Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

14.

Monday, May 1

A single beam of light was blasting through the curtains, searing my skin, threatening to carve me up like a laser beam. I watched as the death ray moved along my inner thigh towards my junk. How long did I have until it hit the target? Probably twenty minutes. My eyelids drooped half-closed. ”Do you expect me to talk?” I mumbled, doing a Sean Connery accent. ”No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

I liked the James Bond movies but never felt compelled to rewatch them, certainly not since I started dating Emma. Who needed a Bond girl when you were about to bond with a pearl? Wow. Cut that.

There was the weirdly-named A View to a Kill, the one with Christopher Walken as the baddie and Grace Jones as his henchwoman. A tall, powerful black woman stealing the first half of the movie, subverting expectations, bending the narrative to her will, making a far more lasting impression on the viewer than the woman Bond was supposed to pair off with.

Emma appeared in the bedroom. She bounded over to the curtains and threw them open. ”Behold!” she said. ”Behold the summer!”

”You doing?” I complained, covering my head with the blanket.

”I heard you talking!” she said. ”You’re awake. Busy day, come on!”

I peeled the top of the duvet down. ”How do you know it’s a busy day?”

”Because if you’re not busy, I’ve got tasks for you. Missions.”

”I’m busy,” I said, poking my head back beneath the blanket.

Emma smiled and ripped the whole thing off me. ”Arise, sir knight!” she proclaimed. Then she pointed to my groin. ”Not like that.” She smiled to herself, then spotted my phone was on the corner table, far enough from the bed that I couldn’t be on it all night. Which brought one question to her mind. If the phone was all the way over there... ”Who were you talking to?”

”Goldfinger.”

”Of course. I should have known.”

I lay on my back and looked at the ceiling. How had I gone from Sean Connery to Grace Jones? ”Oh! It’s the first of May, isn’t it? Grace Jones’s character is called May Day.”

Emma put one hand on her hip. ”Have you been dreaming about Bond girls again?”

I tried to give her a sincere look, which was hard with so many death rays smashing into me. ”Babes, I don’t need a Bond girl; I’m about to bond with a pearl.”

For a moment, I thought it had gone down a treat, but the other hand went on the other hip. ”Who’s Pearl?” Emma gave me evils, then got silly girl energy, put her hands on the bed and pushed, trying to make it bounce even though we had a five-thousand-pound luxury memory foam mattress. ”Get up, get up, get up! It’s a special day. I’ll make you a brek. What do you want? Scrambled? Poached? Mushrooms on toast?”

”All sounds amaze. I’ll have one-third of each, please.”

***

I took a very quick shower, put on some tracky bottoms, and pottered downstairs, emerging into the kitchen. You couldn’t design a house like that these days because of the fire risk, but it was cosy. I approached Emma from behind and wrapped my arms around her. She let me sink in, then booped me away.

”Shoo,” she said. ”Busy.”

I looked at what she was doing. ”What the - ” She had two frying pans and a pot on the go. Scrambled egg, poached, fried mushrooms. ”What are you doing? You know I was joking.”

”It’s a special day. You get what you want.”

”Max birthday?” I said, the way my godson Jamie might say it.

Emma didn’t reply. There was a quick grin but then the toast popped and she was all business.

So! A mystery!

My first thought was to go to the wedding countdown. I peeled off the front sheet, revealing the number 26. ”There are 26 days until the merger.”

”Stop calling our wedding a merger, babes.”

”26 days,” I muttered, moving back to the kitchen area.

”Cold,” she said.

”27 days?”

She laughed. ”Today is nothing to do with our wedding.”

”Every day is everything to do with our wedding.”

”Gibberish, but sweet.”

I sat on a stool on the other side of the counter from where she was cooking. I looked around the room, hoping for inspiration. Panic set in. I’d forgotten her birthday! No. I’d forgotten our anniversary! No. ”Max preggers?” I said.

She laughed. ”It’s the first of May, babes. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

Frowning, I got my phone out and went to Wikipedia. ”May Day embodies a hyper-masculinity that threatens to destabilize Bond’s sexual politics. Wait, what? Oh, wrong page. Here we go. May Day is a European festival of ancient origins marking the beginning of summer.” I looked up from the screen. ”Babes, are we pagans now?”

”No, we’re communists. Didn’t you watch that video from that right-wing crank who said you’re a Marxist?”

”You know I didn’t.” I tried to join the dots of what she was saying, and amazingly, I succeeded. ”Oh! You mean Labour Day. Peter Bauer told me that in Berlin if you’ve got a flash car you’ve got to hide it on May the first because if it’s on the streets, it might get smashed up. Oh! Are you getting a new car?”

She didn’t speak for a moment while she assembled and plated the three meals. She placed them between us, poured me a cup of tea from the pot, said, ”Bon appetit,” and started to demolish the scrambled egg.

”What? Oh, we’re communists so we’re sharing that? Or we’re communists and you’re the ruling class so you get first pick? What’s the deal?”

”Tuck in before it gets cold. You said you wanted a third of everything, so here you go. I’ll eat a third, too.”

”And the remaining third?”

”Will form the basis for a brief but interesting discussion about ownership, which I shall win by reminding you that the workers control the means of production.”

I started with the poached egg. Emma had timed its withdrawal from the simmering water to perfection. ”Oh dat good,” I said, which was probably a more accurate impression of my godson.

Emma chomped and chewed, then said, ”It’s May the first. It’s the fifth anniversary of you taking the job as Chester manager.”

”Oh.”

I went into the curse screens, which told me I had been in post for 1,827 days. I got my phone out and did 365 multiplied by 5. There were two extra days. ”Leap years,” I said.

Emma’s eyebrows twitched. ”Happy anniversary. How do you feel?”

”Oof,” I said. ”Don’t know. Um...” I swigged some tea, took a bite of the mushrooms on toast, and closed my eyes. ”When I took over we were training at BoshCard. The stadium was half as small.”

”Half as big, babes.”

”Er, right. It’s just the word I think of. Small. Everything was small back then.” I took another swig and thought about Chester’s enormous war chest - signing two Slovakian internationals would barely make a dent in it - the PetPride Stand, the squad, the league positions, the cup runs. ”Everything’s bigger and better. I think I’ve done well.”

”You’ve smashed it, babes.”

I tried to enjoy her praise, but couldn’t. ”I suppose I’ll be more able to reflect when the season’s properly over. We had a mad week and now we’ve got an even madder one. Three days back to back. Three matches to define everything. The men have the first leg against Luton on Saturday. The women have their playoff against Charlton on Sunday. The boys have the Youth Cup final against Man City on Monday.” I clucked my tongue. ”Every one of those deserves mega attention but I’ll have to split my time this week to prepare for all three.” The schedule was crazy sometimes.

Emma shoved a golf ball-sized blob of scrambled egg into her gob. ”If you could only win one, which one?”

”Easy. The women. Win that game and the club gets a tier one team, and that’s an accelerant to everything we’re doing. Even if we didn’t change anything in the squad, we would be the third-best team by the end of next season. If we splash the cash, I mean, wow. We could be the best team in Europe. Wait, saying that out loud sounds crazy. Am I talking shit?” I scratched my head. ”We should add 20 to 30 points per player, so the core group would go from 100-ish to 130-ish. That’s about the level of Man City last time I saw them. Arsenal and Chelsea are further ahead but it wouldn’t cost much to match those levels.” I took some of the scrambled egg. ”We’re gonna fuck up that entire world, but we do need to get promoted.”

”What are the chances?”

”Good. Charlton play 4-4-2, they’re very, very solid defensively. They went a whole year undefeated not all that long ago, but this season they have been smashed up almost every week, so we can imagine the mood isn’t that good. When they defend, they defend narrow, very much like Toddy Braun does in Stuttgart. The way we play is Kryptonite for that. Get the ball wide, overloads and overlaps, slap into the box, cut back, bosh.”

”Bosh.”

”And if that doesn’t work, Relationism will. We’re preparing hard and taking it seriously but tactically there isn’t much for us to think about. If the ladies play to their full potential, we’ll win.” A weird sense of doom enveloped me as I spoke, causing me to shiver. I glanced at Emma, but she hadn’t noticed.

”What about the others?”

”If the men lose, it’s not the end of the world because there’s a second leg. Okay, if Luton win 4-0, that’s us cooked. A few years ago, Sheffield Wednesday came back from a 4-0 thrashing in the first leg. They won the home leg 4-0 and took the match to penalties and won it. Amazing, but that’s once-in-a-lifetime stuff. If we’re 3-0 down, I’d fancy us to overturn it, but four would be too much.” I waved a hand to dismiss the numbers. ”It won’t be anything like that, it’ll be close. Very close, but we’ll do better in the second leg. So, yeah, given a choice between the men winning and the women, it’s the women all day long. And the boys? They’re better than Man City so the main way they lose is with a dodgy referee or if they turn up complacent. If the ref has decided what the score should be before the game even kicks off, I mean, tsch. Nothing you can do. If the boys are complacent and lose, that’s on them. It’s my job to make sure they’re in the right state of mind so I’ll see how they train this evening. That’ll tell me what I need to know and how much I need to worry.”

Saturday’s game against Luton would tell me something else I needed to know - whether Bench Boost would be available in the playoffs. That would only trigger an hour before kickoff, which meant I wouldn’t base my strategy around it, but it would very much affect how I approached the women’s game.

And what about complete tactical flexibility? Was there any way to unlock it before the weekend?

XP balance: 3,540

I needed to get to 5,000 XP, but I didn’t want to go out watching matches this week. First of all, there were barely any on the schedule, now that most clubs had gone into hibernation. Second, I wanted to do the absolute maximum I could to prepare the three teams and that meant being present at Bumpers.

If I didn’t play at all against Luton, I would get up to about 4,700 XP. I could probably earn 300 XP while stationing myself at Bumpers, so if I didn’t invest in Secret Sandra, I could possibly unlock the final tactics perk before the women’s playoff.

It was far more likely that I would play at least 20 minutes against Luton, so I decided that there wasn’t any point stressing about the perk. Investing in Secret Sandra and giving boosts to Saffron, Meredith Ann, and maybe some of the under 18s could do even more good than being able to move more magnets around a tactics board. I would be able to afford the perk after the women’s game, that was for sure.

”Luton’s going to be so tough,” I said, visualising their compact 4-2-3-1 shape.

”Aren’t they your defeated foe?”

”No. They beat us 2-0 at their place and we drew 1-all at the Deva. That was the day I scouted Jack Knapper. You know, the little wonderkid?”

”There are so many wonderkids these days.”

”His dad’s a painter and someone got him a job so he could move to Chester.”

”Right, yes! I remember. You made him take a penalty and do tekkers on the pitch before the match. The Luton fans took the piss, then later you went on their podcast to try to mentally disintegrate them, with mixed results.”

”Mixed results? We finished above them, didn’t we? Job done. Mission accomplished. But this Saturday will be the last ever match at their old stadium. Kenilworth Road, it’s called. The Kenny.”

”Oh my God, they’ve killed Kenny!”

”That’s exactly what the bastards have done. It’s interesting, really. The new stadium is basically the money they earned from the last time they got to the Premier League. Instead of throwing a hundred mill at new players and their agents, they did what was best in the long term, which was to move to a newer, bigger, more modern stadium. If they get promoted this year, the first games at their new place will be Premier League. That would be a vindication of their strategy, wouldn’t it?”

”You’re not the only one doing schemes and plots.”

”That’s right.” I put my fork down, and noted that we had eaten about one-third of the dishes each. I’d eaten enough, but it was all so delicious. I lifted the fork, pulled the nearest plate towards me, and pigged out. ”It’s gonna be noisy.”

”What, your stomach when three types of brek hit at once?”

”That too. I was thinking of the Kenny. Over a hundred years of history. Hopes and dreams, blood, sweat, and tears. Normally if there are passionate fans I rub my hands because passion can be redirected into anger. Not this time. This time they’ll be singing and chanting and getting behind their team non-stop, whatever happens. It will be a constant wave of noise. All the hits, all the old favourites, songs about the current players, the old ones. They’ve got a guy who has played there since he was 6 years old. Paul Shaw. He’s nearly 40, retiring, he’s been with the club from non-league to the Prem, back down to League One, now on the verge of the Prem again. A good and faithful servant, and this will be his last appearance. I don’t think he’ll actually play - his legs have gone - but they might throw him on for the last thirty seconds if they haven’t used all their subs. That’ll bring the house down. Even when he just goes to warm up, the fans will lose their minds. He’s a symbol of everything that can be good in a football club. Loyalty, passion, skill, overcoming adversity. Do you still want to get married?”

The question might have thrown her anyway, but coming at the end of an unrelated monologue made it even more surprising. ”Yes. You?”

”Yes.”

Either the light shifted or some colour drained from her cheeks. ”Why do you ask?”

”Seems polite to check. I wouldn’t marry me.”

”You wouldn’t marry you but you would marry me and I would marry you. Bosh. I’ve squared the circle.”

”When am I allowed to know where the wedding will be?”

”On the morning of the wedding you will get in a car and that car will take you where you need to go. Not telling you where it is may not be a very funny joke but I have committed to it and I’m sticking with it long past its sell-by date. That’s something I’ve learned from you.”

”Oh. Fair. And the honeymoon. Will that be abroad? Do I need to check my passport is valid?”

While she sipped her tea, her eyes darted left and right. ”You need a valid passport.”

”Okay, I’ll check it. So I take it you found your dream castle?”

She eyed me, deciding if she wanted to point out how lame this attempt to get a clue was. ”It’s the best castle in the country, and that’s all I’m saying.” She smiled to herself in a way that made me think she was joking. So... not a castle? Or it would be in a country that only had one castle? Or - ? ”Max, listen. You’ve been grinding for five years. Every day you make fifty decisions. I want to take that pressure off, at least for a while. The wedding, the honeymoon, you don’t have to think about a single thing.”

I closed one eye. ”I don’t have to think about a single thing... but I have to think about married things? Is that - ?”

She laughed. ”Oh my God. This is what I’m talking about.” She came around the counter and leaned into me. ”You’re gonna switch off and let someone else captain the ship for a couple of weeks, okay?”

I kissed her and pulled her tight. ”Captain the ship. So it’s a cruise. We’re gonna cruise around the Med? After our wedding in Gibraltar, where there’s only one castle.”

She made an exasperated noise. ”That’s for me to know and you to find out! Our marriage is going to start the way it needs to go on, with me in charge and you following along obediently.”

”Yeah,” I said. ”Wait, what?”

”Now go to work and tell people how to kick a ball good.”

***

I went to Bumpers but because I was a strong independent man (and because I had overeaten), I left Sandra in charge of training and went to my office to do some admin.

When I went back down and focused on the action, I didn’t notice anything wrong at first. After all, these days I could spot 99.9% of problems as soon as I opened a squad screen. But there were some problems the curse didn’t automatically highlight. ”Where’s Emiliano?” I said.

”Sick,” said Sandra. ”Called in sick.”

Huh. There was no indication he was unwell on the main squad page, and I’d had no reason to dive into his player page. I did so now and discovered that his Morale was abysmal and on his profile tab it said ’Is homesick.’ Homesick a couple of weeks before he would go home? That was dumb.

I thought about it some more and decided it made perfect sense. You would get more homesick the more you thought about going home, right?

”Who are his mates?”

Sandra glanced at me, which I took as a rebuke but it might just have been surprise, because that was the kind of thing I was normally on top of. ”The Brazilians, mostly.”

”Right,” I said. Now that she had said it, I remembered seeing them come and go quite often. ”Gabby!” I cried.

The striker left the match, trotting over, gently sweating, slightly out of breath. ”Yes, gaffer?”

”Did you hear from Emiliano this morning?”

”No, gaffer.”

”What are your plans after training?”

”We go eat at the Big Mama House. All the family. All the families.”

I nodded. ”Top. Get Emiliano and bring him.”

”Get Emi? He is sick, no?”

The curse said no, but how could I be sure? I put my hands on Gabby’s shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. ”Go to his flat and get him and take him to lunch.” I released him. ”Go with Nasa. Where are Tomzilla and Tockers?”

”Home. And Tony, he comes, too.”

”Tony’s one of the gang?” I said, beaming. Tony Herbert had been the Player of the Season at Tranmere and would join us over the summer. He was from Panama. ”How’s his Portuguese?”

”It isn’t. But we understand, mais ou menos. Is okay.”

”Top. Get everybody, then go to Emi and get him. No excuses. No reasons. You get him and you take him to the Big Mama House and send me a photo of him smiling. That’s your mission.”

”Smiling?” said Gabby, shaking his head. ”Not possible. His girl, the Angel, she bin him off.”

My jaw dropped, and so did Sandra’s. ”What?”

Gabby nodded. ”She dump him. She punch into his breast, pull out his heart, watch it, how you say?” He mimed a heart beating. ”This for the last time, throw it in the bin, and she say, you don’t need that no more.”

”Come on,” I said.

He nodded, seriously. ”Is true! It is a big pain for him but his next girl, she will be very happy about this.”

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”What? Why?”

”Emi, he will work harder in the bedroom, yes?”

A laugh punched its way out of Sandra, doubling her up, turning her red. I wasn’t totally immune, but Emi was still my player and I had to take care of him, so I got a grip pretty fast. Would it be better if I went to see him? No way. I wagged my finger at Gabby. ”Go to your locker. Take Nasa. Get on the phone and get Tomz, Tockers, and Tony - the Three Teemigos! - and get this organised. Like, right now. Top priority. I don’t want Emiliano at home on his own eating a tub of ice cream watching Bridget Jones’s Diary, okay? Go right now.”

”Boss, we have a big game on Saturday!”

”Go and take care of your teammate! Right now!”

He rolled his neck, walked away, and whistled using his fingers. The game stopped. Nasa looked up and saw Gabby waving at him. After a quick bicker, Nasa also left the match.

Sandra gave Gabby a fist bump - reward for his joke, if it was a joke - and called out, ”The ref’s had a mare and it’s ten v ten. Reorganise and let’s go!”

***

I wasn’t very hungry, but spent most of lunchtime in the canteen anyway. It was a good way to check on the vibes, the moods.

I needed a break from thinking about the three huge matches that were hurtling towards us like asteroids, so I slipped into my happy place - squad building. Tempsford, West, and Newport County had been promoted, so they would need better players and deeper squads. Three-quarters of Tranmere’s defence were actually Chester players, so I needed to find some replacements - assuming Diggy Doggy re-hired me as a consultant for another season. Saltney and College would play in the Champions League qualifiers again, while the Lions and Magpies would be in the UEFA Conference League qualifiers.

Lots of clubs needed lots of players!

The problem was, there were still plenty of clubs in the English playoffs, and Bayern Munich had reached the Champions League semi-finals, so I assumed they didn’t want me calling asking who I could loan. That would have to wait a couple of weeks, which made the entire process somewhat futile, because one decision led to a chain reaction. If I sent Rainman here, then Banksy would have to go there. If Banksy went there, I would need a Conference League-standard goalie here.

It was frustrating not being able to get things moving, though. The more things I could sort now, the less work would be waiting for me after the honeymoon.

”Max,” said Kisi, in a somewhat aggressive tone, as she paced towards me.

”Uh-oh,” I said.

”Explain this.”

She reached into her backpack and pulled out a magazine. It was called Revival! and it had a photo of her dad on the cover. The title seemed to be something like ’God Is Great Says Miracle-Working Football Club Owner.’

”Oh, shit,” I said, reaching out for it.

Kisi had no intention of letting me hold the magazine. She flipped to an inner page, glared at me for a couple of seconds, then started to read fragments of an article. ”To his players, he is simply called Mr. Yalley, usually in a tone of reverence and respect. To his employees, he is the always-smiling, always-positive leader who is so humble he still works as a baggage handler at Manchester Airport, but he has a gift from God. Mr. Yalley never makes a mistake when it comes to football. He owns three clubs, and each of them won their leagues. Two have new stadiums, a third is planned. To what does Mr. Yalley attribute his success?”

Kisi turned the page.

”Dad blabs about God for a while.” She scanned down. ”Football talent runs in the family. Mr. Yalley’s oldest child, Youngster, is one of the most in-demand players in Europe, and has already represented his country and played for the German giants, Bayern Munich. There’s, like, three more sentences about James. Then it goes: And Mr. Yalley’s daughter also plays the sport.”

Kisi squealed with frustration. Before I could properly laugh, she launched into another section.

”Here we go. You won’t believe this.” She switched to article-voice. ”I asked Mr. Yalley why he had named his company Two Taps Limited. When I first came to this country, he says, smiling fondly at the memory, I found it very beautiful and the people very beautiful. I knew I could make a new life here, a good life for my family, but in the first house in which I stayed, I was amazed - shocked and amazed - that there were two taps. One for the cold water, one for the hot.” Kisi slammed the magazine into her off hand. ”He’s out there telling the stupid taps story and the author is saying, oh, is that why you thought you could run a football club better than most people, and dad laughs like ha you said that not me. People are lapping it up because they think he’s a football and business genius! You did this!”

”Me?”

”You’ve turned my dad into Richard Branston!”

”Branson. He’s not a pickle.”

Kisi pointed at me. ”You’re in a pickle. My father is not a top international businessman. I don’t want him going on talk shows and podcasts talking about how successful and wise he is!”

I leaned back. ”What does your mum think of this article?”

Kisi rolled her eyes. ”She thinks it’s funny.”

I smiled. ”Why don’t you?”

”He’s just my dad and I want to keep him that way.”

”He’ll always be your dad. He’s just hamming it up for the cameras. He doesn’t actually think he’s a top businessman.”

”Fake it till you make it. That’s what we learn, isn’t it? Act like a top player and you become one. Act like you’re comfortable with the media and you’ll become comfortable. If he goes round talking like that, acting like that, he’s gonna become that and I don’t like it because he hasn’t done any of those things. You did everything, not him. He hasn’t earned this.” She waved the magazine.

”Well, he has. He saved my life. But listen, I don’t think he’s gonna turn into a tech bro and start talking about how he wants to hack his DNA to live to be 200. He’s having fun and it looks to me like he’s using his fame to talk about his faith and if God’s okay with that, I’m okay with that.”

”I’m not okay with that. Don’t buy any more football clubs in my dad’s name.”

I couldn’t help but smile harder. ”What I should do - hear me out - is buy a fourth club for him, but make that one lose all the time. That would put a lid on all this, wouldn’t it? I wonder how much Man City would cost?”

Kisi stared at the ceiling, possibly counting to ten. She looked at me. ”Sometimes I really want to hit you.”

***

After lunch, the women filed into the Sin Bin for the first briefing about Charlton Athletic. The squad’s mood was hard to pin down. Some seemed excited, some were worried. One tried to give me the evil eye, but I pulled funny faces at her until she cracked into a smile. If I could, I wanted to get them all facing in the same direction. We would have a Morale advantage, a talent advantage, and if we at least matched Charlton for togetherness, it was really hard to see us failing to get the result we wanted.

I had been watching Charlton videos for months, because I had long suspected they would be the team in the playoff, so I was able to tune out the introductions and instead, focused on the interpersonal dynamics.

Charlotte and Angel weren’t sitting together, but they weren’t far apart. What did that mean? Probably nothing.

Angel’s Morale was okay, the same level it had been last time I’d specifically checked. When was that? Saturday night after the Preston match? So she had broken up with Emiliano on Saturday night or Sunday and it hadn’t affected her mood one bit. Ouch.

Jay was talking about how defensively solid Charlton were, how they loved to get the back four together to form a moving wall. He transitioned into talking about how we would break that wall down. That was good. Positive, front foot. We’re the protagonists. We’re the big team, we want the ball, we attack. The oppo are small, so they defend and hope for the best. We should go for their fucking throats.

Jay stopped talking. Everyone turned to look at me. ”Um... Did I say that out loud?”

There was much laughter, some giggles. Jay said, ”Yeah.”

”How... How far back?”

Meghan said, ”We should go for their fucking throats. I’ve never agreed with you more.” She leaned forward and reached out a fist for me to bump.

”One second,” I said. ”Just checking exactly how much of what I was thinking I said out loud. Did I mention James Bond girls at all?”

That got a massive laugh, lots of eye-rolling, someone saying ’you’re such a boy’.

I stood, bumped Meghan’s fist, and said, ”Henri Lyons sent me a text today. Let me read it to you. Happy May day, Max. Did you know that the international word of distress, mayday, is derived from the French phrase m’aidez, meaning help me? When you cry out in distress, then, you are speaking French. Perhaps this will give you some comfort if you are ever swallowed by the sinkhole that haunts your dreams.”

Annoyingly, the ladies took that as the cue to compare notes about how afraid they were of sinkholes.

”Hey hey hey,” I said. ”Settle down. I’ve lost my train of thought because of you. Christ.”

Kisi tried to help. ”You were talking about your hot French friend who definitely isn’t planning anything embarrassing for your stag night.”

That caused yet another bout of silliness.

I rubbed my forehead so hard I worried I would leave a permanent dent. ”Everyone shut up.” I held up a finger. ”On Saturday - ”

”Sunday,” cried about six people.

”On Sunday, Luton are - ”

”Charlton!”

”What the shit. On Sunday, Charlton are going to be yelling mayday, mayday, but I’m going to ignore their pleas. I’ll say, soz, I don’t speak French. Wow, that build-up wasn’t worth it at all.” I sat down again, in a huff.

But it was worth it - the energy in the room was way up. United in amusement - it was a start.

I gave Jay a tiny little nod, the signal that he should keep going with his presentation. He went back to discussing Charlton’s wall and what our response would be, but this time with more feedback from the group.

Sarah called out, ”Meredith can play through that line!”

Kisi said, ”If Dani’s wide left and we bring them to my side of the box, they’re toast! You can’t leave Dani the Destroyer that much space!”

Meredith said, ”Sarah! Your long shots, their line, the keeper will be unsighted and you’ll get deflections! If nothing else, we’ll win tons of corners!”

Jay, trying to hide his pleasure, glanced at me. Somehow, I had unlocked this. This was why I paid myself the big bucks.

I felt someone’s eyes burning into me from behind, but when I turned around, no-one was paying me any particular attention.

Five minutes later, I got a photo from Gabriel.

In it, Gabby’s mother was showing Emiliano photos of Gabby as a child, and Emi was laughing his head off while a bunch of others crowded around.

The caption to the photo read:

Eu sofro pela equipe.

The translation suggested: I suffer for the team.

Emiliano’s Morale had only improved one level, but the Homesick message was gone.

I wrote back.

It is the day of the workers and you have done good work. It is the day of solidarity and you have done your friend a solid. This will be remembered.

***

After the analysis sesh, I crossed Bumpers Lane to the Deva and met the top brass for a quick check-in.

Secretary Joe confirmed the details of the hotels he had booked for us. For the men he had picked the Luton Hilton. I would have liked something more upmarket but it wasn’t easy to find a spot that could accommodate an entire squad plus backroom staff at short notice. Bayern Munich had an entire department who traveled ahead of the team picking hotels and setting them up to perfection. I didn’t want perfection - I didn’t want pampered princes - but we definitely needed to think about hiring someone for this role. A former player, maybe?

The women had hit the jackpot. The playoff was being played at a neutral venue, the MK Arena in Milton Keynes, and SecJoe had found an amazing hotel called Horwood House. Grand, opulent, secluded. The women would lose their minds when they checked in. And the message would be clear - win the playoff and we will treat you like this at every away match.

I flicked through the hotel’s glossy brochure. ”Joe, you’ve boshed it. Top.”

Brooke talked about how annoying it was that Wrexham had squeezed into the playoffs, saying that they were sucking up all the media oxygen.

”Yeah, good,” I said. ”I only breathe football.” I scrunched my eyes closed for a couple of seconds. ”Was that great or shit? I can’t tell.”

”We’re three matches from the Premier League,” she said. ”This should be an amazing time for networking, for getting our name out there. We’re investing a lot in the hospitality packages in the PetPride and we should be dominating the sports pages, the business pages, everything.”

I stretched. ”What’s gonna happen when Crystal Palace dump Wrexham right on their arses and we’re the only game in town?”

Brooke did a tiny shrug. ”Sure, that’ll be great but we get one week of buzz instead of three. And I notice you’ve retreated into your shell again. Refusing all media requests.”

”I did loads before the final match of the season because that felt right but it’s football time now. Cut me and I bleed football. Puncture my lungs and a slow hiss of football will escape. That was a call-back to the thing I said earlier. Oh, tell you what. If you want some content for the socials, let’s record a quick shout-out to international socialist and Marxist groups. I’m more than happy to record something along those lines, Brooke.”

”Pass,” she said, primly.

MD said, ”Stop teasing Brooke. On the topic of redistributing wealth, I got an email from someone purporting to be Max Best. It said to take the profits from the home playoff and use them to hire, quote, a fucking armada of buses to ship our fans down to Wembley again. Unquote. Is that your wish?”

”We’ll clear about a hundred and fifty grand, right? I don’t need it for the squad so yeah, give it back to the fans. I doubt we’ll get quite as many as we got for the Vans Trophy final, but we should try to fill our allocation. Crystal Palace will sell 40,000, won’t they? I don’t want to be massively outnumbered.”

Brooke was making notes. ”I’ll start to call around to see what’s available. There’s a risk that if the other team is Wrexham we will be competing for the same buses. It could be smart to book them already. I know that people in this country think it’s cocky or cringe or bad luck when clubs plan ahead, but I’d rather not be caught out.”

Secretary Joe said, ”Our second leg comes before Wrexham’s. When we know our result, we can lock down every bus in the north. Wrexham can swivel.”

”SecJoe!” I cried. ”He shoots, he scores! That’s brilliant. Brooke, can you arrange it so that, like, we’ve got a hundred buses on standby and we’ll give the go-ahead within five minutes of the final whistle and, like, pay the money right away? And any companies in North Wales, we give them like a ten percent premium on their normal rate as a thank-you for being on standby, but it’s actually just protection against them switching the bus to Wrexham if they somehow beat Palace.”

Brooke was scribbling. ”Are you a communist or a monopolist? Make up your mind.”

”I’m whichever one benefits me in the moment. Wrexham will be fine. Ryan Reynolds will give every Welshman a pumpkin and the night before the playoff final, they’ll transform into carriages. The pumpkins, not the Welsh, though I could imagine that’s something Reynolds would do. Seriously, Palace will smash them to pieces. The team, not the pumpkins. Palace are way better and the way they press means they’re just about the worst opponent for Wrex in the whole division. Apart from Chester, obvs. You’ll be able to relax after the first leg, which will be insanely one-sided. I’m thinking of getting a ticket in the away end so I can sing ’where’s your famous atmosphere?’ Heh.” I clapped. ”Any other business? I need to hit the gym.”

MD spun a pen on the table like a kid in school. As he stared at it, he mumbled, ”Are we gonna win?”

I don’t know why, but it always amused me when MD dropped the super-professional aura and spoke like the average fan. I said, ”We’ll win one of the three matches at least, and whether it’s the men, women, or the 18s, that will make it the most glorious season since the concept of glory was first proposed by Karl Marx in his seminal gay musical, Oh, Capital!”

”Christ,” mumbled MD, who was now biting his fingernails.

I stood, moved behind him, and massaged his shoulders. ”It’s not about the winning, Mike. It’s about the friends we make along the way.”

His head sagged. ”My friends all want tickets to see Man United and Liverpool next season.”

I gave him a few claps on one shoulder. ”The two clubs who keep plotting to kill English football? Get better friends, MD.” I went to the windows and looked out onto the Deva’s pitch. It was quiet out there now, but it wouldn’t be long until Luton Town rocked up, and that match had the potential to be a total epic. ”Palace finished third, we finished fourth. The third and fourth-placed teams always win the semi-finals and the third-placed team beats the fourth-placed one in the final. That’s how it goes, always, every year since the beginning of the playoff system. At this point it’s basically a law of the universe, like the way house prices always go up.”

Secretary Joe said, ”Since the playoffs were introduced to the second tier in 1987, the team finishing third has won promotion only 37% of the time, and the team finishing fifth actually has a better record than the team coming fourth, 26% to 23%.”

I threw my hands to my head. ”Now you tell me! What in the actual blazes are you talking about? That can’t be right! That’s not right! Does that include the time Swindon won the final but got kicked out because of dodgy dealings so Sunderland went up instead? The numbers should go, like, 80, 10, 7, 3!”

”Mayday, mayday,” said Brooke. ”Got a brain about to explode over here.”

I put my hands in a praying pose, pushed them into my lips, and wiggled my index fingers. ”What I’m going to do,” I said, ”is pretend I didn’t hear those numbers. I’m going to live life according to the numbers I conjured up in my head just now. Yes, that’s the stuff. Okay, I’m going. Seeyas.”

”Max,” said Joe, as I was fleeing.

I covered my ears, but then decided that could be misinterpreted as childish. ”Yes?”

”The last time a sixth-placed team got promoted was 2010. Wrexham ain’t going nowhere.”

I rushed to his chair and gave him a huge reverse hug. ”You’re the best secretary since Miss Moneypenny.”

***

Before hitting the gym, I went up to my office and called Tony Long, the founder and CEO of Temps Perdu. Briggy had been looking for new shares for me to buy, but it had all gone pretty quiet down there. Briggy got the feeling the company was on edge about getting regulatory approval to level up one of their projects. If the news was bad, more shares would be available and for cheaper, but did I really want Temps Perdu to get bad news? I had selfish intentions, but I was cheering them on.

Tony picked up almost instantly. ”Max! To what do I owe this pleasure? Ah, wait, let me guess. You’re going to be a big Premier League star soon and you don’t have time for little old Tempsford. You are, as Vimsy likes to say, binning us off.”

”Nope! The opposite. I’ve started squadbuilding for next season.”

”What! We’ve only just finished the last one!”

”There’s no better time to get going,” I said. ”The early bird gets the worm.”

”But the second mouse gets the cheese.”

”Max Best gets the worm and the cheese and the Manager of the Season award. What it is, right, I was thinking about the budget. I’m putting in about fifteen hundred quid a week and I’m going to increase that.” Now that the Big Mama House was full, it was making a small profit, which amounted to about 250 pounds per week that I didn’t especially need. I was already sending the excess income from the Best Chestern Hotel (my block of flats), plus the agent fee I was taking from Youngster. He would get a beefy pay rise in the summer, which would lift the amount I was sending to Tempsford FC close to the 2,500 a week mark. ”I told you I’d let you have stadium naming rights for free for a season and that still stands, obviously, but I was wondering if you wanted to voluntarily chip in 500 quid a week. That would pay for another player’s wages, so combined we would have six ringers. Six guys far too good for the level. You would raise our chances of winning the league from 99% to 100%.”

Tony laughed. ”I like those odds. Fuck it, I’m in. I had a shit few weeks but when I’m feeling down I think about the football club and it cheers me up. So yeah, count me in.”

”Um, if you’re on a low ebb financially, it’s no problem. Five star players is enough. I just wanted to proper smash it, you know.”

There was a pause while Tony decided how to respond. I started to worry about Temps Perdu. It was my best hope for a treatment for my mother, but the vibes were all wrong. Why was he hesitating over 500 quid a week? Chester spent that much buying new hairdryers. He put on a fake positive voice. ”No, no, I’ll do it. It’s all good. Sometimes it’s just, you know, the authorities. Bunch of clowns, sometimes.” He laughed. ”Who am I talking to? You know exactly what I mean. Yeah, 500 a week, consider it a done deal. Let’s proper smash it.”

I ended the call having effectively ended next season’s Spartan South Midlands League as a contest.

Yay?

I jammed my phone into the underside of my chin. I had to trust that Old Nick had given me good information, and I had to trust Tony Long to run his business. Setbacks were part of science, were part of life. One step back, two steps forward. Trust the process.

A realisation hit me just then. When it came to Temps Perdu, I was like a football fan. I desperately wanted my team to succeed but I had no control over their actions. I spent my money, I followed the news, but in the end I was a prisoner of my hopes and desires just like Chester fans were locked in to supporting their club.

I threw my hands up and yelled, ”Tony Long’s medical army!” No, that wasn’t quite right. ”Tony Long’s scientist army!” Cut that. ”Long! Long will recombine your DNA... again!” I shook my head for a while. ”Stick to football, Max.”

***

While I was in the gym, racing around a virtual track on one of our high-spec bikes, my phone rang. It was Camila, a Peruvian supermodel commonly known as Caramel who, last I heard, was still dating Foquita, soon to be one of the top five strikers in the world.

I paused the programme, slowed my legs so she’d be able to hear me over the machine, and accepted the call.

Camila was in a basic sweatshirt thing, a far cry from the astonishing silver dress she had worn to a special event organised by Henri, but she still looked amazing. Foquita was next to her, smiling and waving. ”Hola, Max!”

”Holamos,” I said. ”¿Qué pasa?”

Camila leaned closer to the camera. ”You are busy. We are interrupting.”

”No, I always break into a sweat when a beautiful woman calls me.”

Foquita said, in Spanish, ”What did he say?” and Camila explained. Foquita laughed. ”So funny.”

I glanced at the clock. I would need to shower and get changed in time to watch the under 18s. ”If it’s just a chat, can I call you back tomorrow? Or if you need something, hit me.”

Camila nodded. ”You are busy. Premier League! So exciting! We cannot believe it. But for Benfica, for Foquita, the season is over.”

”A very good season, I think.”

”Yes, very good. And now we must decide on the next move. Or the next stay.”

”Oh,” I said, surprised. Foquita had a great agent, one of the best around. ”What does Adrian think you should do?”

”He has many ideas. Napoli in Italy. Dortmund in Germany. Full-ham or West Ham in England. Atlético de Madrid. Adrian says they each satisfy the sporting and financial requirement of the next step.”

I slowed to a halt. ”West Ham’s a graveyard for strikers, but I can see the pros and cons of the others. It’s a step up from Portugal, no offence. You could do a better team in England than Fulham.”

”Fullum,” said Camila, overcorrecting.

”Max,” said Foquita. ”Boss. I need your help.”

I smiled. ”It’s a m’aidez on May day. Tell me what you need.”

Foquita put his arm around Camila and squeezed. ”Camila, she is a student. Here in Lisbon.”

Camila smiled. ”I got onto a course at the University of Lisbon. I think Benfica pulled some strings for me, but I decided I was okay with that.” She laughed, soft and delicate. ”It is a bachelor’s degree in Sports Management. I’m halfway through. I told Foquita that this time in our lives is for him. I am here to support his journey. But he wants to stay in Lisbon for another season so that I can finish. Adrian says it is time to move. I agree with him. Wherever Foquita is, there I will be happy.”

I scratched my cheek. ”Can’t you stay in Lisbon while he goes to Madrid or wherever?”

I barely got halfway through the sentence when Foquita let out an annoyed sigh. I got the feeling he had been having this same conversation with a lot of people. ”No! We have already spent too many months separate. One, two days because of the match travel, this is good. This is normal. Two weeks for training before the season? Okay. Four weeks for the World Cup? I do it for my country. But for Full-ham or Napoli or Dortmund, no! I want to stay.” He softened and nodded a few times. ”But, yes, my career is short. I must get to the top. Adrian is right about many things but not like you.”

”Me?”

”You know everything. Tell me if I can stay in Lisbon.”

I laughed. ”How should I know?”

Foquita looked pained. ”Max. Boss. Gaffer. Please.”

”Hang on,” I said, and got up from the bike. I wiped it down with my towel, then walked to the side of the gym and looked out. It was quite a nice day. The curse told me that it would be raining on Friday. Did that mean it was likely to be raining on Saturday, too? I had the option to extend the weather forecast the curse provided me, but apart from that, I couldn’t really see the future.

I’d been consistently wrong throughout this season. We’ll finish 12th? Try again. 10th? Try again.

It wasn’t entirely my fault - the Championship was fucking bonkers. It was even more unpredictable than League One, probably because the stakes were higher. Clubs spent more money and played in bigger, fuller stadiums. Going a goal up or down led to massive swings in mood. Every weekend was triumph or disaster and most clubs tried more than one manager per season. I ran one of the only clubs that could cut through the noise and keep the ship steady.

Foquita, then. He had to be somewhere between CA 140 and 160 these days, but that was a huge range. At 140, staying in Lisbon for another season would be totally acceptable. At 160, he would really probably need to move on, because he couldn’t waste a season treading water. Or could he? I couldn’t help him long-distance.

”Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Foquita perked up. The hope in his eyes was super adorbs. I pointed downwards. ”You need to come here.”

”Transfer to Chester?” said Camila. ”Yes, but do you have the money?”

”I’d sell my kidney and whatever spare body parts I’ve got to buy Foquita.”

Camila kept a straight face as she said, ”You’d make more money selling your body.”

Cheeky! ”Chester will never be able to afford Foquita, no. I meant come here, to Bumpers Bank. Come for a day and train and let me see you. Hey, maybe you can do some coaching with my strikers! Yes, that will be the excuse. The reason we tell people. If you are here, I can see for sure your current level and then we can talk about it. Yes?”

”Yes! We book it now! When do we come?”

I pulled at my lip. If we lost to Luton, Foquita’s arrival would be a morale boost for the whole club. ”Next week. Do you want to watch the playoff second leg? That’s on Saturday 13th. Much has changed since you were here. Some of it, you paid for.”

Camila seemed pleased by the prospect of visiting Chester in May, which probably made her unique amongst the world’s supermodels. ”We’ll take a look at flights and hotels and text you. Do you want us to bring anything from Portugal?”

I grinned. ”How about a box-to-box midfielder?”

She smiled back. ”That will be easy. There are so many.”

”So many?” I said, transported.

”So many,” she said, and ended the call.

***

The last thing to do was to attend the under 18 training session, which would be led by Jude and Elin under my supervision.

The drills were great and the quality was decent. I’d even say the players kept their intensity at the right levels.

But the fucking cocky brats were being cocky and brattish. ”Where have they learned this?” I said, aghast.

Elin eyed Jude, then moved away to adjust the position of a distant cone by two inches.

”These little shits,” I grumbled.

It wasn’t just the banter, which showed that they expected to turn up and roll Man City over like they had done with every other team this season. It wasn’t just the way they were dismissing City’s under 18s, claiming that next season we would be playing the real City in the Prem. It was the stupid skills, pointless tricks and flicks, the show-off passes that felt good and looked good but slowed down our moves.

My blood was simmering and if I didn’t vent I would end up with a poached heart. Jude said, ”Want me to rip into them?”

Jude was a great coach and he was taken seriously but he didn’t quite have an Eye of Sauron mode. ”I should do it...”

Jude was fine with that. ”It’s a shame all the local teams have packed up. Would have been fun to get them to come here and show our lads that they couldn’t even beat a tier-nine team. Wipe those smiles off their faces. Keep them humble and hungry.”

I gave Jude a long look. ”That’s genius. That’s exactly what we need.”

”Yeah, but Max, there are no teams we can get at short notice and we can’t use our squads because the playoff final’s on Saturday. Can’t risk them, even for this.”

I lifted my hands at the same speed as a thought expanded in my brain. ”I know a team whose league season is over, but they need to stay fit because they’ve got a cup final in a couple of weeks. And they’re Welsh, so they can stay at the Northern Powerhouse! Jude, you’re a wizard! You’ve cracked the case!”

He nodded. ”I know.” His face cracked. ”Actually, I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’m happy that you’re happy.”

I pointed to the pitch. ”End this. Send them home.”

His eyes widened like saucers, but he moved away and whistled.

I got my phone out. Henri picked up right away, and I immediately got the sense that he was in his little flat, lying on the sofa, watching trashy TV. ”Max, my friend,” he said, and he was definitely sideways. ”How goes it?”

”Henri, the moment you dream about has come.”

”In a rare moment of honesty and self-reflection, you have realised you won the Best Haircut trophy under false pretences and you wish to hand it to its rightful owner - me?”

”Never. I’m going to speak your language now, to convey how urgently I need your help. Are you ready for this?”

He sat up from the sofa. He muted the TV and almost whispered as he said, ”Ready.”

I cleared my throat, left a dramatic pause, then cried, ”Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! I need you here tomorrow. Bring the League Two Legends. Bring Banksy! Bring everyone. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill! I need you to save the day like you have done so many times before. It’s you and only you, my friend! The fate of the season is in your hands!”

Henri was standing up now, I could tell. There was a quiet ecstasy in his voice. ”I’ll be there! Yes, most assuredly, I’ll be there!”