Chương 74: 11.8 - You Completo Me

8. Sports movie glossary: 'You complete me.' The words spoken by Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire as the titular character interrupts a perfectly pleasant discussion between a group of women to monologue about himself and his needs.

[Yellow-shirted Brazilians are running around, arms waving. What looks like fifty coaches, physios, and subs have rushed onto the pitch in the only Relationist blob of the match. Cameramen are rushing around trying to get the best shots. The best shots are of tearful Ghanaians. The cameras get right up in their grills.]"Heartbreak for Ghana. Joy for Brazil!" [Amidst the mayhem, we see one figure prone on the ground, arms over his forehead. A cameraman has spotted him and is rushing to the scene.] Chile was educational in a lot of ways, but mostly I learned two things. One, I learned that completos, the local equivalent of a hot dog, are usually 80% mayonnaise. Two, I learned that it's easy to do a pitch invasion if you move slowly but purposefully and have the exact same hairstyle as everyone on the winning team.

[The camera gets up close to Youngster. Real close. Tracking every sob kinda close.]"Hello." [The lens swings and there's a moment of confusion as what looks like an unused Brazilian substitute is right there. He's not running around joyously, however. In fact, his expression is so much the opposite of joy that the camera operator takes a tiny step away.]" Don't do that." [The yellow-haired man smacks something against the lens. Something white and gluey covers almost all the screen; the microphone still works.]"Next time you do that to one of my players, you'll get more than a completo to the face." [The feed cuts away.] Youngster was on his back. I crouched down.

"James Yalley. Get up." He peeked at me through his fingers and spoke through some horribly damp breaths.

"Did you hit that camera with a hot dog?"

"Of course I didn't. Get up."

"You'll get in trouble."

"What are they gonna do? Kick me out of the country? I'm leaving anyway. Get up." I reached out and took his hands and pulled him to his feet. He saw the Brazilians doing shitter dances than I'd done in Samba 101. It reminded him that he had fucked up and back came the sobs.

"Not here, you dick." I got a good grip on him and pushed him towards the tunnel.

"Come on. Walk with me. Remember that stupid poem you've got up in your bathroom? Yea when there were two sets of footprints in the sand, we walked side by side." We got ten steps with me guiding him by his shoulders. His shuddering breaths stopped abruptly.

"Mr. Best," he said.

"You should not waste food." I burst out laughing and enveloped the little shit.

"You're not even joking, are you? That's why you're so funny. Oh, mate. Come on, then, before I get banged up abroad for crimes against delicacies. Witness for the prosecution: Henri Lyons."

"Where are we going?"

"Away from these vultures." We got to the technical areas, where another camera rushed towards us. I covered it with my palm and pushed it to the left.

"Move it or lose it, shithead." The guy decided he had other things worth filming. We were nearly clear when one of the Brazilian players rushed over. He tried to cheer Youngster up. After babbling for a bit, the Brazilian gripped his yellow shirt and spoke slower.

"He wants to swap shirts, mate." That set Youngster off again.

"I would but I can't. This is for my mum."

"Hombre," I said.

"Este camisa es por his madre." The kid expressed understanding and approval and then slipped into another blabbing session.

"He says you were mint and you slapped him pink."

"Thank you," said Youngster, and they shared a moment of mutual whatever. I took hold of Youngster again and guided him down the tunnel. He said, "Your Portuguese is really good."

"Yeah, I know." We arrived at the dressing rooms.

"Are you coming in?" said Youngster.

"No way. That's the inner sanctum. I hate going in another manager's dressing room. I don't mind someone like Jackie coming into mine, or Dieter Bauer, but if I was the Ghana manager I wouldn't want me in there silently judging me."

"You could try not being judgemental."

"Soz but nah. I'd be like, wow call that a team talk? Your metaphors are strained, mate."

"Mr. Best," said Youngster, looking around the corridor as though he had only just realised where he was.

"Why are you here?" I had a streak of mayo on my right hand. Youngster would be mad if I wasted it, right?

"Just saw those fucks preying on your misery and I was like hoo boy do I not like that. I was like this shall not stand! I was like pitch invaders, assemble!"

"It is their job." I licked a bit of mayo off.

"Not today, bro." Youngster dipped his head.

"When I saw you I thought you had come to - " He stopped as someone came running up to us. Vincent Addo, Youngster's potential replacement in the Chester squad.

"Mr. Max!" he said, shaking my arm as though I wasn't looking right at him. He made me spread completo remnants all over my top.

"You've got to hide. The po-po are seeking you."

"The po-po?" Youngster got a bit of a haughty look about him.

"Vincent enjoys gangster music. Songs about packing heat and toting small-gauge weaponry." Vincent got a bit of a mean look about him.

"You're the one who likes shooting." Whoa! Savage. Youngster's head dropped, big time, and the tears were back. Vincent was instantly remorseful.

"I am sorry, James. I am worked up. We were so close." He looked over his shoulder and I saw a gaggle of security guard types at the end of the tunnel.

"Come, Mr. Max." He coaxed me into Ghana's dressing room. I used the sink to wash my hands and to clean my shirt as much as poss, then sat in a corner and tried to look inconspicuous while I texted Emma what was happening. Emma: Brooke saw you! She said you had fire and brimstone coming out your head. She said you were the hottest thing on screen since Cuba Gooding Jr. invented air drying. Apparently the TV company weren't sure what to do about your antics so they've glossed over it for now.

Me: I'm sure nothing bad will come of this. But just for funsies, how about we fly home tomorrow and lie low for a while? Until the po-po are off our backs. Emma: Yeah let's go dark. We'll slip off the grid. I know a guy who does fake passports. Me: Do you? Emma: I was trained by the best, querido. If I want to disappear, I can. I'm a ghost. I'll find a coffee shop outside the stadium and decide which alias I want. Maybe I'll buy a wig. Me: You know I'm into that. Sorry for rushing off.

Emma: You can apologise to the guy whose hotdog you stole, not me. You know I think it's hot when you drop the technocrat crap and rush headlong into saving the world. Yeah. Hot. Don't take too long... I sent some shocked face emojis followed by some party ones. When I looked up, the dressing room was pretty full, and fully grim. Ghana's manager was to my left along with some coaches and physios. I got the feeling he was asking them what vibe he should go for in his debrief.

To my right, in the far corner, was Kpozo. Straight ahead, on the other side of a bench, was Youngster. A guy came up to me. He had a team tracksuit on - he was one of the support staff. The kit man, perhaps.

"Are you Youngster's manager?"

"Yes," I said. His eyes lit up.

"Are you going to do one of your famous Jerry Maguire rants?"

"Of course not. Why would I?"

"Youngster told us all about you. We mostly don't believe him." I cocked my head back and scrunched up my face.

"Have you ever known him to lie?"

"So," came a booming voice, and the kit man quickly moved away to stand by the back wall. Ghana's manager was taking his time. He nodded a few times, moved into position, and swung his hands forward into a clap. He rubbed his palms together.

"So," he said again, but it was pretty clear he didn't know what he wanted to say. No judgement! What could you say when you had come so close but so very far? Nothing. Youngster got to his feet.

"May I speak?"

"Of course," said the manager, showing that Youngster had the floor. I was still high from Emma's enticing texts so it took me a couple of seconds to realise what was happening.

"Oh, hell no!" I cried, not for the first time in South America. I strode around to Youngster's side of the bench. The manager moved to intercept me but a coach pulled him back. The manager reacted with shock but the coach nodded towards me with his eyebrows raised and the manager - after a couple more seconds of tension - relaxed. The kit man poured some potato chips into a bowl and offered them around before watching me with wide eyes, munching away as though what was in his bowl was popcorn.

I absorbed the entire scene in one subconscious flash but didn't process it until later; I was too focussed on Youngster. I got in his face.

"You want to apologise for taking a shot when the ball sat up just right? You want to start some kind of lifelong Mark Zuckerberg apology tour? Nah mate. You're one of us. You apologise when you do something bad and never else." I pointed at Ghana's manager.

"You don't apologise to him. Everyone thinks he's a genius because of the tweaks he made. Except they were the tweaks you made! Increasing the pressure step by step just like you've been taught." I swept my hand around most of the room.

"You don't apologise to them. You lifted them up. You let their talents shine." I tugged at his shirt.

"You don't apologise to the people of Ghana. When you pull on this shirt, when you accept the honour, you make a promise. A promise that you'll do your best. You never fucking apologise for doing what you promised!" I remembered he was saving the shirt for his mum.

"And you don't apologise to your parents. No. Way. Do not do that. I'm deadly fucking serious, mate." I gave him a warning look before softening and remembering where I was. Maybe I shouldn't have been the one doing the debrief, but at least I had something to say. I tapped Youngster on the chest.

"There's only one person here you should apologise to." He looked down.

"I'm sorry Mr. Best." I exploded, but with a smile.

"Not me, you clown!"

"But I shot. You told me many times not to shoot." I softened even more. I felt my charisma rising. I had the scene on a thread and I only needed to twitch it.

"It's my fault, James. The only way I know to improve players is to shout at them. I knew it wasn't working but I didn't know what else to try." Youngster looked around - especially at Vincent - and leapt to my defence.

"You tried everything, Mr. Best! You shouted, you persuaded, you showed me video. You teased me, you told my sister to tease me, I even had a talk with Pastor Yaw!"

"Oh," I said, unable to believe how well I was manipulating the room.

"So why did you shoot?" Laughter erupted from all sides and Youngster didn't know where to look. Finally, he did a tiny smile.

"Because of my sinful pride." Right there, right there and then, his Decisions score went green. Youngster was now Decisions 12. I nearly punched the air but the spirit was in me. I wasn't finished working this room. I walked over to Kpozo and gestured for him to stand next to me. He was confused - he hadn't seen one of my performances before - but he was being swept away by my intensity. I put my arm around his shoulder and we looked at Youngster.

"Part of teamwork is lifting your mate when he's down. You're boss at that, Youngster, mate. But another part is knowing that your mate is on fucking fire." I shook Kpozo a little and a voice in my head told me to cut my speech short and let Youngster work out the rest. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. He sensed some of what I was thinking and stepped closer to the striker. I moved away. Youngster said, "I let you down. You were the right pass. You would have scored.

You could have won the Golden Boot." The tears came again, along with a lot of quivering lower lip action.

"I am sorry, Kpozo. I am so sorry." He stood there for a second, wretched and in search of redemption, just the way he liked it. Kpozo had his head up.

"You should have passed. I would have scored." I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I knew exactly what the striker would have done if the ball had come to him. He would not have taken a touch to control the ball.

"First-time," I said, moving closer.

"First-time top-right. Am I right?" His eyes shone.

"Yes."

"I knew it!" I cried, grabbing and shaking him again.

"Get in! Well played, mate. Yessss!" Kpozo gave me a wide-eyed look, the sort I give to people who eat raspberries in the supermarket before they've paid for them. He shook his head a few times and turned to Youngster.

"You are my brother," he said, in a deep, serious tone.

"We win together. We lose together." They embraced and Kpozo slapped Youngster on the back. The big striker took a half step back and said, with a playful grin, "Next time, though. Next time you pass!" Youngster cry-laughed, nodded, and his Decisions score hit 13.

"Yes!" I said, as though moved by the beauty of the scene. I could increase mental attributes and so could teammates! The kit man's eyes were wider than ever and his fingers were darting around the bowl looking for crisps - he didn't want to look away for even a second. So he was enjoying himself but the rest of the players still had faces like a slapped arse.

"Hey!" I demanded.

"Who's in charge of the fucking music around here?" A hand shot up.

"What happened? Your finger fall off? Put some tunes on! You outplayed Brazil, you miserable sods. Everyone back in Sampa is saying they aren't fit to wear the shirt, they're a bunch of clowns, Ghana should be in the semis. No way Brazil make it to the final. They're gonna have nightmares about you lot." The team DJ had his phone out.

"What do we like? Disco? New Wave? Original motion picture soundtracks?" The DJ was more into hip hop. BOM BOM BOMBOMBOM went the speakers and a few lads got up and started swinging their arms around. I have no clue what the song was, but it worked. I high-fived the music man and gave a Maxy Two-Thumbs to the kid who was busting out the best moves.

I slipped past Ghana's manager fairly awkwardly - he and his coaches were giving me very strange but not unfriendly looks - and I was about to leave when I remembered I was being hunted. I stepped to the kit man.

"Did you enjoy the show?"

"You had me at 'oh hell no'. Yes I enjoyed it very much. I understand Youngster more now. Okoto nwo anoma."

"My Portuguese is better than my Akan, I think."

"A crab does not give birth to a bird." What was that supposed to mean? Finding out didn't seem like a priority.

"Bro, I need a disguise. Can I have a Ghana top?" He sprung into action.

"Yes!" He went to a large bag and pulled a top out. I reached out for it.

"Show me the money," he said.

"Oh."

"I'm joking. Take it."

"I don't suppose you have a hat?" He did. I whipped my top off and put my new one on, along with a red and green baseball cap. Grinning at my new clobber and my cleverness, I gave the top I had been wearing to Youngster - he had permission to bin it if he had too much stuff to bring back to England - and strode to the door. The song was just finishing and a new one started. Not every player was up for it, but more than half were happy to cling on to these last moments together dancing instead of crying.

I took one final look at the under 20s World Cup. Ghana's manager was going round consoling his lads one by one. The DJ was pumping his arms. Vincent was in da club. Kpozo was sitting with his head down in a moment of quiet reflection. There go my glory days, he might have been thinking. Or perhaps, this is just the start. And Youngster? He pulled his shirt off, looked at the badge for a while, and carefully folded it up and placed it down on the bench.

He closed his eyes and I saw his lips move as he spoke a prayer. I slipped out and looked left and right. All clear. My disguise was next level - where would a ne'er-do-well get a Ghana shirt while on the run in Chile? I was probably being overly cautious - if the security guards in the stadium were anything like the ones in video games they would have long since stopped looking for me and resumed their patrols.

I went deeper into the bowels of the stadium trying to avoid going out via the stands and hoping I didn't get stuck in an area where you needed a badge to open doors. As I was peering through a fire door, checking I'd be able to get back inside if that direction proved to be a dead end, my phone rang. It was Bassco, the Peruvian who didn't realise he had a top ten striker playing for his club. I picked up.

"Max! I saw you on TV. Very fun. Better as Mr. Bean. That was your player, no? 14, the Youngster? You sell him?"

"No."

"He is too good for League Two." I thought about the pops in Youngster's Decisions score. I felt pretty sure I was causing more green on those 'mental' attributes than most managers. Maybe Youngster had started at Decisions 1 back when I found him in his church. Maybe all that shouting had actually been paying off without me knowing it.

"I still have a lot to teach him."

"How for three million pounds?" The movie Jerry Maguire is about how personal connections are more important than money and that if you can inspire and be inspired you will get the life you want.

"No."

"Five million?" I hesitated. There was only one possible rational answer to that question.

"No fucking way."

"Because he completes your midfield?"

"Because he's my boy."

"Okay. Goodbye, Max." He hung up. For a second I wondered why a relatively poor football club in Peru was talking about five million pound bids, but I shrugged it off. I had a stadium to escape, and I had the girl of my dreams waiting for me.

SPONSORED CONTENT This chapter is brought to you by the Chilean Completos Council. Completos are sausages in a bun with a healthful topping of tomato, avocado, chucrut, and a modest amount of mayonnaise. Completos - no trip is complete without them.

After a bumpy and cramped flight back to Rio, we decided to hang out in the First Class lounge. I hadn't really known about these places until my flight out to Sampa but they're great. Instead of waiting on harsh, hardback seats with thousands of equally haggard travellers, you slip into a space of tranquility and restfulness. Comfy chairs, plants, an all-you-can-eat spread of food and drinks, and you know that everyone around you has a few quid in the bank and is therefore trustworthy and interesting.

Okay, maybe not, but you certainly have a better chance of spotting a celebrity.

"Querida," I said.

"Querido," she said.

"There are, like, six Korean lads round the corner and they've got almost identical but slightly different haircuts."

"So?"

"So you know more about k-pop than me. Go and ask for a selfie and send it to Dani and say this is your new favourite band. Also, find out what band it is."

"They're probably just some students on holiday."

"In First Class?"

"If you want a selfie with them, you do it. You've got k-pop hair." I tutted but decided I could live without knowing who the kids were. I had planted a seed, though, and the next time Emma got bored, she got up and sauntered to the big window overlooking the runway. She decided it probably was a boy band and I even saw the moment she stepped towards them. But with the next step, she frowned. She watched for a few seconds, then came over to me.

"I think they're footballers!" They didn't have the right body shapes as far as I could tell.

"What makes you say that?"

"One of them is doing that thing you do. You know, where you touch the air in front of you." FREEZE FRAME! RECORD SCRATCH! Let's talk about having a computer game in your head that you can access whenever you want. If you had it from birth, I think you would use it the same as you used your limbs - unconsciously. But I got my 'system' when I was 22, a mere three years ago. I wasn't a curse native so I tended to want to handle it the way I navigated my phone - with my fingertips.

When Beth's first big article about me had come out, the one where she caught me touching the air, I had panicked and worked really hard to stop myself from using my hands like Tom Cruise in Minority Report. One thing that really helped was that I did a lot of my work on my MacBook, which does not have a touchscreen. I used the keyboard and the trackpad and in doing so, I reduced the number of times per day that I reached out and tapped something.

It may sound absurd but I even found it helpful to alternate between using my PS5 and my Nintendo Switch, where the controller's 'action' and 'back' buttons were reversed. I felt pretty sure I almost never reached out to 'tap' the curse screens in my day-to-day life in Chester. But spending six weeks in South America without my MacBook, living on my phone, had brought the habit back to the surface. When we got back to the UK, I planned to have a digital detox to stop me using my fingers. Digital detox? Anyone? No?

To be safe, I had laughed at myself a couple of times, telling Emma that 'I was doing that thing again'. That thing, from her point of view, was moving magnets around a mental tactics board. The person who spent the most time with me, the person most likely to spot me acting like I was wearing a VR headset, thought it was simply an amusing quirk that was probably shared by all football managers. RESUME THE SCENE I sprung to my feet and gently pulled Emma behind the wall and out of sight.

"Soz can you wait here a second?" She was, to say the least, surprised by my sudden burst of energy.

"Uh, sure." I counted to fifteen because if I knew men - and I did - the six Korean guys would be staring at the space where Emma had just been, hoping she would return. I glanced around, calculating the routes around the lounge.

"Querida, wait here a minute thanks."

"What are you going to do?"

"I think I'll sneak up on them and see what they're talking about. Maybe they'll mention a hot prospect or something."

"Babes," said Emma, forgetting our cute new nicknames.

"You don't speak Korean."

"I think I do. I'm pretty sure I do. Let me go and check. Back soon, promise. You complete me. Mwah."

"Suerte," she said, wishing me luck in this latest mad scheme. I loped around the part of the lounge the Koreans couldn't see, then ambled over to a big window and stared out, wistfully. Once I was just another part of the furniture, I turned my head ever so slightly and shoved my eyeballs so hard to the left it hurt. The Koreans were on their phones or were resting. No way were they footballers, but they could have been dancers. They were definitely a k-pop thing.

My head canon was that they'd done a couple of shows in Rio and were on their way to London for the next gig or to change planes. I waited patiently - there was absolutely no need to waste this opportunity by rushing. Then I saw it! Or thought I saw it. One of the guys put his hand up and seemed to drag something down. Turning an option off? Using a slider? Moving a tile? But that was all I got. Whatever it was, he had made his mind up. He put his headphones on and closed his eyes. Inconclusive.

I walked back to our spot and Emma gave me a bright smile.

"So?"

"What?" I said.

"Are they footballers? How's your Korean?"

"Astonishingly good. They were saying you shouldn't rotate goalkeepers. I just rolled my eyes and left."

"Quite right, too," she said.

We decided it was time to go. We gathered our bits and pieces, got up, stretched, clicked our mini-suitcases into place and nodded at each other. Three metres closer to the gate, we spotted that the Koreans were doing the same.

"Querido," said Emma.

"Do you want me to find out who they are?"

"If they're on the same flight as us, yeah. Could be interesting." I held Emma's case handle and tried to look chill. My heart was doing very strange things, though. Emma got a couple of selfies and came back all smiles.

"They're k-pop, you were right. They're called SKIMPI. We'll have to look them up."

The lads from SKIMPI put face masks on before leaving the lounge, and with their builds and similar hair, the only way I could keep track of my target was by following his headphones. I'd assumed SKIMPI would take the other six seats in First, but they were back in Business. That was deeply frustrating. Emma and I settled into our capacious pods and went through the routine. Ordering meals, sipping on champagne, being fussed over. The usual. Yawn.

But while the hospitality was stellar and Emma was as happy as a pig in muck, I couldn't enjoy it. I was pretty sure that at least one of those fuckers in the section behind me had a curse! After take-off I waited for a while and then got up and hid behind a curtain and looked towards the rear of the plane. The guys had taken their masks off and I spotted the one who had been doing weird gestures. I watched him for a while, not caring that I looked like an actual psycho. There! He did it again.

Unconsciously swiped left then pushed something away. A news item? A new perk? Your reputation in South Korea: Poor. Your reputation worldwide: Very Poor. New dance move available! Gee Gee Knee Knee. Cost: 200 XP Effect: You instantly learn the Gee Knee dance move.

"Mr. Best? Your food is ready."

"Top bins."

I ate like a normal person, sat in my seat like a normal person, then went to my curtain and stared at a stranger like a normal person. While I waited, I researched k-pop, starting with a couple of SKIMPI's YouTube videos. I caught a flight attendant watching. Like all the ones in First, he was on the older side. In his fifties, maybe. I turned the screen to let him see better and he watched along for a minute, though he couldn't hear anything; I was wearing one earbud.

"Is that them?" he said, nodding toward business.

"Yeah."

"Nice moves but I think I'll stick to Bucks Fizz."

"What's that?" He gave me a pained look as he realised how old he sounded.

"You speed it up, you slow it down, then comes the time to make your mind up." He laughed to himself.

"You know what? Better if you don't know. It wasn't that good." He went about his business humming a tune. He seemed to be into it so I vowed to research Bucks Fizz in time for the next chapter. I returned to my more pressing research. SKIMPI had been created about a year before by one of those management companies specialising in boy bands. There was a photo of their manager - I loathed him at first sight. For some reason, every article about SKIMPI mentioned their seven-year contract.

I typed 'what's the deal with 7-year contracts' and the internet spat out millions of articles about k-pop and the so-called 7-year curse. Curse! It seemed like k-pop bands tended to have success for seven years and seven years only. There were very, very few exceptions. My mind raced. The kids were meeting a Korean version of Nick - or maybe Nick looked Korean in Korea? - and were selling their souls for fame and fortune. The curse, though, had a lifespan. K-pop. You could almost use the letters to spell Klopp.

He was a football manager I'd often thought maybe had a curse of his own. He had been at Mainz from 2001 to 2008. Seven years of success. Towards the end, results had nosedived. In Dortmund he had wild success when he joined from 2008 but by the time he was sacked in 2015 - seven years - results had nosedived. Seven years into his time at Liverpool, results had nosedived... but he had recovered and had two more decent years before quitting from burnout. Did the curse last seven years?

You had to, what, sell your soul again to get more time? The stupid SKIMPI guy finally decided he needed to go to the bathroom. I slipped my earbud and phone into my pocket and pushed my way through the curtain. I strode forward as fast as I could without having a po-po tackle me. My target opened the bathroom door and I pushed my way in and closed it behind me. The guy was about to call out but something in my expression made him think twice. Fire and brimstone coming out of my head! It's a useful trick!

I held up my palms to show I meant no harm, then put them on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

"Have you got a system?"

"No English."

"Don't give me that shit. Have you got a system yes or no?" The guy glanced at the door. He could call for help, but that came with a risk, didn't it? A risk his version of Old Nick would find out why there had been a mid-air contretemps. If K-Nick knew his guy was making it obvious he had a system, he might just take it away and start again with someone who wasn't a fucking dimwit.

"Mate. How do you get experience points?" His eyes bulged. Fucking bullseye! This prick had a curse! He tried to escape.

"Please," I said, holding him in place. I didn't have Strength 20 any more but I was an elite athlete, kind of. This dude had no chance to beat me in any kind of physical contest unless it involved precisely co-ordinated steps. But then I thought: what was I doing? Was I going to assemble a squad of curse-users to fight back against the demons? Now that I'd found a curse user, wasn't I simply identifying myself as one, too? Yellow hair! He might not recognise me when I got a proper trim back.

He might recognise Emma, though.

"Listen. Is there a time limit on the curse?"

"Time?" he said.

"Seven," he nodded.

"Seven." I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I could smash that and get seven years' bad luck. Had I smashed something the morning I met Nick? With a sigh and a final shake of the head, I left. There was a guy waiting for the bathroom. I considered making a joke but couldn't be bothered. Back at my seat, I saw the bed hadn't been made. Was it too early for that? I checked the time. Ten past seven. Holy shit.

I had one question to ask a fellow curse user, maybe the only one I would ever get, and I'd used it to ask the time. Talk about blasting it miles over the bar with the last kick of the game. I, Max Best, was a complete buffoon. Emma took her headphones off.

"What you been doing?" I exhaled anxiety and inhaled tranquility.

"Planning."

"Oh? The haircut ran out?" I smiled and reached out to hold her hand.

"Two weeks in Newcastle. Then the big day."

"The War Room."

"Yeah. My squad is incomplete. There are pieces missing. Right back, striker. Goalie, centre back. I don't have money to get everything I want; It's gonna be tough." Remember that line next time I'm bragging about my ability to predict the future.

"Then we're straight into whatever the Brig's got planned for the training camp and the pre-season friendlies."

"Then ten months of non-stop grinding." I tried and failed to make the prospect seem fun. One year of my seven would be wasted in the fourth tier.

"Yeah."

"Chin up, babes. You've got help. Everyone knows what you want; it'll be easier this season. Oh, and Brooke has been busy."

"Busy? She's been in the States." Emma smiled.

"Why would that stop her? She's fizzing with ideas and energy."

"Fizzing?"

"That's what she said. She can't wait to tell you in person." I lifted my hands and mimed moving magnets around a tactics board.

"Zach and Christian. Youngster. Pascal, Wibbers, Henri. Sandra, the Brig, Jackie. Brooke." One month of preparation followed by ten months of hard graft. Purposeful work with people I liked. Attractive, winning football with perhaps a few steps in the direction of Relationism. Who said it would be a waste?

"I'm ready to be inspired."