Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

2.

Bethany, ma chérie.

I bear glad tidings! Of a sort.

My beloved Luisa, after careful reflection, decided she did not want to spend the morning hearing about the stag party once more, so I am to sketch out the tale as best I can and be done by 8 a.m. on the dot.

With the dot looming, there is no time to find the bon mot. I cannot spend the morning putting in a comma and the afternoon taking it out. I must write like the wind, not the Wilde!

(I used ten percent of my time budget on the previous line and I hate the previous line. But we must not tarry! The best is the enemy of the good. The line stays so that my beloved and I may leave.)

You wanted to know what happened at the stag party? Here it is. This is off the record, and reading this sentence constitutes your acceptance of a non-disclosure agreement. You will see that Max is in a very strange place and the next few months have the potential to be compelling. The candle that burns twice as bright lasts half as long.

Henri

***

0. Planning

I spent a very long time planning Max Best’s stag party.

I had a limited window. From 5 p.m. on a Tuesday until the small hours. The final part practically booked itself - drinks on the River Dee on a Mississippi steamboat called the Mark Twain. (What else would one do? There are limits to my creativity.)

But to fill the rest of the evening, there were simultaneously so many options and so few. I started with a sensible outline that became more and more deranged. The more I researched, the more I cackled madly to myself. When I discovered that the number one booking for a stag night in Manchester - your home town, and Max’s too - is to hire a dwarf who is handcuffed to the groom, I became euphoric. Luisa slapped some sense into me - for the purposes of this document I will say ’figuratively’ - informing me that if I used the word dwarf one more time she would ’punch my face off my face’. She also said that if I wrecked Max’s reputation with ’stupid boy shit’, there would be hell to pay.

Yet at the same time, when she saw my ’boring’ outline, she demanded to know why I was being ’so English’. ”Because it’s Max’s party, not mine.” Luisa’s approval sent me down the safe, solid, English route. Max would hate it, the others would love it, the photos would reek of booze, and Max’s last night of freedom would be spent in a prison of his own culture.

Ideal.

I filled the schedule with tasks and activities, booked entire buildings, ticked yes on every optional extra.

I added my own spin, of course, in the form of a minor progression fantasy. We would start with eleven participants, which as you know, Bethany, is the number of players on a football team. Apt! And we would collect more guests along the way, ending with one hundred on the Mark Twain. First priority would be given to those who couldn’t make the actual wedding owing to their plans or Sebastian Weaver’s limits. (Max agonised over who to invite, and don’t let him pretend otherwise.)

But all this effort, all this research, all this planning, and yes, all this money, it was all in vain.

Or was it?

***

Tuesday, May 23, 2028

1. Abduct the Groom

The ten members of the Starting Eleven were assembled at Bumpers Bank, waiting to snap into action.

We had planted a fake item on Max’s calendar, one he would move heaven and earth to attend: the finalisation of the summer plan and budget for the Chester Knights, our disabled team. He would have attended regardless, but flush with a staggering one hundred million pounds in cash, Max would be keen to throw money around. Half a million would transform the Knights. If Terry asked for two new coaches and two new mini-vans, Max would say why not eight of each? Why not twenty?

When Max came down from his office and sauntered towards the Sin Bin, where the meeting was to be held, we surrounded him. We were all wearing comedy shirts featuring unflattering photos of his face.

”Oh, shit,” he said, with realisation dawning. ”There is no meeting, right?”

”No,” I said. ”This is an intervention.”

”What about the Knights?”

”They will still be there tomorrow. And they will still be there after your honeymoon. For now, you belong to us. Come to the mini-van. There you must decide whether you want to be handcuffed to a Beer Babe, an Elvis impersonator, or someone who looks like Lionel Messi if one squints very hard. All are available at short notice.”

”What’s a Beer Babe?”

I started to explain. ”An attractive woman who joins us as we...” Laughter made me stop. As if Max wouldn’t know what a Beer Babe was!

Peter Bauer shook his head. ”The look of innocence is far too well-practised.”

Physio Dean said, ”Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s shameless.”

Max was thinking about his options. ”I think Emma would find it funny if there was an Elvis, but this is my last chance to be handcuffed to a hot stranger. Hmm. That sentence didn’t ring true, somehow.” Big laughs from the Starting Eleven. Max got a cheeky look about him. ”Have you got photos?”

I beamed. I hadn’t expected him to be so compliant! That was a mistake. ”Of course!”

”Top. It has to be a Beer Babe, doesn’t it? I can tell Emma you made me do it, right?”

”Yes!”

Max sighed and looked around. He pointed at Dan Badford, who seemed to be a surprising choice as one of the Starting Eleven. ”Why is Dan here?”

”He’s the best driver. He ensures you won’t win at all the activities.”

Max laughed. ”There are activities?” He shook his head, looked left and right, laughed again. In hindsight, it was another incredible piece of theatre! Give him an EGOT! He checked the time. ”All right, you got me. I need to put my laptop in the safe then, er... You know what? Call the hottest Beer Babe. You have incredible taste in women, Henri.”

The compliment was another misdirect, but I didn’t know that. I slapped him on the back, assuring him he had made a good decision. I meant a good decision to acquiesce, to go along with my plans, but he laughed and said he chose the Beer Babe for my benefit.

Outrageous!

He entered the reception building, and ten seconds later emerged wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a thin scarf. He scurried to the mini-vans and called out, in a Mancunian accent, ”Come on, then!”

It took me over a minute to realise I had been duped.

I ran back into the reception building, but the real Max had fled.

Fled!

As far as I could tell, he sprinted flat across the fields of Bumpers Phase Two, all the way to the River Dee, where I presume one of his allies was waiting for him on a jet ski.

I stomped back to the car park. ”Who are you?” I demanded.

”Maxmax,” said the stranger.

”Urgh!” I said, clenching my fist. ”Max’s double. He knew! He knew the time and date!”

Dan said, ”So what do we do?”

Maxmax said, ”Carry on as normal, but I’ll be playing the role of Max.”

”Urgh!” I said, clenching both fists. ”That’s absurd! One cannot have a stag party without the stag!”

Maxmax, who came from the same casting agency that produced the Brooke-alike, clipped on a headset like the ones referees use in high-profile games. He tapped the camera. ”Max is watching! He wants to experience the stag party without getting blasted and without being chained to a lamp post in Wales.”

”I’m not going to chain him to a lamp post in Wales!” I snapped. In a more moderate voice, I said, ”I’m going to chain him to a lamp post in Chester.”

”Max says he’s got conservatively five hundred things to do this week including but not limited to rescuing young people from the scrapheap and spending nine digits of pounds sterling and if he gets it wrong there will be sackings and redundancies and untold misery so maybe you could stop being a baby about this.”

I approached Maxmax and judged that in a fight, I would wreck him. ”Where is he?”

”He’s nowhere and everywhere. He’s the ghost in the machine. He’s the stag in exit stag left.”

”That’s terrible,” said Pascal.

”Cut that,” said Peter Bauer.

Physio Dean was bouncing on his heels. ”Are we doing this or not? It’s better without Max anyway. The Beer Babes might spare me a glance if he isn’t here.”

I exploded. ”There will be no glances from the Beer Babes if Henri Lyons is in the area!”

Inexplicably, this statement of objective truth provoked laughter. The others were having a great time, Max had fled, and I was a prisoner in my own prison.

2. Electric Shock Football (Saltney; First Can of Beer)

We got in the vans and went up the side of the river, down the other side, into Saltney. Magnus was in my van. ”What’s first on the agenda, Henri?”

”Electric shock football,” I muttered, still sulking about the betrayal.

My words provoked more laughter. ”What the fuck is that?” demanded Maxmax.

”We play five-a-side football but we are all wearing shock vests controlled by remotes. The idea was that if Max was wearing a shock vest and we kept zapping him, we could bring him down to our level.”

”Speak for yourself, Henri,” said Pascal, grinning. ”I’m Premier League.”

My friends, my former colleagues, had risen to the very top of the sport! And soon they would be wired up and with one press of a button... ”You’re smiling now, Pascal, but I’m gonna give you the shocks I had intended for Max.”

Peter shook his head. ”We should get shocked when we play a loose pass or miss a shot.”

Magnus groaned. ”Of course you want rules that mean you’ll never get zapped! Forget it!”

Maxmax pointed out of the window. ”Is that the stadium we’re playing at? It’s top! I’ve never played in an actual stadium before.”

I nodded. ”That’s The Legends. Max owns it. I mean, technically it’s owned by Mr. Yalley, but...”

Pascal leaned forward. ”Did you book a Beer Babe yet? Which one?”

I shrugged. ”I already booked all of them. There are six joining in three windows. One then two then three.”

Magnus said, ”What if Max had asked for an Elvis?”

”Then we give a Beer Babe an Elvis wig! Haven’t you ever done a stag party before?”

***

The electric shock football was great fun, very silly, lots of laughs, lots of memories. Maxmax may have been a double but he had less than one-twentieth of Max’s ability. He was so bad we stopped zapping him, which meant more for Pascal, Peter, Magnus, and Dan.

Then a breakthrough! When we got to the car park to jump into the vans, Briggy arrived. ”Thank God!” she said, pulling me aside. ”Listen, I heard about what Max has done. The cheek! After you put so much time and effort into planning this evening!”

”I know. I am betrayed.”

She looked around in a conspiratorial way. ”I know where he is. Tell the others what’s next on the plan, where to go and all that, and you and I will go and kidnap Max. Bring him out where he belongs.”

”Yes! A million times yes!” I hugged her and did as she asked, telling Peter Bauer the location of the Nude Life class, in which participants drink alcohol and sketch attractive naked people. Briggy and I got in her car and whizzed along the streets of Chester, getting closer and closer to the river. We parked, she rushed away, I hurried to keep up.

3. Live Nude Art Arrival (Chester; Five More Guests; One Beer Babe)

Briggy and I arrived at a simple jetty, to which was tied a small boat. Eight-seater, the size of a lifeboat, cosy but not many frills.

There was a woman in a white shirt and a captain’s hat. There was a hamper - the British sort of hamper, often seen at picnics. And there was Max Best. ”Awight?” he said.

”What’s this?”

”This is our stag party.”

I crossed my arms, Bethany. Folded them tight! ”Oh. Is that right?”

My show of petulance made Max laugh hard. He embraced me, squeezed, patted me on the back, whispered in my ear. ”I need you, Henri. I’m swamped. I’m in quicksand and I’m sinking and I need you to throw me a rope.” He moved back slightly, placed his hands on my shoulders, looked me deep in the eyes. ”I’ve got three days to organise everything, including your mum’s club. Three days, then it’s my wedding, honeymoon, and soon after that I’ll be playing qualifiers. People say Max, relax, you’ve got all summer but I don’t. This is urgent. I need to fill every minute of every day with decisions and planning so I can enjoy my wedding. I don’t want to ruin Emma’s big day, mate. I can’t do that to her. Plus if I delay, players I want might get other moves. I have to do as much as I can now, urgently.

”I know you planned a whole thing but I can’t do that thing, not today. I run a non-league club that’s going to the Prem. Brooke’s away, MD’s a headless chicken, Emma’s busy, it’s pure chaos. I need to bring order to chaos and I’ve only got three more days to get a grip. Please, mate. Please.”

His words moved me, but I remained stubborn. Perhaps I wanted to be wooed just a little more. ”What’s this?” I kicked the wicker basket.

Max smiled. ”Three types of ham.”

”Yes, and?”

Once again, my truculence amused him. ”Mini-champagne, iced, to get us started. Then we share a red. There’s another bottle if you want to get wasted but I need to keep my wits about me. Come on, I need help. Maxmax is wired up and we’ll watch the stag party as it happens, and when they get onto the Mark Twain, we’ll be close behind. We’ll be within the bubble of fun, Henri, but no-one will know we’re so close. We’ll see and hear and feel the whole party, and we’ll create some football along the way. Transfers, strategy, squad-building, allocation of resources.”

I was amazed. ”You know about the Mark Twain? How?”

”Through illegal methods. Don’t ask me to incriminate myself.”

The full majesty of his concept struck me. ”We will follow the party boat in this? Our private picnic boat?”

Max nodded. ”Ahead, the main stag party. We’ll have a quiet little fawn party.”

I nodded. ”You want me to fawn over you. Wouldn’t you prefer a Beer Babe for that?”

He grinned, wickedly. ”Probably. If we get bored, we can borrow one. Look, are you coming with me or not? Briggy will take you back to the, uh, nude art class if you prefer looking at naked women to helping me avert disaster.”

”There’s a naked man, too,” I pouted, but what was I supposed to do? My friend needed me. I sighed. ”Of course I will stay.”

Briggy said, ”Here, you’ll need this.” She handed me a shit plastic bag. I opened it and found it was filled with premium cheeses, olives, chopped vegetables, dips, and a bag of Monster Munch. I squeaked with pleasure and reached for my phone to take a photo. My phone was gone. She had lifted it while I was distracted by the bag! ”Yeah,” said Briggy, theatrically dropping it into a metal box that she padlocked. ”You’ll get it back later.”

Max pulled me towards the boat. ”Enough blabbering. Don’t keep our captain waiting. She has agreed to be called Barge Simpson for tonight.”

I looked from the captain to the little boat. ”That’s not a barge!”

Max grimaced. ”My first plan was to get a romantic barge but turns out this is the wrong sort of river or whatever. The next option was a 35-seater called The Jackie, which got me all kinds of excited, but it’s too visible. No-one is going to look twice at this thing, so we can get some work done.” He rubbed his hands. ”How to spend one hundred million pounds! Let’s get started.”

4. Live Nude Art Sketching (Prosecco)

We boarded the little boat, which Barge Simpson called ’Bonkie’. She settled onto a padded bench behind the wheel, while a couple of yards ahead, Max sat facing her, his back to the prow. I sat on the port side.

I popped and poured the mini-champagne while Max fiddled with his laptop. He inserted a bunch of electronics - batteries, satellite hook-ups, who knows what else? Through this we could watch Maxmax as he experienced the stag party I had designed. The Starting Eleven plus the five Subs plus the hottest beer babe were sketching the nude models in front of them.

Max stared at the screen for a while. ”The nude girl is a total cutie pie, isn’t she? Did you know she was that gorgeous before you booked?” He phoned Maxmax. ”Hey, mate. How’s the vibe? Is everyone being respectful?” He listened. ”Top, top. If anyone’s a dick to the people who are working, go Full Max on them. Cool.”

Max and I watched Maxmax scratch his canvas with charcoal - Bob Ross he was not - but Maxmax showed that he understood his assignment by spending more time asking the Beer Babe for tips than actually working.

On our little stag ship, we nibbled on snacks and clinked our champagne flutes. I asked Max about the playoff final.

”There’s nothing much to say,” he muttered, while trying to open a packet of olives. ”We are way better than Wrexham so it was a case of how do we want to win, if you get me. Of course a referee can decide they want Wrexham to get a couple of early pennos or something like that, or there could be an early red card for our goalie or some other madness, but in a normal football environment we’re going to crush them. I thought it would be funny to make it stodgy, make it shit, and score from set pieces. Would it be funny if Zach Green scored a couple? The Wrexham reject? He barely made an impression in Wales, so it didn’t have any narrative heft from an outsider’s perspective. But when I thought about Helge scoring, I got excited. He exaggerated an injury to help the team and showed mega Chesterness. I don’t want my players to do that but he did it because he was so team-focused and he’s the only guy in my squad with a chance of a surprise call up to the Euros. If I was the Norway manager, I would look at a full-back who can score from set pieces and who performs better in bigger matches and think, yes please! If Helge gets called up I’m pretty sure he won’t play more than a few minutes but what an experience for him!”

The sky was darkening, the street lights becoming more prominent, and the bubbles from the champagne were doing wonderful things to me. I tried to top Max up, but he frowned and asked if I was crazy. One glass was enough! For a moment I was offended, but this was the stag party that Max wanted. Just me and him and he would wake up sober and ready to keep working, to keep changing lives. I had to admit it was better than the foolishness I had cooked up. I put my glass to the side. ”How can I help you, my friend? What bedevils you?”

Max was silent for a long time, and the only sound was of the small engine as Bonkie puttered and pottered up and down the Dee. Max sat up and rubbed beneath his nose. ”I thought you might try to abduct me right after the final whistle on Sunday, yeah, so I brought the lads in front of our fans, did our own celebrations, ignored the official ones, then when I thought I had shown my face enough, I did a runner. Through the warrens at Wembley. That’s where I saw that arch with the Wrexham logos on it.”

”Ha!” I said, trying a different ham. ”That was so funny!”

He shrugged. ”They must have both options every time, right? I knew our fans would lap it up so I took the picture, but the whole day was for them, not for me. I knew I was in for a world of shit. I hadn’t even found an exit when my phone went thermonuclear. The first call was from an agent with a really good player.” Max leaned forward. ”A really good player. I spent a long time talking to the agent, to the player, to the club, and I had everything arranged. I was like, whoa, this is easy! Good player, good value for money, affordable wages - comparatively - and we would make a profit on him next summer. What’s not to like?”

Max is easy to read sometimes. ”But?”

He sneered. ”But when I’ve got all the numbers agreed in principle, I tell the agent I’m happy, let’s get the papers drawn up. He goes, amazing, perfect, just for your information, my fee is three million pounds.”

Barge Simpson had been discretion itself, practicing what we might call ’active non-listening’. But on hearing the agent’s demand, her jaw dropped. Max didn’t mind. He nodded as if to say I know, right!

”Three mill for what?” I said. ”A few hours’ work? Everyone was happy with the move. It was easy, no?”

Max shook his head. ”Guy got greedy, pissed me off. I expected to beat Wrexham but somehow I wasn’t mentally prepared for what was coming. Parasites, vultures, worms. Three million to make a few phone calls? Get fucked. That money belongs to the people of Chester. Now when an agent calls, I start by going, what’s your fee? They don’t want to say it, right, because they want me to get invested in the deal, to start daydreaming about having that player. If they tell me their fee up front I laugh and go, good luck with that. I know it’s a shit way to do business but... I’m struggling, Henri. I can’t see a path forward. Everything’s fucked. It’s like...” He glanced at our captain, leaned forward so he could speak even more privately. ”I’m obsessed with Emma but what happens if she gets cold feet, bins me off, and I have to start again? I can’t have a normal relationship now, can I? Emma knew me when I was nothing and she liked me. I can have some flings with Beer Babes or whatever but I’m never going to be sure people like me for me, not for what they think I am. That’s how it is with Chester now. Do players want to come because they like our ethos or because they want to play in the Prem? That’s why I tried to get as many deals done before the final as I could. Leo, Marek, Rushy, they want to come to Chester. All the calls I’m getting, they’re from agents and players who want to play in the Prem. I don’t mind a few mercenaries, but they need to know they’re getting paid at their next club, not this one.”

I frowned. ”Max, you’ve got a hundred million quid. The time for a poverty mentality is over.”

He nodded, then shook his head. ”Yeah... Nah. It’s not my money. I mean, it sort of is. I’ll choose where it goes, but I can’t spaff it up a wall. It has to have a long-term benefit.” He looked straight up, at Orion perhaps, then groaned and hunched into a semi-circle. ”We’re going down, Henri. We’re toast. I’ve come at the calculations from all angles. We will one hundred million percent be relegated. Any money we give to parasites and vampires is money we’ll never see again.” He ran his fingers through his hair, aggressively. ”We’re fucking fucked. But the worst thing is I can’t stop thinking about how humiliating this is going to be, how catastrophic for me personally, can’t stop even for ten minutes. If I was at the stag party - ” He paused to check his laptop. Maxmax was looking from the naked woman to the naked man, sketching both, turning towards the other participants. His gaze lingered, as it often did, on the chest of the Beer Babe. ”Why does he keep staring at concealed bewbs when there’s an awesome pair literally hanging out in front of him?”

I said, ”Call him and ask.”

Max scratched his chin. ”He seems to be enjoying himself, which means I’m enjoying myself by the transient property.”

”The transitive property.”

”Sure, that too. What I’m saying is that if I was actually there right now I would be terrible company. I have been terrible company since the final whistle. We’re going down and I’m going to get sacked. Fine. So knowing that, what preparations do I need to make? I think I can last seven matches. I took Sandra Lane aside and told her in no uncertain terms that she had to start the season away from Chester, like as an assistant at Saltney or something, so that she wouldn’t be tainted by my failure.”

”What did she say?”

Max eyed me. ”She told me to go fuck myself because she would never abandon me like that.”

I laughed and ate more ham. It was good ham. ”I like Sandra Lane.”

”Me too. So I’m doing seven matches and she’ll do five or six. It’s an interesting point that the Premier League is only 38 matches. I’ve wracked my brains trying to think if that’s a pro or a con, but on balance I think it’s a con. Fewer matches means fewer minutes which means less training progress for our players. The only thing I’ve got as a strategy at the moment is to get lots of minutes into lots of legs in my seven matches, so that in the second half of the season, whoever’s in charge will be able to start putting points on the board.”

”You don’t think you’ll get any points?”

”My concept is that we will finish with 20. Far short of the 40 or so a club needs to survive, but the early-season mockery and talk of us being the worst Premier League side of all time will turn into grudging respect. Okay, so in that situation, there’s no point blowing our money chasing an impossible dream. Do you get me?”

”I get you, but I don’t know if I agree with you. Surely you can assemble a decent team with so much money?”

He tapped while he thought about how to respond. Then he opened a backpack, took out a notebook and pen, and sat next to me. ”Half the money is gone already. Upgrades, training, staffing, all sorts of crazy stuff before we even get to pay rises for our existing players. You think Helge Hagen’s dad isn’t going to rinse me? No good deed goes unpunished. Let’s handwave that I’ve got 50 million in disposable income. Did you ever play Soccer Supremo?”

”Yes, on mobile.”

He scoffed. ”And you call yourself civilised. A player’s strength is measured by his Current Ability, his CA, and that goes from 1 to 200.” He drew six boxes to represent the top six tiers, and assigned them a low and high score. The National League North, where Max started, was from 41 to 56. League Two, where I would play in the coming season, was 75 to 90. The Premier League, where Max found himself, was 150 plus. ”That’s the baseline. Guess how many Chester players have a Current Ability score of 150 or more?”

”What’s my score?”

”That’s right,” said Max, ignoring my question. ”None. Zero. Zilch. Zip. Now, we’re not completely useless, obvs, but I think it will take two months to get to the level Burnley started at last season, and they finished rock bottom.” He tapped the pen against his lips. ”We can buy an entire new women’s team but for the men it’s...” He went through some internal agony. ”Why pay 20 million quid for someone who is barely CA 150? Buying two of those doesn’t change our season but does eat all the money. What I’m saying is that if I spend 50 million on ’premium’ players, we still finish dead last. We could sign some free agents who could do a job. Guys with no resale value. In some ways, those guys are even worse as an option. Sign a guy on 80 grand a week, that’s four million quid a year. To do what? Get 25 points instead of 20? How about we train up the players we do have and keep the money?”

”Because... you’ll be humiliated?”

”Me, yes, the club no. I’ll be sacked after seven matches and the media will spend the rest of the season blaming me. That’s fine but do you see the problem I have?”

”I don’t believe there would be any demand for you to be sacked under any circumstances.”

”If I lose 20 games in a row, will I be sacked?”

I squirmed. ”Yes.”

Max didn’t gloat in his victory. ”Okay. I’m telling you right now that the number is seven. If I lose seven in a row, I’m gone. My greatest achievement is that I have turned Chester into a club that would sack Max Best.”

”I’ll pitch for that to be written on your tombstone.”

Max laughed. ”You could do worse! Okay, but I know what you’re saying. I’ve got credit in the bank, so if we pick up a couple of draws, okay, maybe I last ten games. But I don’t see any world in which I survive half the season. So what am I doing? What is my purpose in this scenario?” He wedged a knuckle between his lips and contemplated. ”I had all sorts of huge plans. I was gonna save football from itself, be its knight in shining armour, all that stuff. I had to let it go and it was easy to let it go. I’m gonna build a big house and spend my days reading books and driving on my private go-kart track while cooking for Emma.”

I poured myself a little more champagne. Max held his glass out, so I topped him up.

He continued. ”The old plan is dead, long live the new plan. MD sacks me as manager but I quietly stay on as director of football and I run Chester from the shadows. I put things in place so that it bounces right back to the Prem under a manager I choose, and we finish mid-table and I funnel part of the money every year to doing things I want to do in the community. It’s not a bad plan, TBH. Okay, I’m not gonna win the Premier League, but I think I can set things up so that when we go back up, Chester can stay in the top tier for a long, long time, and I can do it while growing marrows.”

”Marrows!”

Our attention turned to the laptop screen. Maxmax had finished his sketch and was checking out the efforts of the others. Max’s eyes widened. ”That Beer Babe is an amazing artist.”

”Indeed. She has a wonderful grasp of anatomy.”

”I bet she does.”

We giggled and found the bottom of the champagne.

5. Live Nude Art Judging (Prizes)

We listened through Max’s phone as the nude models went around the room choosing their favourite pieces of art. The nude cutie-pie loved Physio Dean’s sketch. ”You’ve made me look so good!”

”’Twas God who did that,” said Dean, and while he clearly regretted it instantly, the cutie pie was enchanted. Dean, emboldened, said, ”We’re going to do some more fun stuff. Would you like to join us?”

Dean and Peter Bauer won a bottle of wine each for their art, and the party picked up two unexpected but very welcome guests.

Max said, ”Dean’s gonna torment himself now. He’ll be thinking, why did I invite her to a party full of horny, attractive footballers? I should have invited her to a quiet dinner somewhere.”

”He’s a match for any footballer.”

”I know that. You know that. The cutie pie knows that! There’s only one person who doesn’t know that.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author’s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

We eyed each other, the cogs whirring. Unspoken communication! I slapped my thigh. ”I wish I had my phone!”

Max slipped his hand into his pocket. ”Here.”

”What! But Briggy locked it up.”

”Misdirection.”

Being tricked again was annoying, but we had a plot to hatch! ”Should I do the - ?”

”Yes. I’ll do...”

”Good.”

6. Travel to Apex Karting (Saltney)

Physio Dean’s inability to rate his own bangworthiness got me thinking about myself. I tapped Max’s notebook. ”What’s my rating? Out of 200.”

”Do you really want to know?”

”Yes.”

”92.”

”How is it so specific?”

Max looked away, annoyed with himself for telling me. ”It’s based on your performances versus players of known levels, like in chess, plus what you might call the eye test, and it’s all refined by DOVE, our software.”

I scanned his sheet. ”92. So I’m better than League Two, but at the bottom end of what’s needed for League One. That’s why you wanted me to stay down.”

”I wanted you to stay in League Two so that you would score loads of goals and be a star and get the adulation of the fans and have a good life and be happy like you deserve. By the way,” he said, facing me, ”in the electric shock footy you were doing that thing where you get tight to a defender so that it makes you look active but you and I know that you’re coasting. I just wanted to point that out because if I had been there I would have shocked you non-stop until you quit it.”

What could I say to that? Busted. Even in a silly, friendly game, Max demanded certain standards. ”What’s your level?”

Max picked up the champagne bottle and grunted. He eyed the wine, but remembered that he needed to work in the morning. ”I can’t scout myself but DOVE thinks I’m CA 150.”

”You sound doubtful.”

”I don’t think it knows how to handle someone who thinks it’s funny to kick the ball away and miss open goals.”

I nudged him. ”That was pure Cruyff! We talked once about the time Cruyff hit the post instead of scoring because he thought it would be more exciting for the fans. You... Well... You took it to a new level.” He should have been chuffed, should have been abuzz. He was staring at nothing. I nudged him again. ”Tell me how I can help.”

”Erm...” He scrunched his eyes closed, opened them, closed them again. Picked up his book, put it down. ”I don’t know where to start. There’s too much to do. I need to do, like, five hundred transfers but every time I think of one I get sidetracked. There are cascade effects. If you move one player it blocks off a dozen thingies. Alternatives. I wasn’t joking when I said I was swamped. I have bitten off more than I can chew.”

”Have some ham.” I handed him a small plate.

He took the plate but reacted strangely. ”What sort is this?”

Obviously, his minions had done all the work for him. ”This is called ham number one.”

He laughed, but pushed the plate away. ”I bought ham because it’s your thing but I don’t want to eat ham anymore. Someone told me that pigs are so smart they know when they’re about to be killed and they try to escape. The poor little things.” His face crumpled. ”I’m about to be killed but I can’t get away. I have to go through with it.” He rubbed his forehead very, very hard while ham turned to ash in my mouth. He continued. ”Here’s one thing I know I need to do. I need to take Saltney into the Champions League. That’s huge money for me. That sets me up for life. I’m going to buy some land and build a huge house for me and Emma and we’re going to have a go-kart track and we’re going to have pigs.”

”What?”

”Pigs. Rescue pigs. I’m gonna go to farmers and say bro, don’t kill those cute little guys. Here’s 500 quid, what do you say? He’ll go deal, my agent fee is three million.”

I laughed so hard that a piece of meat flew out of me and I had to scrabble around to find it and put it in the bin. I gathered the rest of the ham and offered it to our captain. She had put headphones on and had no compunction eating our expensive cuts. ”So are you finally going vegan as you threatened?”

”No. Just trying not to eat pigs.”

”Cows are smart, too.”

”I don’t want to hear about it. I can only change one thing at a time.”

I stood and pointed at him. ”That’s it!”

”What?”

”Change one thing at a time. You are overwhelmed thinking about the Max Best Universe, yes?”

”Yeah, because it’s not just the league, it’s the European competitions, too. Player X starts at Club Y, Player Z starts at Club, um, 1. I have to take into account the needs of the club, the salaries, the potential prize money, profit for the Conspiracy, the players’ development, the head coach and his or her preferred formation. And now I have to reckon with the fucking Premier League. Can I seriously loan Wibbers to Saltney? And on the other side, can I seriously not loan Wibbers to Saltney? Every decision has a cascade effect. If it’s not Wibbers, it’s Gabby, and if it’s Gabby, what does that mean for Tony Herbert? Because... urgh.”

He sank.

I lifted him, put the pen and paper into his hands, sat beside him, and tapped his knee. ”Let us learn from the highest form of literature, the progression fantasy. Start small. We fight a goblin with a stick.”

”Who has the stick? Me or the goblin?”

”Focus, Max. What’s that club that Vimsy is in charge of?”

”Tempsford.”

”Yes! And what division will they play in?”

”Tenth tier.”

I tapped his knee again. ”Good. Let’s start there and work our way up.”

”Oh.” Max looked for a way to complain about the plan but couldn’t find one. He scribbled a few numbers and closed his eyes for about three minutes. I didn’t mind the silence. The water lapping against the boat, the hum of some machinery, laughter from the shore. On the screen, Maxmax was in the back of a mini-van and in front of him half a dozen people were smiling and laughing. Max woke up and said, ”Tempsford have got a goalie, a right winger, and a striker. I’ve got the budget for three new players.”

”You are referring to players who are much higher than tier ten.”

”Yes. The plan is to annihilate the league, leave nothing to chance. I’m talking about booking six Beer Babes instead of one, just in case.”

”How the fuck do you know how many Babes I hired?”

”Can you focus, please? You’re the one telling me to focus. I’m sending my property income to Tempsford, which is a little higher now that all the Brazilians are here. Oh, and Temps Perdu are chipping in. 500 a week gets an outstanding player at that level, and we can get three more. Which positions, though?”

”You have a goalie, right winger, striker?”

”Yes. I’m thinking we add a dominant centre back, a good central midfielder, and a second striker.”

”You have names in mind?”

”Yeah. Decent lads, too. But the question is do I go for a left winger instead of a centre back?”

”No.”

”Left winger instead of a CM?”

”No. Build the spine. Your first instinct was right.”

Max nodded to himself. ”That would do it...”

”What’s the problem?”

He looked wretched. ”I can plot and plan all I like, but when am I going to do all this stuff?”

”What about now?”

”I’m on a stag do!”

I showed him my teeth. ”And what a wonderful do it is. You, me, Vimsy, together we can call three people and convince them to join the project. How long will it take? Four minutes at the most. Come on! Let’s get into it!”

Max glared at me but then switched completely into boyish mode. ”Okay! You can call the centre back. He played against you once and put you in his pocket.”

”He did not! Take it back!”

7. Food at the Go-Kart Track (Burgers; Beer (English People) Red Wine (Civilised Nations); Five More Guests; Two More Beer Babes)

While the real stag party was piling into the go-kart venue, we had been sailing down the River Dee, tracking them. To my surprise, we pulled over to a dock, where Briggy came on board with four huge, messy, blue-cheese burgers.

We pigged out. Talking of pigs, we got to see an actor of the hammiest kind.

Maxmax had taken a spot on the other side of the table to Physio Dean, who was next to the cutie pie but was hiding more and more behind his shell while all the alpha males competed for female attention. From one second to the next, Maxmax was on the floor, writhing, clutching at his neck.

”He’s choking!” someone shouted.

”You’ve killed the stag!” someone shouted.

”Max will kill us if we kill his Max!”

Then Dean was by Maxmax’s side, his eyes black as a shark’s, voice cold and commanding. He did his work and Maxmax sat up, to applause. Someone chanted ”Dean! Dean! Dean!” and thirty others joined in.

Dean, somewhat abashed, went back to his seat, but a Beer Babe intercepted him. ”Is it true you saved Max Best’s life?”

Another Babe squeezed herself between the pair. ”Are you single?”

Dean mumbled things and returned to his seat. The cutie pie said, ”So? Are you single?”

”I’m married to my job.”

”How about an affair?”

On Bonkie, Max and I high-fived each other. He whooped and yelled, ”I love it when a plan comes together! Where’s the fucking wine?”

I was allowed to take a toilet break, which was most welcome, and when I returned to the boat the wine was flowing. I settled into my spot and asked the question we were all thinking. ”Are you nervous about the wedding?”

”Not really,” said Max. ”I mean, I know something’s going to go wrong. There will be one thing that is just the worst possible thing. I was watching a wedding video and this bride was reading her mission statement or whatever it’s called and there was one of those huge trains they have in America and it blew its horn for about twenty seconds. Deafening. The bride took it well. She just shook her head and went, ’I knew that would happen’. I’m worried Emma will be so wound up that if anything goes wrong she’ll have a meltdown.”

Briggy said, ”She will not have a meltdown.”

Max said, ”I need to be chill, anyway, so that the first thing she sees when all the flowers spontaneously combust is me being an absolute rock.”

I wiped my hands on napkins. ”So let’s get back to work. So far we have only fixed one of your football clubs!”

Max put a glass of red in every hand, then said, ”A toast. To the best man, the best friend a man could have.”

We sipped. The captain eyed me. ”Are you single?”

My mouth went dry. ”No.”

She fixed me with a stern look. ”How about an affair?”

”Oh. Um...” I glanced at Max, who was looking down at his feet, rubbing his lips. He set this up! ”Oh, you absolute bastard!”

He laughed. ”I’m sorry! I couldn’t help it! I have poor impulse control!”

8. Go-Karting (One Beer Per 5 Laps; Prizes for Best Times (Beer); Prizes for Crashes (Beer); Prizes for Drinking Beer (Shots))

Briggy returned to dry land, and the captain took us across the river so that we could see the lights of the go-kart venue. The heat of the day was being carried away, but the wine was lighting a brazier in my cheeks.

”What is this?” I said, indicating a new page in the notebook that Max had spent a full minute filling with numbers.

”This is West Didsbury.”

I peered. ”Tier Five, CA 57 to 74.”

He wrote another number. ”West finished last season with a CA of 63, so they’re well-placed for a top-half finish. I need to decide if I go all-out for promotion to League Two.” He bobbed his head around. ”I mean, you get an instant million quid in TV money and that would be pretty seismic.”

”Why not go for it?”

”Cost.” He pointed to the laptop screen, where highly-paid footballers were crashing around the go-kart track. ”It would be much cheaper to drive around in 5th or 6th, maybe make a late move, overtake on the last corner. Leading from the front is the most expensive way to do it. Give me one second while I do some fast and incredibly accurate maths.”

He scribbled more numbers while I refilled our glasses and watched my stag party through the eyes of Maxmax. He was struggling to get the headset camera on top of his helmet, so Haley Goodhew wore it for a few minutes. I looked back at the notes. ”You added the wrong columns there and there.”

”Shit,” said our infallible leader. He made some quick edits, then tapped his pen. ”Based on my experience of the National League, I would want a budget of about 1.1 million quid to ensure promotion. 22,000 a week, spent well, that gets us a winning team. Okay? So with the new stadium opening, assuming we get 1,600 attendances at our home games, which is very conservative, and if Blue Moon re-up their shirt sponsorship, The Wall chip in for stadium naming rights, we do 120 in pitch rental, 120 in merch sales... If I send all my sponsorship money, which should be about 600 grand, the total is going to be around 1.5 million. That’s 29,000 pounds a week for the men’s first team squad.”

”That sounds massive.”

”Yeah, that would blow up the league, wouldn’t it? But we have a lot of Exit Trial lads at West and I don’t want to stunt their development. Ah, they will be dragged up with us, won’t they? Rising tide lifts all boats. The big risk is that me flaming out in the Premier League makes sponsors cut ties.”

”That won’t happen. But you could lose half your sponsors and West would still have more budget than it needs.”

”True,” he said, nodding. ”And I think we will get more fans through the gate. We had sellouts of 1,500 two seasons ago, but there was a whole year when they played in North Manchester. Have those habits been broken? Will the fans come back?”

”What are all these numbers? A depth chart?”

”Exactly. We’ve got an okay goalie and a more talented Exit Trial lad as his backup. It’s the same pretty much all round the pitch. This one here is Vivek. Remember him from Chester? He’s CA 56 so he should really be fourth-choice this season. Looking back, it’s funny how hard I worked to get him into football. I think he has enjoyed the ride, to be fair. Ah, wait.” Max crossed out a number 58 in the striker slot. ”That was Ziggy. I spoke to him already, tried to get him to drop to Tempsford. He would score 40 goals a season! But he didn’t want to drop that far or move that far, so he’s going back to FC United. He actually loves it there.”

”He’s 58 and the minimum in the National League is 57. Surely he can do a job?”

”Yeah but the numbers aren’t everything. Ziggy’s a goal poacher and he doesn’t contribute much to general play. Put him in a dominant team and he’ll score. If you’re the underdogs, having Ziggy in your team can be like playing with ten men. No, he needs to play tier six.”

It was fascinating to hear Max talk like this, especially because he was describing my situation. ”I have enough points to play in League One but you don’t want me to. Would it be like playing with ten men?”

”What? Of course not. You’re much more of an all-rounder than Ziggy. You could totally do it and you’d help your team but it would be a struggle. You’ve struggled enough, mate. Be a big fish in a small pond. Back on topic. West. We pretty much need a goalie, a centre back, a midfielder, and a striker who are League Two level, who will keep us competitive while the other lads get used to the standards.”

”Have you got names in mind?”

”This is the thing,” Max said. ”Tons of names, but I’m stuck on Chas Fungrieve for the striker slot. He’s CA 83, so he’s gonna bag loads of goals. He would be a big help. Is it the right move for him, though?”

”Where else would he go?”

”To League Two.”

”How old is he?”

”On my spreadsheet, he’s 19.”

”So he fires West to promotion the way I did with Newport. If he wants to play in League Two, he can earn it.”

Max spun his pen around. ”I think I like it.”

”What’s the transfer fee?”

Max shrugged. ”I don’t know. I need to talk to the other director of football.”

”The other director of football is you!”

”Hundred grand? Yeah, hundred grand.”

”That’s your go-to fee when you can’t be arsed thinking of a real value!”

”It doesn’t matter, does it? Chester don’t need the money! It’s a token amount. Who gives a shit?” Max was not being totally professional but I found it hard to disagree with him. Why worry about tens of thousands when Chester were guaranteed at least 109 million pounds in broadcast revenue alone? He lifted his phone. ”Fuck it, I’m going to call him right now.”

I listened with interest as Max pitched the move to Chas. The gangly striker was keen, and quickly agreed to be paid 1,500 a week. Judging by Max’s budget, the lad could have asked for more. ”That’s a very good starting salary, Max. You have looked after him, as you promised.” For a moment, I became melancholic. ”I wish you had been around to look after me when I was Chas’s age.”

”Better late than never.”

We clinked our glasses and with the first move agreed, Max’s brain clicked into a higher gear. Soon he was making call after call. Not every player was amenable to playing in the National League, but we bagged 36-year-old John Windmill. Windmill was one of the few good guys at Grimsby Town when Max accepted that accursed gig. He can play centre back or right back, but Max said he’s too slow to play on the flank. ”Put him in the middle, let him organise, let him win headers, let him be an example to all the young pups we’ve got.” Max added 1,400 to the wages column, and wrote 80/86 at the top of the centre back list.

”What’s that 86?”

Max looked shifty. ”Um, that’s how good he was at Grimsby. In the right training environment, if he gets breaks, he could reach those levels again. Maybe. Probably not. Ignore that.” He crossed out the 86.

Very strange, but Max rubbed his head hard again. ”What’s up?”

”I thought I was getting somewhere but these decisions are all tied up with Saltney Town. That squad needs to be seriously beefed up, right, which means a bunch of those guys need to be moved on.” He saw that I wasn’t following. ”I’m thinking about Aff. CA 72 left-winger. He would be perfect for West. We had a left winger but he got a good offer closer to home so we let him go. Aff back in tier five? It’s a big step down from playing in Europe, but I need that Champions League money so I have to be ruthless.”

”So be ruthless. Call Aff now and ask him to play in your Hippydrome.”

”It’s not a Hippydrome. It’s not made out of concrete and there’s a few bats. What’s hippy about that? Right, shush.”

Two minutes later, Aff was a done deal. The Irishman liked Manchester and wanted to pivot more into the construction trade, growing his company so that when his playing career was over, he could take it to the next level. Manchester was a great base for that.

Max scribbled some more. ”That puts us on about CA 68 going into pre-season. I’ll add a right back, a central midfielder... We will start at about 70 and keep improving. Um... yeah, I feel good about this. Relaxed. Hey, this is going top!”

I picked up the second bottle of wine and started to open it. ”What next?”

He didn’t complain about me drinking too fast, and merely turned a page. ”Gibraltar.”

He scribbled three sets of numbers, three sets of wages. It’s all in his head, Bethany! I knew he was good, but to realise the extent of his command was staggering. While Dan Badford set another fastest lap and scored another photo with the adoring Beer Babes, Max slid Glenn Ryder from Bruno’s Magpies to the Gibraltar Lions and reshaped three entire teams, with players cascading down to make room for better players at the top table. Gold, silver, and bronze. College 1975 are the gold standard, and they have their eyes on the biggest prize of all - qualification to the Champions League. Can Max do it with two tiny clubs simultaneously? He’s very much going to try.

”Who’s this?” The list of players at College was rather empty, but there was one that stood out. I pointed to the number 100, to which Max had appended a star.

”That’s Emiliano Ferrari. Record signing. Nought point six six six million pounds.”

”Did you pick that transfer fee yourself?”

”Of course not. That’s market forces at work. It’s a bit of a punt but if it pays off, Emi gets a career and we get a goalscoring midfielder. If he bombs again, we lose some money. The upside is immense.”

”I’ll drink to that,” I said, filling his glass.

”We should probably slow down,” he said, but he lacked conviction.

9. Axe Throwing (Snacks; Drinks; Prizes (Snacks and Drinks))

Half the stag party left the go-kart area and headed into The Armoury. Maxmax went straight to the axe-throwing area, and after a quick bit of instruction, began hurling axes at the target.

”The great thing about this,” said Max, ”is that it’s so clear what to do. Throw the axe. Hit. Easy. But I’ve got two axes and two equally valid targets and I don’t know where to chuck them.”

”Explain.”

”Banksy and Rainman. They’re similar right now, though Banksy has a higher ceiling. I want both to get first-team action, which because they are young goalies means playing slightly below their level.”

”Managers don’t trust young goalkeepers,” I agreed.

”Yep. One of them will go to Newport County, the other to Gibraltar. What did the Newport group think of Banksy?”

The wine was getting to me. No wonder Max was struggling to make progress. ”Just give us Banksy again. Don’t overthink everything!”

Max got heated. ”I have to overthink everything because these people are trusting me to do my best for them!”

”Okay,” I said, gesturing for him to quieten down. ”If Banksy goes back to Newport for our League Two season, where does Rainman go?”

Max tapped the Gibraltar page. ”Magpies.”

”So that’s European football, potentially. The sun, the sea, he might like it! And think of the romantic implications.”

On the laptop, Maxmax caught Dan Badford snogging a Beer Babe. Max shook his head. ”I don’t want to think about the romantic implications. Ew.”

”For Banksy! Dani comes to Newport for some of our home matches to watch her beau. She can’t pop over to Gibraltar the day before a WSL tie, can she? Banksy to Newport, Rainman to the Magpies. Bish, bash, and dare I say it, bosh. Will the Rainman deal be a loan?”

”No. Permanent.”

”Transfer fee?” Max opened his mouth and I spoke at the same time as him. ”One hundred grand. Ridiculous. Look, but this is far easier than you are making out. Come on, next.”

10. Augmented Axe Throwing

Maxmax moved to the next activity, which was the same but you threw the axes onto a projected screen. Monsters were coming! If you aimed well, you would kill the monsters. This was a huge hit, if you’ll pardon the pun.

I took a sip of wine, closed my eyes, thought ahead to the wedding. Had I done everything I was supposed to do? The ring. Where was the ring? The ring was safe. No, I had prepared thoroughly.

I glanced at Max. Perhaps now was a good time to get an answer. The only time it would ever be permitted to ask this particular question. ”Will, ah... Will your father be at the wedding?”

”If he arrives, I’m leaving.”

”Noted.” I shivered. ”Max?”

”Yes?” he said, warily.

”I’m getting cold.”

He eyed me to see if I was joking, then lifted his phone. ”Briggy? We need the ponchos.”

11. Travel to Chester, Board Ship (Buffet, Open Bar, Music)

The Staggers staggered into vans that drove them along the river, into Chester, and back on the other side. ”This place really needs a bridge,” I said.

Max gave me a sharp look.

The Staggers boarded the Mark Twain, which had been built to look like a Mississippi steamboat but which had lost the paddlewheel and funnels.

Bonkie took up a man-marking slot behind the party ship, gently pushed back by its music. Once per minute there was an enormous laugh. Maxmax explored the boat, ate an olive, caught Dan Badford snogging a different Beer Babe.

The next club in the Max Best Universe by size was Saltney Town. While Max wrote out the numbers at the speed of a dot matrix printer, he said, ”I’ve done some amazing deals.”

I wrapped the poncho around me, feeling snug and contented. ”The Polish striker and the Belgian playmaker, I know.”

”Not only them. We bought Harry Dunston from Wrexham. He was with us on loan last season but we’ve given Wrex four hundred grand to make it a perm. Plus the bastards got two million quid from the playoff final, plus we extended the deal where Saltney will play European games at The Racecourse. Imagine if we do get into the CL. How much will they be able to rinse Liverpool and Real Madrid fans, how much will they be able to make from their sponsors?”

The megaclubs of Europe playing in North Wales? ”I can imagine.”

”Ryan Reynolds was really sweet with Wee Bonnie, though.”

”That’s Emma’s cousin?”

”Yeah. She’s Scottish, so she doesn’t have a lot of experience of insincerity. Anyway, whatever. Davey Barnes extended with us for another year. He’s the dark side of the Wrexham project. As soon as he’s not needed anymore, he’s out the door. He’s a really good midfielder so I thought that was a one-year thing but he really liked it and so did his wife so he’s staying. Charlie Cullen got a big contract, which was partly to entice him to sign up with Ruth’s agency. It’s worth overpaying him at this stage of his career to make sure he’s in good hands. You’ve heard that Aff is out. Sam Topps and the two lads I bought with your money are moving sideways to Connah’s Quay Nomads. That’s the Brig’s team, in case you’re getting mixed up. I’ve promoted two Northern Powerhouse lads into the Saltney first team squad, but they’re miles off the levels when it comes to Europe. The levels of talent at Saltney are getting proper ludicrous, though. Omari and Tom are still in the squad but I’m open to the idea they might be better served elsewhere. Carl Carlile is staying for now. But then I did what might be the most surprising deal of all.”

”I am agog.”

”You played with him at College. The Australian goalie, Peter Schnakenberg, half a million pound purchase from Bayern Munich.”

”Holy merde!”

”I know. Bayern told him there was no path to the first team and they cut me a deal. We get him for this season and he gets to show his stuff. He wants to move on to a big club in the UK, which will be easy because he’s got a one million pound release clause.”

”Ah,” I said. ”So you make a small profit, he gets to play in the Champions League - we hope - but it’s a very easy deal for someone to buy him. Is this his rating, this 118?”

”Yeah,” said Max. ”I see him ending up at Hull or Preston, somewhere like that.”

I skimmed the numbers that represented Saltney Town’s players. A strange way to look at a football team, but one that has apparently brought Max Best to the top of many trees. ”Is this a Champions League squad?”

”Not yet, but it’s a great start. The best average right now is about 95, which is at least 20 points below where it needs to be. Pre-season training will help, and I will play for them in the qualifiers, but we need more stars. Which brings us to the big issue. The most vexing topic. What do we do with Chester’s squad? In the past, Saltney and College have progressed in Europe because of loans from Chester and Bayern. I don’t think I can send Wibbers and Gabby out this time.” He sank forward, pinching his nose. ”It’s chaos. It’s awful.”

”Come, come,” I said, soothingly, bringing him into my arms. I can be tender, Bethany! ”Don’t be such a fucking baby. Come now, Max. Grow a pair, yes? If you are too feeble to face the world, have some Dutch courage.” I added to his wine glass, which emptied the bottle.

My words had the desired effect. Max laughed, sat up straight, and said, ”Open the other bottle, then. Christ! Can’t you chip in? This is a stag do, mate.”

”The wine is gone.”

”What!” He fumbled for his phone. ”Briggy!”

12. Interlude (Comedy)

Glasses refilled, Max turned to a new page and wrote out the Chester squad as he saw it, groaning and sighing all the way. Then he stopped and looked up at the Mark Twain. ”What’s happening?”

”I don’t hear anything.”

”Exactly.”

”Ah! The dog that didn’t bark in the night. If the music has stopped, it must be - yes, look. Maxmax is hurrying to the lower deck. I booked John Liner to do ten minutes of comedy.”

”Why only ten minutes?”

”That’s all I can stand,” I muttered.

”I think he’s hilarious,” said Max. ”Let me turn the sound up.”

”No,” I said, reaching out to stop him. ”No. I might have asked John to roast you, somewhat. Perhaps in your fragile state, you don’t need to hear those particular home truths right now.”

”Fuck me,” he said. He took a big swig of wine and pointed to three numbers. ”John Liner is hilarious but there’s nothing funny about Chester’s goalkeepers.”

”A toast to the classiest transition since you ran the length of the pitch at Wembley for the lolz.”

Max clinked my glass, chugged, and wiped his lips in a very English way. ”Goalies. I’m happy with our goalie swag. Our haul. Rainman is sold, Banksy’s out getting match experience and another league winner’s medal at Newport. That leaves us with three. Sticky’s the backup.”

”He’s CA 122?”

”Yes. He’ll play in the Cheshire Cup but possibly nothing else. I had a talk with him about this coming season and said minutes might be thin on the ground but it’s an all-time coaching challenge and if you don’t like it, you can sleep on a bed of cash because here are your new wages. He reluctantly accepted his new role in life.”

Max’s phrasing was as pleasing as the wine. ”Reluctantly, ha. Was it a very big rise?”

”Another grand a week for his coaching contract, and another three grand a week as a player. I think it’s pretty good. Is someone gonna pay him seven grand a week just to coach? They might after this season when they see how fast our goalies improve, but I can’t worry too much about it.”

”If you are relegated, those wages will be too high, no?”

”Everyone’s getting clauses. When we’re relegated, here’s what your wages will be. But to balance that, I’m gonna let star players have release clauses. If we go down, Wibbers is yours for 60 million. That sort of thing, right? I have to negotiate with everyone but it’s not urgent. First thing to do is to work out where everyone will be playing. Which clubs. To finish this bit, our goalies for the season are Marek Masarik and Owen Elmham. DOVE has them at 141 and 146 but they will both get over 150 soon enough. I’m not worried about goalie. I’m not sure we could get anyone better, and in terms of value for money, we will lead the goalie table.”

”Marek must be on big wages.”

”Yeah. He asked for silly money if we got to the Prem and I said yes because I didn’t think we would get there. Anyway, it’s not silly money; it’s a fair amount. He could get more being a backup somewhere but he wants to play. Okay...” Max stared at the paper again, then sighed and circled eight entries. ”These guys can’t play in the Prem. They need another season and it isn’t even a discussion.”

”But - ”

Max scrunched up his fist and waved it towards Orion. ”These players are 30 points off the level! Who is responsible for this? Heads will roll!” He gripped me and pulled me a few inches closer, then growled, ”We used to have a thing in this country called honour. But we sold it to an American private equity fund.”

I gently prised his fingers off me and brought his attention back to his notes. ”Who are they? The eight?”

His eyes unfocused, then locked back in. ”Alfie Clitheroe. Creative midfielder. I really like him but he’s always behind so I have to keep loaning him out. One good thing when we get relegated is that I’ll be able to give him twenty appearances in a Chester shirt. Okay and the next one is similar. Adam Summerhays, the left back. I was thinking that I would loan them both to Tranmere again, but it depends if Diggy Doggy’s group are going to extend our deal. They want me to push Tranmere to the Championship but I don’t think they’re ready for that so I suggested something where I help them start making big profits on transfers. If they agree, I’ll loan them this pair and tell them who to put in their ESC slots.”

”I can’t believe you have a hotline to Diggy Doggy.” A huge laugh came from the Mark Twain. ”Are you going to do your stupid stunts in the Prem? Name John Liner as a substitute and so on?”

”Probably. I’ve got nothing to lose, right?” Max chewed on his pen. ”Thomazella and Nasa have to go somewhere. So does Tony Herbert. Lucas Cook, the striker we just bought. Dan Badford. Vincent Addo. Fuck me.” He leaned back and flicked through the notebook. ”How about this? Wait, no, that doesn’t work.” A couple of minutes later, he was nodding. ”Tomz and Nasa go to College. That’s good because Leo Los can take Tomz’s number 8 shirt. Tony Herbert to Saltney. I’m gonna try to place Cooky at Kilmarnock.”

”What? That is random.”

”I’m mates with their guy. The Scottish Prem is probably a good level for Cooky and he’s strong and fast and has a shit haircut so he will suit their footy. He’ll play, he’ll score goals. It’ll be a good step. And in a strange way, it’s exotic. I can sell it to him, I’m pretty sure.”

”Huh.”

”The only place Dan would go is Saltney, but that’s good for him. Dan in the Champions League? By next season he’ll be CA 150 for sure and Chester will have the best midfielder in the Championship. That’s my three loans to Saltney sorted. Me, Tony Herbert, Dan. Can’t do the free agent scam these days because the player values are too high to take the risk. Vini already did the Wales thing. He’s CA 115. What’s a good Championship club who would give him minutes and be patient with him?” Max closed his eyes. ”I think I’ll try Charlton. Let me call the guy.”

While Max did another deal, I tried to make sense of the numbers listed under ’Chester Men’. The forward with 142 had to be Wibbers. The left back with 141 was Lewis Lamarre. Was the right back with CA 100 Roddy Jones? When Max hung up, pleased, I asked. ”Why can Roddy stay when his number is lower than Dan or Vincent?”

”I don’t trust anyone else to use Roddy properly. I’m not letting him out of my sight, basically. He’ll get a few minutes as a sub playing right wing, enough to fuel his development. If there’s ever a match where the oppo goes down to ten men, I’ll throw him on as a right back. It might take two seasons of careful nurturing but then all of a sudden he’s going to be unstoppable.”

”With those eight players gone, the Chester squad looks awfully bare.”

”I’m only going to loan Matt Rush to College for the qualifiers. He could come back in September with another ten points to his name.”

”But College will get Nasa, won’t they? Why send two right backs to the same club?”

”Rushy will play right midfield with Nasa protecting him. I’ve done that sort of combo before; it works and they can learn each other’s game like that and it’ll be good when we use Relationism down the line. Yeah, I’m happy with all this. Let me do the under 18s real quick. There are six lads turning 19. Chas to West, Wallace to Chelsea.” Max pointed at nothing. ”These three can get a loan to Flint Town and he can go to the Nomads with the Brig. Hey, that’s solid. Good for them and it’ll keep Chip Star’s team down in fourth or fifth place. Fuck that guy.”

”Fuck that guy,” I agreed, pouring more wine.

”So,” said Max. ”Day one of the PL season. Owen in goal. Cole Adams, Peter Bauer, Magnus, Helge. Midfield of Lewis, Leo, Youngster, Pascal. Wibbers behind Gabby. That’s an average of... 137.” He cackled. ”Fucking hell. We are so cooked.”

”You are not cooked! It will be two or three matches before you return to Chester, yes? Ditto Rushy. That is two more good players. By my count, that brings the squad count to 18.” I peered at the numbers, which were doing some synchronised swimming. ”You need a centre back.”

”I was talking to Everton about loaning one of their young guns. Not sure if they will do it with us in the Prem but he’s about CA 150. Small loan fee, cover his wages, bosh.”

”There we go. And you need a central midfielder.”

”Yeah. I’m struggling there.”

”And you need more options on the flanks. What about Cheb Alloula? Can you sign him? I didn’t hear that he had moved.”

Max spoke in a whiny voice that wound me up. ”He would be expensive.”

I exploded. ”You’re rich! You are a Premier League manager. Start acting like one.”

My rebuke amused Max, which irritated me. But he nodded. ”I might give them a call.” He remained motionless, which I took as him provoking me, but then he said, ”With Cheb at right back and a couple more 150s, we would start pre-season at 142.8. There’s an international break twelve weeks into the season. What would we look like then?” He rubbed his chin, stopped, stared at nothing, then said, ”148. It’s not enough. We won’t have enough time to catch up and there won’t be enough goals in the team. Wibbers might get to 150 by that international break but then he’s a five-goal-a-season striker, not one who’s gonna save us single-handed like Foquita might.” He drank wine. ”Do you know where my honeymoon is going to be?”

”No,” I lied. Him changing the topic made me sad. ”You really don’t see a way to stay up?”

He slapped the page. ”Do you know how many times I have done these calculations? It’s the same result every time. What I can do,” he mused, ”what I know we can do, is get a few low-cost additions who make us respectable, and we can scrap for draws and every now and then, when things go our way, we can put on a show and get some wins. I want us to get 20 points. Totally respectable. As I said, we’ll get grudging respect from everyone who understands football.”

”But Max, you’ve forgotten something! You can play, too.”

”Not if I’m sacked after seven games, mate. How can I get sacked but play?”

”That’s stupid. Of course you can play after you have been sacked. And you won’t get sacked!”

”This is a circular argument, bro, but I’ve done this spiral a lot more times than you. Trust me on this.” He drained a glass, stared at the bottle, and topped himself up. As an afterthought, he filled my glass, too. ”I’ve had a crazy idea.”

”Oh, God.”

He signalled to the captain, who turned us around. We puttered towards the city centre. After a few minutes, we stopped. ”On the left is Bumpers Phase Two, yes?”

”Yes.”

”Behind that, the Deva, where one stand is being demolished at an unseemly pace. A bit further this way, Bumpers and Bumpers Phase Three.”

”The academy.”

Max groaned. ”Don’t mention that. We’re already in hot water for not having one. Yet more shit to shovel. Now look to the right.”

”The Deeside Industrial Estate. Beautiful.”

”Over there you’ve got Saltney Town, right? The Legends Stadium and training campus. So from left to right we’ve got the Deva, training centre, river, horrible industrial crap, stadium, training centre. Are you with me?”

”Of course.”

”What I’m thinking,” he said, quietly, getting closer, his face lighting up properly for the first time of the evening, ”is that I buy all this.”

”All what?”

”The Industrial Estate. All these offices and warehouses and crap. When the PetPride comes online, matchdays are going to be horrible for traffic. Hundreds of cars stuck in a jam because there’s nowhere to park. Brooke has got some stuff going on but basically, we need to buy some land and make our own car parks. So get this. I’m gonna buy all these buildings and when the tenancies run out, I’m gonna take down the structures, move them somewhere else, and put a car park here. It’ll serve Chester and Saltney. In the meantime, the club will collect the rent. Ten million quid invested, million quid a year return.”

”Or buy a player for ten million and sell him for twenty.”

Max didn’t like that. ”And where’s he gonna PARK?” More quietly, he said, ”We need this.” He gave me a pleading look, begging me to accept his logic.

There was precious little logic to be found. ”The fans will go bonkers if you spend all the money on nonsense and don’t buy new players.”

Max shook his head, like I was grossly missing the point. ”We’ll say we need office space because we’re in the Prem and they’ll go yeah, that checks out. The change from offices to car park will be so slow, so step-by-step, no-one will even notice it happening. Until the bridge opens.”

”The bridge?”

”Border Bridge! It’ll go right here, above us. Pedestrian plus bicycle. I’ve costed it at about fifteen million quid. There’s a whole bike route along the river anyway and this will extend it. It’ll be amazing. When the bridge opens, you’ve suddenly got all this land as the link in the chain between the two football clubs. People will park in Saltney and walk to Bumpers. They’ll have meetings in Bumpers and walk back to their office in Saltney. Breathe in that air, mate. Can’t you just taste the synergies? This is going to be the best investment Chester ever made.”

”I’m stunned. I’m staggered. What are you saying? How much cheese have you eaten?”

”There’s more. Do you know that five-a-side centre near the Deva? I’m going to buy that. I reckon it’ll cost four million quid and it’ll give us eight new pitches and more revenue. I’m gonna build, build, build, but I have to do it all fast while I’m still at the helm and I’ve still got the fans behind me.”

”The fans will expect transfers.”

”If you’re a true fan, a real fan, do you want me handing four million quid to a knobhead agent or do you want me to buy eight new pitches?”

”If you’ve got a hundred million, why not both?”

”Because one doesn’t give me joy and the other does. If I could spend the money on Foquita, I probably would, but no striker of that level would come to us and there’s no point buying the dregs. So I’m gonna do it my way. I’m gonna plant trees under which shade, um... what’s that saying?”

”Dunno,” I said, holding up the latest bottle of wine and finding it dangerously empty.

”Some people aren’t gonna like it but I say to those people...” He drank his glass, shoved it towards me, and forgot to finish the sentence.

”You might get away with it as long as you don’t turn the car park into a massive solar farm or anything like that.”

Max laughed hard. ”Ah, right. About that.”

13. Disco

Max showed me photos of the sort of car park he wanted to build. There was a special flooring that would allow grasses and herbs to grow, and there were shelters for the cars. Of course, they were covered with solar panels and there were charging stations and batteries galore.

”Gammons are gonna hate this,” I said. ”Buy strikers instead. Henri has spoken.”

Max closed his eyes, blissing out. ”That’s what Emma said. Emma,” he added, with a sigh. ”I’m getting married in the morning! Ding dong, the bells are gonna chime!” Just then, a bell did chime. Max put his phone to his ear and reacted with unfeigned disbelief. ”Who?” He pointed to his phone, asking me to share his astonishment, but he was too drunk to realise I couldn’t hear the other end of the call. ”The guy who went on strike to get a move and played absolute dogshit when he got it? A malignant narcissist? How’s he going to fit into a community club? Are you seriously pitching him to me? Do you know who I am? I’m in the top seventy million in line for the British throne. Diggy Doggy can’t say that! Leo Messi can’t say that! That hot Australian can’t say that. Henri, what name am I thinking of? Who’s the hot Australian?”

”Margot Robbie.”

”No.” He clicked his fingers, but ineptly, so that it made no noise. ”Dazza Smith.” The agent, incredibly, was still pitching his client. ”I don’t want him! I don’t want him! Wait, what’s your fee? What’s your fee for this deal? No, stop talking. Tell me your fee before you say another word. Ah, I knew it! The only reason not to say it is to rinse me. The call’s over.” The agent spoke more. Max’s annoyance was tipping rapidly into apoplexy. ”Why won’t you hang up? It’s my bargeday party. What? What did you say? Ah, stick it up your bollocks!”

I tried to get over to Max to take his phone away before he did long-term damage to his reputation, but I stumbled. ”Shit,” I said, as I banged my knee on something.

”Man overboard!” yelled Max.

”I’m fine,” I said.

”You’re not fine! Get Dean. Where’s Dean?”

”He snuck off with the cutie pie.”

”Did he? The fox! The sly devil! The lucky bastard!”

I made sure I was uninjured, took a few breaths, and exhaled. ”Do you think we should go home?”

”Absolutely,” he said, grinning, fumbling with his phone. ”Briggy!” he yelled into it a moment later. ”Can you bring another bottle?” He listened to her reply, then turned away from me slightly. He tried to whisper. ”It’s not for me! I’ve barely had any. It’s for Henri. He’s chucking it down his throat. Doesn’t even let it touch his tongue. He’s a total brute.”

14. Handcuffed to a Lamp Post

So, Bethany, you get the idea. If measured by the resulting hangovers, the two stag parties were a resounding success. Max did most of the strategic work for his clubs, and all he needs to do is add a few carefully-curated players here and there.

Tempsford will win their league. West Didsbury will finish in the top two. There will be a one-two-three in both Wales and Gibraltar, and most likely some good runs in Europe, too.

As for Chester? Max is dreaming.

”Henri,” he said, coming to my side. ”Look at this.” He spread his arms, indicating the Deeside industrial zone. ”One day, all of this will be yours.”

”I don’t want it.”

My answer delighted him. ”I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you might be tipsy.”

”What about the women’s team?”

”Bah. They’ll be one of the best teams in Europe by the time the season starts. Don’t worry about them.”

”But what about you?”

”Me? I’m gonna have a top wedding and a top honeymoon. I’m gonna take Saltney to the top. And then I’m gonna have seven matches in the Prem.” He grinned. ”And I’m gonna squeeze every last drop of fun out of those seven matches.”

”Oh, no.”

”Oh, yes!” He rubbed his hands. ”Right. Which way’s Manchester?” Our captain pointed behind us. Max stood, wobbled, and pointed. ”To the Exit Trials!”

***

Sure enough, despite being utterly wrecked, Max found four new players, two for West Didsbury, two for the Brig’s team. Four young men saved from the scrapheap. Four more lives filled with hope and promise.

And isn’t that Max’s most staggering gift of all?

(Luisa says no, it’s doing three assists to the same player then going round the goalie and not even trying to score. All right, Bethany. Must run. See you at the Euros, maybe?)