Chương 103: 6.17 - Epilogue

17. I stared at the wall and tried to convince myself it was solid. It wasn't. For someone who loved to build - football clubs, stadiums, training camps - I was pretty shit at the actual building. I gave myself some distance from the project, feeling the sun on my neck, stretching, wringing out some of the tension I was still feeling. I sat on Emma's favourite bench and had a little think. Idea. Would it work? Let's try!

In Ruth's stable, I said hi to some horses, helped myself to a bunch of random sticks and bits of fence, hauled them back to the cottage. I pushed three poles into the nearest raised bed and shuffled my wall against them. The poles were acting like an exoskeleton. Slap enough tape on them and this could work! That had been a tough two minutes so I picked up my glass of lemonade and went for a slow potter around the outside of the cottage, which had been the setting for a great many gardening triumphs and disasters.

One particular bare patch had once housed the Trick Williams of plants - an invasive crawler that would ruin your whole postcode if you didn't get rid of it at the first opportunity. Another empty spot had been home to a beautiful cherry tree that had suddenly toppled over before it had even got in the first team - Ruud Berkenbosch. An uncomfortable wrought iron chair looked good but was almost never used - Henri Lyons.

I kept it around because it served as a reminder that however bad things got, at least I wasn't French. I ran my hands over the branches of an elderflower tree that did interesting things when you least expected it (Magnus Evergreen), smiled at a garden gnome that had been alone in its spot for decades (MD) until one day Emma - who hated gnomes - got him a girlfriend (Gwen).

I paused by a lavender that had lived most of its long life in a pot, and when I said I was going to move it to a new location and stick it into the ground, everyone told me not to bother because, and I quote, "it dead". I moved it anyway and here it was, flourishing, attracting bees (scoring goals) by the dozen, finding a new lease of life (getting loads of CA), and impressing its daughters (Tamara and Leah Beckton).

Thinking about Colin made me worry that I had left Sandra an even more impossible job than I had anticipated. I checked the Chester squad, and noted that Murray Burnett was no longer unhappy, though Leo Los was still disappointed by the club's league position. Everyone else's Morale was careening up and down according to which social media post they read. Chester are toast! Sandra Lane is better than Best! Chester's financial house of cards will soon collapse! Chester have top-12 underlying metrics!

It must have been so confusing for the lads, and I didn't know where their mood would settle, but it looked like a good fucking squad to me. Pascal would be fit to play against Aston Villa next Sunday, if Sandra picked him. She would have liked one more striker, but so would every manager in world football. I had a feeling she would lose to Villa but then get points against Brentford and Wolves after the international break. She would be fine. Back to work!

I solved the problem of how to attach the second wall to the first by digging out Emma's stationery and finding two triangular rulers; the right angle they provided was perrrrrfect. I taped the rulers to the side wall, eased the 'front' wall into place, taped it up good. I stuck some poles in front of that, too, and taped the walls to the poles. My creation so far wasn't what you would call sturdy, or elegant, but it was staying upright, doing its job.

I snapped my head to the left - someone had opened the front gate. Footsteps approached, paused, came to the side of the cottage, towards me. Most people would have knocked on the front door. No, most people would have known to leave me the fuck alone. Almost nobody knew where I lived...

"Christ," I muttered, as Old Nick crunched along the gravel path.

"Max Best!" he said, in a jolly tone.

"As I live and breathe!" He didn't hurry towards me, but took his time, admiring my handiwork." Clematis. This is a Polish Spirit, is it not? Very good, Max. A touch of Anna in the garden. I approve. And you have placed it near the Cornus sanguinea. Dogwood. Is this Anna and Solly? You're such a sentimentalist. Betula pendula? This is a lovely specimen of a birch! Yes, this is all rather splendid." His gaze fell on my latest construction.

"What is that?"

"First of all, don't pull that face when you're talking about the fruits of my labour; it's rude. Second, it's very obviously a hunter's den." His eyebrows shot up.

"Max Best, hunter! You can't spell masculine without Max." I scoffed.

"There's nothing masculine about killing an animal for sport."

"So if you're not hunting, why do you need a hunter's den?"

"It's a slightly cooler name for an observation post. Tonight, I plan to finally lay eyes on that most elusive of quarries, the great British hedgehog." He was still for a second, then tipped his head back.

"Masculinity 20!"

"Hey," I said, unflustered, "what's more masculine than being irresistible to women while being covered in fucking spikes?" Nick laughed some more and wagged his finger.

"You have me there! You have me there. But you have this lovely garden and have never seen one? Are they really so rare?"

"I've seen them on the cameras," I said, waving my hand vaguely.

"As far as I can tell they come at dusk, have a rummage, then fuck off. In the evenings I'm usually at Bumpers or at a match and when I am here at the right time, I'm shattered. So now that I've got free time, while there's still some autumn left, we're getting right into it." Nick took the cardboard wall of the den and gave it a wobble. Half the tape ripped off.

"Right," he said, and for the first time he seemed less than jolly.

"I never thought I would say this to you... but you need a girlfriend." A laugh popped out of me, unbidden.

"Great advice. Emma's gone to her friend's birthday party. It's a big thing in their circle and it would have to be something extreme to make them not go. I told her I would be fine on my own. She didn't believe me. I said, babes, I really need you to go because I don't want you to see me weeping tears of joy when I see a hedgehog. That did the trick. I'm keeping her updated on my progress. Here, I had better send her a text."

I turned my phone on, ignored the billion notifications and missed calls, and wrote: Babes, disaster! I attached the roof, along came a gust of wind, the whole bloody den flew up and away! I chased it to the stable, and now a horse is wearing it like armour! He won't give it back, the dick!

"Bosh," I said, turning the phone off and slipping it away.

"Here, I need something that's going to help me attach the front wall to the third one. Something that's got a kind of a right angle quality to it. There's loads of stuff everywhere." Nick pulled a sour face.

"I can't be associated with this, Max. I have standards." I pointed at him.

"Triangle thing!" We split up and searched the garden.

"You haven't gathered the necessary components. I see this was another impulsive decision."

"All decisions are impulsive."

"What about this?" He held up a crumbling piece of wood.

"It has to help me attach one piece of cardboard to another."

"Like a hinge?"

"I mean, maybe." He went to the side of the cottage, where there were some shelves with random bits and bobs. He came back with a brand-new, gleaming brass hinge.

"Like this?" I groaned.

"No magic! What the fuck, man."

"Why not?" I took the hinge and said, " No magic. Just say what you're here to say and leave me alone." I went back to the den, taped the hinge to the bottom of the front, eased the third wall into place, taped it, then put a ton more tape around the edges.

"That's actually pretty good."

"But what are you going to do? Stand here through the night until you see a creature?"

"I am returning to a life of simplicity. Just me and nature, like in the olden days. Like when you were a little boy in short shorts, stomping in puddles. Some things never change, and when modern life gets too grim, we yearn to return to our roots. A simple life, that's the ticket.

Just me, the flora and fauna of this beautiful country, a pair of four-thousand-pound milspec night-vision goggles, an electric mini-fridge to keep my beers cold, a bunch of podcasts and albums, plus a thousand-pound wobbly stool so I don't wreck my back by staying in the same pose for too long." Nick nodded.

"The simple life." We grinned at each other.

"Why are you in a good mood?" He looked thoughtful.

"Interesting question. Overcompensation, perhaps." I didn't reply, expecting him to explain, but when I took a swig of my drink his eyes widened.

"Is that lemonade? Can I have some?"

"No. Lemonade's for invited guests only."

"I gave you a hinge!"

"And you told me to invest millions in a company that can't make a product!" He tutted.

"Keep buying. Buy the dip. Hold on for dear life. Etcetera. Lemonade, please." I threw my hands up.

"What do you want? Tell me why you're here and then I'll think about it."

"I want you to be happy."

"I am happy. I've got millions of pounds and a fridge full of cold beer on a warm evening."

"You quit your dream job. You resigned as the manager of Chester."

"Yep."

"The famous Chester poster is all black today, like the city is in mourning. The fans are worried."

"Today, Chester are the centre of the entire football world. They are loving the attention. Soz, did you say why you're here?"

"I want to persuade you to retake your position." I opened my mouth to reply, but filled it with lemonade instead. Nick's eyes tracked the liquid. He was gasping for it!

"Nick?"

"Yes?"

"Would you sell your soul for some refreshing, ice-cold lemonade?" That amused him.

"I might."

"Go to the front, ring the doorbell three times."

"I would, but my mouth is so dry. It's arid in there. I can barely think."

"Jesus," I laughed.

"Fine. Let's get this over with so I can get back to business."

I pushed him towards the breakfast stool that was closest to the back door - I didn't really want him exploring my house and didn't even like that he scanned the area. His eyes seemed to rest on a box under our coffee table. It was the kid's game Connect Four.

"Emma and I play it sometimes, after matches, when I'm wired and can't sleep but can't concentrate. It's soothing. I've learned I need an analogue response to an analogue situation."

"That's why you turned your phone off yesterday."

"Yep." I walked around the island and opened the fridge. When I pulled out the jug of lemonade, he leaned to his left for a better view.

"Rather a lot of beer for a professional footballer."

"I'm not one of those, am I? Not until next season. Anyway, there aren't as many as it looks. I got nine in total. Three are in the mini-fridge. I'm gonna have three today, three tomorrow, three the day after, recalibrate."

"Why are they all different?" I poured lemonade into a clean glass and pushed it towards Old Nick. The demon simply stared at it, enjoying the anticipation, and it reminded me of the famous scene from Ice Cold in Alex where some army guys cross the desert in brutal conditions and the first thing they do when they reach Alexandria is go for a beer.

"Why are they different? I've barely had any alcohol in the last six years. I don't want to drink a crate of just one thing, do I? I've got NINE different beers to try. I'm calling this concept a 'smorgasbeered'. It's all very clever. There's a weight of intellect behind my drinking." He took an experimental sip of lemonade, then a big gulp.

"Oh, that's good. That's very good. Did you make that?"

"It's an Emma special."

"You're very lucky."

"I know. How are the imps? I haven't seen any of you for ages."

"We have tried to stay out of your way. As per your request. And anyway, you were doing so well. Why interfere? I'm not sure I regret giving you your head. This latest blow-up might have been prevented, but there would have been an even bigger one soon enough. You have been spiralling. Rushing headlong towards this point ever since the Ipswich Town match.

The playoff final, the wedding, the certainty of suffering through a losing season, the media scrutiny, the unfairness of being used as ragebait for gammons - how I wish I didn't know what those words meant! - coming up against the Super League teams you despise. Yes, there was always going to be a price to pay but it's an ill wind that blows no good; this version of events could work out very well for all of us."

"Hmm. You're gonna get experience points every time I see a new animal? Max the Explorer. Very strange spinoff from the core story, but whatevs. Someone would read it." Nick shook his head.

"As things stand, my colleagues calculate that we will earn more XP than we did before yesterday's eruption. We don't benefit from you being in the Premier League if you play every minute of every match. You are still the director of football, yes?"

"Yes. I mean, if they want to keep me on." Nick waved, annoyed.

"Don't do that. Self-deprecation doesn't sit well on you. So you don't have to manage the men's team. What does that mean? More scouting. You'll travel the country, the continent, the world, gorging on new players, using Playdar to create passive income streams. You're still going to manage Wales, yes?"

"They have four games in two weeks. I'm gonna do Finland and see how that goes. They might not want me to stay." Nick waved again.

"Bah. And Chester's women? You will continue to co-manage them?" I shrugged.

"Yeah. I mean, if I'm going on big scouting trips I wouldn't be there for every match, but... yeah."

"Your announcement came at more or less the same time as the women's match ended. You left Liverpool, rushed to the Deva. What did you say to them? What did you say to the men, for that matter?"

"With the men it was quick. Said, basically, I know some of you think leaving the pitch is a cardinal sin but wait till you see the video before you make up your mind. Told them Sandra was in charge but I was still the DoF and they could lean into the drama as much as they wanted but they needed to put a shift in against Aston Villa next Sunday. The women are playing Villa on Sunday, too. You get those coincidences. Um, and I told Sandra soz but you were born to do this job so I'm not even that soz.

I'm gonna go underground till I clear my head, but you'll get everything you need from me. She made a joke about me playing right wing, I said let's start with some babysitting. Felt like we'd had that exact conversation at least once before.

"Rushed to the car, went to the women. First I apologised for stealing their limelight. They should have been the big news, the talking point. But apart from that, I just thought they might be worried about the lack of stability at the club so I was just, like, I'm still the DoF, I'm still here, it's not like I was gonna play for you, so nothing's really changed. There's just gonna be loads of chaos and drama for a while but this is Chester, we do this three times a year like clockwork.

"I said daddy's lost his job but he's got five other jobs and he still has enough money to take them to Nando's when they win the fucking league! Brighton are shit, Villa are shit, and if we beat all the shit teams we'll be right up there at the end of the season. Right up there! Got them nice and hyped." I smiled to myself. Brighton had gone to the Deva with a CA of about 100, but we had 125. 5 and that was just our starting point for the season.

Elsa Lund grabbed the first, Sarah Greene the second from her new slot on the right of midfield, and Meredith Ann scored a penalty. Jay Cope made a load of subs at the end, which weakened us to the point that Brighton got a late goal to very slightly take the gloss off the scoreline, but we gave minutes and WSL debuts to five players. Worth it.

"They're off to a flyer. They've already scored three goals and got their first win. If I was a floating megabrain with the ability to scout players to perfection, I would describe that start as 'ominous', from the POV of the rest of the WSL. Heh." I put the kettle on. Time for tea, I reckoned.

"Yeah, it was funny. Kisi wasn't convinced that I was all right, and said her mum was worried. So right there, in front of the whole group, I made Kisi call her mum and I took the phone and I was like Mrs. Yalley, I'm fine! I'm great. She didn't believe me so I went hard.

'I swear on my mum's life, Mrs. Yalley. I'm okay! I feel vindicated. I feel righteous. Thanks to me, the whole world knows the truth!'" Nick winced.

"The truth. Riiiiiiight."

"What?" He hesitated.

"The whole world knows that you were the victim of a shadowy campaign to destabilise you and to deny you what is rightfully yours." The way he said that was so weird.

"Er, yeah?"

"But they know about the wrong shadowy campaign, Max. The one you think you know about... doesn't exist." I stared at him, feeling my face harden.

"I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"Of course you don't, but I'm going to say it anyway. Let me restate that I will earn more XP in the short term if you are not a player for Chester FC. When have I ever encouraged you to play football?"

"Never."

"Exactly. You managed your rise to Premier League status rather well, despite your rather flashy moments, but in terms of XP it certainly isn't in my short-term interest for you to go back. However, I have learned something from watching you scrabble about in the mud for six years. You have turned fields into modern training centres, transformed a quaint little stadium into a large, modern, eco-friendly showpiece. I have watched your creation rise, and thought, how is he doing that?

The answer is long-term thinking. I am terrible at it. Awful. This conversation is me trying to nudge you back to the path where, in the long term, we will both be better off." I was about to pour water into the mug, but paused. He was inside now; he was a guest.

"Do you want one? I can put lemon instead of milk." His face lit up.

"I would love that! But perhaps I should get my confession out of the way, and then you can decide if you still want to do it." I put my hands on my head, felt my stomach churn.

"Oh, shit. What? What?" He grinned, rubbed his lips, looked both amused and embarrassed.

"What happened yesterday happened because I was bragging about you." I waited for my body to react for me, but it didn't.

"What?"

"You have your game, and I have mine. In mine, we don't have league tables but we know how the other players are doing. I am what you would call 'solidly mid-table', but with all my points coming from one associate partner."

"Associate partner? Do you mean me?"

"Yes. I have been spending a lot of time on LinkedIn, learning the new phraseology. The modern world is wonderful! We might say that you are accruing more points per game than most partners."

"Can you just say victims?"

"Remind me how much is in your bank account? Hmm? Where was I? You are a Dragonball, to use another of your phrases, and I have been showing off. One of my rivals took exception to my smugness, and set out to take me down a peg or two. I didn't know, of course, or I would have intervened. She allowed herself to be partially revealed in the video with that dreadful woman. That was entirely for my benefit, to let me know that she was the one twisting the knife." My hands had moved from my head to my hips.

"Wait wait wait. Some fucking demon cooked up a refereeing conspiracy against me to wipe the smug look off your face?"

"Nooo," he said, softly.

"She saw you careening towards the edge of a cliff, and simply gave you a nudge. Usually, that's all it takes. Please allow me to explain." I let out a small howl of frustration, but got another mug, another tea bag, and filled it alongside my own.

"You get a tea but you can add your own fucking lemon." Nick went back to laughing freely.

"Fair, fair." He slid off the stool and went to get the box containing Connect Four. He brought it back to the island and stood the plastic grid upright in the space between us.

"My colleagues - ""The imps," I said.

"My colleagues gave me some ideas on how to approach this conversation." He cleared his throat and did an imitation of my voice.

"My favourite TV show is Chernobyl. It's about a football manager who goes into a meltdown that can't be stopped." He cackled to himself while he made a pile of yellow discs and another pile of red.

"On the right, major stressful events. On the left, positive events. As long as they rise together, all is well. The fierce, burning, rage inside the football manager is contained." He dropped a yellow disc into the far-left slot; it slid with a pleasing sound, clunked delightfully against the closed base.

"You get to the playoff final, a wonderful Wembley treat for your fans." He slid a red one into the right of the grid.

"But it's against Wrexham!" Yellow in the left.

"You win." Red in the right.

"But you know promotion has come a year too early." He added a red.

"You dread your wedding day..." Yellow.

"But now you're married to Emma! You don't have enough time to build all your squads... but you get help from unexpected quarters! You are drawn against the loathsome Pestis and refuse to play in Hungary... But you win anyway! And so on. Do you follow?"

"Yes." He opened the flap; the discs fell out. He closed it and gathered a handful of reds.

"There has been no counter-balance to the refereeing conspiracy. The first time a Premier League ref appeared at one of your matches, all hell broke loose!" He dropped a red into the grid.

"There is no question the game was rigged, but to the rest of the world, you sounded like any other manager whining about a defeat. It happens thousands of times a day. No-one listened, even those in authority who should have." He dropped another disc.

"We come to the five Premier League games. Arsenal. You don't get a single decision!" He dropped a red.

"Brighton. You were robbed! Man City. A scandal! There's so much of a pattern that you find a way to tell yourself that Marco Toni's honesty is actually proof of the conspiracy!" He dropped yet another red.

"And Liverpool? Well, that was as plain as the nose on your face." He dropped in three more reds, then opened the flap so the entire bunch tumbled out.

"Meltdown."

"Great explanation," I said.

"But, er... I knew all that." This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"You know nothing, Max Best! Is that from Chernobyl?"

"No." Having reset the grid, he picked up a red and held it up between us.

"Liza Mason. Undeniably, one hundred percent corrupt." He dropped the disc in.

"Ipswich Town. Agreed? Now, Arsenal." He picked up a red disc, then placed it down again.

"A lot of tough decisions. A lot of close ones went against you. Conspiracy? No. My colleagues sum it up thus." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sticky note. He read from it, very slightly mimicking an imp voice as he did." Big teams get more decisions than small ones. Good teams get more decisions than bad ones. Sucks but don't be a little bitch about it. Stop complaining, get good."

"Can you summon one of those imps, please? We'll have a fight and as I'm punching them in the face I'll scream, get good, get good!" Nick picked up another red.

"Brighton." He hovered the disc over the far-right slot, but took it away. He tapped the one that was trapped in the bottom.

"We already have Liza Mason there, no? She had to be careful how she manipulated the game, since there was so much more scrutiny than in the Ipswich match, but she did it admirably. What of the main referee, Anthony Castle? He did nothing. Would you please turn your phone on? You should have a message from Briggy that will help to clarify this." I didn't like being told what to do, so I jiggled the teabags and tried to think of a reason not to do it. I couldn't.

While my phone was turning on, something occurred to me.

"Wait. Your demon friend was in the video. So how did Briggy film that?"

"She didn't. Briggy had nothing to do with any of it. You are going to discover that Briggy has a simple solution to spying on referees." He made an impressed face.

"She waits for them to go to the Deva. There is a brand-new, all-singing, all-dancing phone charging station in the referee's room. It also has slots so they can charge their communications equipment. Very helpful of Chester to provide this! The officials don't even have to open their bags to extract their cables, which they are always losing." I pulled at my lip.

"Shit!" I said, with sudden clarity.

"You plug in your phone and while it's charging, Briggy's sliding into your DMs. That's diabolical!"

"It's clever, simple, efficient, cheap. Briggy doesn't waste your money, Max. Eventually, every Premier League referee will come to the Deva and over time, they can all be eliminated as suspects. Two have already been dealt with, as you will hear." Briggy was fucking impressive, but I was starting to feel a tiny bit queasy. I glanced at the Connect Four grid, which Nick was using to recreate a scene from Chernobyl, whether he knew it or not. The prick had probably caused Chernobyl.

But he was making a case, and making it far too well, that there was no conspiracy. But... I had seen... My phone was on. I had two billion notifications now, which made me break into a slight sweat. I tried to blank every name that wasn't Briggy, and found she had sent me three new voice notes. The earliest announced her intention to leave the Azores and get back to Chester urgently so she could open the black boxes.

The second was about Anthony Castle, the guy who had reffed against Brighton, though she was careful not to get too specific. Max, I've opened the first box. It's clean, Max. Clean! He finishes the project. You know, the one where you were unhappy with his work. He grabs his phone, texts his wife. Honey, I fucked up! I'm in the shit. He messages the person who was supposed to be helping him with tech support. WTF, you've landed me in the shit! She replies, I did the best I could with what I had!

He writes to one of the people from his, er, union. He goes, pal, everyone's talking about this video Max Best got. Even my assistants are talking about it! It's so cool, so amazing, the entire world will be watching it. Watching my mistake! I'm stressed, pal, I don't know that I can drive home, what do I do? He's got an account with a betting company. He lost 20 quid on the Grand National. He bet on someone with a long name to win the French Open tennis. The only football bet was on England to win the Euros.

This isn't the guy. Seriously. I eyed Nick, who nodded with his eyebrows raised, as if to say, 'see?' The last voice note was about Marco Toni, giving him a clean bill of health, as expected.

"Huh," I said. Nick didn't give me much time to process any of it. He held up a red disc.

"Sam Long, referee against Manchester City. Statistically, he was better than Marco Toni, but you trust Toni so you refuse to see that. Long made one major mistake, which was that he didn't instruct you to wait for the whistle while he was setting up your free kick. That is something he would normally do one hundred times out of one hundred, so why didn't he do it this time? Was it because he was in a conspiracy?" Nick put the disc down and reached into his pocket, emerging with yet another sticky note.

"Or is it because you were yelling at him?

'Ref, come on. Ref, I'm ready. Hurry up! What are you doing? Fifty thousand people paid good money to see you spray the grass with white paint, what is this, a fucking installation? Stop chatting to your fucking mates, this isn't a tea party. I'm ready, mate! Come onnnnn! Christ, finally.'" I squeezed my lips closed while looking left and right for an escape route.

"Um, that doesn't sound like me." Nick laughed hard.

"Sam Long didn't like that you took the kick before he gave permission. On review, it turns out, amazingly, that you were right and he was wrong. In giving you a caution, he was stubborn, childish, and petulant. But then you showed him the true meaning of the words stubborn, childish, and petulant. Didn't you?" He smiled, wide.

"Pop him in the conspiracy column," I said, half-heartedly.

"No," said Nick.

"The tea is ready."

"Shit. I forgot to set the timer."

"Just as Sam Long forgot to give you an instruction. It happens. On that day, you were both to blame. Move on." He accepted the black tea with a nod, took the lemon and knife I offered him, sliced into the fruit, squeezed juice into his mug.

"Finally, Liverpool. This is where it gets really interesting. There are things I don't know, so I'm going to make some educated guesses. My rival - I can't keep calling her that. Think of a name for a being of immense power and cunning."

"Kylie."

"Good. It's important to note that at that point, the day of the Liverpool match, neither I nor Kylie nor anybody had wronged you beyond what would have happened in the normal course of events. Nobody except for Liza Mason, of course. Now I don't know how, but Kylie knew you were primed to blow up yesterday, and she knew that one of your triggers was Billy Brinsworth." Another patch of cold sweat appeared on my neck and lower back.

"Jenny," I said.

"The impette."

"Pardon me?" Nick listened with great interest as I told him about the meeting with the PGMOL. He leaned back, content enough, like a detective who had solved a case after the killer had already died.

"Yes, that's it. You told them everything they needed to know. So," he said, pressing his palms into the countertop.

"It goes like this. Billy Brinsworth drives to the home of Kelvin Pallister. You have a voice note from Pallister, by the way, that will confirm what I tell you." I skimmed my phone.

"Huh. Should I listen now?"

"No. Just believe me for once." He grinned, devilishly.

"We're on the same team, after all. Brinsworth goes inside, they have a cup of tea. They go back to the car - it's dead. I don't know everything, as I said, but let's assume that Brinsworth calls someone at Liverpool, informing them that he won't be able to take the seats they reserved for him, so if they have people on standby... Also, would you mind awfully telling Max Best I can't make it? Of course, says the employee of the club you blasted during the week. When pigs fly, he adds, after the call is ended.

"The match starts. It's very exciting, by all accounts, and you are running around being a pest. There is a serious incident that the referee does not see. He has learned to rely on the video referee helping him in such matters, so he waits. Help doesn't come. Jenny or another impette has pulled a plug or repointed a satellite dish. It's too easy!" I noted he had no problem calling Kylie's 'colleague' an impette.

"Er... So..." I scrunched up my face, then slammed my fist down onto the counter.

"The fucking linesman gave a corner!" Nick nodded.

"After you walked off, Wade Bell became concerned about his colleague. He rushed him to a hospital, but Wade himself had to get back to his family. The assistant waited for four hours before leaving, untreated. We might never know what befell him."

"That's lame," I said. Nick shrugged.

"To me, it looked like a concussion. We would never have noticed except that the man was being asked to make two critical decisions per minute, peer-reviewed by two hundred million of his fellows. I actually rather doubt it was a head injury - Kylie would not go so far, for it would invite censure, which as I have told you, is not something one wishes to invite. Something unpleasant in the man's drink? She didn't need to hurt him, only to impair his faculties enough to wind you up.

Or," said Nick, "she did nothing and the poor man simply had a fever. With you seeing conspiracies everywhere, she didn't need to do much. Did she, Max?" I thought back to the match. I was hyped and I was manic but I had thought there was something off about the linesman, hadn't I? A slightly glazed look on his face.

"I don't get injury reports on referees."

"Maybe you should," said Nick.

"You will be able to tweak your system soon. Request that improvement, by all means. I rather expect it will be cheap." Nick brought a red disc to the top of the Connect Four grid, thought about dropping it, shook his head.

"I think not." He placed the disc down and tapped the plastic frame.

"Liza Mason is the entire conspiracy." I sipped my tea while I thought it through. The endlessly churning rage that I had carried with me since Ipswich... was gone. Nick was telling the truth. He was helping me. Go team.

"I think..." I said, in a conciliatory tone, "that I've been going too fast but it's because I don't have anything to play for this season. With Chester, I mean. So it's just, get my digs in with every club I dislike... while I still can. And also, yeah, it's because the curse has a time limit." Nick looked up from his tea, and for a moment he looked concerned. This was new information.

"It does?"

"Doesn't it?" His eyes wandered, like he was tapping into old memories.

"What... Why... Ah. I suppose it does. I leaned heavily on the game that was in your mind."

"Soccer Supremo? It doesn't have a time limit."

"It does."

"What? How long?" His eyes wandered again.

"40 years? But what kind of game is that? That's not a game, that's a life."

"Forty years? Not seven? Oh." That changed things. That changed things in a big way. In another 34 years, Chester's streets could literally be paved with gold if I wanted.

"I can build my bridge." Nick wasn't listening.

"You still call it a curse. It's genuinely absurd. If I wanted to curse someone, I would make them referee you every day for eternity." I wasn't listening to him.

"Wait, hang on. Kylie. Why did she try to make me quit Chester?"

"She didn't try; she succeeded. She's a sly one. I'll get her back for this..." He smiled in a very sensual way.

"Take those dirty thoughts out of my clean kitchen, thank you very much. Listen to what I'm saying. Why did she want to make me quit? As you said, you'll be better off with me freestyling."

"She doesn't know how your system works. How could she? You barely know how it works." He chuckled at that.

"Her assumption makes sense, I suppose. What would you think as an outsider? Max Best earns XP by getting wins, perhaps also by growing a club's Reputation score. Removing you from Chester knocks you back six years, and therefore me, too." I drained my tea and glanced outside. It was still bright but the light had changed in quality.

"I need to finish my box." We went outside and I picked up one of the rolls of duct tape. I mindlessly strengthened the edges for a couple of minutes. I stepped back, and was surprised to realise that I had created a steaming pile of shit. I sighed and chucked the tape into my pile of 'tools'.

"I'm not cut out for this." Nick smiled and picked up the tape. He threw it to me.

"You're going to achieve your goal and no-one is ever going to know how bad this looks. Not unless you take a photo and send it to a group of drunken women." I scoffed and lined up a picture that made the den look as shit as possible. I sent it to Newcastle. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair! I tossed the tape into the air and caught it. Did that a few times.

"I think what I've learned from this meeting is that I have fucked up in an epic way in front of hundreds of millions of people in the world's most popular sport. It might be one of the top ten most cringe moments of anyone's life, ever. My name will forever be a joke." Nick raised one eyebrow.

"What makes you say that? Use your phone to look up Manchester United's share price." With a slight frown, I did so.

"Oof," I said.

"Down ten percent."

"That's four or five hundred million pounds taken off the value of the club, Max. There's nothing cringe about that; people are taking you very seriously. If the matches are not fair, there's no sport. If there's no sport, a lot of people are going to lose a hell of a lot of money. That's just one reason a conspiracy never made sense. But the owners you despise are scrabbling around trying to reassure people that the league is not corrupt, that the matches are not fixed.

They will struggle to do that without your help."

"My help?" Nick wandered away and came back with a pot plant that he placed in front of the den.

"Camouflage!" He was very pleased with himself.

"After your walk-off, Billy Brinsworth suspended Liza Mason and Steve Steel. He rested Wade Bell and the rest of the crew for the next round of matches, then he quit. Max Best told us about this a long time ago but we didn't listen, someone has to be accountable, that person is me. Kelvin Pallister will replace him.

"Kelvin wants - needs - your help in restoring trust in the game. He wants to get extra funding for training and technology and to fast-track former players who become refs, which is something you have championed and funded in the past. You funded it when the club was poor, so much did you believe in it! Pallister will recruit two elite referees from overseas that you will help him to choose.

Refs will take pre-match cognitive tests and a new process will be devised to speed up and improve PGMOL's reaction to accusations of serious wrong-doing. The Premier League clubs will fall over themselves to throw money at the issue - if you act fast and act together."

"Um... Or I could double down and fuck up a load of billionaires. That sounds a lot more fun." Nick nodded.

"I agree. But you would be killing the sport. I don't really care; I prefer rugby. The referees can't see what the players are doing so they poke their opponents in the eye. It's just like the old days. Gilgamesh and the trials of strength!" I stared hard at nothing, but there wasn't really a decision to make.

"I'll call Pally first thing in the morning. The irony is that Billy Brinsworth quitting on principle makes me trust him way more." Nick said, "Of course it does, because it's exactly what you just did. But you can't bring him back, not if you want to improve standards. You would lose the window. Oh, one other thing." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a note.

"New perk idea. Frustrated by a referee? Save Briggy the trouble, let us investigate him."

"Wait, is that a thing?"

"Why not? We will see who he talks to, see if he gambles. We can give you what Briggy does, but faster. If you are especially frustrated by a ref, have him cleared right away." He grinned.

"For a price." My head was spinning.

"That's... amazing. Peace of mind. Wait, but... It would be better to check him before a match."

"Would it? Seems like a waste of resources, but by all means. Send me your XP! Haha."

"What?"

"When I'm running low on funds, I should encourage you to see another conspiracy. That way, you'll pay to investigate every referee. Sounds lucrative." I glared at him.

"I'm not paying XP unless I'm gonna get a fair deal."

"Max, if we check and find a match official is betting on the matches he officiates, we will either tell you or simply leak the facts and get him removed from the match. We don't want you erupting over this again; it's not in our interest." I sat on the nearest bench and leaned forward. My fingertips rubbed across the gap between pieces of wood.

"That video that your girlfriend Kylie did. There was a gap in the middle. A cut. I watched it a couple of times and couldn't tell how long the missing footage was. Do you know what was in that part?"

"No, but it was almost certainly a question along the lines of, how big is this anti-Max Best conspiracy? Answer, what are you talking about?"

"Do you know why Mason hates me so much?"

"No. A lot of people dislike you for a lot of reasons. I advise you not to dwell on it. If you find out it's because you love green energy, what are you going to do? Stop putting up windmills? I'm unfashionably late for a party; let's start to wrap this up." He brought out yet another note and read from some bullet points.

"Make him see the truth, done. Be broadly sympathetic while pointing out it's all his fault, done. Avoid leaning into the inherent comedy of the situation, done. Remember this is your golden goose, done. Reframe the wider situation as a win for Bestianism. Hmmm, partially completed." He glanced at me and held up three fingers, one by one.

"This won't happen again, you have the elites running scared, and you'll work out the rest. Finally," he said, flicking the note against his fingers, "get him back to Chester." He seemed to be deep in thought, attempting to think of the right words, but his gaze was slowly drifting around the garden.

"You know," he said, "it's quite lovely. I see you have created distinct zones. What is it? Goalkeeper, defence, midfield, forwards? I see a hint of a grand plan, but can't... This must be how it feels to analyse your tactics!" He closed his eyes, sniffed, gave the impression that he had floated away, returned to his body.

"The different sections must give pops of colour at different times of the year. The front of the property is more formal, more impressive, the side is more functional, but this is the true Max Best garden. It's neat but messy. Organised chaos. Teeming with life! What fun it would be to be a hedgehog in here!" The compliment fucked me up, to be honest. Was I seriously about to WEEP because an evil demon said small mammals would like me?

"Thanks." Nick took out a stack of notes.

"Problems. One, the prediction of losing six games in a row became a self-fulfilling prophecy. In quitting, you closed the loop. Take a break, return to work, the slate is wiped clean. The losing streak is over! The suffering is ended. Problem two, lack of sporting ambition for the season." He looked around, at the tree leaves that were turning from green to red and yellow.

"Why season? Four seasons. Season a steak. Surely another word was available?" He turned to a new note.

"Please return Paul Braun's call." Paul Braun, the guy who ran Bayern Munich. Why?

"Uhh..."

"I'll get myself some more lemonade, if you don't mind." I didn't want him alone in my house but why fight it?

"Grab me a beer?" He wandered away; I tapped on my phone. Paul Braun picked up quickly.

"Max! Are you all right?"

"Course I'm all right. They've got mirrors here."

"You have vanished. People said you ran away to Morocco."

"I said that. If the Daily Mail sends someone to Casablanca to track me down, I will die happy. Nah, but seriously, I'm peachy. I'm on a James Bond marathon, watching them all back to back. I'm skipping the one with the Australian."

"Really? It's the best one. Listen, are you still the director of football at Chester?"

"Yes."

"We saw what happened. A scandal! Outrageous. We can't help much, but we can help. In January, we will loan you a player. Would you prefer Willi Tillmann or Parnell Gourlay?" A left-back or a central midfielder.

"What? That's... We're going down, Paul. It won't be fun."

"It will! How you played against Liverpool, my God! That's football! The hairs on my arm were standing on end! Do that, Max. Attack! Attack them all, all the time! I think you should take Willi. Your full backs are worthy but you need a two-way player. You need speed! Willi on the left, Cheb on the right, attack till you drop! You will lose some, but you will win some. Don't give up! We are all behind you."

"Can I have Adam Adebayo?" Paul laughed.

"We are not that much behind you!" Bayern's squad list was in my head. I brought it up; Willi Tillmann was 23 these days, was a regular in Germany squads, and he had roared to CA 161, PA 190. Bayern had an elite left-back who started most weeks and they had good backups but it struck me that they were still underrating Willi. I clicked my teeth; no way did that explain this call. Willi's talent was too clear.

"Loaning him out makes no sense. What's going on?" Paul's reply was slow in coming.

"It does make sense. You will improve him, like you always do. You'll fill his head with your crazy notions and when he returns we will beat them out of him. History has proven that to be a wonderful method for improving our players!" He chuckled, but then his voice got quiet and serious. Paternal.

"I hate to see you in pain. I told you something before that I do not think you believed. When you become part of the Bayern family, you are part of it for life." I swallowed and mumbled, "Mia san mia."

"Mia san bund! It costs us nothing to help you, Max. Lending you a player is not so noble as all that." I swallowed again, which was more painful.

"Right. Just business."

"Exactly. Just business." Paul cleared his throat, then spoke more quickly.

"Plus, think strategically. If you stay in the Premier League you can continue to undermine the others and wreck the next broadcasting deal. Haha! I would like to see the look on their faces when they discover their revenues have taken a 40% hit. Ahh, just the thought of it makes me feel young again! On behalf of German football, I offer you help."

"You'll regret it when Chester are smashing up the Champions League."

"That's the spirit! Yes, Max! Good. I must get back to the garden. We are doing a grill and one of the boys said he saw an igel."

"An eagle?"

"Think about it and get in touch! You will be the only manager who sacked himself and did all his January transfer business in September while on gardening leave! Haha. Oh, and Max?"

"Yes?"

"Have you spoken to Caramel?"

Nick had topped up his delicious lemonade but handed me a plain glass of water.

"Bro," I said.

"Professional footballers don't drink mid-season," he said.

"Paul said I should call Caramel. Camila, Foquita's girlfriend," I explained.

"Do you know anything about it? He sat on the edge of a raised bed and sipped his lemonade, letting the sun blast him in the face.

"Blood from a stone," I muttered, and dialled.

"Max!"

"Camila. What's up? You called."

"Max it was so crazy. What the hell."

"I know."

"Are you all right?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm crushing all aspects of my life. Let's talk about you. How's school?"

"It's so good. So so good. I'm learning a lot every day. Oh! Can I ask a question? Maybe it's too personal, I don't know."

"Go ahead."

"With Ruud Berkenbosch. He's injured, one year, you buy him anyway. That is ri- dic -ulous! What are you thinking?" I smiled, but Old Nick was watching me, enjoying my face. I turned away.

"It was just the right thing to do. Sorry I can't be, you know, more descriptive. It was just the right thing to do so I did it. I don't want to treat people like shit just because I can. Fuck that. Fuck that forever."

"Good, but why did MD allow it?"

"Why did... Because I'm a giant manbaby and if I don't get what I want, I threaten to quit."

"But you quit anyway, haha!"

"I didn't quit as director of football. I plan to be Chester's director of football for the next 34 years." I raised a glass to Nick, who reciprocated.

"Yes, good, but really. It is not financially responsible. You should negotiate a discount or postpone the transfer for a year or something. MD must have said this."

"Yeah, but... I put my foot down."

"Oh, so strong you are!" She giggled; she sounded tipsy.

"Are you in Newcastle?"

"What?" she giggled again.

"Max, listen. I want to know. Why did MD allow this?"

"Well, he said something about us being hammered on tax if we had money left over at the end of the year so it didn't really matter if we got a discount or not. He said he was just as happy letting Go Ahead Eagles have the difference." Camila squealed; I had to move the phone away from my ear.

"Yes! I knew it! I knew it!"

"What's going on?"

"We speak about this deal in my course. Sports Management, you remember? You do crazy things so we discuss about you. I guessed right on this one. Yes! I'm so happy about this, you cannot believe." I was smiling in a certain way again, and had to turn away from Nick again.

"I'm glad to hear it. Was that why you called me? To ask about that?"

"What? No. I want to tell you that Foquita is moving to Bayern Munich next summer. Providing he is not injured, of course! They are not totally loco like some clubs I can think of!" She giggled again, and took a big swig of something.

"Okay," I said. It was a tiny bit heartbreaking, tbh, but not a big surprise.

"How much?"

"80 million Euros."

"Fuck me! Wow. Okay, that makes me feel better. We'll never have that sort of money."

"That's because you need money to build a hospital for all the injured players you buy." She sniggered.

"Heyyyy..." I said, but to be honest, being rinsed by a Peruvian supermodel was quite relaxing. The tension was melting out of me.

"So," she said, getting businesslike.

"We have discussed it. Me, Foquita, his mother. She loves what you did for the Dutch player. That could have been my boy, she said. We need more men like Maxbest. That's how she says your name, all in one go. Maxbest. Adrian is not a big fan, but he will be happy when his fee arrives. Benfica are not so keen, but they have no choice. If they want their 80 million, they shut their faces and sign the papers we give them. Bosh!" I laughed. Hearing that word out of that mouth was like hearing Youngster swear.

"I think I missed something, Camila. If they want the money... What?" She was mid-swig when she said, "Oh." I heard a noise like her wiping her mouth.

"Foquita will go to Chester in January. He will save you from the shit. I will study in Lisbon but when I go to visit Chester you will teach me how to run a football club and you will explain your crazy decisions because I don't want to get a great job, I want to do a great job. Okay? I have to go. My classmates are throwing a party and I don't want to be the girl who is on her phone the whole time, even if they are jealous I know the guapo loco." She cackled.

"Wait wait wait," I said, but she had hung up. Foquita. January. She hadn't even said how much it would cost.

"What the fuck? I'm broke. I spent all the war chest." Nick held up a sticky note that read: He's got 6 million pounds coming in January.

"Oh, yeah," I said.

"That's true. But - " Another note: Willi Tillmann plus Foquita = could we? I rubbed my chin. The hardest thing about staying in the Prem was scoring goals. Foquita was recovering from ankle surgery, but he would quickly regain his lost levels. The last time I saw his profile, he was CA 159. He could get to 165 or so by the turn of the year, and so long as there was not a training cap, he could get to 170 with us. Training cap? It had never bothered Foquita before.

A CA 170 striker finishing moves created by my genius, high-Decisions players. Moves created by pure Bestball, hybrid play, heart-attack football, desperation football. We would win matches 5-4, lose matches 4-3. Could we? I pulled up Chester's fixture list. There were 17 Premier League games scheduled after January 1st, the first day we could register players. If we won 8 of those, that would be 24 points. 40 points would normally guarantee survival, but we were currently on minus 3.

I rubbed my face with both hands. No. Not quite. I had fucked us with that 3 point deduction. Some people would say: good. You should never, ever quit. Those people were wrong, but those people would be justified at the end of the season when we fell just short. We could get close-ish. We could get close enough to scare the team in 17th, close enough to make everyone in the city of Chester proud, and yeah, close enough to give the Premier League a story to chew on. The greatest ever escape? Almost.

"There's one thing I like," I said, slowly, testing the words as they came out of my mouth.

"What's that?"

"All the time we were keeping the contest close, DigiWorld and the other outlets would have to say we would be safe if it wasn't for the points deduction." I rubbed my nose.

"They'll think it's a stick they're beating me with, but they will just be reminding everyone that we were cheated. Which, yeah, you'll say I overreacted but we were cheated." Nick scoffed.

"I don't judge your reaction in the slightest. If I were you, I would get a price on a perk that summons fire and brimstone..."

"The constant reminder that we were wronged, the purity of our football, yes! I think I can see it. We would be everyone's second favourite team! I had given up on that because of the Daily Mail and the booing, but if we play good football, if we entertain, if we finish every match face-up on the grass, chests heaving, having given it everything..." I leaned back, shaking my head slightly. The shape of the story didn't quite fit on the page.

Glorious failure wasn't quite motivational enough, not in my current state. I clicked my tongue in a sad way.

"Yeah, look, I think I'm gonna enjoy touring Cheshire looking at architectural monstrosities with Emma. I don't really like being manipulated by a bunch of demons and their imps. In that sort of game, the only way to win is not to play. I've got my money. I'll build the football club into an absolute beast. That's enough, I reckon. No-one could ask for more. And if I cut way down on Chester stuff, I can do side quests. Save a club in Peru from relegation. Play against a hundred schoolchildren in Japan.

Fly to New Zealand and look at Australia through binoculars." Nick was watching me, waiting. When I had finished, he held up the penultimate sticky note. Don't mention the FA Cup. He doesn't like being manipulated. My eyes bulged. The FA Cup! Winning that would be incredible on its own, but if we did win it, we would go straight into next season's Europa League, the second-tier European tournament, the one that College were in this time round. And we would go into that tournament as one of the favourites to win!

Ruud would be fit. Wibbers and Gabby would be top Premier League players. The squad would be easy to keep together.

'Lads! We can win a European trophy! The Championship is fun, anyway. Let's do the double! Fuck it, let's win the FA Cup again! Do the treble!' Some would leave for more money but most would stay. Wibbers, for one, wouldn't be able to resist! And... hang on. Hang the fuck on. Win the Europa League and you get in the following year's Champions League. How's that for a target? Head spinning, I went to the fixtures list. Our first FA Cup match would be on the 6th of January.

We needed to pick up enough points in 2028 to convince Willi and Foquita that we really had a chance of staying up, that there was a reason for them to come. If we did that, they would join us on the 1st of January 2029, making us genuine contenders for the cup. We would smash our way through the early rounds because if we drew a Premier League opponent, they would probably not take the cup very seriously. If one of them did name a strong team, I would Bench Boost it.

By the time we faced a strong opponent who was taking the competition seriously, we would be a serious team. Could we? We could, you know. We fucking could.

"Huh," I said, aware that my smile had taken on a life of its own. Much more of that and it would start to hurt.

"What are you thinking?" I brushed some flecks of dirt from my hoodie.

"I'm thinking that maybe unemployment doesn't suit me."

"You have a dozen jobs."

"You know what I mean." Old Nick, the demon, the villain, the baddie, opened my electric mini-fridge, took out a beer, and passed it over. I frowned.

"What happened to not wanting me to drink?" He closed the fridge lid.

"You need a break. Let Sandra do Aston Villa. Let the Premier League rush to comply with Kelvin Pallister's demands. The Premier League will still be there when you want to make your dramatic return. Meet your hedgehog, take Emma to look at monstrosities, then travel early to Finland. You're going there with the Wales team, yes? Why not turn it into a holiday?" He smiled.

"Yes, it's lovely in Finland. I can recommend a few places to visit, should you wish." He checked behind him to the left, to the right, and surreptitiously produced the final sticky note. It was a list of places, plus dates and times.

"Playdar? Isn't this cheating?" I rubbed my forehead.

"Mate. I've had enough trouble with referees." He placed his glass down and ambled towards an apple tree. He held one of the branches and said, "Is it cheating to buy a small tree instead of growing it from seed?"

"What? Of course not. No." On hearing that, Nick smiled and headed towards the far side of the cottage. He was leaving! I called out, "Wait!" He stopped and gazed upon my mighty works. The apple, the rosemary, the hunter's den.

"Yes?"

"If it's allowed," I said, slapping the note rapidly.

"Give me more!" He eyed a spot on the ground, which seemed to amuse him in some way.

"Allowed is a complicated word. Put it this way, in my world, if you're not cheating, you're not trying hard enough." He took a few more steps, plucked a pear from a tree, took a bite, and half-turned to say, "Goodbye, Max. Enjoy your break." I frowned at his back, squinted at the note in my hand, and furrowed my brow at the glass he had perched on the edge of a raised bed. I carried it inside, to the sink, and rinsed it.

Then I noticed that on the fridge there was yet another note: Hedgehog arrives from the north, 19: 44. Eats, shoots and leaves. (Insert Foquita joke.) p. s. Don't even try to win the cup. No-one could do it. Not even you. No but really! It's imp-ossible!