Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

Soccer Supremo 6

The story so far:

When we last heard from Max Best, he had recently led Chester FC’s under 18s to FA Youth Cup glory, and the women’s team had won a playoff, a victory which means they will promote to the Women’s Super League, the top tier of English football.

Book 5 ended with the men’s team reaching a promotion decider of their own, where they would compete for a spot in the Premier League. Their opponents? Ryan Reynolds’ Wrexham. Friendly, smiling, ruthless billionaire versus fan-owned community club. Who would win?

Amateurs called it a cliffhanger. Professionals called it an obvious and natural place to end the book.

Our tale resumes.

***

”Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.” Joseph Heller, Catch-22.

***

1 - Man And Wife

1.

”Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony...”

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, the big moment has arrived: the Soccer Supremo is about to put pen to paper on the first long-term deal of his career. He’s going to sign da ting. No more month-to-month contracts in this relationship; he’s getting married.

And what a way to do it!

The venue is spectacular, the bride is breathtaking, friends and family bear witness through smiles and tears. The service so far has combined tradition, modernity, and humour.

Chester Football Club’s player-manager Max Best stands tall in his tailor-made suit, splendid and solemn. He is holding his betrothed by the hands, staring into her eyes. It’s like he can’t believe what is happening, but it’s a lot more believable than what happened in the playoff final. This couple are made for each other and everyone knows it. Nothing can stop them.

”Into which holy estate these two persons come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

The doors of the church crash open. Police storm inside. There are gasps. Have they come to arrest Max for crimes against footballing narrative?

Three of Best’s old bodyguards rise, his new one steps forward. Max gestures for them to dial down their intensity and I finally understand why he has been so stern, so serious!

He has been expecting this.

***

Manager and Wife

by Bethany Alban

My day starts several hours later than the bride’s. Emma Weaver has stayed at her parents’ home in Newcastle with her bridesmaids, and the entire house is up by 7 a.m., with a team of hair and makeup artists arriving an hour later. The morning has been planned with military precision, the house is a hive of activity, nothing has been left to chance.

At a hotel a few miles away, Max Best is strolling around in a shit tracksuit, admiring the corporate wall art, feeling the texture of the fabric-backed chairs in the lobby, talking only to wonder if the venue will have toilets. If it will, he could inhale tea by the gallon. If not, he would ’go dry’.

”You still don’t know what the venue is?” I wonder. ”Of your own wedding?”

”All I know is that it will be in the best castle in the world.”

”I’ve been researching castles in this area and nothing within driving distance fits that description.”

Max shrugs. ”We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? You young people are always in such a hurry. Sebastian says they spent weeks thinking of ways to shave minutes off the service because half the congregation have brain rot from being on social media and TikTok twenty hours a day.” Sebastian Weaver is Emma’s dad and he’s paying for the wedding. He will expect it to go well.

”Have you memorised your vows?”

”My what?”

”Your vows. You’ve got to do vows.”

”Stop saying vows! It’s making me crazy.” He glares at me until he’s satisfied I’m not going to say the word again. ”I don’t need to write anything, do I? God wrote it all in The Bible. I just need to turn up, put the ring on, say I do. Simples.”

”Emma wrote her own, uh, oaths. She posted a picture on Instagram with loads of crunched-up pieces of paper.”

”Yeah, well, I’ve been busy.”

That is certainly true. Seven days ago, Best led his team onto the pitch at Wembley Stadium, against Chester’s arch-rivals Wrexham, in the richest match in sport. For the winner, one hundred million pounds and a season in the Premier League. For the loser, pain. ”That final was - ”

”No football.”

I blink. ”Pardon me?”

”No football today. It’s my wedding. If I hear you talking about football I’ll kick you out.”

”Charming. Why aren’t you sitting with Henri?”

Henri Lyons, Max’s best friend and best man, is in the lobby, also dressed casually. He and Max haven’t so much as glanced at each other. ”He’s pretending to be grumpy because the stag party didn’t go the way he wanted. He’ll get over it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have urgent business to attend to.” He picks up a magazine called Get Into Newcastle and flicks through it, landing on an article about Dark Beer Week.

I point. ”That event happened in 2026. That magazine is two years out of date!”

”Knowledge is forever. Bye, Beth.”

***

I go to Henri, who welcomes me with a lot more class than Max. I make a gesture that encompasses the two of us, Max, the wedding, the secret castle. ”Do you think I might get an article out of this?”

”Yes, if you stay close to me,” he says. ”You could call it, let me see, How to Be the Best Best’s Best Man Despite Provocation.”

I smile. ”Possibly. Or I could link it to the playoff final.”

Henri frowns. ”Bah. Old news. It is May 2028. Everyone reading this knows the score, knows what happened. Millions of words have been written, have been spoken, about that gruesome affair.”

”You’re right,” I admit. ”I shouldn’t even mention it. So what happened with the stag party? I heard it didn’t go well?”

Henri raises an eyebrow. ”Who said that?”

I feel like I’m on thin ice and try to remember the exact words Max used. ”It didn’t go... as you hoped?”

Henri relaxes. ”That’s one way to put it. Max turned my stag do into a stag don’t. I made a mistake in the timing. Tuesday night. Who would suspect a stag party on a random Tuesday night? Max suspected. He has become excessively paranoid. Is it still paranoia if people really are out to get you? Yes. Yes, it is. But my folly was that my choice of night clashed with the Exit Trials. Max said to the Brig that if I abducted him and tied him to a lamp post in Wales, how could he attend the final day of the Trials? You know the Brig loves to take the young men discarded from academies and rebuild their lives.”

”It’s the whole reason he bought a football club of his own, isn’t it?”

”A big part, yes. I was foolish, indeed.”

”So what happened?”

”The story of the stag party is a tale for another day, Bethany. Today is about being the best man, despite all provocations, and making sure the wedding goes smoothly.”

”Do you think it will?”

Henri eyes Max, who is across the lobby, rearranging the furniture. ”Smoothly? I hope not.” Henri glances at me; I’m shocked. He shows me the steely determination of someone who does know how to win at Wembley. ”Nothing will go wrong on the groom’s side. Henri Lyons has spoken.”

***

I go to my room to get ready and find there’s a woman waiting for me in the corridor. Her name is Sue and she’s my hair and makeup artist. Great! Just one problem - I haven’t booked one.

”Who sent you?”

”Er, Cliff Daps. I’ve got your suit, too.”

”My suit?”

We go into the room and I try on a dark suit. It suits me. And it fits. ”How has he done this?”

”I don’t know, love.”

”It’s nice but I don’t really feel like wearing it. I brought a dress.” Something strikes me. ”Did he think I would forget to bring a dress?” Sue isn’t listening. She’s tapping away on her phone. ”Who are you texting?”

”I’m just checking my portfolio,” she says, which is such a Max Best reply I turn towards the door expecting him to burst in. It takes two minutes, then there’s a knock.

”Beth!” he says, striding around the room. ”You’re refusing to wear the thing! What’s going on?”

”I have a dress! It makes me look curvy! The last thing I want to do is look like a stick.”

”You won’t look like a stick! That’s a Boateng Boateng! Put it on so that Sue can give you wavy, photogenic hair. It has all been arranged!”

”You haven’t lifted a finger for this wedding but you want to choose what I wear? This is sick! This is a new level of demented.” I try to avoid using that word around Max, because of his mother, but it slips past him. ”I’m not a doll for you to dress up.”

He gets exasperated but calms quickly. ”Okay, yes, this is superficially weird and problematic but I’m doing a thing. It’s a surprise, Beth! Am I allowed one surprise? On my wedding day?”

”Wait,” I say. ”Is this because of that rhyme? To have good luck, you should bring something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. This isn’t my dress so it counts as borrowed. Is that what you’re doing?”

”If I say yes, will you please wear it?”

I pick up the jacket. ”How does it fit so good?”

”Remember Emma invited you to London to look at special wedding hats and crap like that? You popped into Boateng’s shop on Savile Row to pick up my handkerchief order and there was a hot guy who was flirting with you and he said wouldn’t it be funny if I took down your particulars? He wasn’t pretending to measure you.”

I can’t believe it. Will this man ever stop meddling in my life? ”Max!” I chuck the jacket away. ”I’m wearing my outfit.”

”Fifty quid.”

”Get fucked.”

He’s rubbing his mouth to hide how much fun he’s having. ”All right, you can ask me one question about football.”

I slap my hips. ”What the hell happened in the playoff final?”

”No comment.” He looks at Sue. ”I answered the question, right? She asked, I answered. Now she owes me.”

”It wasn’t a very good answer,” says Sue.

”It wasn’t a very good final,” says Max. ”Boom! Nailed it.” He claps once, decisively. ”Great, that’s sorted. This is going to be amazing. Best wedding ever.” He skips to the door.

”Wait,” I say. I pick up the jacket and the blouse. They’re super-high quality, tailor-made, way out of my price bracket. If I finally get some TV work, this will be my go-to suit. ”If I wear it, can I keep it?”

Max grins. ”If I get to keep Emma, you get to keep the suit.” He’s pleased with the line, but then says, ”No strings, no conditions. It’s yours whether you wear it today or not.”

Sue sees the flaw in the plan. ”But then it won’t be borrowed!”

Max comes closer and holds his hand out. ”Beth, lend me fifty quid?”

***

Time moves slowly, then fast.

One minute, the bored boys are in my hotel room, bickering as they watch Sue beautify me. They pop to get changed, then Sue is zipping up her case and wishing me luck. One blink later and a fully-dressed Henri is holding open the door of an high-end mini-van. I get inside. Max saunters out of the hotel, hands in pockets, apparently completely at ease with the world, but then he sees something that stops him in his tracks.

It’s a poster advertising the hotel’s bar, proudly boasting that they show Premier League matches.

Max stares at the words, at the logos. Stares for far too long.

Henri says to the driver, ”Where are we going?”

The guy’s got a strong Newcastle accent. ”Not allowed to say, sorry.”

”Is it far?”

”Not allowed to say, sorry.”

”What day is it?”

The driver smiles and mimes zipping his lips.

Max gets into the van next to me, a dark cloud hanging over his head. Can I cheer him up? ”The driver says he’s a big Sunderland fan. Loves Sunderland.”

Max’s thoughts are still elsewhere, but he tries to bring himself into the moment. He deduces from my tone that the driver is very much a Newcastle fan. ”Should we have a Sunderland sing-a-long?”

”No, thanks,” says the driver, but Max has watched Sunderland ’Til I Die on a loop and has even scored at the Stadium of Light. He knows the songs.

”Wiiiiiise men say! Everybody!”

Henri and I join in. ”Only fools rush in! But I can’t help! Falling in love! With you!”

The driver takes our teasing with good grace. Soon after, while Max is ripping into the failings of the Newcastle United project - a wonderful conversation for a Sunderland fan, of course - we pull into the car park of a suburban church - unexpected - then the driver turns to me. ”You’re a very lucky girl,” he says.

I glance at Max. ”I’m not marrying him.”

”I know,” says the driver. ”That’s why you’re lucky.”

Henri laughs hard and gives an oversized tip.

***

The mini-van’s door is opened by one of four new characters to the madcap world of Max Best. This one is Max’s latest bodyguard, needed because the Brig is now a football club owner, Briggy is slowly transitioning into being a football agent, and Dylan has a day job.

The new guy is colossal, six foot six at least.

By which I mean six foot six wide.

”Brick,” says Max. ”This is Beth.”

”Bethany,” I say, automatically, as the giant helps me out.

Brick, as Max has named him, scans the area before taking out a small, black pocketbook. He turns a page and speaks. His voice is low, barely over a whisper, but it’s crisp and clear. ”Bethany Alban. I have you down in the section headed ’troublemakers’.” He looms over me, daring me to gainsay him.

Max laughs and slaps him on the arm. ”Be cool, bro! She’s wearing the suit.”

Brick grins, but only one side of his mouth works. ”Am I allowed to compliment her hair?”

Max pauses. ”Um... not sure. Beth?”

”Yes,” I say, wondering if Brick is someone best measured in stones, kilos, or tons.

”It’s really pretty. Is that from Sue?”

”Yeah,” says Max. He gives Brick a friendly pat. ”Good rec, bro. Thanks.” Max sees that I’m confused, but doesn’t quite get the reason why. ”Brick works a lot with showbiz types. He knows all the people behind the people, if you get me. He’s already indispensable!” Max looks around. ”Where’s the fucking castle?”

We’re outside a simple church. It’s beautiful, for sure, but it ain’t no castle.

Henri shakes his head. ”I dread to think what Sebastian’s flower budget has been.”

There are flowers everywhere. When my eyes adjust, I discern the hand of the designer. A floral walkway has been created, leading to the large wooden church doors. Upon exiting the church, the happy couple will produce photo ops galore. ”Max,” I say. ”Why haven’t you been taking photos all day like a normal couple?”

”For a start, I’m not a couple,” says a man who complains about the pedantry of other people. ”But mostly it’s because we’re keeping to the tradition of not seeing each other before the wedding.”

”Wait,” I say. ”You haven’t seen her dress?”

”Nope.”

Henri says, ”And Emma hasn’t seen us.”

”Us? Oh, you mean you.”

”Yeah,” says Max, grabbing my arm while glaring at Henri. Something just happened, but I’m already swamped. Surrounded by familiar faces. I know barely anyone on Emma’s side of the aisle, but Max’s side is almost one hundred percent football. Pascal Bochum, Sandra Lane, the Brig, Ruth, Jackie Reaper, current and former players, back-office staff. Sir Ian Masters isn’t in football, exactly, but he knows Max because of Soccer Supremo, the computer game that bears the groom’s face. Even Emre, the Turkish entrepreneur, is someone Max met through football.

The closest thing to an industry outsider is Angela, his mother’s carer, but she is the mother of Aff, a former player.

Max’s mother, of course, is not here.

We go inside, which is full of big names. William Roberts and Sarah Greene. Dylan and Bonnie. Brooke Star and Zach Green. Max does some small talk, thanks everyone for coming. He is relaxed, and seeing that his guests are more nervous than him, tells shit jokes to put them at ease.

The first batch of bridesmaids arrive, which ratchets up the tension. The service is imminent!

Max’s eyes widen, and when I turn to look, it’s because Emma’s best friend Gemma has entered his field of vision. There’s no dull suit for her, but a cream number that pops. Pops a man’s eyes out of his head. ”Max!” she says, swaying towards us in a deeply unreligious fashion. ”Are you ready? Are you nervous?”

”Yes,” he says, displaying no hint of actual brain activity.

Inwardly, I tut. Boys. ”Gems, what is this place? I was expecting a castle. The best castle in the land.”

Gemma smiles, and the resemblance to Julia Roberts is striking. ”You’re in the best castle. Newcastle!”

”Oh my god,” says Max. ”That’s terrible. Cut that.”

”You are joking,” I suggest.

”No,” says Gemma, trying not to look as annoyed as she feels. ”By the way, this is the church Sebastian and Rachel were married in. It’s a very special place for the family.”

”Hang on,” says Max. ”Emma spent months touring the country looking for the perfect castle!”

”Nah,” says Gemma. ”It was all gin joints and spas. Girl time. There was only ever one venue under consideration. This one.”

Max shrugs. ”It’s perfect.”

The church, while small, is perfectly formed. It could be used as the set for an Agatha Christie production, which I know is exactly what Max is thinking. It has been enhanced with floral decorations, blue-and-white on the groom’s side, black-and-white on the bride’s. So many familiar faces. The Yalleys, MD, Gwen from the Welsh FA, Ziggy, Jojo the Bumpers Bank receptionist. And two randos. Two supremely attractive randos. Uh... what? ”Max, who are they?”

He glances at where I’m pointing. ”That’s Brooke and Zach.”

I lean closer and hiss. ”The fuck are you talking about?”

He hisses back. ”They’re in America secretly getting married, okay? When can they do it without Daddy Star creepily stalking them and gatecrashing and making it about him? They can get married right now, while I am. So if you post about this, you’d better fucking post that Brooke and Zach are looking lovely. Okay?”

Why is everything in Max’s world so bonkers? I feel like I’m spinning. ”Brooke and Zach... are getting married right now?”

Stolen novel; please report.

”Not right now,” snaps Max. ”It’s like midnight there. Midnight yesterday or midnight tomorrow. Don’t ask me about time zones! Just go with it, okay?”

”But who are those people?”

”That’s the Brooke-alike and Facs Green.”

”As in facsimile. Christ, it’s really annoying when you’re clever. Do you have a database of people who look like Brooke?”

”What is your obsession with the Brooke-alike? All you do is call a few talent agencies and give a description. Tall, blonde, fit, intimidating. They send loads of photos and then you take those photos into a darkened room and you pore through them and you’re allowed because it’s for love.”

”And the fake Zach?”

”Key words: six-pack, asymmetrical. Easy. Right, now shush, I need to get married real quick.”

***

The congregation take their places, slowly, slowly, then all at once. I’m at the front on the groom’s side, minding my own business, when Max and Henri suddenly appear in front of me, almost on bended knee.

”Beth,” says Max. ”I’ve got a bit of a crisis. My dudes aren’t here. My wedding dudes. Can you fill in?”

”What?”

Henri is holding a single, ornamental flower. ”Do you permit?”

”Uh,” I say.

Henri installs the flower into my suit. ”Boutonnière,” he says. ”From the word button hole, as in the phrase, we buttonholed the reporter into joining the ceremony. What irony!”

”I’m confused,” I say, looking down at my jacket. ”Who isn’t here?”

”The people,” snaps Max. ”There’s no time to explain! I’m doing a marriage! Would you please just stand here for a minute?”

I find myself next to Henri, who is next to Max. I’m a groomsman! Everyone is looking at me. They’re all thinking, who’s that? Why is she at the front? I know that when I turn, I’ll see Max Best laughing his head off, and I resolve to batter him to death when I’m proven right. I turn and find him staring straight down the aisle, towards the doors. Any moment now, he’ll see his bride-to-be.

Any moment now.

There’s a buzz as the doors open and two tall men enter and stride to the front.

The first is Glenn Ryder, who was the captain of Chester FC when Max took over as manager. The second is Christian Fierce, who is technically still the captain of the club, having taken the baton of leadership from Glenn. They smile at a few people, wave, and come all the way to the front. They shake Max by the hand, and Henri, and me.

The people are here! I can retreat to the bench.

Glenn Ryder has my elbow in his grip, and he refuses to let go. I’m stuck.

Generic wedding music plays on the church organ. (What, did you think it would be Massive Attack?)

The doors open and a toddler in a tuxedo appears. It’s Jamie Lane-Beeks and he has a bucket. Every so often he dips his hand in and takes out a fistful of petals. He chucks them on the floor. He gets about ten yards before he sees someone he doesn’t like on the bride’s side. Jamie forgets his mission. His mother grabs him and shepherds him back the way he came.

Aww.

The doors close. A hush descends. Max Best stops blinking, stops breathing.

The organ switches to Here Comes the Bride.

The doors open, and there is a sharp intake of breath. Emma Weaver is astonishing. Even behind a thin, white veil, she’s beautiful, and the dress is an absolute work of art. She is being led down the aisle by her father, and clearly the intention is for him to ’give her away’ in the traditional style.

But while Emma has planned almost every second of this day, there are some aspects out of her control. If Max isn’t allowed to see her in the dress until this very moment, it’s only fair that she isn’t to know who his grooms are going to be.

When she gets close enough to see, she freezes. Sebastian looks worried, but Emma says something and they change course and head straight for us.

Emma wraps her arms around me, then Glenn Ryder, then Christian Fierce. I become aware that she’s crying. ”His captains,” she says, tearily. ”Of course.”

His captains. We’re all in the same colour suits with the same cuts and the same flowers.

I’m Max Best’s first ever captain. I led the Met Heads, and it was our triumph over Manchester City under 16s that gave Max the confidence to quit his job and launch himself into the world of football. It’s fair to say that if we hadn’t won that game, none of us would be here today. All eyes are on me, but I’m the only person wondering why I’m standing in pride of place. To Max, to Emma, to everyone else, I’m key to the story.

Fucking Max has done it again. Happy tears burst out of me.

Glenn, Christian, and Henri offer me a handkerchief at exactly the same moment. That gets me crying even harder, raises a chuckle from the congregation, and from behind a veil, a pair of shining eyes blink happily.

The service starts.

***

”Therefore if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

The doors open. A policeman strides to the front, while one of his mates takes a few paces, realises he’s in the middle of a wedding, and halts. The other guy goes right to the priest, who listens, nods, and calls out in his rich, friendly Geordie accent. ”Is there anyone here who drives a black SUV?”

Approximately sixty percent of the hands in the room go up. Max shakes his head.

The priest, after conferring with the cop, narrows the search parameters. ”Who parked on the road outside?”

There’s a lot of tutting and scoffing. Which footballing dolt would park on that particular road? Max eyes Henri, who says, ”It’s not us.”

Max nods. That’s good enough for him.

Sure enough, one of the men on the bride’s side gets up and awkwardly shuffles along the pew. A few mocking comments emerge from the footballer’s side, but they die down under the combined glare of many former and future captains.

Max gives Henri a fist bump, then turns his attention fully to Emma, where it stays.

***

While Max was busy cooking up a tactical plan that stank out Wembley Stadium, Emma was preparing the wedding. She lifts the veil, freeing her face, trapping Max’s very soul, but if he thinks he can spend the time blissing out, drinking her in with his eyes, he’s mistaken.

It takes him a surprisingly long time to realise the priest isn’t saying the words everyone expects.

”Repeat after me. I, Max Best, take thee, Emma Weaver, to be my wedded wife.”

Max repeats the words.

”I promise to always give 110%.”

Max repeats the words.

”In the first team or the bomb squad. In the Premier League... or the Championship.”

Max starts to speak, but trips up when his brain processes what’s going on. He looks bemusedly at the priest, but a huge smile takes over as he looks at Emma. She’s teasing him, mid-wedding! He slow blinks before saying to the priest, ”May I have the traditional text, please?”

This seems to have been expected, and the priest goes again. As Max repeats the words, he gets more and more amazed. ”I, Max Best, take thee, Emma Weaver, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold! For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health! To love and to cherish! Till death us do part!”

Emma says her words, then it’s time for the rings.

Henri gives Max a band of gold. It has a slight twist and a row of small diamonds. Max appraises the ring for literally ages, marvels at it even though he helped to choose it.

(I later learn that Emma wanted something unique, something with a story behind it. They found a goldsmith based in Yorkshire who pans gold in the waters of Scotland and shapes the metal into gorgeous, one-off pieces. I’m low-key gob-smacked to learn that it was Max who insisted on adding more bling.)

”Ahem,” says the priest.

Max stops thinking about eco-friendly Scottish gold long enough to remember he’s at a wedding. ”Can I kiss her yet?”

There are chuckles; even the priest is amused. ”Repeat after me. With this ring, I thee wed.”

”With this ring,” says Max Best, slipping it onto his true love’s finger, ascending to the position of luckiest man in the universe, ”I thee wed.”

Emma bites her lip. What’s she expecting?

”I now pronounce you manager and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Max gently pulls her closer and kisses her sweetly. Hearts melt.

The footballers can restrain themselves no more. ”Get in, son!” ”Come on!” ”Go on, lad!”

While Max closes his eyes to enjoy the unnatural high he’s experiencing, Emma faces the football side of the aisle, clenches her fists, and celebrates like she has just scored a goal at Wembley Stadium in a playoff final, something no-one in the entire church has ever done, including her husband.

Her husband.

His wife.

The happy couple.

***

There are photos galore. Max smiles and is remarkably patient. Our old friend from Manchester, Ziggy, asks Max to walk and look up at something. Snap! I move behind Ziggy to see what he’s up to. The striker uses an app to make it look like Max is walking past the celebratory arch seen at Wembley a week earlier. It’s got the EFL’s logo, the words ’Championship Playoff Final Winners’ and the Wrexham logo on both posts. Max thinks the image is funny.

We gather to throw biodegradable confetti over the couple as they stride to a car. Emma throws a bouquet of flowers over her head; I don’t even try to catch it.

The car zooms away. On the back is a sign:

JUST MARRIED.

***

We pile into a million SUVs and drive to the reception dinner, where there will be space for a lot more people. Newcastle United’s stadium, St. James’ Park, hoves into view. Surely Sebastian Weaver isn’t audacious enough to book the reception there? It would be funny at first, but Max would eviscerate Newcastle non-stop.

We get closer, pull in... and pull out.

I, for one, breathe a sigh of relief.

We drive ten minutes to The Willows at the Woodmans, and for the next six hours it seems all I hear is people saying ’It’s absolutely stunning’.

We explore, we chat, then we are summoned to the sumptuous dining rooms for the speeches.

***

Sebastian Weaver starts talking, which is the cue for everyone to settle down. There are a couple of large screens either side of the top table, a couple of cameramen from Seal Studios, and as Sebastian speaks, both he and his words appear, larger than life. This is partially for the benefit of Dani Smith-Smithe, who is sitting next to Wilfred Banks, the young goalkeeper, who is red and clammy. Christian Fierce whispers that Banksy better not have a virus - everyone’s about to take a well-earned holiday.

Sebastian speaks. It’s bland and inoffensive stuff, but everyone’s laughing.

Seb follows someone’s gaze and watches the subtitles. Someone - almost certainly Max - has reprogrammed the subtitle AI to crack jokes.

”My name is Sebastian Weaver and I’m the father of the bride.”

This gets turned into: My name is Sebastian Weaver and I’m a huge Sunderland fan.

”I’m very happy and thankful that you could all be here today.”

Translation: Speaks rapidly in Geordie.

”I’d like to thank my wife, Rachel, who has been absolutely wonderful in...”

Translation: Not sure. I think he has slipped into Welsh?

Emma shoves Max, who claims to be innocent, but he goes over to a corner, presses a button, and things go back to normal. Sebastian isn’t too put out, which makes me think that Max has warned him there will be a minor prank at the start.

Sebastian’s speech resumes, and it’s standard but high-standard. He talks about the first time he held Emma in his arms, speaks of her as a wilful, bossy toddler. ”A lot has changed since then,” he says. ”She’s much taller.”

He’s slaying it. When he talks about some of the people who can’t be there today, such as Emma’s grandmother, the air fills with raw emotion. Then he mentions Max.

”When Emma first brought Max home, I thought oh God, no, please God no.”

Much laughter, especially from Emma.

”I provoked him to see what he was made of and I got both barrels. Emma is surprised; she didn’t even notice. Let me tell you, he gave as good as he got and I didn’t like it one little bit. But over time I got to know him and I learned that if you push Max Best he’ll push back. Whether it’s opponents on the pitch, managers, the FA, UEFA, or potential fathers-in-law, he will fight for himself, for his players, for his club, and for his friends.” Seb’s voice cracks, and suddenly my eyeballs are stinging. ”And now I know that long after I’m gone, he’ll be fighting for my little girl.”

That sends Emma, which sends Rachel and Gemma.

Seb can’t continue so Max takes the microphone. He looks around, trying to hide a smile because he knows he’s got a killer line. ”Can I kiss her yet?” Emma cry-laughs, pausing long enough for Max to give her a tiny smooch. ”Okay, well this is how Sebastian has been from the start. Follow that!” Max tuts and shakes his head. ”I’m not much of a public speaker - ” he pauses while his players jeer. ”Rude. I’m not much of a public speaker and I don’t go to a lot of weddings. This is my first one, I think.” Luisa, sitting next to Henri, says something. ”Yes, ever. I can’t remember going to one before. So I asked Henri what I should say in my speech. He talked for so long I nearly missed the playoff final, so I changed strategy. Tell me what I shouldn’t do. Ah, he said, that’s easy. Whatever you do, don’t read out a list of regrets, complaints, and grievances.”

Max slips his off hand into his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper. Emma is in hysterics; Henri sinks his forehead into the table. Max lists his complaints.

”Number one. The timing of the first goal last Sunday. That killed my plans.”

”No football!” yells Sebastian.

”Right, right. Number two. After the honeymoon, I have to prepare for matches against Watford and Middlesbrough. Bit of a comedown from 80,000 at Wembley.”

”No football!” yells Sebastian, who is loving his role in this pantomime.

”Okay, okay! Item three, the inherent unfairness of wedding days. The entire thing is designed to make the bride look as good as possible. No other woman is allowed to stand out and all the men are in suits. Most men look their best in a suit but ladies and gentlemen, right now I have a seven-pack.” There are whoops and wolf whistles. ”Seriously, I am beyond ripped. I’m Ripped van Winkle. I’m more shredded than Eddie van Halen’s guitar. Emma is the perfection of femininity and grace. To balance that, I should have been allowed to show off my attributes, and the only way to do that would be to wear nothing but a loincloth.”

More whoops and cat calls. Emma is laughing hard.

”Number four,” says Max, and his tone indicates a change in the vibe. We settle, then he says, ”Absent friends and family.” He isn’t thinking of Brooke and Zach, but of Polish Anna and his mother, who is in a bungalow in South Manchester. She doesn’t know Max is a football player. She doesn’t know he has met the love of his life. Max is struggling; the next words come out in a mere whisper. ”She will be at Jamie’s wedding; I’ll cry then.” Angela, his mother’s carer, nods with great intensity. ”If mum’s invited,” Max adds, in more of his normal voice. ”I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

On a table to my left, Sandra Lane is in bits. ”Open invitation!” she calls out.

Max has one last complaint. ”This seems to be the dream wedding but I can’t say I ever dreamed of weddings. I wish I had but I didn’t grow up thinking about days like these. Days like these don’t happen to people like me. When I walk onto the pitch at Wembley, I think I don’t deserve this. When I’m trying to sign a young player who says I’m his hero, I think why? When an insanely beautiful woman I’ve only just met says, oh Max I love your hair, I think, well that part’s justified.” That gets a big response. ”Call it imposter syndrome, call it what you want, but when I’m with Emma I’ve always felt a sense of peace, that I’m meant to be exactly where I am. She knows me and likes me and I don’t have to act big and tough and confident. We’re two halves of a whole.”

Max pretends that Henri has spoken.

”No, not like a half-and-half scarf! Jesus!”

Laughter.

”My only real complaint today is that it’s the end of the journey, the last time we will all get together. If I was designing the wedding system there would be more mileposts. In fact, I came up with a draft of a better concept. Hear me out. You know the way people say, let’s take this relationship to the next level? What if that was literal? Year one, your wedding’s like this, on the ground.

”Year two, you jump off the boards into a swimming pool. Year three, you do the high boards. Scary, right? Now that’s commitment.

”Year four, sky diving. Year five, rocket ships.” He reaches out to take Emma by the hand. ”Babes, we’re taking this relationship to the moon.”

He sits, they kiss, it’s Emma’s turn to speak.

She thanks everyone who helped plan the wedding and turn it into reality, mentioning the bridesmaids, the venue, the loincloth suppliers, the florists. Then she eyes her husband. ”My favourite movie is The Proposal. It stars Ryan Reynolds, who we know has a winning personality.”

Max turns to Henri and mouths, what the fuck!

”It’s about a wilful, bossy young woman,” says Emma, which makes her father bellow. ”Who marries a cute guy with great abs and lives happily ever after.” She smiles. ”I’ll take it.” She turns towards Max. ”I know it hasn’t been easy for you, looking after your mum on your own, and I know that even with such great friends and colleagues, being a football manager is a very lonely job. But what today means is that you never have to be alone again.” Max’s eyes shine and his face cracks. Christian Fierce hands me yet another tissue. Emma wipes away a tear of her own and tries to sound jolly. ”Now, I don’t know about you but I’m famished! So we’ll get a very, very brief speech from the best man and then we can eat.”

She hands the mic to Henri, who preens. This is his big moment.

There’s a murmur. Something’s happening. Wilfred Banks is striding to the front. He places himself in front of one of the cameras, makes sure he’s on screen, then does sign language. The second gesture is ’you’. The third is him putting a ring on a finger. The fourth is ’me’. Sign language is quite easy to follow when it’s done slowly!

Max has demanded the mic back. ”Maaaaate,” he says, rubbing his forehead vigourously, one-handed. ”Remember I said no-one was to use my wedding to ask anyone to marry them? I said it eight or nine times.”

Banksy is sweating but happy. He’s defiant! ”I didn’t ask! I didn’t say a word!”

Henri cries, ”Loophole!”

”It’s not a loophole!” insists Max. ”It doesn’t matter if it’s an SMS, sky writing, or sign language! He asked. Wait, who did he ask? He didn’t say a name.” We all look at Banksy, and by his face it’s clear that Max is right. Max yelps! ”Everyone! It’s a blank cheque! Open invitation! First person to kiss him gets to marry him! He’s cute, smart, and he’ll play for England. Don’t let the disobedience put you off.”

Banksy turns red again as half a dozen women move towards him. He signs four letters again and again.

Dani Smith-Smithe arrives, grabs Banksy, and starts to drag him back to their table. She pauses to look at Henri, crosses her index fingers, rubs her belly.

Max translates, ”Hurry up, she’s hungry.”

Emma and her mother are both shaking by the shoulders, lapping up the romantic chaos.

Henri takes the mic and runs his hand through his big, fluffy hair. ”My name is Henri Toussaint Voltaire Mathurin Lyons and this is my message to the newlyweds.” He walks to the side and a couple of employees from the venue scurry forward. One has a microphone stand, the other an acoustic guitar. Henri strums the guitar, closes his eyes, and sings. His voice is like honey. ”I give it six months... I give it six mooooonths. Max Best and Emma, I give it six months.”

The top table love it, but Emma laughs even harder when she spots Henri returning the guitar. All that preparation for fourteen seconds of music!

Henri moves to the middle of the top table, between Emma and Max. He puts his hand on his friend’s shoulder and says, ”A man who needs no introduction. A good man. A kind man. A great goalscorer and a scorer of great goals. He writes poetry. His haircut is by far the best in the room. Men want to be him, women want to be with him. His talent is supernatural. But enough about me. Let’s talk about Max.”

Thunderous applause.

”I have overheard conversations today in which some people - but only those who do not know him - wonder if Max is perhaps not enjoying himself today. He is often to be found sporting an intense, dislikable frown. I assure you that he is simply daydreaming about the many transfer negotiations he must carry out in the coming weeks and months. He’s thinking about what he will say to prospective new players, coming up with the perfect words and phrases, the right tone. In short, he is happy and this is merely what we call his resting pitch face.”

Groans. Scattered applause.

”Max asked me for advice about his big day. I said, play a flat back four and keep it tight first ten. He said, no I mean the really big day. Someone told me I need to consommé my wedding. Do I need to bring soup?”

Not everyone laughs at this, but the ones that do, laugh hard.

”When I met Max, he was already an outstanding football manager, full of creativity, positivity, enthusiasm. His record since then is impressive, though I have statistics that show his win percentage before and after kicking me out of Chester; he might add that to his list of regrets. In the past five and a half years, I have very much admired his determination and his hard work. But even more, I have enjoyed witnessing his relationship with Emma flourish. He was already good. I made him better. But she brings out his best.”

He looks away, drops his head, composes himself. He stands behind his chair, lifts a wine glass.

”I give it six months... until the anniversary of the day they met. That was a fortuitous meeting, indeed. Won’t you please join me in a toast? Here’s to the Bests.”

”To the Bests!”

As soon as we finish clinking our glasses, what seems like a hundred servers appear. The smell of food fills my nostrils and my stomach rumbles.

***

”Who’s not here?” I say, to the captains’ table, amidst the hubbub of two hundred people eating and drinking. ”From the players.”

Christian looks around. ”Some of the current squad couldn’t make it, like Zach, obviously, and Helge. Max told him to go to Norway and chill out as much as poss because he has been playing non-stop for ages and needs a break.”

”He won’t get much of one, will he?”

”No-one will.” Christian takes a big swig of wine. ”But the gaffer will look after him.”

”Who’s that cute guy over there, do you know? Next to Ziggy and Dan Badford. Looks a bit like...” A bit like the groom, I want to say, but for some reason I stop myself.

Christian follows my finger. He doesn’t know and calls out to Peter Bauer. Peter comes over, crouches between us, and listens to the question. ”That’s Maxmax.”

I groan. The insanity never ends! ”Who the hell is Maxmax?”

Peter zips his lips. ”If you want to know, ask Henri, because as far as I’m concerned, what happens at the stag party stays at the stag party.”

”I thought there wasn’t a party.”

Peter smiles. ”Then why is Maxmax here?”

I vent my frustration. ”Urgh!” Peter laughs and goes back to his meal. My mind goes on a journey, too, because something crazy happened last Tuesday and I urgently need to know what.

***

Between courses, Sebastian Weaver reads out messages of congratulations from all around the world. There are several from Germany, from world stars including Dieter Bauer, Adam Adebayo, Zoran Bratko, and Mr. Fruity. Sebastian asks Luisa to read one that comes from Lisbon; she reads it in Spanish and doesn’t translate. Dazza and his brother send their best wishes from Australia; again no translation is forthcoming. Nono and Chelli write from Brazil, Pradeep and Spectrum from India, Ian Evans from Namibia, Diggy Doggy from ’the West side’ and possibly the most exotic of all, Donnie Wormwood from Essex. Before dessert, Seb reads one purporting to be from Ryan Reynolds. ”Is this real?” he asks Max.

Max nods. ”Do you know how much money I made him this week? The least he can do is send a card.”

***

They cut the cake, we share it. I’m stuffed but keep eating. Before the first dance, we start to lose the very old guests and the very young.

I find Max talking to Sandra Lane and her partner, Aiden, near the main entrance. The reason they’re leaving becomes clear - little Jamie is shattered. He’s wearing a Newcastle United top, which is genuinely shocking to me. ”What’s this?” I say, interrupting the conversation even though I know I’m being rude. ”Your first transfer of the summer, Max?”

Sandra explains. ”Emma asked if we would do it. Her relatives would love it, she said, and it was true. Jamie has been a big hit! He’s such an attention-seeker! It’s ridiculous. I don’t know where he gets it.” She looks at Aiden, and two seconds later, they’re both pointing at each other. ”We’re going to tour Newcastle for a few days and we’re going to make him wear it every day. Think how much free stuff we’ll get!”

Max’s eyes widen. ”What a scam that is!”

Aiden picks Jamie up. ”We have to go, Sand.”

Sandra nods. ”Max, what you said about Watford and Boro. You’re not seriously worried about it, are you? You know I can set us up for those. They’re only friendlies. Enjoy your honeymoon!”

Max gives her a warm smile, but he’s tired. It has been a draining day. ”It was just banter. We could beat them in our sleep.”

”Sleep sounds good,” says Aiden.

”Group hug,” says Max, and pulls us all into an awkward but cute embrace. ”Thanks for coming.”

Aiden says, ”Is Sandra still on for a pay rise?”

Max closes one eye. ”Not sure. Have to check with Brooke when she gets back. See if there’s any cash down the back of any sofas.”

Aiden sighs. ”Bye, Max.” She looks at me. ”I fucking love that suit, Bethany.”

***

There is a voice; we follow it. It’s the time for dance and music, so Joe Anka is in charge. He summons the bride and groom.

The rest of us form a large circle. Max and Emma stand half a yard apart, facing each other, and it makes me think of Torvill and Dean at the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics, in which they danced to Ravel’s Boléro. Joe Anka doesn’t play Boléro. He plays Fog on the Tyne, a local banger, which gets half the crowd cheering.

Max shakes his head. How many more times is he going to get rinsed?

Joe grins and points. A section of the crowd move, and we’re all surprised to find there’s a band with a pretty young singer. We’re doing it live! The music is smooth and slow, perfect for dancers of limited skill.

”You think I’d leave your side, babes?”

Max and Emma sway and step. Emma’s easy on the eye but it’s hard to believe Max is the same person who can sprint sixty yards at the end of a ninety-minute match, keep his balance as he dumps a goalie on his arse, and dribble towards an empty goal with tens of millions watching. But hey, they don’t pay him to dance.

”You know me better than that.”

The song’s too lovely not to share. Sebastian and Rachel move onto the dance floor, followed by Henri and Luisa and many others. There’s a scrum around the Brooke-alike. Footballers!

The song dies down and there’s one last thing to do before all that remains is drinking and dancing.

Joe asks us to shuffle forward and look at a big screen.

A pre-recorded Helge Hagen appears, to an enormous cheer and a chant of ’Hagen again, olé, olé!’ The Norwegian full back is in a ramshackle fisherman’s shed. He starts to speak, but then says, ”Oh! Wedding mode.”

He puts on a tie, and he knows that’s funny.

”So,” he says, and is briefly lost for words. He clicks his fingers. ”Introduce myself. I’m Helge.”

Half the room chants, ”Hagen again, olé, olé!” Are they ever going to get sick of that one? Doubtful.

Helge is very tall, increasingly powerful, and bears a resemblance to the outstanding goalscorer Erling Haaland. ”Max, do you remember this shed? It was my grandfather’s. You came to see it when you tried to sign me for Chester. I told you it was my dream to build a house here on the rocks, safe and sound while the storms rage. I’ve been spending time here since you sent me home after the final. Go and rest, you said. Spend time with your family. I have done that and I have had a lot of time to think.

”When we got that free kick, you told me to go to the far post and make a run inside and then you put the ball right here...” He points to the centre of his forehead. ”I felt something in the stadium. I felt that my grandfather was at Wembley, watching me.” Helge wells up and he uses the tie to dab at the corner of one eye. ”A goal to make my family proud. I thought that would be the highlight...” He grins lop-sidedly and holds up a football.

There’s a huge roar from the Chester players and staff. ”Hagen again, olé, olé! Hagen again, olé, olé!”

Helge peers at the ball, which was signed by all his teammates. ”A hat trick at Wembley in the playoff final! Beyond belief. Beyond my wildest dreams. The media here called me ’the Billion Kroner Kid’. I couldn’t understand why you did it. Why give me the goals? You can put the ball anywhere you want. You’re a magician. Why me?

”And why not go for more goals? Why did you make us play in a low block for the second half? Why did you hack the ball away? My father was confused. You ruined your passing stats!” Helge shakes his head, then a wide-eyed smile takes over his face. ”You tried but you couldn’t stick to the plan. Near the end, when you got bored of being boring, you zoomed into Wrexham’s half, nudged the ball past the goalkeeper, the goal at your mercy. But you dribbled and dribbled, kept going, all the way to the corner flag! When a defender got close you kicked the ball against his shin and got a throw-in. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I couldn’t understand it! But now I do.”

Helge puts the ball down carefully and comes up holding the shirt of the Norwegian national team. He turns it around. On the back it says HAGEN 2.

I don’t hear what he says next, such is the roar from the Chester mob. Even Max is jumping around, punching the air. I have to read the subtitles.

”You wanted me to get Man of the Match so I would be picked for the Euros.” Helge’s happy face crumples. ”I will never forget this. You said you wanted to visit when I have built my dream home. When you come, you’ll find this ball and this shirt with pride of place. Right there,” he says. He turns to his left. ”No, there.” He scratches his chin. ”I have to think about it. I need to save up, which means I have time.” He gets cheeky. ”Unless you want to lend me some of the one billion kroner my goals made safe. No? Are you sure? Okay.” He takes a moment. ”Congratulations on the Premier League. Congratulations on your wedding. Please be proud of everything you have accomplished, the way I am proud to call myself a Max Best player.” Helge nods a few times, decides the video is finished, and reaches out to turn off the camera.

There’s a momentary glitch and an almost-naked Helge can be seen cavorting on the edge of some rocks while a storm is going on. He’s smoking a cigar and wearing a Chester FC bucket hat. The snippet ends before it has really begun, but it makes Max and Emma Best double up laughing.

The band launches into Sweet Caroline, the unofficial anthem of English football, and the dance floor goes bananas.

***

I dance too much, drink too much, flirt too much, and when Joe Anka demands I drink some water, I grin and ask where Max is. ”I think he snuck off,” says Joe. ”You know what he’s like. Doesn’t want to be the centre of attention.”

”Fucking Max,” I say. ”When he went round the goalie and blew kisses to the fans instead of scoring, I could have killed him.”

Joe smiles. He’s so cute. ”The only time he goes for the corner.” He laughs. ”I could have killed him, too! Three-nil is a dangerous lead, everyone knows that.”

”Were you at the stag party?” Joe zips his lips. Maybe I can unzip them later... I frown. There’s a story to chase! I push the water into his hands. ”Hold that for me.”

I wander off, putting one foot in front of the other with more than 90% accuracy, and find Henri holding hands with Luisa. Henri has had a long day, but it’s not over yet. He’s going to tell me what happened or else!

”What happened?” I say. ”Tell me or else!”

Henri eyes Luisa, and they both laugh. It seems I didn’t get the words out as clearly as I wanted. Henri says, ”I’ll tell you the story, Bethany, tomorrow morning, but perhaps for now you should go to bed.”

”Yeah, but with who?!”

Henri is delighted with my performance. ”Remember what Max said. We are not to proposition anyone at his wedding.”

”I din’t gree to that,” I mutter, which Luisa thinks is the funniest thing ever. They stand and shepherd me towards the lifts, take me to my room, and make sure I’ve got plenty of water to drink.

”Sleep well, Bethany Alban, and in the morning I will tell you a tale of how Max ruined my best-laid plans. A tale of a record-breaking promotion, a weeping Ryan Reynolds, the discovery of the arch that would have been used had Wrexham won, daring escapes, Maxmax, espionage, plots, counter-plots, and of course, a barge.”

”A barge?”

”A barge. Au revoir, Bethany.”

I drift asleep, and when I wake the room is empty. I take a swig of the water, put my head back on the pillow, then my eyes open wide like in a sitcom. ”Did he say a barge?”