owen Elmham.

Groans from the home fans.

***

89'

Best screams for the ball to be played to him. He's astonished to see Peter Bauer crack a long pass.

Gabby leaps, the ball skims his head, and Pascal is onto it!

The German races into the penalty area. He gets to the ball just before the goalkeeper...

But his first touch is poor and the ball goes straight out of play.

It was almost as if Pascal wasn't used to running so fast!

***

90'+2

A highly entertaining Premier League clash is winding down. The Chester fans will be delighted to get a point, while the home fans will grumble about their manager's lack of ambition.

There is still time for one or two more attacks. Can anyone find a decisive moment of quality?

***

90'+3

The ball is played forward to Wibbers, who cushions the ball back towards the centre circle, where Peter Bauer is under pressure.

Peter pings a first-time pass to Cheb, who lets the ball roll across his body, waits, and triangulates the return pass to Peter, who is running forward.

Peter is approached by a defender, so the German shovels the ball to his left.

Best's first touch drives him towards the edge of the penalty area, but there are black-and-white-shirted players everywhere.

Peter crosses Best's path and takes over, but he has nowhere to run so he rolls the ball under his foot to Best.

Best has Wibbers, Pascal, and Gabby making runs to his right. The keeper takes two small steps to cover that angle, but Best is going to shoot. It could be the last kick of the game.

Max Best to win it for Chester...

He takes aim...

Three defenders hurl themselves in front of the path of the shot.

Best sidefoots the ball... sideways!

Lewis Lamarre has arrived in the penalty area just in time.

He is utterly unmarked!

He slaps the underside of the ball.

His finish is unerring!

Chester have scored! In the 93rd minute!

The away team jump around like jackrabbits. Sandra Lane runs halfway to Sunderland. Owen Elmham performs a somersault. Physio Dean does a knee slide.

In the Sir John Hall Stand, 3,000 Chester fans are making enough noise to rock the stadium. 

***

90'+4

Newcastle send their big defenders to join the attack. They launch the ball long. 

Gabby is back defending. He heads away.

Only as far as Downing. He whips in a dangerous cross!

Wilde heads away.

Only as far as Johnson. He aims for the far post.

Elmham tries to punch, misses the ball completely.

It hits the head of Halterman, but he wasn't expecting it so it goes straight up.

Elmham muscles his way into position and grabs the ball.

The Chester fans cheer. They want him to flop to the turf and waste a few seconds.

Elmham hurls the ball to the wing, where Max Best is loitering.

Best aims to roll the ball down the line to the corner flag. That will eat up some time.

Max Best is dribbling!

What on earth is he doing?

He dribbles left, veers right. Going to the corner? No chance!

He straightens and puts on the afterburners.

He's running flat out, head up, arms pumping. The goalkeeper rushes out of his goal.

Best goes for the chip...

It's on target!

It's on target!

It's off target!

The ball touches the post on its way behind for a goal kick.

Max Best falls to the floor, rolls onto his back, spreads his limbs, pants heavily.

He is serenaded by the Chester fans, but their song is cut short by the referee's whistle.

Chester have done it! They have won their first ever away game in the Premier League! It is the first time in their history they have been this high in the English football pyramid. Nineteenth in the top tier!

Half the players from both teams collapse to the floor. Players from both teams have given this match their all, but only one team will take away the three points.

***

I covered my face with my hands - I wasn't sure how I was going to react. My team were going bananas, the ones that had calories left in them, anyway. Our fans were a writhing mass of ecstatic limbs. Was Emma in the director's box, or was Chester still represented by an empty seat?

I was too tired to process any of it. No anger, no sadness, no elation. That would come later, but for now I was just spent. Too tired to get up. Fetch a forklift truck! I turned my head and saw that Lewis, Peter, and Youngster were flat on their backs, too. More forklifts! Give me four forklifts and four candles and fork handles.

Actually, give me three points.

The Live Table made for glorious reading. Leeds United twenty. Nineteen, Chester. Thousands of hours and millions of calories to move up the table by one whole place.

It was low-key one of the greatest achievements in the history of the sport.

I took a moment to think what mum would have made of it. Mum and Polish Anna. Make us proud.

Tiny Chester, with no money, had beaten the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

I struggled into a sitting position, then accepted Van der Linden's hand as he pulled me to my feet. He said something like, "Well played, incredible, your boys have a lot of balls."

I replied in kind, told him he was mint, but the look on his face suggested that I hadn't formed a coherent sentence. Too tired, mate, soz.

He got that I was trying to be complimentary, so he nodded and said, "Merry Christmas."

My eyes widened a little. "Yeah," I said, glancing towards the area where my father-in-law sat, feeling a cheeky grin taking over my face. "It will be, won't it?"