Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

15.

Sunday, February 6

Bumpers Bank. Cold air, grey skies, fresh-faced young women. They were getting aboard Sealbiscuit, soon to depart leafy Cheshire and head towards the UK’s Mordor - Birmingham - for our FA Cup Fifth Round tie against Aston Villa. The match was being broadcast on Channel 4, which meant anyone in the country would be able to watch it for free. Plenty of people in Chester would be tuning in, as would the friends and family of our players.

The match would be tough. We had scraped past West Ham on penalties after all the drama with the bizarre love triangle between Angel, Charlotte, and Emiliano. I had hoped there would be a new order today, but as I watched the ladies get on the bus, Charlotte’s Morale collapsed.

What now?

I ambled around Sealbiscuit and spotted the issue: Angel and Emiliano were smooching. Another FA Cup match, another day of drama? No way. My heart hardened. I went over and they prised themselves apart, but held hands. Cute. As a statement, not a question, I said, ”You’re saying goodbye.”

”Yeah,” said Angel, cautiously.

I turned my head slightly, looking past the car park towards the rest of the world. It was a big old place for creatures six feet tall. Miles and miles of places to display affection, and almost all of it more romantic than our car park. ”You had to do this here?”

”Do what? Kiss?”

”You didn’t think this might be bad for team spirit? Especially after what happened last time?”

”No,” said Angel, with heat. ”We sorted it. Everything’s fine. This is none of your business.”

I stared to the right, towards the city of Chester, famous for its walls. Famous for its barriers. I hoped Chester FC would soon be famous for its lack of barriers. The Lionesses had made women’s football respectable and I was one of the main beneficiaries. There were talented football players everywhere, just waiting to be Playdarred, waiting to be brought to a serious club that put the women’s team on an almost equal footing to the men’s.

There were plenty of strikers in the country with higher PAs than Angel’s, and when we got to the top tier I would have access to players from any country, just like with the men’s team. Angel was an incredible marketing tool for the club, and I had spent far too long daydreaming about how much money the REM agency would make from promoting Angel in the coming years. But it was an illusion. In that moment, I knew with complete clarity that Angel wasn’t going to make it to the top.

She would never hit her ceiling and she would never play for England. Playing for the Lionesses was essential to unlock the true power of her brand, and not just once. If she played 50 international matches she would score 20 to 30 goals. If she scored one important goal in a big tournament match, she would be set for life. She would get everything she ever dreamed of.

It wasn’t going to happen.

I went to my car, hopped in, and controlled what I could control.

***

Women’s FA Cup Fifth Round: Aston Villa versus Chester

Villa were playing 4-4-2 with an average CA of 111.

Jay was in charge and picked his best team, a 3-4-3 with Haley in goal; Femi, Victoria Rose, and Meghan as the centre backs, with Victoria moving into the DM slot when we had the advantage; Dani, Charlotte, Sarah Greene, and Kisi; Angel, Meredith Ann, Kit Hodges. Our average CA was 100.1.

Triple digits. How cool was that? Only ten percent weaker than a mid-table WSL side. Our Morale was shaky, though. Charlotte’s was down, and Angel’s had crashed when I had walked away from her mid-conversation. It seemed to me I could fix one.

”Charlotte,” I said, a couple of minutes before kick off. I hadn’t spoken to her much since the West Ham game, and I had made a big fuss about signing her replacement. I hadn’t actually used those words, but she knew. Everyone knew.

”Max,” she said, coming towards me with a hint of wariness.

I gestured to the spot beside me. ”Will you enter the sideways hug zone?”

She looked at the grass. ”I’m doing my last routines, Max.”

I gestured to the spot again. ”Entering the sideways hug zone implies that you consent to receive a sideways hug.”

She didn’t want a hug, sideways or not, but sometimes it’s helpful to have a reputation for being unreasonable. Charlotte was probably thinking I would delay the start of the match until I got what I wanted. She stepped beside me, but facing the wrong way. Clever girl!

I turned to face the same way as her and gave her a left-handed sideways hug. ”It’s going to be all right,” I said.

That lifted her Morale off the floor, at least.

I gave her another little squeeze and went into football manager mode. Facing her, I said, ”Start simple. Quick one-touch and two-touch passes. Work your way into the game. Don’t try to land a knockout blow early on, right, because that’s not going to happen. Keep it simple, keep it short and quick, keep the ball moving around. I’m happy for the ball to stay in midfield because that’s Villa’s strength.”

”That doesn’t make sense.”

”It does. Their best player is old and the more we make her run, the sooner she’ll have to get subbed off. Right? When we have possession, I’m gonna get Victoria to push into DM, or I’ll get Meredith to drop to CAM, so we’ll always have overloads and we’ll ping the ball around. It’ll be a little bit attritional, soz for your family who are watching, but with maximum respect, fuck ’em. This is what it takes to win. These are the matches you wanted to play in. This is the FA fucking Cup, live on TV, against a top tier side who are looking at a bunch of 20-year-olds and are bricking it!” I was getting too loud; I took the volume all the way down. ”Dani, Kisi, Sarah, Meredith. They’re gonna look to you today. When they see you’re bursting with energy and intent, they’re gonna respond and we’re gonna give Villa more fucking problems than they know how to deal with. Show the world you’ve got what it takes to play at this level. Let’s go.”

She returned to the pitch, Morale another level higher, stared at the oppo, then brought her midfield mates in for a quick huddle.

I went to the dugout and let Jay Cope manage as he saw fit.

Tactically, the match was simple. Villa’s best player was a wonderful but aging Welsh central midfielder who had CA 130. She would boss the game for long periods and we had to accept that. Meanwhile, their weak spot was the right side of their defence so our tactics revolved around the idea that we could win duels in that zone.

The match was scrappy and tense. Charlotte played shit at first. Angel played shit throughout.

I had already used Bench Boost in this competition, and our bench options were quite a lot weaker than the starters. Charlotte’s replacement in the squad, Saffron Walden, was getting Secret Sandra boosts and had outperformed the others in training, rushing to CA 70. A great start to her Chester career, but Charlotte was CA 98. The Welsh forward Alwen was only 12 points behind Angel, but there was no comparing their Finishing.

We were stuck with what we had.

For now.

While Haley Goodhew continued her one-woman mission to keep us in the tournament, I gathered XP (14 points a minute, since Villa were a top-tier side) and daydreamed about Chester’s men’s team getting to the Premier League early. It would be a disaster, of course it would, but what if I sliced off some of that hundred million pounds and gave it to the women’s team?

I could add eight more Haleys for half a million each. Or go big on a couple of elite strikers, a million a pop, and buy four other starters for half a mill each. Four million quid to take us past Man City in terms of CA. Could we compete for the title in our first season at the top?

What if I sent the women’s team ten million quid, quit as men’s team manager after the inevitable 6th straight defeat, and focused on winning the WSL? And the Champions League the season after? We could totally do it!

And I could stay as the men’s team’s director of football, probably. We’d cycle through out-of-work managers, call them the Sacrificial Lamb of the Month, sack more managers than the team earned points, and by March when the team was actually in a position to pick up some wins I would take over again. We would get a hundred million in season one, and about 45 million in season two, even though we would have been relegated. It would be a nightmare to keep the squad together, but I would be able to keep my reputation more or less intact and when we started winning, we would simply never stop. Win the FA Cup from the second tier? Why not?

”Max, what do you think?”

I snapped out of my reverie. We were nearing the end of the second half with the score still at 0-0 and Jay was worried about our fitness. We had six players aged 20 or younger and if we asked them to keep running hard for 90 minutes plus half an hour of extra time something was going to snap. ”We keep Haley, Femi, Victoria Rose, Charlotte, and Kit. One other.”

”Angel,” he said. ”She’s our best penalty taker.”

”Yeah,” I said. If Angel’s ACL snapped, that would give us a year of great medical content for the documentary. Was that a very monstrous thought? ”She has run the least except for Haley. We take off Meghan, Dani, Kisi, Sarah, Meredith, and bring on Dafina, Fioled, Mari, Saffron, and Alwen.” That would crater our average CA to 90.8, but half the team would be fresh and we could keep the formation that was working so well.

”What about penalties?”

”Don’t worry about that. Worry about keeping our possession stats high.”

The 90 minutes ended, we made the changes, and Jay told the players how he wanted them to approach extra time. ”It’s more important than ever to stay calm, to stay in control of the ball. Be patient; don’t think you have to take every chance to break. We’re really wearing them out, ladies, and more gaps will open up.”

”Ladies,” I said, stepping forward. ”We got this.”

Extra time began, and while we competed fairly hard, Villa turned up the heat. I found myself scratching my head about their intensity, but came to realise that they were trying to avoid a penalty shoot-out. Maybe they had seen how expertly my players had scored in the last round, and how fearsome Haley was in that scenario. They burned a lot of energy chasing the winning goal, to the extent that watching their Condition levels decline filled me with dread.

Villa’s determination to score... backfired. We launched a counter. Fioled on the left to Charlotte, who passed to Saffron, whose through-ball to Kit Hodges perfectly bisected Villa’s weak points. Saffron was talented and listened to her coaches. My, my! Kit was one-on-one with the goalie... and made no mistake.

Delight for Chester. Glee.

We’d done a tactical masterclass! Not the most entertaining game, but we had nailed it. I smiled, feeling nostalgic for this moment. There wouldn’t be too many more times when the women were underdogs. Savour it. Enjoy it while it lasts.

But there were still 20 minutes left. Villa pressed even harder, even more frantically. Their star midfielder sprinted, slid, stretched, hooked a pass into the middle, and her midfield partner arrived late (meaning right on time, ironically) and equalised.

Delight for Villa. Glee. Worry.

Their star had torn something. Her profile was red all over and the Injury tab read: potential knee injury.

”God,” said Jay. ”I think that’s an ACL.”

I strode to the Villa dugout and yelled, ”Take care of your fucking players! Jesus Christ!” Jay pulled me back before I could treat them to more of my special brand of diplomacy.

The brutal injury to their best player had an Emiliano-like effect on Villa’s Morale, and the pace of their relentless attacking slowed to a crawl. Extra time ended. Penalties again.

Unlike last time, I was not confident. In fact, I was already worrying about the effect missing pens would have on the Morale of those who fucked up.

I had to pick five takers. ”Angel, Kit, Alwen.” So far, so easy. Forwards took penalties. Don’t overthink it. I had one player whose personality seemed like it would be unaffected by any setback. ”Fourth is Saffron. The last one has to be...” Charlotte, Fioled, or Victoria Rose. No naturals in that list.

”Charlotte,” said Jay.

”Hmm,” I said, dubiously. Charlotte had low Morale, but she had grown into the game and had tried to show the leadership I had asked for. ”Charlotte it is,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.

I got the penalty takers into a little huddle.

”You made it this far against a WSL team, again. I’m proud of you. I’m not going to lose my temper if you don’t score but I do expect you to have a good process. We train this, so approach this the way we train. Ignore the crowd, the occasion, the goalie. We’re back at Bumpers doing a penno tournament, yeah? Choose a side, left or right. Stick to it. Don’t change your mind. If you choose left, shoot left. Hit the ball crisp and clean. Energy but not power. It’s a twenty-yard pass through the press, yeah? Think about your process, not the outcome. My dream scenario is that you’re so in the zone that you don’t know you’ve scored the winning penalty. A woman did that at Wimbledon a few years back. The tennis Wimbledon. She hit the winning point and went back to her mark, ready to play. Soz, miss, we can’t play the next point - you won the whole tournament. Here’s a million quid. That’s what I want. Ball, kick, next. Ball, kick, next. Let’s go.”

The shoot-out felt like it whizzed by; I tried not to react to what happened.

Angel was first. She picked left, changed her mind at the last second, shot right, gave the goalie an easy save. Kin ’ell.

Villa scored. 0-1.

Kit scored. Villa scored. 1-2.

Alwen’s pen was half-decent, but it was saved. Villa scored. 1-3.

Saffron had to score to keep us in it. She did!

Haley had to keep the next one out. She did! 2-3.

The pressure on Charlotte was immense. Her entire family watching on TV. The fate of our season in her boots. She seemed to be a nervous wreck, and as she placed the ball, her Morale was bouncing from okay to abysmal. This was not going to - oh, hang on, she scored. Sent the goalie the wrong way and hit it so cleanly into the bottom corner it wouldn’t have been saved anyway. Charlotte walked back to her mates, keeping a neutral expression, but I saw her Morale surge to superb. A real moment of personal triumph.

And then the final kick. Villa’s fifth taker looked confident. She looked invincible. She looked in horror as she ballooned the ball miles over the crossbar! 3-3!

Sudden death.

Victoria Rose strolled forward, placed the ball, and rolled it into the corner. Ice cold. We were ahead!

Surely Villa wouldn’t miss three pens in a row, including two ’match points’? As their sixth taker got ready to shoot, Haley slapped the crossbar and spread her arms wide. Look how massive I am! You can’t score against me!

She was right. The shot was slow, feeble, the perfect height for Haley to bash it away.

We’d won 4-3 on penalties!

We had earned £80,000 in prize money, but most importantly, we were in the quarter finals of the FA Cup.

I found myself moving along the touchline, punching the air again and again. Never give up! Never surrender! Unless it’s the playoff final! Come on!

***

The draw was made while the ladies were on the team bus, heading home. I was on my way to Manchester to visit my mum, but I pulled into a side street for a few minutes so I could be part of it.

Our general manager Jill stopped the music, stopped the celebrations, and held her phone up so I could see and hear how it sounded.

The squad groaned and whistled as the first six names were read out, nerves building until they reached a crescendo on the 6th name. It wasn’t us, which meant we knew who our opponents would be. The only question was: who would get home advantage?

The roar as our name came out next was amazing.

We would play Liverpool at the Deva stadium for the first time in the Max Best era.

Things were getting fucking SPICY.

Bring it on.

BRING IT ONNNNNNN.

***

Monday, February 7

Bumpers Bank. Cold air, grey skies, silver linings on every cloud.

I was going to spend the afternoon scheming and plotting with my favourite future-billionaire, Brooke Star, but there was a delay, so while I was waiting I went into the canteen to see about a mango lassi. I asked the nearest cook for one - he said he would check if they had any mangos or lassis in the freezer - then I pottered across the space to a table where Dan Badford was with Dominic, Hamish, and Monty Holmes from the under 18s. They had text books and school bags and pens and pencils. ”What’s this?” I said. ”Homework club?”

”Yep,” said Dan.

”Top.” I pulled Monty’s tablet towards me. ”Oh, you’ve got to write an essay? I can help with this. Here’s how you make any piece of writing great. Divide it into 15 chapters. The last one’s your epilogue, yeah? Put all your cliffhangers in that one, bosh, people love it. Top writing tip, that.”

Monty grinned. ”Thanks, boss. I’ll bear that in mind for my History exams.”

Hamish said, ”Can you imagine writing a cliffhanger in an exam?”

Dan said, ”I could imagine the boss doing it. He’s got his mojo back.”

”Who, me?” I said, but they had returned to their tasks. I examined the group. The younger three were 17, so their futures were certain; they would be at Chester next season. Dan’s was set in stone, too, because he had told me he didn’t want to play anywhere except Chester. He had been out on loan at Tranmere last season, but I’d had to persuade him to go. He was CA 110, so very much still learning how to be a second-tier player. I had given him quite a few minutes this season, but next, when we were pushing for the Championship title, it would be hard. ”Dan, I’ve had an idea. You don’t want to go out on loan again, but you could really use another burst of minutes. Would you go to Saltney in the summer and do the qualifiers? It’s basically Chester, isn’t it, but with added private jets.”

He leaned back and spun a pencil around his fingers. ”You’d pick me for Saltney?”

”I might if I had the option. I want to get through the qualifiers and into the actual Champions League next time so I’ll want to wheel out the big guns but if Chester get a run of winnable fixtures to start the season I might keep Wibbers and Gabby here. All I know for sure is that three players from Chester will be going to Saltney and that I’ll be one of them. If you’re open to the idea, you could do the qualifiers only, or stay until Jan, like Magnus and Vini did. That’d be fun and it’d give you a big boost, for sure.” If Dan could get to CA 115 by the summer and achieve Vini-like training results next season, he would get to CA 135 by the summer of 2029, easy. When we started in the Prem, he wouldn’t be a million miles off the levels.

”If you would trust me to be in your project, I’d do it.”

”Of course I trust you,” I said, still crunching numbers in my head. ”Think about Gibraltar, too. I don’t think you’d like it for half a year but two months there would be a great catalyst. Ah, here we go.” My phone was ringing. Brooke.

She said, ”Can you come to my office?”

***

I went up and was instantly put on the back foot for two reasons. One, Brooke was in her ’cosy corner’, where she took meetings in which she wanted her guests to feel at ease. I associated that space with bad news. Two, she wasn’t alone - Gwen from the Welsh FA was with her.

Frowning slightly, I took a seat and waited for the doom to drop.

Brooke opened a folder and took out a few pieces of A4 paper. ”I’ve been doing some projections. Our revenues, your budget, should we make it to the Premier League at the end of this season. Would you like to take a look?”

”Sure,” I said, politely. I took the pages, shuffled them without looking down, then placed them carefully on the edge of a bin. ”I’ll just leave these here for later.”

Gwen frowned at my rudeness, or so I thought, but then she dipped into her handbag, took out her purse, and got a ten pound note. She passed it to Brooke. The Texan smiled, said, ”Too easy,” then turned to the real issue. ”Do you remember my brother?”

”Chip Star, the guy who wanted to burn Chester FC to the ground, then bought Bradford City and signed every player I showed interest in? Chip Star who drives a luxurious but tacky mobile disco around one of the most impoverished areas of the country?”

”I see you remember,” said Brooke. ”He’s buying Penybont FC.”

”Penybont,” I said. ”They’re third in the Cymru Prem.”

”Yes. If the season finished today, they would be in the UEFA Conference League qualifiers. Chip wants to follow your model and make money by getting into European competitions and going deeper each year.”

”He’s doing a Multi Chip Model,” I said, stunned by the news. ”He’s riding my coat tails. My success at Saltney means there will be more slots for Welsh teams. His investment is more likely to pay off.” After the initial wave of revulsion and a horrible churning feeling in my stomach, I realised that something didn’t add up. ”Hang on. He’s not going to make more money, he’s going to lose money at a faster rate. The average losses in League One are 5 million quid a year and I bet Bradford are on that level. Chip’s losing money hand over fist at Bradford and he’ll do the same in Wales. Why’s your dad financing this?”

”My father has been unimpressed by the family’s investment in ’soccer’, but that changed when he met Diggy Doggy.”

”Oh,” I said, starting to understand. People like Gerry Star didn’t buy English soccer clubs to make money. They did it to show off to their rich friends - and to network. ”Let me guess. Diggy Doggy’s group of investors might enjoy owning a stake in a fast-growing retail empire.”

”Something like that,” said Brooke. ”I didn’t know about any of this until today because Dallas isn’t at home.” Dallas was her troubled younger sister.

”Where is she?”

”With a fella. She does this. She’s up and down, in and out. She’ll be back but as I say, I didn’t have any notice of this.”

Gwen spoke. ”And I couldn’t have stopped it even if I wanted to.”

”Yeah, no,” I said, frowning. ”I didn’t think - Hey, what’s this meeting for?”

Brooke said, ”We don’t want you getting mad at us.”

”I’m not gonna - ”

Gwen said, ”The FAW has complete faith in you, Max, but we welcome investment. If Chip Star can raise the levels - ” she paused because of the noise I made - ”If anyone can raise the levels, it’s good for the league, for our UEFA coefficients, and Penybont could be a destination for all the young players you’re training who don’t make the grade at Saltney.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

”I don’t want my kids playing for Chip Star,” I said, instantly, which I wasn’t happy about. They were worried I would lose my cool with them over things they couldn’t control. I didn’t want them to be right, so I shut my gob and tried to centre myself.

Gwen had tons of patience. ”Wales has one strong team. The players from the northern powerhouse who don’t make it into the Saltney first team, if assembled in one place, would be the second-best team in the league, right?”

”Yes. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

”There you go. I’d like to have two good teams in our league instead of one. This change in ownership brings us closer to that - we hope.”

I closed my eyes while I thought about it, but there was no questioning Gwen’s arguments for the simple reason that she was telling me what I had previously told her. One of the biggest determinants in a league’s CA potential was the amount and level of competition within that league. That’s why I had wanted to expand to three clubs in Gibraltar - to give the players at my clubs good players to play against.

The previous best team in Wales, TNS, were fading because I had cut off their main financial pipeline. Without competition, my task of raising the CA of Saltney’s squad was hard. We were relying a lot on my ability to persuade players that being in a shit league was okay because they would get to play in UEFA competitions.

Without competition, the broadcasters would be less interested in paying for the rights to show games.

If there were more teams of a good standard, there would be more places for cast-offs from the northern powerhouse to go.

There were many, many upsides to the Welsh league getting stronger.

”You are a million percent right,” I said. ”I agree that the Welsh league needs more investment.”

Gwen eyed Brooke. ”What do you think? That seemed sincere.”

I dialled up the sincerity. ”When we first talked about working together, I promised to help raise standards. If Chip Star can do that, I won’t stand in his way.”

Gwen leaned back and eyed the ceiling. ”Why did that sound so fucking ominous?”

***

Brooke invited Gwen to come with us to our next meeting. We drove half an hour due east, to a place called Winsford.

Brooke told Gwen why we were heading there. ”There was a big project planned for this area. 70 million pounds. It would have been the permanent base for the England women’s team. Real shame it didn’t get built because that would have been incredible for us. The Lionesses just down the road from Chester? Wouldda been perfect.”

Gwen said, ”The project has been canned, has it?”

”It got too expensive, but the local council was obviously very keen for it to happen. It would have been a lot of tax revenue, a great boost for their economy. What can they do instead? Not much. That’s where we come in. Max’s famous 3G pitches, spreading out across the country like bindweed. Next stop: Winsford.”

”Like veins, you mean,” I said. ”Chester is the heart. We pump out facilities and coaching sessions and the veins bring us cash and new players. We grow. Always, we grow. MwahahaHAAAA!” I switched tone. ”I’m excited about this one because we can just slap a pitch down and that instantly gives us dibs on the rest of the site, which we can then expand bit by bit at our leisure. One full-sized pitch now, some five-a-sides and a kids’ area next year, a second pitch the year after. If we offer hockey and rugby, too, we can really cash in.”

We arrived at the location, which was just as it had looked on the internet, and met some people from the local council. They wanted someone to do something with the space, but had concerns about a few listed buildings that were on the site. Working with those buildings in a sensitive way would push the cost up to £600,000, but Ryan Jack had crunched the numbers and he thought we would make £2,500 a week from the first pitch we installed here. Get our money back in 4 to 6 years, basically, and the investment would bring our weekly pitch rental revenue from £7,300 to £9,800. That was exciting to me. That was motivational.

Brooke was brilliant, but Gwen was the star. She knew how to deal with politicians and she gave us unbelievable levels of social proof. Chester? Yeah, they’re the real deal. Look at these photos of what Max built for us in Wales. Oh, I must remember to return the Minister for Sport’s call. Would you remind me, Max? Oops, that’s a photo of our under 13s winning a tournament. How did that get in there, lol?

All I had to do was to stand there, shut my gob, and stare dreamily at a bright future. I did two out of three tasks very well.

Back in the car, Brooke did a tiny air punch. ”Yes!”

I smiled. ”That was good, right? We got it.”

”I think we got it.”

***

I was too pumped to think straight, so I sent Briggy a text.

Me: I need to punch things. Can we train?

Briggy: Back to boxing? You really do have your mojo back.

Me: Why does everyone keep saying that?

Briggy: I’ll wear my skiing boots to give you a chance to hit me.

Me: Oh my God. You know I’m one of the world’s best pugilists.

Briggy: Remind me to ask Alex where a psychologist would draw the line between confidence and delusion.

***

Tuesday, February 8

Deva Stadium. Cold, brightly lit, thousands of smiling Cestrians slowly leaving the stands, amazed at what they had just seen.

I took it all in, watched as my players rushed to be interviewed by Boggy’s new intake of trainee commentators. Boggy was the voice of Chester’s past and present. Which of the noobs would be the voice of the next thirty years?

While I watched, a familiar voice called down from the media section. I glanced up, seeing the multitude of scouts in the Main Stand. Most were old hands, experienced, had seen it all, but they looked shell-shocked. They had learned that there was more for them to learn, and those lessons were coming from a tourist town in the North West.

”What do you want, Beth?”

”Can I have an interview?”

I pointed to the spot near the halfway line, where my lads were chatting a mile a minute. ”Talk to them.”

”Max, come on.”

”I’ll answer one question.”

”I heard that Full Max is making a comeback. Are you confident of going up?”

”Comeback? I been here for years. Bye, Beth.”

I strode away, down the tunnel, and knocked on the door of the away dressing room. One of Watford FC’s youth team coaches opened. ”Is your gaffer here?” A second later, I was faced with the guy I had just dumped out of the Youth Cup. ”Hi. Can I come in? Speak to your lads?”

”Are you going to tap them up?”

’Tapping up’ meant illegally approaching a player who was under contract at another club. It was something I would never, ever do, unless I wanted that player. ”Not while you’re watching.”

He sighed. ”Yeah, go on.” He was slightly surprised when Christian Fierce came in behind me, but didn’t try to stop him.

The mood in the dressing room was very low, as you’d expect after a 6-0 thrashing. I had tried to keep the score down by playing Roddy and Wallace one at a time, but my team were a bunch of savages. The Watford lads looked from me to Christian and fell quiet. ”Hey, dudes,” I said. ”Tough gig tonight. I’m a medium amount of soz about that. What it is, right, is that I want to win the Youth Cup. So did you, but what’s more important is that you have a career in football. You want to make it to the first team squad and if you get there, you’re gonna want a friendly voice in the dressing room, someone you can trust, someone you can talk to. That man is right here. Please welcome the current captain of Chester and the next captain of Watford FC, Christian Fierce.”

Christian looked worried. ”Boss, they didn’t say I’d be the captain.”

”Dude,” I said. ”Come off. You’re Christian Fierce.”

Christian shrugged. ”Hi, lads. I know what it’s like being knocked about by a Chester team so I feel your pain. As the gaffer said, I’ll be joining Watford in the summer and one thing we do here at Chester is the senior players take an interest in the young bloods. Whether I’m captain or not, I want to let you know that I’ve got your back. You come to me any time, yeah? We’ll talk.”

It seemed an abrupt finish, but I was used to him shouting ’Come on, you Seals!’ after every speech in the dressing room. ”Do you want to do a quick, come on, you hornets?”

”Not until I’m a hornet.”

”Kay.” I faced the front again. ”One last thing, lads. If you get cut from Watford at the end of the season, send me an email. Academies are always cutting good players and there are plenty of clubs who need bodies. Don’t give up just because Watford don’t know what they’ve got. Okay? Email me.” I looked at the head coach. ”That was all right, wasn’t it?”

”Yeah,” he said, wondering what my angle was. ”When we release a player we wish them the best, don’t we? We’re getting more lads that we let go who sign up for Exit Trials because you’ve found a few gems there and it’s seen as a good pathway.”

”Okay, so I’m a hero,” I said. ”Can I look at one of your lads and give him a wink and that’s the signal for him to get in touch with an agent I work with?”

”No, thanks.”

I shrugged. ”Worth a try.”

***

Wednesday, February 9

The Legends, Wales, home of Saltney Town. Cold, grey, damp.

I was in the office shared by Spectrum and Pradeep, who were buzzing about their upcoming trip to Brazil, but Pradeep wanted to show me something and he said it couldn’t wait.

While he got things ready on his laptop, I sat, patiently, sipping an amazing cup of tea, thinking about the new pitches at Winsford, about the high PA lad in Watford’s youth team who Ruth was driving down to sign as a client, about how my empire was growing. The feeling of progression was intoxicating.

”Yes,” said Pradeep. ”Ready.” He checked I was alert, then babbled fast. ”We have conceived of DOVE as a diagnostic tool. Who is good at what, who can do which things, and where does their output rank compared to their peers? Can we take a snapshot of a player and assess them in a way that will allow us to make transfer decisions? Can we see who is on the verge of an injury, even? There are many applications for the tool, but because Speckers and I have been spending so much time with the coaches of Chester and Saltney, I have been wondering if perhaps there are not some more futuristic applications.”

”Futuristic?” I said.

Spectrum said, ”Future-facing. DOVE not only as a diagnostic tool, but as a predictive one.”

I needed a few seconds to think through what they were saying, but I didn’t get the time. Pradeep sent a clip onto the big screen on the wall. ”You remember this?”

”I do. That’s us against Middlesbrough. About 20 minutes in. Andrew Harrison’s got a bit of space on the right and he’s looking for options. He decides to slow, keep the ball, and pass to Nasa when he goes on the overlap. Except Nasa doesn’t overlap because he thinks Andrew should just drive forward and cross, and he was right.”

Pradeep flicked his wrist, making a cracking noise. ”Rassss!” he said. I didn’t know if he had always done that in India or if he had picked it up from Adam Summerhays and his mates, but I knew that Pradeep loved it when I acted like a massive database of football knowledge, which I definitely wasn’t. He pressed a key and the clip progressed just as I had said. It was about eight seconds of footage.

”Okay,” I said, confused.

Pradeep clicked on something and the scene went back to the start. ”You want Andrew to drive forward and cross? Cross early or late?”

”Early,” I said. ”Low, curling, into the path of Colin.” I went to the screen and showed what I wanted. ”Run here, cross from about here.”

”DOVE agrees with you.”

”What do you mean?”

Pradeep was quivering with delight, which was quite distracting. Spectrum said, ”Look at the screen, boss.”

I did.

The clip had reset and I felt a tiny flash of arrogant annoyance. What was I going to learn by watching it again?

The ball was played to Andrew Harrison in space on the right. He slowed for a moment as he weighed his options, then he pushed the ball forward and played a low cross into the path of Colin, who stabbed the ball a foot wide.

I pointed at the screen in silence before going, ”Wait, what?”

Pradeep and Spectrum got up and danced around like they had just landed a craft on the moon.

”Seriously, what the fuck? How did you do that? That didn’t happen. How did you - ?”

Pradeep stopped jumping. ”We asked DOVE to say what Andrew should have done, and to show us! It thinks like you! Exactly like you!”

Spectrum was just as excited as his mate. ”Think of the possibilities, Max! When a player makes a mistake, we can show him what it would have looked like had he done the right thing! If someone’s resistant to feedback, we can literally summon the video of what would have happened!”

I was stunned by what I had seen and was having a hard time processing it. ”It looks flawless. It looks exactly like Andrew does when he moves with the ball like that. His way of leaning against the ball while he’s crossing it. It was literally him crossing the ball.” I swallowed. ”I think you might have opened Pandora’s Box.”

Spectrum laughed. ”And it’s full of money!”

”How have you done this? It’s incredible.”

Pradeep, still buzzing from my reaction, got semi-serious. ”We borrowed from Soccer Supremo’s match engine and used some, ah, external software.”

”Oh,” I said. ”This is stolen tech.”

Spectrum said, ”All tech is stolen! I won’t shed a tear for the AI companies who stole the work of every writer, every artist, every filmmaker. Fuck ’em.”

”You make a good point,” I said, but I was thinking ahead. We could use this internally to turn 50-million-pound players into hundred-million-pound players, but it would be stupid to charge other clubs for this particular aspect of DOVE.

Pradeep said, ”If you like it, we can cobble together a version using open-source tools.”

Spectrum said, ”Maybe you can use your connect to let us use Soccer Supremo’s match engine officially. Hell, maybe when they see what we’ve done, they’ll want to use this in their game!”

Pradeep said, ”We need to buy more gear to extend this demo. GPUs, RAM, drives, but it would be expensive.”

”How much?”

He looked away. ”Twenty thousand?”

I got to my feet, then sat again because I felt light-headed. ”Show me the two clips.”

I watched as the real Andrew did what felt right in the moment, while the AI version took the optimal path.

”Can you do it so that Andrew passes to Nasa, spins around the defender, and sprints forward to get a chip over the top?”

Pradeep frowned. ”But that’s not the best decision in that moment.”

Spectrum said, ”Yes, we can do it, but it will take days to set up.”

That triggered Pradeep. ”Five minutes!” he said.

I went for a walk around the campus, sipping tea, enjoying the space I had created. I returned after ten minutes, checked in, went for another walk, and after about 40 minutes, got a message from Spectrum. I rushed back to the office.

On the screen, the scene I had requested played out almost exactly as requested. Andrew touched the ball to Nasa, turned, sprinted down the line. The chipped pass was overhit, though. Clearly, DOVE had an accurate opinion of Nasa’s ability to pass into the final third. I bit my nail while I considered that. Me prescribing what I wanted to see was just fan fiction, wasn’t it? The added value was for us to provide a starting point and for DOVE to calculate what would happen next.

The skin on my neck tingled.

”The applications for this... Oh my God. Decisions training alone!” I had no proof that watching these clips would increase a player’s Decision score, but I didn’t need proof. It was obvious.

And what about team selection? I could make DOVE play a match with Cheb on the right, then re-simulate the match with Andrew. What’s the expected final score now? And with Bark? And with Monty Holmes? DOVE could pick an eleven weak enough to win a match while resting key players. Maybe it could help me pick a team to lose the playoff final, since I was so bad at picking teams that would lose!

”We could use this to train the next generation of managers. Simulate entire matches, from team selection to making subs at the right time.” Could it increase our staff profile numbers? Was this a hack to get more Tactics points into my co-managers? ”Christ,” I said. ”Could we set this up as coach versus coach? Have Jay running one team, Sandra the other? One makes a sub, the other reacts, while the rest of the coaching team looks on. Compete, debrief, learn, with players who never get tired or injured. We could create scenarios. Last ten minutes of a big derby, you’re down to ten men, everything’s going to shit. Can you hack it? Oh my God, what if it was voice activated? The coach would stand in front of a giant screen and yell out individual instructions, like in a real match! And they would see the results!”

I felt my breaths coming out far too rapidly, and tried to calm myself.

If DOVE could do everything I wanted, it would take over the industry... ”Can you put me there instead of Nasa?”

Pradeep opened his mouth to complain, but paused. ”Maybe if I just...” He pecked at his keyboard, then he clapped, dangerously loud, and turned in triumph to the screen.

Andrew took the pass, thought about what to do, passed it to me, turned and sprinted. Just as I was about to chip the ball forward, the whole thing crashed. Blue screen of death.

Pradeep gave me a worried look; I gave him a reassuring smile. ”I love this. Keep working on it. Don’t cheap out on gear. Go premium. Get what you need. Fifty grand? A hundred?” I pointed to the screen. ”Get that working and you can have more. Oh my God, did I just become a tech bro?” My eyes darted around while I considered the environmental impact of running a server farm. ”I’ve just committed Chester to half a million in green energy and I’ll put my own cash in to offset whatever we do here. This, though, this is epic. This has to be turned into reality.” I went back to rubbing my temples. ”When you’re showing DOVE to the guys in Sao Paulo, give them a glimpse of this, okay? With their own players, if that’s possible. Tell them only one club in Brazil can be our client. We can get the auction started early...”

***

That evening, Burnley lost in the Premier League, moving their manager’s job security from insecure to very insecure. I sent a text to David Bakero, the Spanish guy from my UEFA Pro course.

Me: Don’t mean to be ghoulish but if you get canned along with your boss, call me right away. I need elite coaches and you will not BELIEVE the stuff we are doing here.

***

Thursday, February 10

Bumpers Bank. Cold... and sunny!

At last, perfect conditions to finish our drone tour video. While Sophie and Henri played with various models and compared the outputs, I went around Bumpers making sure everything was ready. We didn’t need to get the whole tour in one shot (thanks to a filming technique I had invented called ’editing’), but I wanted to try doing one long, spectacular take and the crew of Seal Studios were up for the challenge.

I walked the drone’s path.

In the car park, a truck from Glendale Logistics was gleaming next to Sealbiscuit.

Jojo was excitedly hovering around near her reception base, waiting for the signal to smile at the drone and open the door to the canteen for it.

In the canteen, a carefully-chosen selection of players, staff, and fans were sitting around a table. It was as multi-cultural a group as we could get, with the aim of causing ulcers to grow inside the gammons who hate-watched the video.

Semi from the Senior Seals support group was there in his customary hat. ”Max!” he called out. ”How are you doing?”

”Really good,” I said. ”Feels like since we talked I find myself looking up the table instead of down.”

Semi turned to the person to his right and nodded. ”His metaphor game is getting better.”

Devi Payed, a young midfielder, chanted, ”Max Best is back! Max Best is back!”

I left the canteen to the left, went past the topiary T-rex and the first 3G pitch (where about 300 Chester fans were having an insane mass kickabout), and right, into the medical room, where pretty much the entire team were gathered. On one of the treatment tables was a plastic skeleton in a Chester kit. ”Where’s Nicole?” I said.

”She’s doing an emergency session with some guy,” said Dean.

”Dahvide,” said Livia.

”Ruth’s horsey friend? Weird.”

”She’ll come down when we give the signal,” said Dean.

”I want to know what that’s all about,” I said, insanely curious. I jogged up the stairs, past Brooke’s office, across a big, open space where there was a table littered with trophies, awards, and medals, and another table with a large model of the new stand - yes, the drone would come past here - and I knocked on the door of Nicole’s treatment room.

Inside, Dahvide, the buff Germanic horse rider, was stripped to his waist and was getting treated by Nicole. ”Max!” he said. ”It has been too long.”

”Hey, everyone. What’s going on?” I said. ”We’ve got a mega production about to start. I need Nicole.”

”I am sorry,” said Dahvide. ”My shoulder is killing me. Nicole’s ministrations are my only hope.”

”What’s up with your shoulder?” I said, approaching.

”An old injury. A difficult horse was being difficult. It wrenched the rope I was holding - bam - and the shoulder has never been the same since.”

Nicole wasn’t working the affected area, but she rarely did. All the bits were connected and when she made one muscle release there was a chain reaction. There didn’t seem to be a visual way to know which shoulder was damaged, and I wondered if I could tell just by feeling, the way Nicole and Magnus could. ”Can I have a rummage?”

He let out a soft laugh. ”Be my guest.”

I palpated the area around the right shoulder, then tried the left. ”Shit. It feels exactly the same to me. I’ve got objectively beautiful hands, look. They’d make a Renaissance artist weep. But compared to Nicole I’ve got sausage fingers.”

Nicole said, ”You don’t have sausage fingers, Max.” She guided me to the correct spot on the right shoulder. ”Feel the tension here. There is reduced mobility. Here.”

I felt nothing of the sort and sighed, partly regretting my lack of skill, partly happy that I had hired someone so good that a guy like Dahvide would beg for an emergency appointment. ”Nicole, I don’t know how you do it.” I stepped away and Nicole got back to work. I went to the window and looked outside. On the main training pitch, Vikki was chatting with some of our players, who were very excited about their role in the coming film. ”Dahvide, I thought you were supposed to be good at horses. Why are you letting them punk you?”

He laughed. ”It was a long time ago and I was the punk. We went to see some horses a dealer was selling. There were some good ones, some mediocre ones.”

I said, ”Don’t talk about horses like that, you brute. They’re all good horses.”

”Are all your footballers good?”

”Yes. I love them all equally.”

Dahvide eyed Nicole, but continued. ”There was one horse he didn’t show us. Who’s that? That’s Champion, he said. Talented but unridable. Untrainable. I can’t sell him. Come look at these easier horses, they are more your speed.”

”Champion,” I said, shaking my head. ”This is made up, isn’t it? You’re punishing me for having better guns than you.”

Nicole made a disloyal noise.

Dahvide said, ”Of course upon hearing that, I wanted him. I thought I was hot shit in those days, Max. I bought him, took him home, and very soon discovered that for all my medals, when it came to horses I was a true dilettante. I had to learn everything from scratch. Push myself, push my skills, push my knowledge. I had to learn to communicate with and collaborate with my horse. How does the horse brain work? What does a horse want? How can I, a human being, speak to a horse? I went back to basics, sourced knowledge from anywhere and everywhere, tried, failed, failed again. It made me a champion, it made me the rider I am today, and best of all, it made me the teacher I am today.”

I was staring outside, where Vikki was laughing with some of the lads. She was popular and she was effective. I had to make sure she stayed longer than a year, but I didn’t think that would be a very difficult task. Chester was a fucking spectacular place to work. Chester was the only place to be. The people in the room were waiting for me to respond. ”Soz, what?” I looked at them and couldn’t help but sigh. ”Are you trying to make a comparison between your troublesome horse and Emiliano? You think this situation is an opportunity for me to work on my skills, to become a better person, a better football manager?”

The duo seemed impressed that I had understood. Dahvide said, ”It worked for me.”

I went over to the treatment table and looked down on him. ”I have no doubt you’re right. A situation like this one presents an incredible opportunity to learn. I could ten-ex my skills and my growth as a person. Absolutely. You got inside the brain of your horse and I should get inside the brain of my player.” I bent a few inches closer. ”But do you know the difference between your horse and Emiliano?”

”Tell me,” said Dahvide, lips twitching in anticipation of my reply.

”Your horse had a brain.”

***

Friday, February 11

Bumpers Bank. Weather conditions irrelevant.

A string of goalkeepers were lining up by the side of the penalty area on the main training pitch. Owen Elmham (in a special cast); Ian Swan; Rainman; Sticky; various youth team lads. They came forward, one by one, and threw themselves towards free kicks that I blasted high, low, top bins, bottom rung, top corner, lower echelon, top shelf, top secret, top priority.

Briggy approached from the left. ”Stop, stop, they’re already dead!”

I looked from her to my next victim: Aston Davidson. 18 years old, CA 47. In three weeks he would be the starting goalie in the FA Youth Cup Quarter Final, in another home tie (our fourth in a row), against Plymouth Argyle. Pretty much the easiest draw we could have got. It wouldn’t matter if I shattered his confidence, would it? I stared at the ball, approached it, and chipped it slowly into Aston’s arms. The first save in fucking ages.

He pretended to be pissed that I had gone easy on him but his Morale shot up.

”What’s up?” I asked Briggy.

Briggy tapped the strap of her backpack. ”Got you some papers to sign. TPD shares.”

”How much?”

”£72,000.”

I turned to the goalies. ”Thanks, guys.”

Owen Elmham was pissed that I had scored more than he had saved. He yelled out, ”One more!”

I pointed to my right. ”Go help Aff with the zen garden.” Owen let out a howl of frustration, smacked himself hard in the face a few times, then stormed off. I watched and said, in a snooty voice, ”How extraordinary.”

Briggy bent and unzipped her pack. She took out some papers and a pen, which she used to point to the goal. ”Is that good for the team?”

”Is it good for the team if I can put the ball wherever I want from 35 yards out?”

She paused in her rummaging. ”Your tone suggests you made a winning argument. I don’t know football but I know you barely play, whereas Swanny and Owen will play every minute until the end of this season.”

I looked at the retreating goalkeepers. ”If I could smash shots at Wrexham’s goalie cohort, I would. What I’m doing here is nothing compared to what I’m gonna do to West Brom.”

Briggy stood. ”Sign here and here and here.”

I scanned the docs. ”£72,000 in Temps Perdu shares. Target... acquired! Okay, maths time.”

”Oh, no. Please, no.”

”£40,000 bought me 0.05% of the company. So this... This gets me another 0.08% percent. That’s logical.”

”Annoyingly, that’s close. This is another 0.09%. In a few days you will own 0.14% of TPD.”

I looked down at my boots. As unlikely as it sounded, I was currently earning money faster than I could invest it into Temps Perdu. ”Briggy, I’m eternally grateful.”

”You don’t need to do this every time, Max, you really don’t. I’m as motivated to find these sellers as you are to buy. You won’t hurt my feelings by being honest. Say what you want to say.”

”It’s so slow.”

”People don’t want to sell. This guy,” she said, taking the documents back from me, ”needs the money for a deposit on a house. It’s not a liquid market; you have to be patient. Some bad news, a setback, and there could be a rush to dump the shares. If the company’s next news is good news, well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

Other people had sick relatives. ”Yes,” I said, and tried to mean it.

She rubbed my arm. ”You have done everything it is in your power to do. Keep going. The next tranche of shares could be much bigger. Keep going.” She turned to her left. ”This’ll cheer you up.”

Coming along the path were Michael and Noah Harrison, with Solly straining on his lead. ”Bring your psychic dog to work day!” I squeaked, excited. ”Come here, you big mutt. Who’s a good boy? I know I am but who else?” The four of us fussed over the dog for a good minute. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed. ”Is he happy?”

Michael said, ”Course he is, boss. He loves it on the posh side of the tracks. He eats better than Magnus.”

”Magnus is vegan.”

”That’s what I mean.”

I smiled. ”He looks healthy. Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?” I fussed him around the cheeks - Solly, not the Triplet - and held my hand out for the lead. ”I need to go meet a jogger.”

Noah looked worried and didn’t give me control of the dog. ”Er, when’s your wedding, boss?”

”106 days,” I said, fussing Solly some more. ”You’re not invited, though.”

”What? Why?”

”Because you are the person I know who is most likely to hijack my wedding to ask some rando to marry him! You can watch the livestream on whatever channels. Only ten quid. Bargain.”

”Mike, is he joking? Briggy, am I not invited? I thought I was invited!”

I stood and took the lead from his hand. I got close to his face and growled, ”You keep taking good care of this little pup and I’ll think about it.”

Briggy gave Noah a few pats on the cheek. ”You’re invited. But Solly likes his beef medium rare and he doesn’t like it when you’re on your phone when you throw those sticks. Do you get me?” She patted him some more. ”Try being present in the moment, Noah. You might find you like it.” Her tone changed abruptly. ”Mr. Best is ready for his walk.”

Michael laughed and pulled Noah away. ”Canteen. I’m parched.”

I called after them. ”Get a mango lassi! I ordered mangos!”

***

I was walking Solly around a quiet area of Chester, not all that far from the city. I was chatting to him the whole time, telling him how I felt. Telling him about Anna. Telling him that while he was an unreliable psychic, he was a lovely dog.

As fate would have it, I bumped into a jogger. She was in jogging pants and had her hair in a ponytail, but she was doing more stretching than jogging.

”Hi,” I said, as Solly and I passed.

”Hello,” she said, in a tone that made me stop.

”Nice weather for a jog,” I said.

”Nice weather for a walk,” she said.

”Joggers tend to do more jogging than this,” I suggested.

”Dog walkers don’t tend to stand still like this,” she retorted.

I turned and gestured. ”I have walked this dog from there to there. I’m literally walking the dog. You have been here stretching the entire time. Joggers normally jog, not stretch.”

She let her hair out and shoved it back up inside her ponytail, which she knew would distract me. ”I was here thinking about my next book. I’m a writer, you see.”

”That right?”

”I straddle the border between fantasy romance and romantic fantasy.”

”I can see why that struggle would prevent you from jogging.”

”What do you do?”

”My name’s Cliff Daps. Masseuse to the stars.”

”You could help me with something, Cliff.”

”Such as?”

”You could pose for the cover of my next book and I could send it to my publishers and say this is what I want.”

”This is what you want?” I said, looking down at myself.

The jogger looked me up and down. ”Yeah,” she said. ”You’ll do.”

***

Saturday, February 12

EFL Championship Match 32 of 46: West Bromwich Albion versus Chester

The Hawthorns, West Bromwich, the West Midlands. Bitterly cold, dark, oppressive. 27,000 home fans screaming ’Fuck off Chester, West Brom!’ to the tune of Liquidator by The Harry J All Stars. Bizarre, surreal, ear-splitting. Genuinely intimidating.

Intimidating... unless you’re the sort of person who thinks he’s better than 27,000 people put together and is ready to prove it.

In the dressing room, I yelled, ”All right, shut the fuck up.” There was instant, dead silence. Morale was high. No shitheads had made the journey. We were completely united, completely as one. I paced left and right, looking at my players. They were a mirror of how I felt. Hungry. Determined. Ready. Energised by the rawness of what the home fans were giving out. I clicked my head left and right. ”West Brom beat us twice this year. No fucker beats a Max Best team three times in one season. They are better than when we played them last. Bad news for the Baggies - we’re ten times better than when they played us!”

I had to take a pause because I was so fucking hyped.

The pause did nothing.

”My favourite song!” I yelled. I went into the shower stall at the back of the room and emerged wearing a boxer’s hood. I shadow boxed and yelled, ”Don’t call it a comeback! I been here for years!” With that, the chorus from LL Cool J’s uber-motivational hip-hop song Mama Said Knock You Out came blaring out of our speakers.

I’m gonna knock you out!

Mama said knock you out!

I gestured and the song stopped. Any more hyped and I would have burst. ”That’s the fucking team talk! I’m gonna knock them out! Mama said make me proud! Are you with me?”

The lads grunted that they were.

I loomed over Pascal. ”We got the league’s best space invader. Are you with me?”

Pascal yelled, ”Yes!”

I bent to make eye contact with Wibbers. ”We’ve got the league’s most talented forward. Are you with me?”

”Yes, boss!”

I stood by Zach. ”We’ve got the league’s most American player. Are you with me?”

Zach grinned. ”I’m with you!”

I gritted my teeth so hard I nearly wrecked my jaw.

”Let’s fucking fuck some shit up!” I turned to Christian. ”Captain. Over to you.”

Christian unfolded himself from the bench, walked to my side, and slid the captain’s band onto my arm. ”I’m with you.”

Christian Fierce wanted to follow me into battle. Pride surged through me. Make us proud. ”Sandra,” I said. ”New plan.”

Her eyes were shining. She felt it, too. ”Attack till we drop?”

I clenched my fists. ”You heard her! Attack till we drop! Come on, you Seals!”