Chương 45: 9.8 - The Lone Star State

8. Monday, December 9 FA Youth Cup Third Round: Chelsea Under Eighteens vs Chester Under Eighteens It was dead on four hours from the Deva to Kingsmeadow, the stadium used by Chelsea's women and youth teams. For once I got on the team bus with the brats, with my AirPods Max set to noise cancelling while I reviewed footage of Chelsea from previous rounds. Behind me, the kids burned nervous energy, crashed, perked up again, crashed again. And that was just the first twenty minutes.

I tried to imagine being seventeen and, having been raised on a diet of playing Broughton and Ellesmere Port, suddenly having to compete against one of the giants of world football. And I tried to imagine a world where William B. Roberts would look at Kingsmeadow and the Chelsea players and equipment and think, 'Chester is fine'. The research was a good distraction. Chelsea had been using a lot of 3-4-3, though they could switch to 4-2-3-1 quite fluidly.

I was almost as nervous as the kids - apart from the feeling that I was taking WibRob into an ambush, this match would determine my chances of ever winning the Youth Cup. If Chelsea's under eighteens were rocking CA 60 or more then I was toast. I would probably not be able to match them until I was one of the top six clubs myself. They couldn't be that good, could they?

I'd seen some of the better youth teams on my travels but there had always been players out sick or on international duty or training with the older boys. Surely I'd see the best of the best today? I expected to face a squad jam-packed with talent, but my own options were fairly shit. My goalie, Bivvy, had improved to CA 13 - unlucky for some. I couldn't give him minutes in the first team and his PA was only 30. Lucas Friend was a good left back and Henk, Captain, and Bomber played better than their CAs.

Right back was a big weakness and my only options were to use wingers there - normally Sevenoaks but Noah Harrison was turning into a good team player. I didn't have a left midfielder with a PA over 30. WibRob had played there in the early rounds but if I wanted to win today, I needed to play him centrally. My initial concept was a 4-4-2 diamond, and since I didn't have someone who could play at the base of the diamond I would push the DM icon back to be a third centre back.

It would be a pretty strange-looking 5-3-2 with a vast hole in the centre of the pitch. I really liked the idea of having William behind Tyson and Benny - they would unnerve Chelsea for sure. But that would have meant a big role for Hope and no place for one of my better players - Dan Badford. If at all possible, I wanted to get my best players on the pitch, and the only way to do that was with a 4-3-3. From there, William could go wide or he could drop back to be a CAM.

I had one cause for optimism - Bench Boost and Triple Captain. We could name seven subs and use three. Obviously, if I wanted to win I needed to boost WibRob and two of my next best players - Dan Badford, Henk, Tyson, or Benny.

"Spectrum," I said. He was on a double seat of his own, also checking footage of our opponents.

"Could you get Wibbers, please." Shortly after, WibRob was on the seat next to me.

"How you doing buddy?"

"Good, boss. Ready to play. Ready to start."

"Oh," I said, frowning.

"Did you just tell me which team to pick?" He did a tiny eye roll - he knew this game.

"No, boss. I'm only saying I'm available for selection, boss." I dropped the fake annoyance and got real.

"You know that thing I do when I bring on key players twenty minutes into the game?" His disappointment was palpable.

"Yeah. That's me, is it?"

"Yeah." He was an interesting kid. He put setbacks behind him super fast.

"Why do you do that?"

"Good question. Almost no-one asks. You'd think everyone would want to know, right? There are different reasons but one is psychology. We will set up in 4-4-2 or something remedial and Chelsea's lads will relax. We're just some more dumb hicks who don't deserve to be on the pitch with them. Their coaches will be wary because, hey, it's Max Best. But the players will relax. Guaranteed."

"Complacent," spat William, possibly the least complacent human being I'd ever met.

"Right. Then you go on and suddenly it's mayhem and not many teams can make that switch. Even if they do, there's five minutes where we're absolutely slaughtering them. It can be worth a goal. Of course," I added, since I was also trying to teach him the game as a whole, "it can cost us a goal, too. If we don't have our best players starting, we could get dicked. But I've never regretted a defeat when I was trying to win. Do you know what I mean?" He nodded. I continued.

"Another thing is, when I've got a player like you or Henri or Sam Topps, you guys really watch the game from the bench. Not everyone does - the Chelsea kids will be on their phones. But you've got twenty minutes to think about what you're going to do. Their centre backs - what are their weaknesses? Should you dribble them down the left or right? That sort of thing. You'll come on ready to rumble."

"Is this why you're always a sub?"

"I like being a sub, yeah. By the time I go on, I've worked out the whole team but especially the goalies. If I get a free kick I normally try to score from the first one because I've seen his trigger movements. They're not stupid, though. They adapt. It's cat and mouse but I like to have that time to think about it, yeah. I know you want to play every minute of every game but I don't want you to be a hammer. I want you to be a scalpel. Any questions?"

"Are we going to win?"

"It's not about winning," I said, using my best poker face.

"It's about doing our best." William rolled his eyes.

"Right."

"I don't know if we'll win," I said, honestly.

"Let's see who turns up. If there's no chance to win, you can play the whole match. How does that sound?"

"Sounds pretty shit." I smiled.

"Send Benny."

Kingsmeadow was a low stadium with almost five thousand total capacity. There were several hundred Chelsea fans in, and what looked like three hundred scouts and agents. The pitch looked and felt like a snooker table and all around were banners for the women's team - one praised the legendary former manager Emma Hayes, now in charge of the US Women's National Team. National flags showed from where Chelsea's women's team hailed - Germany, Spain, France, the USA.

A big blue sign claimed that Chelsea were 'the pride of London'. Yeah? Did you put that up before or after you tried to join the European Super League, you dicks? The smugness was nauseating, but it was the wealth disparity, as always, that was most winding me up. My dugout had seven seats side by side and behind was a huge space for all our subs and support staff. We filled precisely three of the seven seats - me, Spectrum, and one of our new physios. Chelsea's staff spilled out beyond the generous space.

There were thousands of the bastards. Chelsea's coaches had at least 15 in their Coaching attributes, their physios looked equipped for an arctic expedition, and everywhere I looked I saw iPads showing formations and graphs. And then their players took to the pitch for a pre-warm-up warm-up, and fuck me there were stars everywhere. Many had been stripped from the academies of smaller teams, but some had been brought to the club for proper fees. I knew that one player had cost three million pounds.

Three million for a seventeen-year-old! He wasn't an isolated case, but at least the money had been spent on actual prospects. More than half of the squad had PA higher than 130 and there were no fool's gold players. This was a dog-eat-dog environment and the B-list meats had been spat out long ago. I looked at my side of the pitch. I had a lot of D-list talent and precisely one star. But a closer look got my jaw clenched and my blood pumping.

Some of the top Chelsea talents I'd seen on the tapes were absent and while they had three absolutely unbelievable players, my boys absolutely dicked Chelsea on teamwork and work rate. While they looked good on video, in person their player profiles were filled with petty jealousies and greed. Dislikes Tom Hawkes-Brown. Dislikes Samuel Otawenge. Has been told by his agent he can get a better contract elsewhere. Bunch of pricks! And not a single Chelsea player had ever been anywhere near the first team.

My guys were battle-hardened. They had learned a few tricks from Sam Topps, some of the dark arts of defending from Glenn Ryder, and the forwards had been taught by Henri Lyons. Chelsea's average CA would be around 37. Our best eleven was around 22. We had a chance. And, I thought, head spinning as I spat out calculation after calculation, next season... Next season! I could get close to this level next season. Close... or better. We would be in League Two.

The first team minutes I gave my kids would count for more!

"Boss? You okay?"

"We're going to fucking win this," I growled, meaning next season, but some of the lads nearby heard me. William B. Roberts was one of them and if I'd handed him a bayonet he would have charged any direction I wanted. I reached into my backpack for a pen. I clicked the top.

"Let's fuck some shit up."

"Yesss," hissed Benny. Dan Badford slapped Tyson on the back. Captain clenched his fists.

I smashed my perks and prepared to use Seal It Up to help keep us in the game for the first fifteen minutes. We were in an agricultural 4-4-2 with an old-school combination up front. Chas Fungrieve was a lanky guy to win headers, and Walshy was a bustling, all-action brute. As they shook hands before kickoff, Chelsea's international fleet of pampered princes looked down their noses at the big, strong, northern boys.

Also shaking hands were two of my weaker players, Hope and Kian, whose job was to sprint around the left side of midfield trying to make a nuisance of themselves. Chas, Dan, and Noah had been told they would likely be on the pitch for the whole match so they shouldn't go bonkers with the pressing. Chelsea got on the ball and immediately the gulf in class was evident. They had a CA 50 central midfielder, a CA 60 centre back, and a CA 60 striker.

These kids were terrifying - they had unbelievable technical quality and drifted past my boys like they weren't even there. On the other hand, the starting line up also had a CA 20 and a few in the 20-30 range. Which was fine - kids develop at different speeds and the coaches clearly saw the potential in this latter group. And perhaps some had recently come back from injury. But the three high CA kids were arrogant as fuck and didn't think they should be on the same pitch as the lesser lights.

They played like early-career Tyson - reluctant passes, visible displeasure when anyone made a mistake. I turned to my three supersubs - Benny, Tyson, and William - and said, "What a bunch of twats."

"Can we do mental disintegration?" said Benny.

"No need," I said.

"When the pressure's on, they'll turn on each other. You watch." We watched. Seal It Up added plus one to our back four's Positioning scores, and the difference it made was clear. Sevenoaks in particular looked more like a real defender. Triple Captain was working, too. Captain was shouting and organising and the guys around him were responding. Henk usually tried to play within himself, apparently wishing to make everything look so terribly easy, but today he was sharp and snapped into challenges.

One of these challenges was called a foul and the dickish centre back sprinted to the referee, waving an imaginary yellow card in his face. It triggered me to a ludicrous degree. I blew my top, steaming into the Chelsea technical area.

"What's this shit? What's this shit?" The aggro levels trebled and things got real feisty. The ref came over to calm things down but I was enraged.

"SUB!" I screamed, and while an appalled Spectrum looked on, I withdrew Hope, Kian, and Walshy and sent on Benny, Tyson, and WibRob. I switched to 4-3-3 with my lone star dropping back from the striker role to be a CAM.

"If we get an injury," said Spectrum.

"We're fucked," I said, glaring at someone on the Chelsea bench.

"I know." Chelsea took the free kick, wafting it uselessly into the box. Captain ate that shit for breakfast, and he nodded it away. Having Seven at right back was not ideal but it did mean having a good passer there. He got onto the ball and played it first time to Dan. He half-turned, smooth as the pitch, and rolled the ball to WibRob. The kid unleashed himself. He somehow accelerated from nothing to maximum in one stride, barged a midfielder so hard he spun three times, and then found an extra gear.

"Argh," cried Spectrum, which made no sense but I completely understood where he was coming from. William was a burly blur of legs, arms pumping, and when he shifted the ball so he could crack it, the star defender went into full hero mode and flung himself in the way of the shot. William cut back onto his left, where he was equally comfortable, dabbed the ball forward to Chas, who passed to Benny, who had made a great run, and now there was space everywhere. We'd carved them open!

Benny played the ball square and William clipped the ball into the left of the goal. One-nil! Before celebrating, William gave the gobby defender a few verbals, and then he was away. I prowled around the technical area, giving daggers to the Chelsea coaches. Fucking letting their kids play shit, letting them be as twatty as they wanted? I wouldn't stand for that from my players. Who was in charge, here? I found myself nodding. The players were in charge. They ran this show and the coaches had to put up with them.

That's what it's like dealing with elite talent. They get away with murder. Not in my gaff, though. William was as talented as any of these pricks but he was a team player and while he was off the scale for self-belief, he was humble. He wanted to learn. And he knew I'd boot him off the team if he stepped out of line. Chelsea didn't respond how I'd expected. They didn't implode. They didn't seem bothered that we had scored.

That could have been because they knew they would get back in the game, or because they thought we had got lucky, or because they didn't give a shit. I suppose on the whole it was good that they continued to play their way, as though nothing had happened. They passed the ball around, some with more enthusiasm than others, while we kept our shape and tried to make it hard for them to play through our lines.

I dipped into the Without Ball screens five times a minute trying to optimise our defensive spacing and trying to cut the supply from Chelsea's midfield to their strikers. That was not possible with the players I had, and Chelsea carved a clear opening, and then another, and at the third time of asking, they equalised. Soon after, they scored again and the Chelsea bench danced their way into my technical area. Absolutely classless bunch of twats.

I used Cupid's Arrow to link Dan to William and moved my star from the CAM slot to the wide right Mo Salah slot. That was the position from which he had dismantled Cheltenham, who, like Chelsea, played three at the back. Tyson won a header - one advantage of playing in the lower tiers was you got used to winning duels or you didn't last long - Noah Harrison worked hard to get the ball properly under our control, and as Chelsea tried to press, Dan clipped a simple diagonal ball towards William.

The guy took a touch and cracked it towards goal. The goalie flapped but got a hand to it. Benny was the fastest to react. He stabbed it home. Two-all! This was a pulsating contest, now, and I realised there were Chester fans in the stadium. One little patch where blue-and-white striped shirts could be seen. It looked like Bulldog, Mr. Roberts, and a bunch of other parents. What must they have been feeling?

Their kids were going toe-to-toe with one of the best teams - scratch that - one of the best collections of players in the world. As Cupid's Arrow was running out and with half time fast approaching, there was another magical moment. Dan passed to William, who touched it back, turned, and did a full sprint straight ahead. Dan rushed to the ball, leaned back, and clipped it over the line of defenders with levels of backspin I would have been proud of.

It was a fraction too far for Will to volley, so he chased it, let it bounce, and hooked it up to the left, and with Chas being a foot taller than the guy marking him he had a simple job to nod the ball into the net. The boys went mental. I went berserk. I fucking loved football but not as much as I fucking loved beating one of the superclubs. Fuck them and the horse they rode in on! We had only been ahead in the match for a total of about three minutes but I was already absolutely addicted to the feeling.

A little voice in the back of my head checked the match ratings and the Condition of our players and said, 'this can't last.' Fuck that guy, too.

At half time I shut everyone up - they were so, so hyper - and I insisted on the usual decompression routine. We were quiet for five minutes, where the only sounds were of our physio checking on scrapes and strains and Spectrum giving some low-energy praise. Chelsea changed their formation, using one of their subs to do so. That was pleasing.

"Lads," I said, bringing their attention on me.

"That was unbelievable. I don't want to exaggerate this but I think right now we could beat Real Madrid." Some chuckles. I took a drink of water - I hadn't realised it but I had been shouting instructions for most of the half. Something about the aggression and the all-consuming rage I felt when I saw that 'pride of London' sign.

"There's an advert that sums up what Chelsea's all about. It's a huge hydraulic press and on the platform is the club badge from every team in England. The eight hundred who play in the FA Cup and thousands more. On the left is Bristol and Mousehole and Exeter and over there's Bury, Stockport, Macclesfield. Here's Chester and next to it is Wrexham. They're not looking at each other." Some laughs.

"Down comes the press and all the badges explode and if you listen to the music you're supposed to think that's a good thing. On it goes, crushing, crushing, crushing until it's flat. And then the press goes up and there's only six badges left. That's what Chelsea Football Club is all about. That's what this place represents." I walked to a bin and kicked it over.

"I fucking hate these guys. I hate everything about them and I love everything about us. We've already achieved one thing. They've abandoned their shitty 3-4-3 and they're going to 4-2-3-1. A billion pound team using a back four and two DMs to cope with Chas and Benny! Hey?" Some laughs, some digs in the arm for Benny.

"Okay so if they're giving up the centre of the pitch, we have a choice. Do we plant our flag there or do something else?" I waited. Tyson said, "Are you asking us?"

"Yes, I'm asking you." As insane as being pitchside against one of the supervillains of world football was making me, I was very aware that the main thing was the development of the players. Noah had been at plenty of dinners where football tactics were the only topic.

"We've used our subs. What formations could we do?"

"4-5-1," I said.

"Flood midfield, keep possession, run down the clock.

"We've got the option of 4-4-2 or 4-2-4. We could do a pretty good 3-5-2. Get in groups and discuss what you think we should do." There was an explosion of conversation. After a minute I got them to tell me their thoughts. The defenders wanted 4-4-2 so there would be protection and an out-ball. The midfielders wanted 4-5-1 so we could do one-touch. William spoke last. He looked around.

"I say we stick to 4-3-3. They can't handle me."

"Spoken like a true mini-Max. But thing about being me is, it's always more fun to go all-out." He grinned like a madman.

"What do I do?" I mentally switched the formation.

"We go 4-5-1. Benny, you're wide left for a while. Support Lucas and don't go roaming. Will, after a couple of minutes you're going to drop to DM. That's 4-1-4-1. We can control the ball for a while until they adapt. When they do, Will's gonna push up and be a CAM. That's 4-4-1-1. They won't be able to work out where you're playing. Then after I've had my fun with that, we'll do five minutes of bog-standard 4-4-2 with Will left mid. They'll be chasing him all round London." I paused, a beatific smile spreading.

"Then it's bosh time."

"Bosh?" said Spectrum.

"Right back to 4-3-3 and we slug it out and see what fucking happens. Hoo-rah!"

"United!" cried Captain.

"Let's fucking go!" I yelled, kicking the poor bin again.

The first twenty minutes went great - I made even more changes than I had promised, all aimed at moving WibRob into unexpected positions. I'd spotted that Chelsea's coach had set one of the DMs to man-mark my star and every time I moved Will around, the change caused more panic and pandemonium. We ate up the clock with slick one-touch passing moves in a midfield that was pretty empty of Chelsea guys. Meanwhile their DMs and CAMs were having to run extra to engage us and to chase Will.

For a time we negated their Condition edge. But then the guy used his last two subs and we more than lost the advantage. The new guys were his fastest and they were sent on to dribble at us. I saw what would happen - they would exhaust us and we would collapse in the last ten. The logical thing to do was to go men behind ball and hope to muddle through to the final whistle.

"Attack!" I screamed.

"Attack! Attack attack attack!" We went 4-3-3 with William set to 'free role' and 'playmaker'. Five wild minutes followed. Proper basketball stuff. Our shot, their shot, our shot, their shot. Then there was five minutes of our shot, their shot, their shot, their shot. I'd used almost all my tricks. My new screens couldn't help overcome the CA and fitness gap. The inevitable happened - a few slick passes, a few good decisions, and a Chelsea player was through on goal.

Captain slid to block, the goalie came out, but the Chelsea starlet did a sweet dragback onto his other foot, took a step, and rolled the ball home. Absolutely beautiful. Three-all and the pricks in the next technical area were suddenly cock-a-hoop. Their shitty players stopped playing, though, and with ten minutes left to play we got a free kick in shooting position. Dan could have taken it. Tyson was decent at free kicks. But there was no doubt who I wanted on the ball.

As William placed it I hit the Free Hit button. Whatever he was about to do was ten percent more likely to result in a goal. I remembered the conversation we'd had. I'd talked about watching the keeper's trigger movements. Had William been listening? Had he done it? He took a breath and stepped forward. From his body position it was clear he was planning to cross to the far post and find the match's dominant header - Captain.

While I was watching Captain pushing and pulling his marker, trying to get some space, William slowly curled the ball into the top left. Four-three! The boys found the energy to form a human mound. Spectrum tried to jump on my back, but I wasn't in the mood. I'd seen Benny's Condition drop twenty points. He'd fucking hurt himself in the goal celebration! I kept my fury to myself and worked with the WibWob screens to try to make us more solid. We had used our subs - Benny would have to play on.

I dropped William as deep as the formation would allow, and shuffled everyone else back a few notches. Futile. Chelsea came at us with a new level of intensity. With the humiliation of being knocked out by a tier five club looming, they dropped the arrogance and the attitude and played some actual football. We couldn't cope. Their fourth goal was good play, tired defending, and gaps caused by an overall lack of quality in our outfield players. But their fifth was a howler from our goalkeeper.

Bivvy plucked a harmless cross from the air and - inexplicably - dropped it. A CA 1 striker at any level would have scored. It was an absolute gift for a CA 60 future international. Five-four to the home team. Their over-the-top celebrations seared themselves into my memory. Never again.

Wednesday, December 11 Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. The streets of Chester city centre were busy with tourists visiting the charming but overpriced Christmas market and locals getting stuck into their Christmas preparations. Mums and dads making sure everything was just right for their kids. The rest of the year might be a grinding, soul-destroying battle against neoliberalism, but Christmas Day would always be magical.

The right presents, the best crockery, a table groaning under the weight of the turkey and stuffing and brussels sprouts, the dad jokes, the crackers, begging mum to leave the oven and sit down for a minute. I knew two people who wouldn't be having picture-postcard Christmas dinners. I would spend an hour with my mother, Anna, and Solly and I would try to delay the moment I burst into tears until I was safely back in my car. And Daddy Star would not be spending Christmas with his daughter.

Every shop I walked past was playing a different Christmas song, but none of them dislodged the tune in my head. I was mind-singing an old Man United classic from the days when Man City were a joke team." This is how it feels to be City," I hummed." This is how it feels to be small.

"I watched a mum hurry past, laded with shopping bags." This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all." I pushed a door open and the warmth and smell slapped me into the present moment. Someone helped me out of my giant coat, I peeled my West beanie off, and I clipped my dark-tint sunglasses onto my plain black top.

"Good disguise," said Luisa. She was in her green work top and looked amazing.

"I can't go round Chester looking like me," I said.

"Are they here?"

"Jess." She put her hand on my wrist.

"Be careful. He's a shark." I nodded and followed her to the most private table, in the back corner. This is how it feels to be small. I used Luisa as a sort of distraction while I slipped into the free seat on a table of four. The three men were, naturally, giving the hot waitress their full attention and it took half a beat for them to realise I'd arrived. In front of me sat James Pond, in many ways the real villain of the piece.

To his left, my right, sat Daddy Star, looking very much the way I'd seen him last, right down to the revolver lapel pin and a lone star badge like he was a fucking sheriff. Opposite him, to my right, was a dude about my age. I knew who he was from my research, but it was startling to see him up close. He looked like an AI-generated image of a man. The prompt?

Photorealistic disappointing son of a successful businessman; light brown hair; no spark of human intelligence; leave wide spaces between features to create a tempting slap zone. The kid was so uncanny valley-looking that I spent a distracted first few seconds trying to check if the AI had given him six fingers.

"Ah, Max, you made it," said James Pond.

"Yep."

"You've heard of Gerry Star." Daddy Star reached over the table and I was forced to take his handshake. It was firm but not excessively macho. Still, I wanted to squirt disinfectant all over myself.

"You're the famous Max Best. Heard a lot aboutcha."

"I've heard a lot about me, too." Star laughed and I relaxed. He was a supervillain and we were enemies and we had to go through this charade to get to the next stage in our conflict, but he had charisma. This lunch didn't need to be a slog. He said, "I play golf with an Irishman. Barry O'Gorman. Terrible player, wonderful drinker. I told him about this Max Best who's causing a stir and he said, 'wonder if he's any relation?' So, are you?"

"Any relation to who?" said the young man. No-one had bothered to introduce him. I used the interruption to get another look at him. He was mesmerising in his unlikability.

"This here's Chip," said Star.

"My son."

"Chip?" I said, unable to disguise my horror. I was sure my research had dug up a normal name, like Richard or something, but I must have been overtired that day. Imagine being called Chip on the concrete playground of a south Manchester school. The mind actually boggled. Chip? James Pond realised I had frozen.

"Your father's friend was asking if Max is related to George Best. The Belfast Boy. The Fifth Beatle."

"The Fifth Beatle?" said Star, eyebrows dancing.

"Sounds like my kind of soccer player!"

"The stories about him are legendary," I said, as Chip pulled a million-inch laptop out of a bag, slapped it on the table, and opened it. The screen shone with the brightness of the floodlights at the Tottenham stadium. I slipped my sunglasses on but the dimwit didn't get the message.

"Best liked a drink and he liked women. He once said, I spent a lot of money on booze, birds, and fast cars. The rest I squandered."

"Ha!" cried Star.

"Birds is British slang for women," said Chip, a clarification no-one needed. James Pond pushed his glasses up his nose.

"George Best also said that if he had to choose between dribbling past five players and scoring from forty yards at Anfield or bedding Miss World, it would be a hard choice. Fortunately, he added, I have done both."

"Heh heh!" I said, "The most famous story is from when he'd all but retired in his late twenties. Instead of training and pushing himself to his limits, he was in a hotel room. A hotel worker was a big football fan and he got the call to bring Best his room service. He goes in, places a cold bottle of champagne next to all the empties. The bed's covered in cash from a big win at the casino, and Miss World is lying on the cash in her bikini. The hotel guy shakes his head and says, 'Mr.

Best, where did it all go wrong?'"" Hot sauce!" said Star, slapping his thigh.

"That's my kind of fella, all right! Good player, was he?" For some reason, Chip decided to weigh in as the subject matter expert. He was reading from some website. He read out facts, somehow stripping the life from them as he spoke.

"Pelé said Best was the best player he'd ever seen. He scored six goals in one game. He was sacked after he went on a gigantic drinking session with the French rugby team." His dad said, "That's enough detail, Chip." Luisa asked if we were ready to order. Star flirted with her and she flirted back. Our starters came fast - Chip reluctantly put his laptop away and I made a big show of taking my sunglasses off. We made small talk until the mains were nearly done. Star was easy company.

Pond was - ironically - dry but had enough emotional intelligence to know he was not a sparkling conversationalist. He kept things ticking over and let the extroverts do the running. Of course, he didn't know that I was a renowned introvert. As for Chip, well, let's just say he would have found a niche for himself at Chelsea. As I neared the end of my piri-piri chicken, Daddy Star launched into the beginning of his pitch. He told me that he'd always loved sport.

He had tried to get on his college team, a feat he described as being akin to the movie 'Rudy'. I hadn't seen it but it was famous enough that I knew the ending.

"Thing is," said Star, "I never got on the field. Not even for one down. They didn't think I was tough enough, fast enough, man enough. I've spent every day since proving them wrong. Plenty of those fellas work for me, now. Funny, though. I'd give up half my fortune to have played." He stared at some spot on the wall and pushed at it with a stubby finger.

"I heard how you do it. Everyone plays every game. I wonder if that's the way it should be? Or is it too soft? Man's gotta earn his place on the field."

"You already earned it by getting in the squad. I use the whole of the chicken. There are matches where you need someone to run around like a crazy person for ten minutes. You don't need to be George Best for that." James Pond said, "I was at the Chelsea game." My fork paused on its way to my mouth. That was unexpected. He continued.

"You used some of the weaker players and kept the strong ones on the bench. It nearly worked, too."

"Yeah," I said.

"Nearly." This is how it feels when your team wins nothing at all.

"I haven't seen you that passionate and fired up before."

"I don't like them," I said.

"Who?"

"Billionaires."

"Max," said Pond, annoyed. He looked at Daddy Star apologetically.

"Sorry."

"Ha!" said Star.

"I ain't no billionaire. Whut? Someone's got the wrong end of the wrong stick. But I think Max is smart enough to keep an open mind about me. Whaddya say, Max?" I put my fork down and leaned back. I let the last atoms of peri-peri dissolve into my tongue, enjoying the blissful slightly burning sensation. I exhaled.

"I was pretty depressed after that match. If we could add to the roster, we'd smack teams like Chelsea up. But after I'd spoken to the kids, I saw the dad of one of our stars talking to an agent. More like flirting with the agent; they were having a lovely old time. Best friends for life. If we lose our prospects we'll never be able to bridge that gap." I closed my eyes.

"It was the first time I was glad we were having this meeting. It was the first time I thought seriously about taking some investment." Star swigged some water.

"What did you say to those boys in the locker room?"

"I got the goalie up. His mistake led to the last goal. I stood Bivvy up and said we win as a team, we lose as a team. I offered the others one chance to punch Bivvy in the dick but if anyone took it then I'd list all the mistakes he made and he'd be next up for a dick-punch. No-one wanted to cast the first punch. I sat Bivvy down and said I was proud of the lot of them and they'd done the badge proud and they were the only ones in the stadium who could say that.

I said Chelsea are in there pumping out victory music so loud the mortar is cracking - bunch of classless pricks - but there's no-one in that dressing room who's worth a damn. We've got a year to get better and we're going to come back and rip them a new one. I said giving them first team minutes was working and they'd get more but only if they stuck together and stayed positive."

"Huh." Star showed some Brooke-ness. Something was going on behind that blank expression, but I couldn't tell what. Pond said, "And did you mean it?"

"We need a bit more star quality. Three or four match winners on top of that squad but if we keep that unity and that mentality, bosh. We win the Youth Cup."

"There's no prize money for that," said Chip. I replied by staring at him.

"It's a waste of time and resources. Why bother?" He shook his head.

"You focus on the wrong things. Your whole strategy is bad."

"Oh," I said.

"You sign teenagers and waste five years of coaching time and in-game minutes. Let someone else do that. You should sign twenty-two-year-olds and sell them after two years. That's the way to maximise profits." All my decisions and mistakes had somehow led me to this moment - being lectured on how to run a football club by a b-boy's idiot son. I sighed and rubbed my temples. I wanted nothing more than to never speak to or think about this guy ever again. Why was that?

His older sister was incredible, but when she was growing up, the No Fussin' empire was probably, like, ten stores. Daddy was comfortable but ever-striving for more. Brooke learned the value of being smart, working hard, and getting on with others. The empire grew so fast that Chip had grown up with a dad worth over a hundred million dollars and he had learned that whatever he did, daddy still bought him a new car every year.

"Let's talk about Chip," I said.

"What's his role in the post-takeover Chester?" Star poked a fork at his son.

"He'll be my eyes and ears on the ground. I've got a business to run back home. Chip's very interested in soccer. Always has been." I thought about pointing out that I would never, ever put myself through the agony of reporting to an empty-suited nepo baby, but Star already knew that. Or did he think he could make an offer big enough that I would want to stay? I knew these ultra-rich types were arrogant, but surely not that much. I stayed internal for long enough to worry James Pond.

He coughed and said, "Perhaps we could clarify one or two things, Max. If there was a takeover, and of course it's still very early days and subject to approval from the fans, what exactly would Mr. Star be acquiring?"

"What?"

"Would you give us your analysis of the division and our place within it?" I shrugged. Why not?

"Grimsby are running away with it. Barnet are a well-financed team with good scouting and a good manager. They're top of a pile of clubs with similar resources and ambitions. Altrincham, Gateshead, Solihull, Oldham. Forest Green have been in decline but they're going to get a million pounds in the Third Round of the FA Cup. That could get them going again. On their day, Halifax, Rochdale, and Hartlepool can beat anyone. Southend and Woking are spending money. Fylde and Ebbsfleet spend way more than they earn.

Dagenham are part-owned by the New York Yankees. There are twenty-four clubs in the league and our budget is one-third of the guys at the top and one-half of a dozen more."

"So you need more money," said Star.

"I wouldn't say no to a donation."

"Who would you buy?" said Chip. I stared at him in a way that would have been rude had it been someone not called Chip. Did he really think I'd give away transfer targets to some randos? Star gave a wry smile, then got serious.

"I don't claim to understand much about your sport. Is it true you tanked the, what was it, the Trophy?"

"Yes."

"Why'd you do that?"

"We have a squad of players that can win matches of a certain level. Some we can win by adding a certain amount of emotional energy, which takes time to replenish. We play in the league and in three different cup tournaments. It's like the regular NFL season with three knockout cups each leading to its own Super Bowl."

"Four Super Bowls, then? Even I think that's too many Super Bowls!"

"Oh, the whole thing is mad, really. The Trophy is a medium-sized Super Bowl. I wanted to go hard at it, course I did, but the scheduling worked against us. It would have been irrational to go hard at that match when the next one was a big big Super Bowl game."

"Which Super Bowl are we talking about now?" James Pond pushed his glasses up.

"I don't think the comparison was very helpful, Max."

"You're right. Er, my decision was based on maximising financial income while retaining realistic sporting ambitions across a variety of competitions." Star nodded.

"Got it. Okay. Now, what about Kidderminster?" I blinked.

"What about them?"

"See, I find it real interesting. The promotion and demotion thing. We don't have that but it's damned exciting, isn't it? Now, you and Kidderminster came up from the lower place. And they beat you in the early season. But halfway through, you're sittin' pretty in the playoffs and they're the square root of nowhere."

"Sixteenth," said Chip.

"Your budgets are comparable and if anything, they invested more in the roster than you did. So how've you turned that around?"

"Most teams recruit based on their immediate needs. Kiddies had a couple of weak spots and upgraded. Perfectly rational, but I have loftier ambitions. To get as high as I want to go, we have to start lower."

"That makes no sense," said Chip. I decided that every time Chip spoke, I would remain silent, and tried it out now. It felt great. James Pond stepped in.

"Max, it's plain to see that you can spot talented and undervalued players. I told Mr. Star all about Raffi Brown and the frankly outrageous fee we got for him. I told him about Sam Topps and how you replaced him for a fraction of the sale price."

"Buy low, sell high," said Star.

"I'm a businessman and I understand that all right. James says we can do this on repeat. Buy low, sell high. But can you buy medium, sell even higher?"

"Of course," I said. Star smiled.

"Only thing missing is startup capital."

"Mmm," I said. So far, most of the conversation had been pretty basic. It was theatre, a play performed for the benefit of James Pond. He was the referee and we had to play by his rules to get through to the next round. I felt a surge of excitement - me against the billionaires! This was a replay of the Chelsea match. I had to hurry to dampen the excitement - that wasn't the right vibe at all. This is how it feels to be City...

"A cash injection would be nice but money tends to come with strings attached and that's a problem. If anything is done that puts the club at risk, I'll have to quit. And without me, the whole process grinds to a halt."

"Other soccer clubs have managers and scouts," said Star.

"They somehow stumble through the misty fogs without your blinding light to guide them."

"Oh, indeed," I smiled. He'd fallen into a trap already. One-nil!

"But then they're just another football club and if there's one thing every football club in this country excels at it's losing money. See, I like you, Gerry, and I'd hate to see you blow Chip's college fund getting yourself on the wrong end of a deal."

"I graduated three years ago," said Chip.

"From Yale." I'd landed a good blow. Two-nil!

"The aim of small clubs is to get bigger but the biggest clubs lose the most money. Chelsea and Man City have blown unfathomable amounts. We all know that, but did you know what Aston Villa have been up to? From 2016 to 2023 they lost 230, 000 pounds... a day. In that time, they posted losses of 584 million in total and they're not a crazy outlier. Premier League clubs lose obscene amounts. Championship clubs are losing 70, 000 a day on average. That's 90, 000 dollars, Chippo. A day. That's a lot of grizzle sticks.

Let's go down a level. For every one hundred pounds Oxford United generate, they spend two hundred pounds in player wages. They lose 100, 000 a week. When they were in the National League, Wrexham's owners spent nine million pounds getting promoted. The club currently owes them that nine million and a lot more. What if they call that debt in? I'm sure they'll write it off or whatever rich people do, but as it stands, Wrexham AFC are one billionaire tantrum away from ceasing to exist.

What if Ryan Reynolds has a bad day and reads a mean tweet and pulls the plug? No, that life is not for me. If Chester fans choose to go down the exit ramp marked 'certain doom' I won't be here and it'll just be another loss-making club with an owner who thinks he's smarter than a hundred other rich guys." Three-nil!

"We can pick players just as well as you," said Chip. Three-one. That got my attention.

"Gosh, how?"

"That's proprietary information."

"It's true, Max," said Pond.

"They have amazing data models and their findings tally with yours. I was not a fan of the James Wise signing but their data showed me I was wrong and now look at him." I felt the first slight stirrings of unease. Three-two? If they thought they could actually run a football club without me, my plan might not work.

"Every football club has super-duper data models these days."

"I've seen their work and it's impressive. If they acquire the club you'd benefit from it. All the scouting you do by driving around you'd be able to do from the comfort of your home with the click of a mouse. Now, there's still a role for you because your teams always outperform expectations and your underlying data is exceedingly good. But they could run this club without you. They really could." Three-all.

If they really did have a model they could sack me and get someone in who could coach and do some funky tactics. They could do what I was planning to do. Not as fast, maybe, but they could get to League One in seven years and get a massive return on investment.

"What's the selling price?" I mused.

"That's none of your concern," said Chip. His dad said, "Two million pounds."

"And where does that money go, James?"

"It goes to the trust."

"And is distributed to the members?" I wanted to know if he was going to get rich off this deal.

"No. We didn't save the club to profit from it. We saved the club because it's our club. It's our community. Mr. Star can get us back into the league where we belong, and when he buys the stadium, we'll use those funds to help." I laughed.

"So he gives you two million pounds and a few weeks later you give it back to him? You're giving him the club... for free? Are you fucking serious?" Four-three to Max!

"I am serious," said Pond, fuming. He pushed his glasses up and hissed.

"We want to professionalise and modernise and we want our bloody stadium back." Four-all. I pointed at Star, matching Pond's negative energy." He'll own the fucking stadium, you idiot!" Five-four to me!

"The club will," said Pond.

"Now, fellas, come on," said Star, in a calming tone.

"We're still going through all the options. Of course if I bought the club I'd want you to stay on, Max. That's why we're here. You're a top talent and there's no denyin' that. I'd be crazy to let you walk out the door and go to a rival. I'm a businessman and I want to make money and you can do that better than our models, I'm sure. Plus, you're a helluva lot more entertaining than a heap of code!" He paused as Luisa and another waitress came to clear our table.

"Now, Max. Let's talk turkey. I'll pay you what you're worth. I'll double your salary and get you a company car. I'll let you keep your social programs and give you a much bigger spending budget. Whaddya say? Surely there's a way we can work together?"

"There is," I said, dabbing my lips with a napkin. James Pond's head jerked up so fast his glasses slid almost to the end of his nose. He pushed them back. I said, "I'll take a loan. Give me two million pounds in time to use it this transfer window and I'll give you three million back in three years. That's a good return, isn't it, James?" He nodded.

"Yes. Exceedingly good. What's the catch?" I smiled. The score was six-four. I was crushing this.

"No catch. Two million becomes three. Easy money." Pond smacked his lips together as he calculated the yearly return. That was his problem - jumping right into the detail. Daddy Star was not so gullible.

"On what security?" He meant, what would he get if the club didn't repay the loan? It didn't own the stadium. He would have to be paid in shares.

"Oh, there can't be any security," I said.

"Because that would put the club at risk, wouldn't it?" Star would have an incentive to work against the club - if we failed to meet the repayments, he would take over. And that, I knew, was exactly what he wanted. Star's avuncular facade slipped away for a moment. He gave me dead shark eyes.

"No serious businessman would accept those terms."

"Mmm, that's not true, though, is it? The return is high because of the extra risk. Quite a lot of businessmen would take it, I think. Especially ones who knew how easily we would be able to make the payment. It's not a risky deal at all. The only reason to turn it down would be if you thought you could make even more money in that timeframe." Seven-four! I was absolutely brilliant at politics. Pond was looking from me to Star, confused that I'd made such a generous and reasonable offer...

and that the Texan was not into it. Star slipped back into Daddy Star mode easier than taking a sip of water.

"My daddy always told me, never sell sausage in a Turkish Bath."

"Random," I suggested.

"He meant, make sure you've still got your junk after a deal is done. No, Max Best, I always get security and I always get repaid in full."

"Okay so you don't want a guaranteed and incredibly generous return. Makes sense, I suppose. I can't really compete with James' offer to fucking hand over two million pounds. So, get in, get out, asset strip, quick profit. How much will you get, I wonder? Four million? Five?"

"What are you talking about?" said James.

"They're long-term investors." I laughed again, but then I found my tank was empty. Winning the conversation was all kinds of fun but I planned to end this war at the Fans Forum; there was no point going further than we had already done.

"Sure, James. And Chip grew up with a poster of Smasho and Nice One on his wall. Fuck's sake." Chip was stewing and lost some of his Ivy League polish.

"I told ya, dad. I told ya."

"Well, we tried," said Star.

"But since you've been so good to us, Max, telling us how buyin' a soccer team is a loss-makin' endeavour and all, let me return the favour." He paused for dramatic effect and it worked - I got the first tingling of my spider senses. Danger!

"This little stunt with your new contracts. We know what it's all about. We weren't born yesterday." Seven-five. Seven-six! My lower back was suddenly, instantly, drenched in cold sweat.

"Gosh," I said. Bravery 20. Dread 20. James Pond gave me a disgusted look.

"We know who's coming next and who will get new deals in the days leading up to the Fans Forum."

"Do you?"

"The next ones will be the Exit Trial boys and the last ones will be Zach Green, Henri Lyons, Youngster, and William Roberts." Seven-all. Eight-seven to the billionaire! I nearly died right then and there. Just nearly died in Tiny Tino. Literally tried to give up the ghost. They knew. They fucking knew. How could they know? My peripheral vision vanished and I found myself looking into the strangely distorted faces of my enemies - James Pond and Daddy Shark. The real Daddy Shark.

My fingers were trembling and I had the craziest feeling that my teeth were chattering. Congratulations, I said, while mentally punching myself in the dick. You played yourself. Daddy Shark was giving me a very paternal and very menacing smile.

"See, Max, we're careful people. When we look at buying a soccer club and its manager hands out new contracts to players who only recently got new deals, we think to ourselves, golly, that ain't right. And we checked the small print. And what did we find?"

"Nothing," I whispered.

"Nothing!" he said.

"Must admit, you had us in a tizzy for a while. But James worked it out." Nine-seven. I'd got complacent. I'd got complacent and all of Chester would suffer. Pond was nodding. He was very pleased with himself and he scored goal after goal as he put me in my place.

"You think you can win a popularity contest. You're giving these contracts out so you can blast the news all over the socials and remind the fans that these are your players. They've come to Chester because of you. That's the message. If you want to see good players, vote the way Max wants. Okay, it was a nice try. You understand football but you don't understand the game you're playing. This is politics. This is electioneering and you're no good at it.

You've lost Sumo, you've lost Barnesy, and you see, the sad thing is, we've already got the votes. It's all sewn up." He shook his head in mock sadness as he turned the victory music up to eleven to really rub my face in it.

"You're just not very popular." I kept very still. My will had failed me and all I could do was look down at a spot on the table. I was vaguely aware that Luisa had come and gone.

"So it's done."

"It's done. All that remains is to decide if you stay on as manager."

"No," I said. Pond nodded.

"Fine. Absolutely fine by me. I'll be sorry to see you go, in a way. But your amateurism can only take us so far. Mr. Star is the future of this club." I didn't move. I tried to imagine a future where Star had his hands on what I had built. The thought kept the despairing look on my face. This is how it feels to be small.

"I'll pick up the check," said Star. He and Pond got up and shuffled out from the tight table. I ignored Chip's demand that I move. Finally, he pushed me hard enough to jolt me out of my defeated stupor. I slid out, genuinely worried I would leave a trail of slime behind me, then retreated to the relative safety of the cushioned seat.

"Wait," I croaked. I looked at Star but had to break eye contact right away. I looked at Pond instead. That was easier.

"I promised the lads I'd give them new deals. They've all had it. I can't leave out..." Star laughed.

"You go right ahead and do what you were planning." He shook his head, admiring my lame attempt to stop his inevitable triumph.

"You're under budget anyway." He ambled away, towards the coat rack.

"When's his last game?" Pond said, "The forum is January 17th. There's a Cheshire Cup game before. We'll need a new manager in place for the 21st against Halifax."

"I'll draw up a list!" said Chip, excitedly, as he hurried after the other two like a little puppy. I slumped and hunched and held my head in my hands. Utterly, utterly defeated, I wallowed. Wallowed in my complete and total failure. I stayed like that for well over a minute. Laid it on pretty thick. A sexy voice said, "They're gone." I didn't budge.

"There could be someone watching."

"There's no-one watching."

"Okay," I said, still cradling myself. Luisa tutted.

"What are juu doing?"

"You were right," I whined.

"He's a shark. The biggest shark. Bigger than me." Luisa tutted.

"I was trying to help."

"Such teeth," I said.

"He was so mean." Luisa laughed.

"You are such a prick."

"Don't laugh," I said, my eyes darting around to see if perhaps Star had someone watching from another table or perhaps through the big window.

"Slide across," she said.

"You can't be seen from there." I slid to the place where Chip had been and sure enough, I was more or less invisible to the rest of the world. I nodded with approval.

"This is a good spot. Why did you never tell me about this?"

"Because I like looking at handsome boys." I laughed and realised I didn't feel handsome. I used a napkin to dab at my face. My skin was oily and gross.

"That was harder than I expected."

"You were convincing. To sweat on cue - you could make money from that trick."

"Oh, that wasn't fake. I thought they had me. They got so, so close, but then the billionaire's disease kicked in. Complacency."

"But we are good?" I thought about it. Thought about WibRob and the Youth Cup and Project Youth and the playoffs. Thought about Star and Pond and the fact they didn't know we could get the stadium for free. That meant Brooke hadn't told them. Star hadn't even mentioned her. Was he hoping I would? If Brooke genuinely wasn't talking to him, it meant she was really on my side. That meant...

"We're good. We're really good. This is a football club. We follow the rules of football, here. I'll score a last-minute winner and they won't have time to respond. Then I can fight the fight I want to fight. But... But there's no new money coming in. We're going to have to go the long way home."

"I like this saying. But what of the shark?" I scoffed.

"What of him? I'm using him to get what I want. He's doing a bang-up job."

"A bang-up job. I do not know this." Oh, to be the one who explained English to Luisa. In another dimension, perhaps.

"He's doing what I want him to do and he's doing it well. As Henri would say, I permit him to continue." I laughed, thinking of another French phrase I had come to adopt.

"The guy's trying to get me to move out of my castle. Doesn't he know? I am the state." Luisa gestured that I should slide back across. She pushed a clump of hair away from my forehead and gave me an intense look. Then she sighed and said, "The state needs a shower."

Two Nights Earlier I was feeling sorry for myself on the team bus. It was calm at first, but after a while, the kids behind me started to make so much noise I nearly put my headphones on. Instead, I listened in to what they were saying. Benny and Tyson were joking about a chance Tyson had missed. William was chatting to Dan about whether we'd made the right tactical moves in the second half. Captain and Henk were telling Bomber what it was like playing against such good strikers. Top kids. Top Chesterness.

They'd put in a hell of a shift. They had earned a treat. I looked at Spectrum. He was scribbling in a notebook. It was either things to work on in training, equipment requests, or a love letter to Beth. He had worked his arse off in the past year. He'd earned a bonus. I texted Bulldog, expecting him to be driving, but got an instant reply. A flurry of messages later and we had it all planned. I went to talk to the driver. The guy was a regular and a Chester fan and more than happy to accommodate my latest request.

An hour later and the lads were mostly quiet. Some were asleep and didn't notice when the bus stopped. We shook them awake and headed down and into the only place still open so late - McDonald's. Any relatives who'd made the trip down to London were inside and when Captain walked through the doors there was an instant party atmosphere.

"Chester! Chester!" I didn't really know where we were - somewhere near Birmingham maybe - and we got some strange looks. But the randos getting late night burgers didn't seem too put out by our sudden takeover of the place.

"Tyson," I said, as I slapped hands with his dad.

"Get, like, a thousand Big Macs or something. Your dad's paying." Bulldog spluttered.

"Am I?"

"I'm not allowed," I said.

"Do a search for Andy Holt. He bought his players fish and chips after a win and he got in trouble with the EFL. Who knows what the rules are in the National League? Not me, that's for sure." Bulldog shook his head but handed his credit card to his son. Tyson took it and fell into organising mode. It was funny to watch twenty lads try to give Tyson a complicated order only for him to decide everyone was getting the same thing and if they didn't like it, they could swivel. I sat near Bulldog, Mr.

Roberts, one of the other dads, and Spectrum. Someone had rustled up some cold beers. Mr. Roberts handed me one. I took it and pulled the tab open. The first swig was nectar. William happened to be nearby and he said, "Can I have one?" His dad, Spectrum, and I simultaneously said "No," which got a big laugh. The lads were buzzing, the parents were happy, and I finally found some measure of peace. So what if WibRob switched agents? So what if I had to sell him to Chelsea? I'd get five million out of it, at least.

It would turbocharge everything I was doing. I fell into a reverie thinking about what I could do if I got my hands on five million British pounds...

"Max!" said Spectrum, snapping me out of it.

"What? What?" I looked around and saw lots of happy faces.

"Mr. Roberts was saying he met an agent who could get him a big move to Chelsea. We were wondering how you felt about that." My face hardened and my knuckles got sore from clenching. I realised the men were all hiding cackles behind beer cans. I was being pranked somehow.

"What's going on?" They laughed. Bulldog said, "You were going crazy on the touchline. It's not like you. We were wondering when we'd see it again and Spectrum said he could turn it on whenever he wanted. Looks like I owe him twenty quid." I turned to Spectrum and raised my eyebrows. Fuck your bonus, mate! He realised I was pissed.

"Er, Max is worried his best young players will be poached." Bulldog said, "Why would they leave?" I tried to keep the accusation out of my voice as I said, "I did see Mr. Roberts in deep discussion with that agent." There was a pause while they all looked at the guilty party - and then another eruption of laughter.

"Sorry, Max," said Mr. Roberts.

"I couldn't resist." Bulldog shook his head.

"You'll understand better when you've got kids. Having strangers come up to you and raving about your child? There's nothing like it. It's addictive. Used to be Tyson got all the attention. Now it's Will. Any agent who wants to whisper sweet nothings in my ear is more than welcome." The dads chuckled. Spectrum said, "Max is worried you'll do more than flick your hair from across the pub."

"What?" boomed Bulldog.

"Leave Chester and go to Chelsea? Liverpool? City?" He got to his feet and swept his arm around the McDonald's.

"I love it here. What other club would make the parents buy the treats?" He roared with laughter.

"Will!" shouted Mr. Roberts. Five metres away, his son sat up and shouted back, "What?"

"Do you want to go to Chelsea?"

"Fuck no!" Mr. Roberts looked at me.

"That's that sorted then. Now stop moping, Best. We need a goalie, a right back, and a left winger. Pull your finger out."

"Spend some bloody money!" yelled Bulldog, who was delightfully sozzled. I nodded.

"Yeah," I said.

"I might just do that." I took a big swig of the good stuff and peered at the front of the can. A lone star twinkled back at me.

"You know what's better than one star?"

"What?" said Mr. Roberts.

"Five stars." I waggled my eyebrows until he got the message. He plucked another cold beer out of a plastic carrier bag and handed it over.

"That's only two," I complained. He scoffed at my cheek.

"You get two from me and if you want more you find some other sucker." You get two from me...

"Mr. Roberts," I said, feeling some of the old electricity.

"When are you going to bring William's brother for a trial?"