Chương 109: 7.5 - Patient Gamers

5. Monday, October 9 I summoned the men's first team for our annual Maxterplan meeting, in which I would tell them our goals for the season. I invited MD and Brooke, as per tradition, plus of course our coaches, physios, and the data team. Sophie and Harper were attending for the first time, along with our three Heads of Performance, who had mysteriously picked up the collective nickname 'Cerberus', perhaps because they loved playing the Mass Effect trilogy, which is often discounted to under 8 pounds.

Brooke had asked if she could invite a few of our new admin staff, too, so they could get a better understanding of the company they worked for. I agreed, not realising that in Texas 'a few' meant 'about 20'. They were crowded at the back of the Sin Bin, really squashed in, while the players were on the first few rows. The place was jam-packed. So there were loads more people than I expected. So what? I tried not to overthink it. This was primarily a meeting for the players, so I would talk to them.

I adjusted my headset, angled the microphone.

"Okay," I said, in a deep, gruff voice, "is this thing on?" Sam Topps, our head of youth development, laughed when he heard me.

"Gaffer, you sound like Sean Dyche!"

"Do I?" Dyche was an English manager renowned for playing meat-and-two-veg football at a high level and for having a gravelly voice. I leaned into the idea.

"4-4-2, lads, keep it tight first 20." I got a bottle of thick, syrupy cough medicine out of my bag and took a spoonful.

"It won't stay like this. I just need to warm up a bit. But yeah, maybe you reprobates can keep the banter to a minimum? If you've got a zinger, write it down and pass it around in note form. Youngster, have you got pen and paper? No? Perfect." Good laugh on that. Start with a joke.

"We're gonna talk about our goals for the year. Some of you might be thinking, hmm, if I was the manager, I would do that before the season started, not when we've played almost a fifth of our league games." Lots of grins, especially from the front row where all the teacher's pets were sitting.

"This is better, though. My processes are cutting-edge; I should probably write a book about them. What would I call it? Just-In-Time Motivation: Reshaping the Something Something of the Future. Practically writes itself." I walked to a table and took a swig of water.

"Can you hear me gulping? Maybe we should do two meetings, one for people who like mouth sounds..." I swigged again.

"Right. Great result on the weekend. Give yourselves a round of applause." They did.

"Now applaud if you were patient with me while I was suffering." A few people clapped. I scoffed.

"Sure. For the two of you who didn't crack jokes - oh, Jojo isn't here. Well, to the one person, thanks for being patient when I was the patient. The theme today is being patient." I walked to a flipchart and wrote: PATENT I stared straight ahead until Youngster started to put his hand up. Pascal pulled it down. I grinned and added the letter I to the word.

"Patient," I said. I looked to the people at the back and said, "Sometimes I like to spell words in an unorthodox order for thematic purposes. It's one of the reasons Emma married me so readily. That and my exotic accent. The monkey judge judged the monkeys." I took another big swig of water, annoyed with myself for showing off so much already. Just say the thing so you can rest your voice!

"We have short-term, medium-term, and long-term goals. For today, short-term means the next match, medium-term means Christmas, and long-term means the final stretch of this season. Our short- and long-term goals are mostly aligned, but not completely. This will lead to creative tension, which is fuel you can use to motivate yourself." There was a risk of this speech getting quite messy, but for once I didn't mind that; it could work in my favour.

"I need to get the Liverpool thing out of the way, because I'm going to talk about fighting hard and not giving up and some of you will be thinking, yeah but you quit. So let me speak my mind on that. This is the short version. If you want the long version, it'll be available when my throat is fully recovered, and it will be delivered at high volume about one inch from your face." I clicked my neck left and right.

"Why is a generational talent like me slumming it at Chester? I've had loads of job offers in the last six years. Christ, I could be managing Bayern Munich right now. I'm here for loads of reasons. One is that the first day I came here I was met by almost wall-to-wall kindness. Livia treated an injury and made me feel like a prince. Magnus couldn't have been more helpful. I would like to say Dean was nice, but... Look, he's nice now." Dean was shaking his head, looking down, but he was smiling.

Livia gave him a friendly nudge.

"I'm here because MD gave me a chance and stuck by me and offered me a job even when I was in a coma, which now that I think about it doesn't show great faith in the manager who came before me." Livia showed me the middle finger, because the previous manager was Jackie Reaper, her boyfriend. I stuck my tongue out at her, then continued.

"Yeah and the fans and the staff and the players and the fact that what I'm doing is so impossible. Anyone can take Man City and point those players in the right direction. No-one else can do what I'm doing. No-one.

"But there's another thing, and I don't talk about it much, but it's out in the open now, isn't it? I want to save English football from the billionaires and the hedge funds and the nation states. I want to force the Football Association to get off its arse and run the game in the interest of players and fans, I want to help referees, I want institutions to stick to the principles they claim to have, and I want little kids to come to matches and fall in love, the way we all did. The sport's in danger, guys.

I keep seeing grown men at matches watching darts on their phones. I keep hearing stories about kids at their first matches saying to their dads, 'Can we go home?' because they're so bored.

"You might not care about any of that. You just want to win matches and get paid, and that's fine. All players should have a mercenary voice in their heads. But you are at Chester Football Club, and I have the final say on sporting matters. You can disagree with me, but that energy would be better spent on the grass or in the gym because you are never, ever, ever going to change my mind about issues that concern the future of the sport.

"Technically, we lost the Liverpool match, but that's not how it's recorded in my head." I looked around, trying not to make it obvious I was checking for the reaction of Murray Burnett and Leo Los, the two players who seemed most affected by my walk-off at Anfield.

"What happened was that I won. I started a national conversation about refereeing standards, I got two top refs over from Europe, I got 10 million quid out of the Premier League. That's blood from a stone, lads. I took ten percent off Man United's share price. I won. It was my first major victory against the enemies of football, in this country anyway. There's a lot more to come. A lot." I stared at the guys for a while. You could have heard a pin spin.

"This isn't a one-way street. Once in a while, I use my teams as a battering ram to achieve some higher purpose. But for that to work, I need to give back. At Bayern, I won every match I was in charge of. So far, I'm doing the same for Wales. For Chester, it has been a story of relentless improvement, a rebuilt stadium, us overtaking Wrexham. But it's all about the players, really. You help me pull off my stunts and in return, you get glory, riches, and fame."

I swept my gaze across the rows of players, all of whom were sitting.

"Everyone who never thought they would play for their country but have done, please stand up." Bark - representing Jamaica - stood, followed by Lewis (Northern Ireland), Cole Adams (Ireland), Roddy Jones (Wales) and Youngster (Ghana). I pulled a sour face.

"Jimmy, come on. Don't be pedantic. You got in the Scotland squad!" He stood, but called out, "You asked if we thought we wouldn't get in. I always knew I would."

"Cocky bastard," I said, smiling.

"Everyone who never thought you'd play in the Premier League, please stand up." Magnus led that particular charge, but there was also Pascal, Peter Bauer, and Gabby. I nodded a few times, and mumbled, "Kinda tempted to keep going with this until everyone's standing..." I shook my head and gestured that the lads could sit.

"Point is, this is where you come to do things you never even imagined. Murray, Leo, Cheb, Helge, Rushy, you were already on the fast track and you might think you could get the same improvement at any other top club and maybe you would be right, but here it's almost guaranteed. I spend about one percent of my time thinking how to fuck with billionaires and about ninety-nine percent thinking how we can play football better, as individuals and as a team.

About one percent of Chester players leave to a lower salary, about ninety-nine percent leave to a higher salary." I picked up a marker pen and ambled around, chucking it up and catching it.

"This year's theme is a weird one." Dean called out, "Weirder than the one with the deadly shrimp and the fossils that grew shells?" I squinted, rolled my eyes towards Livia, and jerked my head towards Dean.

"Is he all right?" Strangely, this made half the room laugh. After a moment, I looked at the new employees.

"Yeah, okay, there have been stranger ones than today's. Soz not soz." I threw the pen one more time, then drew a vertical line down the flipchart page, and wrote IMPATIENT next to PATIENT, such that the words became column headers. Under PATIENT I wrote MAX, SANDRA. Under IMPATIENT I wrote SENIOR PLAYERS. Under PATIENT I wrote CUTE LITTLE BABY PLAYERS OH LOOK AT THEIR CHUBBY CHEEKS HOW ADORBS (RODDY, u18s). I tapped myself on the forehead, quite hard.

"I've just realised I forgot to define my terms or whatever you call it. You'll have to cut me some slack - I haven't been sleeping well, what with my throat turning into the set of Stranger Things and us playing a full-throttle match. The lads will tell you it's hard to sleep after a game. Oh, and that prick Slab stamped on my foot and it's fair to say it's pretty mangled. This might be a good time to say I'm not playing against Wolves; I want to be fit to beat United."

Sections of the room stirred, because this was new information. I pressed on.

"Er, try to imagine what I say next was pretty much the first thing I said. Good?" I cleared my throat.

"My favourite subreddit is called Patient Gamers. It's for people who wait a long time before buying video games because video games are a fucking rip. 80 quid to play a shitty football game that doesn't even have Max Best on the cover? Get tae fuck! But when the same game's on sale for 20 quid, now let's talk about whether it's worth buying." Youngster threw his hand up. I signalled he could speak.

"Is this about buying Ruud Berkenbosch even though he is injured? You have to wait a year to use him, but he was available at a good price?" I pursed my lips while I thought about it.

"That fits, doesn't it? I suppose that is part of why I bought him. I'll often buy a game that's on sale even if I don't have time to play it in the next few months. But today isn't a discussion of my squad building plans; it's a way of thinking about the rest of this season. More specifically, it's an explanation of how I'm thinking about the rest of this season. I'm not short on cash these days but I still visit Patient Gamers when I want to get a new game. That's just who I am.

I won't change, and after six years of doing this, there's no sign of me changing how I plan football seasons." I tapped myself in the forehead again.

"Shit. I forgot to mention that I didn't do this at the start of the season because I knew I would be sacked. The plan was for Sandra to be giving this speech right about now. I've had this outlined since halfway through the Championship season. The only changes since then have been positive: we're better than I expected and we have top reinforcements coming in January. Okay, let's properly get into it." I went to the flipchart and tapped the right-hand column.

"Senior players - which is almost all of you - I want you to be impatient. You're not here for the grand, sweeping, five-year plan. You don't give a fuck about my projects. You're professionals with short careers and you want to win and win now. Impatient. You come to me and say boss, there's a new Spider-Man game on PlayStation. It's my birthday tomorrow and I want it. I'll go, hey, let me introduce you to a money-saving subreddit and you'll scream WIN NOW at me. That's what I want."

I held my hand up to the left of my mouth, a gesture that conveyed the idea of a stage whisper.

"Don't do that. Not if you enjoy having teeth." I threw the marker and caught it.

"What I'm saying is that I want you to be so impatient for wins that you live in the moment. Every moment in training and in matches. We compete for every header, every tackle, and we chase every loose ball. We throw our bodies in front of shots, and we're alert for rebounds and slips so we can turn an oppo's mistake into a goal. We're invested in every second of every match whether we are 4-0 up or 4-0 down.

"We do this for many reasons. One, for the fans. They go home after a 4-1 away defeat and they're unhappy but one guy says, 'We never gave up though, did we? Kept going to the final whistle.' Fans love that. Fans respond to that.

"Two, for your own careers. You're all playing for your futures. Data companies don't turn off their computers when the fourth goal goes in, do they? That last-minute tackle, assist, or goal could be the thing that moves you from category B to category A in someone's model. You never know!

"Three, do it for your coaches. If you're still playing your heart out in the 88th minute, we can draw meaningful conclusions about our tactics, we can tweak your coaching, we can do all sorts of technical things that we can't do if you're bunched up in defence waiting for the final whistle. Last year's theme was 'Win the Second Half'. If we change formation in the last five minutes against Man United, it might not help to get a result this time, but it might be the key to beating them in, er..."

I checked the curse.

"In May. When we're losing games, I want you flying around in a controlled fury thinking 'we'll get you next time, you bastards'. Because we will. We will." I took another quick drink.

"Four. You keep playing hard because it's in you. You're impatient for wins because that's who you are. It's why you are where you are. There's one thing no-one in this room can doubt: my ability to spot talent. I found Youngster in a church. I found Bark and Pascal in Darlington. I found Edgar, Dumi, and Cheb at Bayern Munich!" I paused.

"Okay, maybe that last one isn't so extraordinary..." I smiled and walked back to the flipchart. I wrote the names of our next five opponents.

"Wolves, United, Leeds, Everton, Chelsea, then we've got an international break. These are our short-term targets. My analysis is that we are not a million miles away from the level of Wolves, Leeds, and Everton. DOVE broadly agrees with that. Chelsea and United both have squads that cost over a billion pounds in transfer fees, so there is a lot of talent, but a lot of chaos, too. It's crazy to say, but they will be easier to play against than Brentford. We suffered against Brentford, but we scared them, too.

We had patches where we were brilliant. All the work we do on the training pitch makes you better as individuals, and it means we get longer and longer periods of brilliance.

"We could win all five of these games, so if we don't, you're allowed to leave the pitch feeling disappointed. Don't throw stuff around the dressing room because if you hit someone with a water bottle or a stray boot there will be hell to pay. If I want to see a tantrum, I'll go to Sandra's house in the evening; Aiden hates being told it's time for bed.

"You're allowed a quick vent. Get it out of your system, but then get impatient for the next training session and the next game because believe me, the coaches will be working on solutions and we will tighten what needs to be tightened and loosen what needs to be loosened." I walked across the stage, slowly, wagging a marker.

"Time is not on our side. Games are running out. Every time we don't win, the pressure mounts. The odds of us staying up will lengthen, and people will assume we're already down." I stared at a shadow on the wall, then started moving again.

"It's my job, and Sandra's, to ignore all that noise. What's actually happening? Where are we really? What is possible really? I'll tell you what's possible - glory." I picked up the pace.

"I'm a patient gamer. I wait. I calculate. I look at a price tag and wince. Doesn't matter what my bank balance is; I grew up poor. I've been poor for most of my life, which means I've been patient for most of my life. Other managers buy teams. I grow them.

"I want to combine my patience and long-term thinking with your short-term will to win. We will scrap for points, and for a minute it'll look like we're scrabbling around in the dirt, but hey, no! We're not scrabbling around, we're digging out a fucking rocket launcher we buried there for some reason." I scratched my head.

"Yeah okay I was playing a lot of Far Cry 6 while I was ill. Nine quid. Your best friend is a crocodile.

"Where was I?" I tapped the words PATIENT and IMPATIENT.

"We lose a game. Max Best the player is fuming. He's a total prick, blames everyone but himself, walks down the tunnel without talking to anyone or shaking anyone's hand. He gets to the dressing room and yells, 'What the fuck!' He goes into the shower, comes out as Max Best the manager. He's thinking, shit, we played great today! We're really improving. And hey, I know six things we can do better next time we play this team. Yeah, it's all top, it's all mint, we're on track."

I felt a sneeze coming on, so I pushed a knuckle into my septum, while nodding in agreement. (Yes, I was agreeing with myself, but so what? I was talking a lot of sense.) There was no sneeze, so I continued.

"I've looked at the fixtures and made a lot of projections. If we keep improving, we're going to finish the season with a bang. If we keep improving, we will be very, very close to staying in this division.

"Continuing to improve at our current rates means finding this balance between patience and impatience. You need to rage against the dying of the light every minute of every match, but also keep the perspective that it's a long season. If you start to think, Christ, we've lost again, we're toast, then yeah, we are, because that's a self-fulfilling prophecy. But if you start to think like that, I'll know and I'll bin you off. I'll bomb squad anyone who gives up on this team. I only need eleven players who believe."

On the flipchart, I wrote DEC 23.

"The match before Christmas is away to Newcastle. That will be tough, and it will be a test of where we are at. It's the 19th league match, the halfway marker, and after that we start playing teams for the second time, so obviously we will start picking up points at a faster rate, but we should be in a position to get a result in Newcastle. We need to get a result, because I'm having Christmas dinner in Newcastle the next day and I want to be a fucking brat." I slapped the date a couple of times.

"This is the next time I want you to take a break from the training playing sleeping grind. I know it's hard and you've probably got mates who are bantering you non-stop, but if you focus on your job and keep your head down and attack every header and every sprint from now until then, you'll find that come Christmas dinner, we'll be in an okay position. Not amazing, but okay.

You'll notice that there won't be any more media stories about us being the worst PL team ever, because we'll already have more points than the famously crap Derby and Southampton sides. You'll be able to do the maths that if we improve our results in the second half, we'll soon climb to 19th, then 18th.

"Other clubs are going to start looking over their shoulders, believe me, because their data teams will be shitting themselves saying 'Chester are coming!'" I tapped the two key words one last time.

"Stay impatient. Keep your motivation high. I'm not sure this analogy really works, but my process does. By Christmas, you'll be convinced, so all you have to do is trust me for the next ten weeks. Stay off social media, don't do interviews, don't look at the league table, don't listen to the gobshites who are paid to generate headlines. Listen to the men in this room who have heard these speeches three, four, five times and seen me deliver every single time.

"Chester are coming. Reinforcements are coming. Wins are coming. Glory is coming. This is a winning season." I narrowed my eyes, scanning the faces of my players. Murray was into it. Leo Los would give me time. There was only one last thing to say.

"Astro Bot 2 is on sale now. Only 27 quid. That's a great price for so many hours of fun and frivolity."

I watched the first half of training from the side of the pitch, sitting on a ball, so deep in thought I couldn't tell you if anyone tried to talk to me or not. I only came out of my trance for a few minutes because Jamie turned up and ran to his mum.

With Sandra prioritising her child over the needs of the team - that would be mentioned at her next performance review - Peter Bauer came out of the drills and took over as the lead coach, and apart from a bunch of grown men melting for ten seconds, we barely missed a step. Sandra and Aiden came over, and Jamie launched himself at me like a missile.

"Jamie boy!" I cried, lifting him up. Aiden said, "There's the two-goal hero!" I lifted Jamie high.

"It's a team game, Aiden. There's no I in Player of the Year." She said, "You won't be Player of the Year when you've mostly played for some rando Welsh club." I let Jamie fall, then thrust him up again, bouncing him in what he thought was a delightful way.

"Mummy's just jealous she doesn't own a Champions League team! Isn't she! Yes, she is!" Jamie cackled; his mums smiled. Aiden said, "You gonna wreck Wolves?"

"Nah, can't. Mega bruising from Bigfoot stamping on me. The Abominable Stomp-man."

"That's terrible," said Sandra.

"Oh, is it terrible?" I said, putting Jamie down and giving him a little shove back towards his parents.

"Raise your own kid, then." Jamie ran to Sandra, who lifted him up. Aiden said, "How bad is it?"

"Not awful but I would be stupid to play. I want to crush Man United, so... Actually, I need to send out a press release." Sandra looked wary.

"Press release?"

"Mmm," I mumbled, as I logged into Chester's social media accounts and typed: It has been almost 48 hours since the Brentford player Slab was caught on camera stamping on the dainty, innocent foot of Max Best. Violent conduct, unsportsmanlike behaviour, bringing the game into disrepute, bringing the metatarsals into disrepute. Why hasn't the Football Association charged Slab? Multiple lawyers are ready and willing to assist the FA in this matter if they can't find their own rulebook.

"Send!" I said, as I tapped the screen. I looked up.

"Erm..."

"We're going," said Aiden.

"Just had to get Sandy's signature on something."

"Exciting!" I said.

"It's not," said Aiden.

"And we already did it." I wanted to ask when that had happened, but she kissed her wife, waved goodbye to the lads, and walked away with my godson. I watched them go, watched as Peter and Sandra chatted for twenty seconds before Sandra took back control of the drills, watched as Peter came away, clearly having made the decision to wait until the next switch to rejoin the sesh.

"Peter," I said. He came over.

"Max." I nodded towards Sandra, a gesture that included Aiden and Jamie.

"These interruptions are unprofessional. You hate them." He smiled, blissfully.

"They're unprofessional. I love them." I nodded.

"A little bit of that goes a long way, right? You'll tell me when it gets too much." He turned and eyed his fellows.

"Yes."

"Where do you rate yourself on the patient impatient spectrum?"

"Patient." I smiled a little.

"You said that like it was the end of the conversation." He looked surprised.

"Isn't it?" I waved him away and went back to my introspection. Why did training look and feel better? My theory was that getting a draw in the Premier League had flicked a switch. It had marked our arrival, planted a flag, told the world that we weren't completely out of place. Morale had edged up from 3. 6 to 3. 8, and the lads were doing their drills with renewed energy. Part of that was the example being set by Pascal.

Maybe it was the knowledge that I wouldn't play this weekend, which meant there were minutes available, or maybe he was trying to remind us that he was stylistically perfect to play against Wolves. Wolves were managed by Owen Roberts, one of the few men who could claim to be ahead of Llewellyn Kenrick in the list of 'Best Welsh Managers'. Owen had great Man Management and Motivating skills, but when it came to Tactics, Well In was comfortably ahead.

Still, Roberts had turned Wolves into a solid team with just enough quality to be competitive. He liked 3-4-2-1 with lots of hard running, team work, duels, and lightning-fast counter attacks. I hadn't seen any of their summer signings, but their best player was probably Omar Chanko, a creative midfielder. He could hurt us, but one of our biggest challenges was that Wolves had four starters called Gomes.

'We have to stop Gomes.'

'Which one?!' While I thought about how to combat Wolves, I let my gaze wander around the squad. One thing the Brentford match had shown was that our fitness levels still weren't Premier League quality. Cerberus had made a good start in that our physical output data was trending upwards, but importantly, they were doing it in a way that wasn't generating injuries.

There was a slight temptation to go gung-ho against Wolves, who wouldn't be any higher than CA 155, because a win would be like hitting a speed burst in Mario Kart 8 (which is discounted once per year but you always only find out about the sale when it's over). I considered any kind of frantic playing style off the table until we got our base fitness levels high, since any extra exertion would risk soft tissue injuries. Also, if we attacked recklessly, Wolves would get great chances on counters.

Apart from a few creative types, their players were not smart. They tended to make poor decisions in the final third, but Owen Roberts would keep them running, keep them trying, and eventually they would score. We could play 5-3-2 defensive, almost a low block. We could let Wolves have the ball and pass it around in our half. That was a risk, given that Omar Chanko would be playing, but it would completely eliminate Wolves's best weapon: the counter-attack.

Meanwhile, if we played Wibbers and Pascal up top, we would have great counters of our own. Ah, but I wanted to rest Wibbers, if poss... We could do 4-4-2 and load up on beefy boys. Do a Brentford. Play percentage football, score from set pieces, have a rock-solid defensive shape. Ugh. At home against one of the weakest teams in the league? What about 3-5-2? Fill the team with ballers, keep possession, make Wolves run and run, hit them near the end. Patience is a virtue...

"Sandra," I said. She acknowledged me, but stayed where she was until the end of the current drill. Then she came over.

"I think I want to do 3-5-2, get really technical, wear Wolves down, hit them at the end. 20 minutes of Wibbers means 70 minutes of no Wibbers, so that's something of a break for him. We'll have a fast-ish back three plus Youngster, so that's not going to get ripped on counters. And it's a low-stress way to play. Low physical impact while we get our conditioning up to speed. It will pay off on a season-long perspective." Sandra thought about it.

"Home to Wolves is one I wouldn't mind going pedal to the metal." I shrugged.

"I'd love to... If I was fully fit it might be more viable but when I'm out we're still struggling to attack, so let's be sensible." Sandra eyed my foot.

"How bad is it?"

"It's quite badly bruised but not swollen. This week I'm gonna use the counter-current pool for cardio, and I'll be all right in the gym. No boxing for a while... Next week I'll try the anti-grav treadmill to see where I'm at. Er... I'm mentally preparing to play against United left-footed. Left only. Would you want me in the team?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"No?"

"Yes you would get in my team left-footed only." She fell into a mini-trance, then snapped out of it and returned to her duties.

In various breaks, I spoke to some lads who maybe needed a chat. With Gabby, I told him he would probably play the first 70 minutes against Wolves. His job would be to press, to annoy, to get in the faces of the defenders and the goalie. I reassured him that I wasn't worried about him scoring as long as he did his job for the team.

"It is a big step up for everyone. We suffer together." He said he knew, he was fine, he understood. With Magnus, I asked how it had felt to be captain for the day. He got quiet, and eventually said, "It was an honour. It was a feeling I never expected. I love being part of this journey. For a long time I had a certain dream, but that dream is fading. It can't be more vital and more vivid than this." I asked if he wanted to tell me his dream. He shook his head.

"Livia told me never to tell anyone. You talked about being a patient gamer and that was surprising to me. Somehow I didn't think you were the type. I pay full price for games I want to play, and they often have three classes. Warrior, rogue, wizard. I was a real-life warrior, in my own way. I can never become a wizard, but I wanted to master the rogue class. From warrior to rogue, Max. I wanted to go from one extreme to the other.

"That was my dream, but in recent weeks I have been thinking of something quite different." I asked what. He looked astonished at himself.

"I think I would like to play international football." I told him he had to pick a country to represent, ideally one with a red dragon on the flag. He grinned and said, "You wish." Then I had a longer chat with Youngster.

"Bro," I said, bidding him to sit on the ground next to me.

"Mr. Best," he said, lightly sweating from the morning's exertions.

"What's it like playing DM in the PL for CFC alongside and under the G-O-A-T?"

"It is harder than it looks on television."

"You're coming into your own. A real Premier League midfielder, mate! Holy shit. What a ride. It's unbelievable, isn't it? I'm so forward-thinking that sometimes I forget where we all came from." A nine-a-side match was happening, but I barely even glanced at it.

"I liked how you played against Brentford. It wasn't your sort of game but you found solutions. You found ways to help the team. That's hard to coach, right? That comes from playing against Telford and York and Grimsboo and all sorts. That's a way of thinking, a way of being. Some guys would have got so frustrated against Brentford they would have flown into a tackle to get sent off. They would have been like, look at me, I'm a real man, I'm passionate. Bunch of crap."

You had the courage to stay in the match and the brains to find a way to make it work. Ten out of ten, no notes." I paused.

"By which I mean eight of ten and I have some notes, but you'll hear about those in the video sesh with your coach." I glanced at the match, where Pascal was yelling at someone for not playing a pass in time. He really wanted to play against Wolves!

"James," I said.

"You'll be one of the first names on the team sheet this Saturday. When Wolves break, I need you to shepherd their players into situations where they can make shit decisions. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Here's something strange. You know I trust our performance data but not completely. Your outputs are amazing right now. The computers rate you as not tired at all. How do you feel?"

"Not tired at all," he said, with a goofy grin. He clutched his knees and pressed his cheek against one.

"Not tired at all. Claude said if I wasn't a footballer he would tell me to try long-distance running." Claude was one of our new heads of performance, one-third of Cerberus. I shrugged.

"I don't want you playing every match, but if we're only doing one game a week, even at this intensity, you seem to be coping, so... How are your parents?"

"Very well."

"Are you buying them a new house or what?" He grinned.

"I could not move them if I tried. They love their home."

"So what are you doing with your money?" He was earning thirty grand a week - minus my agent fee and taxes - and was living in one of my flats, so I knew he wasn't blowing his earnings on rent.

"Investing it, like you suggested."

"Yeah. But what about the rest?"

"What rest? I do not spend much. I invest almost everything." I eyed him.

"But that's gonna be, like, fifteen grand a week." He eyed me back, confused.

"Yes?" I slapped my palms.

"Holy shit, James. You're amazing." I got my phone out and calculated 15 thou times 52.

"Kin hell! That's like - " I looked around, checking no-one was in range, but lowered my voice anyway.

"That's gonna be three-quarters of a mill a year, compounding, working for you." I mimed my brain exploding.

"I don't need to worry about you going bankrupt, do I, you cute little squirrel. That's a lot of nuts. You're really a patient guy," I said, with a sense of wonder.

"Patiently managing your career, adding layers to your game, waiting for your parents to develop a sense of avarice so you can lavish them with gifts, putting your money to work. I mean... Is there any part of your life where you are impatient?" He answered instantly, "Meghan," and laughed when I did. He got unusually animated.

"She is so inconsiderate! People are waiting for us yet she is still getting ready. When I complain, she says James, you are the star, they love to wait for you. I reply, they are waiting for you, not me! It is quite the drama every time. Emma is not like that, is she?"

"Oh, I can totally hear her saying that people love waiting for me just so she can spend another twenty minutes reading about dragons in love, but no, she's normally uncomplicated. She doesn't like being late, but she wouldn't drive crazy just to hit an arbitrary deadline." I closed my eyes and tapped my lips.

"Omar Chanko, mate. He's really good. There will be times when you have to decide whether to attack him and try to stop him playing a pass or rush to the back line to help out with whatever mayhem the guy causes. There won't always be a right answer. If we're in an aggressive state, be aggressive, if not, drop back. It's like I said in the meeting, do your best but don't panic if it goes wrong. United have a player just like him, and so do Chelsea, and so do half the teams in this league.

Chanko is a learning experience. Try something, see how it goes, try the opposite, we'll review it afterwards and see if we can draw any conclusions. Sound good?"

"Yes, Mr. Best."

"James."

"Yes?" I eyed him carefully.

"Think about your answer to this next question very carefully. How much would you pay for a city management game with interesting mechanics, consequential decisions, and a challenging but satisfying gameplay loop wrapped inside a steampunk aesthetic?" He looked at me very seriously.

"I would prefer a Chester management game." He grinned, lighting up the morning.

"I would not wish to be a City manager."

That evening, I went to watch Huddersfield against Bradford City in League One. I expected an intense match, a Yorkshire derby, and at first that's what it was. But the home team had an average CA of 107, while Bradford were on 93. Bradford worked hard but were outclassed and they were lucky to only lose one-nil. Chip Star, my former enemy, was finding that being a soccer supremo wasn't as easy as in a certain best-selling game (on sale now for 33% off).

Even at the lower levels of football, you needed a clear strategy, talented staff, and a lot of luck. Chip was costing his dad about four million a year, I reckoned, without adding anything to the value of the asset. Maybe that's why he was called Chip - he was chipping away at the family inheritance. My heart bled for the poor nepo baby and his rapacious father.

I added a few players to my database, pocketed 470 experience points, all but deleted the match from my memory, then drove to my mum's house to stay in the spare room.

Tuesday, October 10 I made my mum and Angela a nice cup of tea, then walked the short distance to the home of the Triplets: Andrew, Michael, and Noah Harrison. We had an early breakfast, joined by a raven-haired woman who looked like Julia Roberts and a dog who lied about being psychic. We walked the cute little thing (Solly, not Gemma) to the park, where the Triplets showed off some of the tricks they had taught the dog.

Noah had one he called a 'penalty shoot-out', where he would get Solly to stand five yards away, then do a pump-action throw. Sometimes he would have a toy hidden in his hand, which he would launch, but sometimes his hand would be empty. Solly was amazing at judging which throws were real or not. Anticipation 20; I had to introduce him to Miina Timonen when she arrived.

"How's he doing that?" I marvelled. Gemma said, "He knows our tells. Knows what we're thinking and plotting. It's why he didn't like you at first." I scoffed.

"He didn't like me because I'm the alpha male. He was intimidated. Jealous because I hoover up all the female attention in the room."

"Right," said Gemma.

"That must be it."

"Andrew, how's Stoke?" I had sold Andrew Harrison, the Triplet with the highest PA (121) to Stoke City, but they had been relegated to the third tier before he got there. He said, "It's mint. I love it. It's a big club, great facilities. Yeah, people were down at first because of the relegation but when the fixtures came out the buzz started to build again and we've got off to a good start and there's a special feeling in the air."

"I saw Huddersfield and Bradford last night. Not that impressed, tbh. You should be the strongest team in League One. Keep grafting and you'll bounce straight back up." He smiled.

"I'll tell everyone you said that. It'll give them a boost."

"You took it really well. Going down a level." He smiled as Solly abandoned Noah and Michael because he urgently needed to sniff another dog.

"I never expected to have a career in football, Max. You were the one who mapped out my future in the game. I'm playing in front of 18, 000 every week, and that'll be 25, 000 when we get back to the Championship. My family's safe and happy. I've got everything I ever wanted and more. I'm trying to enjoy the moment. Gemma's the impatient one, not me." Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"You go well together, don't you? You're patient, she's restless. You're quiet, she's gobby. You're sweet, kind, and wonderful, while she's - ""Max," said Gemma.

"As your unpaid lawyer, I advise you not to finish that sentence."

"What!" I said, side-stepping behind Andrew for protection. My phone rang.

"Unknown number," I said.

"Urgh. Briggy's supposed to filter these but she's back in the Azores trying to set things up so that Breno can move over from Brazil."

"I'll be your PA," said Gemma.

"What?" I said, amazed.

"To be clear, it's for this one phone call and it's because I'm in a good mood." She reached out; I handed over my phone. She took the call and spoke in a sultry voice that hijacked my brain and made me stand utterly motionless for a good five seconds.

"Vanessa Darling, personal assistant to Max Best. How may I service you this morning?" She took in my reaction and curled her lips slightly. Small gesture, big win. She listened to whoever was speaking, then covered the base of the phone.

"You were at the Huddersfield match last night, right?" I threw my hands up.

"I didn't do it!"

"Didn't do what?"

"Whatever they're accusing me of. Is this about not paying for parking? The car park guy said there was no charge. Was he talking about the FA's response to Slab?" Gemma sighed.

"It's Chris Acorn." Andrew looked at me with a frown.

"Huddersfield's manager?" Into the phone, Gemma said, "Max is about to get a slow, oily massage from one of the ethereal pony-tailed beauties he loves to employ, Chris. Can I ask why you're calling?" She waited, then spoke to me.

"Wants to chat about last night's game. Pick your brain." I frowned.

"That's weird." Gemma said, "He says that's weird." Very helpful. She listened some more.

"Chris says he learned it from Sean Dyche. If a manager was spotted at one of his matches, Dychey would call them and ask what they thought. Another manager will give it to you straight." I reached out for the phone, but a sudden suspicion made me pull my hand away.

"This could be a prank. Some radio station or binfluencer trying to get me to talk shit about some players, generate some viral content. Chris lives in Yorkshire, for fuck's sake. How much straight-talking can a man possibly take?" Gemma was grinning.

"Did you hear that?" She walked away, wedged my phone between her ear and shoulder, got hers out, tapped away. She came back slowly, then handed me her phone. She had started a video call with Chris Acorn. Chris was a white guy in his early 40s. He had voluminous black hair with a thin beard, the biceps of a guy who chucked weights around, the posture of a drill sergeant.

He almost never smiled, almost never did anything with his face, so when he was doing post-match interviews, when he talked about passion, it never landed for me. Maybe he was more charismatic in person; I doubted it.

"This is a great AI rendition of Chris Acorn," I said.

"Very convincing, but the hair is a dead giveaway. No-one has such perfect hair. It looks like it's maintained by the guys who do the final green at the U. S. Open." Gemma came to stand to my left - close to my left - while Andrew stayed out of it. Chris said, "AI? I don't think I'm famous enough to have one of those, Max."

"Show us your office," said Gemma.

"Walk around." Chris glanced to his left, wondering if his office was going to project the right image, but he did as he was asked.

"I haven't been in post long," he said. He didn't have a strong accent. I didn't know loads about Acorn but while he had spent time abroad, he had grown up in Huddersfield. Hometown boy. Gemma said, "What's that?" Chris picked up a type of picture I was becoming all-too-familiar with.

"That's me knee. The final scan, the one that told me I had to quit playing. I keep it here as a reminder of what can happen. To me and to my players. Try to keep a sense of perspective, you know?" I peered.

"What does it say on the wall there?" He walked over and stood next to a whiteboard on which three words had been written in large block capitals. Almost all football managers ended up trying to distil their philosophy into three words. Chris Acorn's were: 'Honesty. Perform. Fear.' Before I could stop myself, I pulled a face. Chris said, "You don't like that?"

"It's none of my business," I said.

"If it works for you, it works. Well," I said, unable to stop myself again, "an AI certainly wouldn't have picked those three words so I'm convinced it's the real you. What can I do for you?" I looked to my left, where Gemma was still leaning into me.

"What can my personal assistant and I do for you? Careful how you answer that - her boyfriend's the best player in your division." Chris's rock-like expression softened very slightly.

"Who's that?"

"Andrew Harrison."

"I'll look out for him. So as I was telling Gemma - ""Vanessa," I said. Chris's eyebrows rose a little.

"It says Gemma on the phone..." Gemma smiled.

"Watch out, Max! He's onto your tricks." Chris looked from Gemma to me and said, "So what did you think?" He had returned to his chair and slipped into it, carefully, a man painfully aware that his every move was being judged. I said, "I find the concept of this a bit strange, tbh. You phone me, I say what I think, you get in a huff and go round to all the other managers saying what a dick I am. I dunno. It's, like, unfair. There's no way it can go well for me. And you?

You'll be in a foul mood for the rest of the morning. You're not getting anything other than a funny story to tell." Gemma said, "I'm all for it; I get to watch two stags go at it." I tutted.

"He's a terrier, not a stag. If you want something from this call, I can sort that. Hey, Chris, can you send Gemma a signed photo of your biceps?" Gemma laughed and pushed me. A couple of yards away, Andrew Harrison was quietly smiling. On the screen, Chris Acorn, Old Granite Face, cracked into a wide smile.

"I would love to, but the photographer might think I've gone cuckoo." Gemma said, "Just tell him it's for Max Best; absolutely no need to explain further. Okay, look, I hate to agree with Max... but I agree with Max. This could go badly for him and there's no upside." Chris did a weird thing while he listened - he stuck his tongue out, just a centimetre.

It looked all kinds of mad, and I had a brief moment of panic that the pressures of the job had made me pick up an equally bizarre habit and no-one dared to tell me about it.

"I get a lot of feedback in this job, most of it I don't ask for, most of it is useless. I texted Dychey that Max Best had come to watch us, should I call him? He goes, Salieri didn't learn anything from Mozart, but maybe you'll have better luck. I'll take anything you give me. I want to do the job well. I'll take tips from anyone. Your record speaks for itself. You crushed League One while managing Bayern Munich on the side. I'd be a fool not to take the chance to listen to you." I held up a finger.

"Chris? I've decided I like you." Gemma laughed and pushed me again.

"You're so vain! I can't stand it. All right, give him the bad news." I smiled.

"It's not all bad. There were lots of good things. And they won. That's important. But I found it..." I paused to find the right word.

"Incoherent."

"Oof," said Gemma. I thought back to the flow of last night's match, and made shapes with my right hand as if I could pick up sets of players and move them around.

"You started pretty well, looking to attack, looking to be technical and fast. But you had Clarke there in midfield slowing you down. I get that he's your best player, your highest-paid player, but so what? He doesn't suit the system. And you had Doherty in that key role on the left wing and he was just spamming shots, pissing everyone off. Okay, he's decent, but he's a knob and everyone hates him.

You're working hard on the touchline to get everyone to stay on target, to stick to the plan, but if you didn't have him in the squad you wouldn't need to do that. You're making a rod for your own back." There was the slightest hint of fear as Chris said, "What makes you think everyone hates Doherty?"

"I was at the game." He looked to the side - maybe at the scan of his knee - and decided to take a risk.

"What happened happened in training."

"I'm sure it did," I said.

"I'm saying that I was at the game last night so I saw it with my own two eyes." In the Future section of the player profiles.

"That's a player that the other guys can't stand. He's a vibe killer. Okay, it's possible he's blameless and it's the other guys who are shitheads." I paused, waiting for a reaction. Chris's lack of reaction told me everything. I said, "Yeah, okay. Well, that's good news. Only one player to bin off."

"Two," said Gemma.

"Clarke as well, you said."

"Clarke's good, just not in that system. Maybe you set up more cautiously away from home, use Clarke in those games." Chris said, "I can't only play him in half the games. He won't like that."

"Yeah, well, here's an elite three-word phrase of mine you can borrow: I don't give a shit. You're the manager, you're in charge, the players do what you tell them or they go in the bin. Buy a big bin, bring it to training. When a player cuts cones on a drill, tell him to go and wheel the bin over." Gemma said, "Like digging their own grave. That's funny."

"It's funny but I'm not even joking." To Chris, I said, "You've walked into a tough job there. The fans will never be happy. One, they're from Yorkshire - no offence. Two, Huddersfield used to be the best team in England and that looms over the club and always will. If you win, they will be unhappy. If you lose, they will be unhappy. The only way to handle that job is to say I'm gonna fight for the badge but I'm gonna do it my way, end of."

I wanted to pace around, but Gemma was there so I had to just sort of quiver with motivation as the rant took on a life of its own.

"You stand up before those fans and you go, 'I'm the captain of this ship and I say we sail right at this iceberg. We can smash it. We can smash the iceberg! Full speed ahead! Come on! Ramming speed! Let's do it!' You know what? The fans will think you're crazy but they'll love it. They'll be getting their oars out, rowing hard. You'll be like 'the ship's too heavy, throw out the life jackets!' They'll go 'yeah, we don't need them, we're gonna fuck this iceberg all the way up!'" Gemma was shaking her head.

"What the fuck are you talking about? How is this helping?" I groaned.

"Fine, never mind."

"Stick to actionable items."

"Item one, stop talking like a bot on LinkedIn. That one's for you, Gemma. Item two, you've got the wrong captain. I don't know how to pronounce his name. Rochon? That's your captain. Item three, in-game management. You battered Bradford for 80 minutes, one-nil up, they've barely had a kick in your half, then near the end you turtled up and it was a hot mess. You invited pressure onto yourself and nearly got a punch in the gob." Chris didn't reply at first, but then sort of jerked awake.

He seemed to have forgotten he was part of the conversation - it would have been funny if he had just ended the call like he was ending a YouTube video that started interesting but got off topic.

"Yeah, okay, that's on me, yeah. Thing is - well, there are different things. One is I used to work at Bradford. It was my first job as manager, point in fact, as caretaker for one match. Lost that quite heavily, and some of the relationships I had there soured. Two, it's a local derby, so there's pressure to get the win. It's the one game where the fans will accept us falling into a defensive mnidset.

Three, we've had a lot of good performances ruined by conceding late goals so I wanted to - just wanted to get over the line, get that monkey off our back."

"Right, but what you did was remind the players that there's a monkey on their backs. You know who doesn't have a monkey on his back? Me. Because I am the monkey." Gemma laughed hard again.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Look, have I turtled up near the end of a match to hold out for a draw or to rest my players? Course I have. It's not about that, it's the messaging. Some journo says to me, Chester have lost every match they've ever played against Brentford, or whoever, how are you going to break the hoodoo? I go, what hoodoo? Are you fucking simple? Until recently, the last match the clubs played was in 1950, you idiot! They didn't even have crossbars in those days.

It was just two vertical posts and the higher you kicked the ball, the more points you got. Don't try to use history to inform what's coming next.

"Okay we had mixed results against Wolves last season but now we've got Jimmy McNeill. No Chester team featuring Jimmy McNeill has ever lost to Wolves, and no Chester team featuring Jimmy McNeill ever fucking will. Now where's that iceberg because I'm gonna smash it to bits with my bare hands." Gemma rolled her eyes.

"Chris, is this helpful?" He said, "Messaging. Improve my messaging. But I don't want to come across as delusional."

"The only delusional thing was thinking Bradford were going to suddenly hit fifth gear after stinking the place up for 80 minutes. What do you say to your players with your subs? That you're fearful. That you don't trust them. You must have a stats guy. Say to him, are we crushing this, because it looks like we're crushing this? He goes yeah. So you don't change anything. If Bradford get a goal, holy shit, what a ridiculous sport this is sometimes.

It sucks, it's painful, but at least you didn't bring it on yourself. And if you stick to the plan, nine times out of ten you'll get the second goal and that's that.

"Oh, and hey. If you're gonna switch plans, commit to it. You made two changes in the 79th minute, then used your other three to waste time at the end. Which by the way, just adds to the pressure. I never do that. But if you're gonna switch plans, switch. Four subs, lean into it. No half-measures. It wasn't exactly a tactics masterclass but against Brentford we started with big boys and got more technical near the end. Putting on one baller would have been stupid; we had to commit to the new way of playing.

Don't make changes just because you can already hear the fans grumbling. You're not paid to give them what they want; you're paid to do things your way. Smash right into that iceberg, mate, and guess what you'll find? There is no iceberg." There was a pause, then Gemma said, "The good news is, no-one will ever call you for feedback again." Chris smiled but said, "No, no, this was good. This was great." He looked to his left, and it seemed like someone had entered the room.

"It's a lot to think about. I won't take up any more of your time."

"Oh," I said, almost disappointed. I had barely scratched the surface of things he could improve.

"Don't forget that photo you promised. Signed, please." He nodded, said thanks, and hung up. I handed Gemma her phone, then groaned.

"What?" she said.

"If I'd known we weren't going to cover all my action items, I would have started with his hair."

"Leave his hair alone."

"It's too big on the top! It doesn't match his beard. He knows how to invert a full back but what he really needs is to invert his hair." To my right, Solly was lying on his side, exhausted. Noah was looking at something in the distance. Michael was texting. Back to normal after a very strange interlude.

"That... was weird."

"Was it?" said Andrew.

"The young coaches at Stoke are obsessed with you; they keep asking about you. Soccer Supremo, Bayern, Wales, Premier League, DOVE, Emma. You're living their dream. Living three or four dreams at the same time. Okay, maybe Chris Acorn is the first to call you, but I bet a lot of managers have thought about it. It wouldn't surprise me if word gets out and the floodgates open." I tutted and sighed. What could be worse?

"No thanks. Wait, maybe I could make some cash out of it. Get one of those premium rate phone lines. You're paying me three quid a minute to hear me blast your squad composition, tactics, and haircut. And I start with the hair, so there's no escape." Gemma was looking down, very clearly trying not to laugh.

"What?" I demanded. She put on her sultry voice, but this time it was 20 percent breathier.

"You have reached the Max Best findom hotline. Have you been a naughty football manager? Did you forget to rotate your goalkeepers? You've been a bad, bad boy." I laughed but lifted my index fingers, pointing them at the sky, then towards her.

"Gems? You do normal very convincingly but you're wayyyyyy stranger than me and that's a fact."

Wednesday, October 11 Nando's Cup League Stage, Match 1 of 6: Chester versus Brighton The call from Chris Acorn made me pensive. Sean Dyche and other big dog managers were talking about me. The young pups at Stoke were obsessed. The former didn't interest me all that much but if young coaches would prefer to work for me than go to a big club, that was an unexpected advantage. The competition for top talent was fierce.

Probably I was on their radars for winning on a tiny budget, for doing interesting things with tactics, for being focused on player development, but I could imagine that my stunts were part of the appeal. I was funny, I wasn't over-awed by the big clubs, and I stood up for what I believed. Maybe I proved that you could have success in this industry without selling your soul. (Which isn't ironic because I didn't sell my soul. At most I sold it to myself to show an accounting profit.) As I pottered around the Deva, waiting for kick off, I kept glancing at the Brighton staff. Were they looking at me? It felt like they were looking at me. I went to our tiny manager's room and sat opposite Jay Cope. He was doing some 'colouring-in' of a Transformers book. You know the sort of thing - there's a picture but only the outlines are drawn and you can colour the spaces as you want. There was a stack of similar books; I took a dinosaurs one, opened it, and started to fill in a brontosaurus.

"Named after Emily Brontë," I said.

"Not Charlotte?" said Jay. He was giving off very relaxed vibes, which was probably because he had a painting of me in his attic and every time Chester Men got a bad result, Chester Women got a good one. I looked up.

"What? You think we should have started Charlotte?" He smiled, assuming I was joking.

"Charlotte Brontë. She wrote Jane Eyre. Emily wrote Wuthering Heights. Anne wrote The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." I gave the brontosaurus a blue tail, left a plain white gap, then did a blue stripe. The goal was to put him in a Chester kit, but the act of leaving a gap got my brain fizzing.

"That was weird. Not sure if it counts as deja vu but I just remembered exactly what it was like when I was, you know, 6 or 7 and I was doing these. I didn't have the patience to stay behind the lines. I just wanted it filled in fast. It has taken 20 years, but not only do I take my time around the fiddly bits, I even make extra lines."

"You've matured into a true artist." I scoffed, and turned to push the door open; someone had knocked. Macca Serra, the outstanding midfielder we had signed from Barcelona, eyed us.

"I am sorry to interrupt..."

"No probs," I said.

"Come on." She did, and stared in amazement at our colouring-in books.

"What?" I said, to Macca, who was one year younger than me.

"Have you never seen a grown man with a crayon?"

"Yes," she said, with her heavy accent.

"But not two grown men." I said, "Jamie left them one day. I mean, his mum did. It's amazing how she's so organised and detailed when it comes to her job, then she just leaves a trail of toys and buggies all over Chester. There was a story a few years back of a Prime Minister leaving one of his kids in a pub. Just forgot him! I thought it was crazy and showed bad character but now it doesn't surprise me. It probably happens ten times a day all over the country."

Jay continued to fill in Optimus Prime and said, "I used to do crosswords or sudokus before a match to stay relaxed. There was something off about it, I wasn't in top form during a game, so I switched to watching short videos, but that was even worse. Max said, here, do this. And it's way better."

"You've got to stay analogue before a match," I explained.

"These days, I don't even let the data guys show me stuff on the iPad before a game. Tell me in words, keep it simple. Colouring-in beats most ways to pass the time. It keeps your brain occupied but you're not straining. Not making decisions, so when you get onto the touchline, you're fresh. I used to be a lot more frantic before games trying to squeeze out a few percent of performance, but it's way more important to have a clear head going into the last quarter of an hour.

Make good decisions then and you'll add half a goal per game across a season." Jay nodded.

"That's a side-benefit of the half-time quiet. Everyone's still for a few minutes, we can all decompress, and it brings the emotional temperature down. When we start to think about making changes, we're better able to make those changes." Macca picked up a coloured pencil.

"I remember my mother doing these. Not with the pictures for children, but... shapes. Geometric patterns." Jay beamed.

"Mandalas! Right, yes! There was a craze for them. That's funny. It was massive, then it just vanished."

"Like the brontosaurus," said Macca.

"The brontosaurus is still here," I said.

"I'm literally bringing it back to life. What did you want?"

"You said you wanted to discuss game management."

"Oh. Didn't I say at half time?" Macca looked frustrated that she had made a language mistake, but I tried to reassure her.

"I probably didn't say it clearly. We can do it now. Basically, you're in the team instead of Charlotte because I want to win. Sorry to be so blunt about it, but there we go. We're one of the best teams in the country and the Nando's Cup is there to be won, so let's try. If we win the first game, everything gets easier.

"What I'm expecting is for Brighton to try their best but be outclassed. We will push them back, and it will basically be attack versus defence for a lot of the time. You'll be setting the tempo of the entire match.

"You're an incredibly patient player. It's your superpower. But it can be a little bit of a weakness, too. You'll push Brighton sideways, make them work, make them suffer, and we will probably slap them in the last ten." Jay said, "Especially with two strikers on the pitch."

"Right," I said. We were breaking from our usual 3-4-3 base to do 3-5-2. We were using most of our key players, but were giving Femi, Kisi, and Kit Hodges a start. Ideally, Charlotte would have started, too, but it wasn't possible. Our average CA was 125. 1, while Brighton's was just under 100.

"I want you to be more vertical than you would usually like. Not too much, there's no need to go crazy, but if we only probe two-dimensionally, Brighton's shape might see them through.

"Get settled into the game, and when we're on top, see about a few cheeky through-balls. Drift to the right of the penalty box and play a clipped ball diagonally into the box. Don't even look to see what's there - put it in the danger area and let the defenders know we're coming at them from all angles. It doesn't have to lead to anything for it to be useful.

When I was looking to play passes to Wibbers against Brentford, the goalie intercepted most of them but I kept doing it because I was happy for him to get overconfident. Against this lot today I would do a lot of things from a lot of angles. We'll lose the ball a few times and they'll find it easier physically, but harder mentally." She was nodding.

"Okay. Mix up my style. Be more vertical. Yes."

"Only thing is don't do straight chips, straight scoops. Move to the side and put an angle on them. If you do it from the right with side-spin and the ball goes past everyone, it will stay in play and maybe Dani can pick it up, or the defenders will clear and we can go again."

"So I move to the right, yes, I comprehend. Into the position of Sarah." I leaned back and spun my crayon.

"Yes. I was going to do this at half time because first half you can play normal if you like. If we go sideways and look for slaps into the box, at half time, that will be Brighton's entire team talk, right, so second-half variety becomes more destructive because it has the element of surprise. But if you mix things up in the first half, we might force them into making subs to cope with the different skills that are needed. So it's your call.

But I'll want to increase the variety in the second half, up until the 75th minute, after which it's all about building pressure, so we're not doing chips and scoops and all that - it's relentless Maccaball at that point. No long shots, everything high percentage, keep the ball, probe, test, crush." Macca smiled at the phrase 'Maccaball', which was a new one for her.

"What if Brighton attack us? What if they don't go into a low block?" I scoffed.

"Then we'll destroy them." Macca placed her hand on my book, slid it towards her, took a red pencil, and filled in the sun. She drew some 'speed' lines diagonally above it.

"This is not the sun. This is the comet that kills the dinosaurs."

"Bro," I said, tapping the brontosaurus.

"That's us."

"We have the same shirts." She took a black pencil and wrote the name of Brighton's sponsor on the beast's chest.

"Now it is them. Bosh!" Inside the red comet, she wrote the word 'Maccaball'. I placed my hand on the book, slid it towards me, and gently tore out that page. I held up the picture and sighed with contentment.

"This is going on my fridge."

On-the-whistle match report from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC. Author: D. Cox Slick Seals Hull Gulls; The Reina from Spain Plays Mainly With No Strain A strong Chester team scored a comprehensive victory in the Nando's Cup's revamped group phase, taking all three points thanks to a 2-0 win against Brighton. The away team tried to play neat, progressive football but were swamped by Chester's energetic midfield.

Max Best was in the dugout alongside Jay Cope for the first time this season, which might have been intended to convey how seriously he takes this competition. He need not have fretted. Kisi Yalley was a terrier on the right, determined to make the most of a rare start, while Dani Smith-Smithe was quietly impressive on the left. She is playing less frantically, less ostentatiously, and she is all the better for it.

(She still found time to do a high-speed flip-flap that dumped Brighton's right back on her bottom while getting the home fans off theirs. Impressive!) Cheeky Rabanne and Sarah Greene harried the opposition into mistakes and showed quality on the ball, the defence was far too strong, the strikers were dangerous, but the real star of the show was the new Queen of the Seals, Macca Serra. The Spanish international has to be counted amongst the best players ever to grace the Deva pitch.

At times she was so majestic that the United Kingdom's swans must have been tempted to transfer their allegiance from the House of Windsor. (Edit: This whimsical thought is NOT treason, so stop spamming the comments. Thanks.) Macca ran the show with the minimum of fuss, without breaking into a sweat. Her understanding of her role is sublime, she showed tremendous patience when faced with a low block, and she revealed that she has more tools in her arsenal than relentless accuracy.

After passing the ball 49 times in a row, she shocked Brighton - and me - by surging into the box and firing a crisp shot low to the keeper's left. The shot was saved - the rebound was turned in by Elsa Lund - but it must have been a training ground routine because Macca ran to the dugout and celebrated with Max Best and Jay Cope.

The second goal came from a Smith-Smithe corner kick, with a partial clearance falling into the path of Sarah Greene, who struck it so perfectly that even the Spanish players were impressed. There were good second-half minutes for Charlotte and some of the Ffamous Five, but Meredith Ann didn't leave the bench. Max Best is being very careful with the 19-year-old's development. Is he being too cautious?

I'm not sure, but one thing is beyond doubt - Best's love of Nando's is well-documented, and he would love nothing more than to see our name engraved on this trophy. Who is to say it's not possible? The rate of improvement from this team is frankly mind-boggling. Perhaps that's what he was discussing with Brighton's coaches at the end. If only he would talk at such length to we poor, downtrodden, hard-working journalists.

When he was passing through the mixed zone, the only quote I got from him was this: "Bioshock Remastered is four quid until the end of the week, Coxy. Would you kindly pile into that? You're welcome. Sorted, nice one."

Saturday, October 14 English Premier League Match 8 of 38: Chester versus Wolves Michael Ning (billionaire owner of Wolves) and Scott Conrad (posh dude who wanted to leave the Premier League to work for me) were in town for this match, and I had reason to talk to both of them, but I didn't want to. I spent the morning in my office, alone, restlessly moving from my bed to my awesome gaming chair to my standing desk.

I listened to podcasts, replayed levels of games I had already beaten, and browsed various subreddits. For all that I had talked up my powers of patience, I wasn't quite feeling it. Wolves weren't an established Premier League team like the ones that had been smashing us up so far this season; they had come up from the Championship with us. Okay, they should have been the champions and had slapped us 5-1 in our first meeting, but we won the return 3-2.

And okay, they had spent 150 million quid in the summer but there was no way they had spent it well. Omar Chanko was a no-brainer, worth every penny, but if history was any judge, the other new signings would be garbage. So we had to beat them. Realistically, if we were going to stay in this division, we had to beat the teams whose level we were close to, and that meant Wolves. Win now. Win today. I paused my game and paced around, checking the time. Why was it going so slowly? Hurry the fuck up!

The UK's most popular football podcast had an episode updating their predictions for the season, ranking the teams from 20 to 1. The three hosts said '20, Chester' and moved on to more interesting topics. With a sigh, I went to my laptop. I had a tab open with an article from The Sportsman. The headline was typical Sportsman: someone clever had started it, then someone obsessed by clicks and metrics had added keywords and ragebait. Subtraction by Addition! Top Twenty-Nine Transfer FLOPS!

We Rank the WORST PL Summer Deals. (Your Club Is GUILTY!) Number 29 was Marek.

'Poor shot-stopper, erratic, so unreliable even a historically bad team can't rely on him.' Number 4 was Leo Los.

'Lightweight, lacking in speed, lacking in imagination. Progressive passes are to the former wunderkind what garlic is to a vampire.' Number 1 was Ruud Berkenbosch.

'Smashing your club's transfer record to buy a man last seen scoring one-in-three in the UEFA Conference League, a man who may never play again, smacks of being too clever by half. This deal isn't the only reason Chester will go down, but it represents a stunning dereliction of duty. It is possible that Berkenbosch will play again, and he might even turn into a good top-level striker, but Chester needed someone who could hit the ground running, as happened with Wolves's new signing Omar Chanko.

Had Chester spent the money on someone who was medically allowed to kick a ball, they might have eclipsed Derby's record low points total of 12 points, or Southampton's miserable 13. As it is, they look likely to set a record that may never be broken.' I slapped the laptop closed and said, "Shut up. Kin hell."

Across the road in the Deva, I went to the small medical room, where physio Dean clamped a large protective case on my foot. When he finished fitting it, he sighed.

"Remind me why I'm doing this?"

"Because a Brazilian the size of Brazil stamped on me and I want him to get the fucking three-match ban that a Chester player would get if we did that. The broadcasters want me playing in this match because I'm box office and I do tekkers but I'm not playing because I got Slabbed. Slab has to pay. Why hasn't he been charged yet? Does Slab have incriminating photos of people at the FA? That's the question I'm going to be asking at full time."

Dean looked up, sighed again, said, "Last time we had this situation, you named yourself on the bench to keep the oppo guessing. There will be a party in the Wolves dressing room when they see you aren't even a sub, so why aren't we doing it the way we used to do it?"

"Because if I'm on the bench, Slab's assault on me wasn't so bad." I shook my head, annoyed at the cowardice of the FA. They tried to get out of ever making a decision, and had to be forced into taking action of any sort by constant media attention. I spoke more quietly.

"If I'm not fit to play at Old Trafford, I'm gonna be really upset. The team we're putting out could get a win today, but I think we're a bit short of getting a win at United without me." Dean nodded.

"Okay. What is the team today? I haven't seen it."

"Marek in goal, for his passing. We're doing a midfield possession fantasy. Hey, did you see that worst signings article? I was thinking of printing it and putting it up in the dressing room. Some managers do that sort of thing but I'm not really into it. Do you think it would be motivational for Marek and Leo?" Dean thought about it.

"Personally, I would hate it, but I'm not a top athlete. I'm not wired like you guys."

"I'm not a top athlete, Dean, I'm a normo."

"And you're an introvert, don't forget that." I closed one eye.

"I think I won't put the article up. I tell people not to read crap written by hacks, so it would be odd if I was bothered by it. Okay, so it's Marek. Back three is Peter, Murray, Edgar." Dean looked around, checking who was nearby. Not many people.

"You're picking Murray every match, but he's on loan. Why's that?"

"He's 22, we're playing one game a week, he can take it. He's as good as any of the others, more or less. If we give him one spot, we can rotate around him. Dumi's old, Edgar's old, Peter's brilliant but he's still finding his feet in this league. Magnus is improving fast enough playing at the current rate. He could play more but he wouldn't improve more, I don't think. Basically, I'm getting what I want from everyone - for now. When it changes, I'll change how I pick the team."

"How good is Magnus going to be?"

"No clue, but DOVE has him almost as good as Jimmy McNeill, not all that far behind Youngster." I scanned the area, just like Dean had done. What a paranoid pair we were!

"There are certain thresholds in DOVE. Youngster's a hair's breadth from being a true Premier League player. Leo, Wibbers, Gabby, they're close. Training has slowed but everyone's trending upwards. It's gonna be okay."

"Okay," said Dean, trying to make himself believe it. I found it almost heartbreaking; it showed how worried he was. Not for himself, because his position wouldn't be under threat if we were relegated. He was thinking of the club's charities, the players, the women, the pan-disability team.

"We've got a pretty bosh midfield," I said, trying to inject some positivity into him.

"Lewis, Jimmy, Youngster, Leo, Cheb. Not being funny but that's the best midfield that ever wore this badge. Up front we're doing Gabby and Pascal." Dean's eyes widened in alarm.

"No Wibbers?"

"The plan is for him to play the last 20. Don't want to wreck the lad."

"His physical data is top."

"His physical data is top because I give him rests." Dean smiled and nodded; he had to concede my point.

"Okay... Well, actually, I'm confused. Gabby and Pascal are two different types of players, aren't they? It's not a combination you have used much, I think."

"You're probably right, yeah. But it's not all that outlandish. First, it's a classic big man little man dynamic. Gabby can win headers for Pascal to chase, if Marek needs to get it launched. Second, they're both good at pressing. When Wolves are trying to play out from the back, we'll have two guys running at them like hornets." I looked up and scratched under my chin.

"If Wolves push up, we will have outstanding counter-attacking combos. Peter to Leo to Pascal is a great pattern, very repeatable. My theory is that Wolves will be bitten once, twice, and then they will get much more cautious. Which is fine by me because I want to dominate the ball today. I'm fucking sick of being bullied by these teams; it's time for us to show that we're a serious team. A proper team. Wolves are a tiny fraction ahead of us in quality, but we're at home."

"They're ahead of us?"

"According to DOVE, yeah." The team sheets had been handed in, so I knew all about the Wolves squad.

"They're rated 149. After spending 150 million in the summer! It's obscene how little that cash has moved the needle. We're 148 and a half."

"There's nothing in it." I sighed and sagged.

"I know it's stupid but I would be far happier if we were the ones who were half a point ahead." I lifted my foot prison, stared at it, and gently let it fall.

"The men are 20th out of 20 but the women are already 5th out of 14. Close to 4th." Dean looked sceptical.

"Fourth... in the entire country?"

"Yep." I twisted so I could look behind me.

"There's the treatment table I lay on when I first came here. Not much different today, is it? Everything has changed around it." I faced Dean.

"How are you doing? Are you enjoying the ride?" He scoffed quietly while he looked down at my enormous protective boot.

"Elliot Speed is here today. England legend. Did you know? But he's not with the media. He's just here to watch the match. It's a hot ticket these days." After a few seconds of quiet, Dean eyed me.

"A couple of years ago, I realised that this would be the ride of my life. When you quit at Anfield, I was gutted. When you get injured, my heart's in my mouth. I know it's a constant struggle for you but I'm loving it." He paused as though he had a sore throat. He powered through.

"I'm with you all the way." Time froze. The pain from my bruises ebbed away. The edge of Dean's lips turned up.

"One thing's been bothering me since your Maxterplan..."

"Go on."

"Yeah. It's just... You say you're a patient gamer. You'll wait a year to save 20 quid on a game. But rumour has it you're gonna fuck off to Italy in November to see if you can get put on a waiting list for some kind of hand-made supercar. It's like... You'd pay silly money for an oversized skateboard but you won't pay full price for a game you're excited to play. It doesn't add up." I stood and put one arm around Dean, gave him a little squeeze. Not too much - he wasn't into hugs. Not from me, anyway.

"Mate," I said.

"It does add up. How do you think I can afford a nice car?" I jabbed him in the chest as I spoke.

"By saving money on games. Bosh. Case closed." To my everlasting surprise, Dean doubled down on my embrace.

"You read my journal. You know I'm bitter and resentful."

"Why do I feel like you have thoughts about The Outer Wilds?" He smiled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, but when I heard you were thinking of blowing a small fortune on a car, I didn't feel bitter at all. I said to myself, he's earned it. If it makes him happy, good for him." He shook his head, amazed.

"Me, Max! I thought that." He stared at the table where he had laid eyes on me for the first time.

"Look how far we've come, Max. Look how far we've come."

Before kick-off, I shook hands with the Wolves manager, Owen Roberts, who clapped me on the back and said things that I didn't catch. I settled into the dugout with my giant protective boot sticking up in front of me so that the commentators could remind their viewers that I had been assaulted in the previous match and the FA had done sweet FA about it. Although I was using the same formation as with the women, the match was never likely to go the same.

Sure, we dominated the ball, racing to 70 percent possession early on, but Wolves weren't passive. They ran, they fought, they tried to attack. There were amazing duels all over the pitch. Marek kept things simple; Peter Bauer was clinical; Youngster was on red alert; Leo Los saw plenty of the ball; Pascal always did the exact opposite of what Wolves wanted. It was good! Really good. And then: 38' Big header from Murray Burnett! Alloula gathers before A. Gomes can get to the ball.

Alloula passes to Gabriel, who lays the ball off to Bochum. Bochum waves for his team mates to slow down, then dabs the ball back to McNeill. McNeill to Los. Los has B. Gomes closing in. Los with a clever pass wide to Lamarre. Lamarre drives forward. He hits a low pass to Gabriel. The Brazilian tries to spin on the ball, but is challenged by C. Gomes. The ball runs loose. Bochum picks it up at speed. The stars have aligned for Bochum! He has a real chance here. Bochum continues his sprint.

He evades the goalkeeper... Bochum clips the ball side-footed as he falls... It's on target! It's going in! Will the defenders clear it? Alloula is there to make certain! GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!! Goal for Chester! Alloula crashes the ball into the back of the net from short range!

'Short range' was generous... The ball was almost completely over the line when Cheb got there. It was almost the clearest example of goal-poaching you'll ever find, and for about five seconds, Pascal looked furious. Cheb had stolen his goal, nabbed his glory! But while the home fans went bonkers, Cheb spotted Pascal's unhappiness and went to explain himself. Pascal snapped out of it - of course Cheb had to make sure of the goal; there were two defenders on the scene who might have hooked the ball away.

The first non-Max Best goal in the Premier League! (With apologies to Wibbers, who had scored against Liverpool in the match that was abandoned.) A milestone, for sure, and Pascal got the assist. Being ahead perked us up even more, gave us even more confidence, and we bossed the rest of the half.

At times, quick passing combos leading to overlaps and cutbacks utterly dismantled Wolves, but the thing about dismantling a football team is that if you don't score, they reset at the next dead ball and you haven't actually achieved anything. Our midfield was doing its job, but we were missing that little bit of firepower that would turn our fancy manoeuvres into tangible outcomes. I tried to tell myself it was okay, that everything was a process, but it was frustrating.

Wolves had spent 150 million to improve their squad an imperceptible amount, and while I liked Michael Ning, it was my duty to teach him that he was in the wrong sport. If only I had a clinical striker! The Wolves manager, Owen Roberts, was probably thinking the same thing.

At half time, I spent a few minutes colouring in a parrot, then went into the dressing room and was upbeat, breezy, and obnoxiously confident.

"We got this," I said.

"You know what this match reminds me of?

"Wolves have just fired up a Dark Souls game for the first time, and we are a monster bigger than a building that they have not been taught how to fight. After a tedious intro animation that you can't skip, we will smash them over the head, they will reload, we will smash them over the head, they will reload, we will insta-kill them, and they will rage-quit.

"What's best is that if they ever complain about their shitty experience to another gamer, that prick will laugh and call them a fucking noob who doesn't appreciate good game design. After grinding at work for ten hours a day, you must then grind for a thousand hours to learn the specific mechanics of this specific game and if you aren't willing to do that, fuck you." I eyed the tactics board, wondering how I had drifted so far off topic. Bark laughed.

"The gaffer's a patient gamer who has no patience to learn games." I threw my hands up, mock angry.

"I learned how to beat Wolves! And I taught those secrets to you. So go and do what you just did all over again. Boss midfield, don't let them counter, job's a good 'un. All right? Come on!"

I sat back and hit perks. I sat back and gathered XP. I sat back looking relaxed and calm, but inwardly I was biting my nails. We had set up to eliminate the threat from counters. Our With Ball Without Ball screens were optimised and beautiful. Our players were alert and ready. Yet still Wolves managed to attack us at speed on transitions. It was actually impressive. But Sandra and I weren't complete chumps; we had been drilling our guys on how to counter a counter for five years.

"Sandra. Let's get Wibbers and Magnus on. I think what we need is more Chesterness." With those changes made, the risk/reward balance shifted perceptibly in our favour. It became a game of Decisions. Peter, Magnus, Wibbers, and Pascal versus Omar Chanko and the various Gomeses. We had the edge. We were superior. We conceded a goal.

It was Omar Chanko, of course, who did a dreamy turn in midfield, eased forward a couple of yards, and hit a left-footed pass that curled between two of our defenders right into the path of an attacking midfielder. He slotted home. The assister and the goalscorer represented ninety million pounds of investment. Omar Chanko alone cost more than our entire squad. I rubbed my temples.

On an intellectual level, I knew that my players would soon be better than those guys, but the equaliser was hard to take; we were still in the phase where the league's in-built financial inequality was a constant slap in the face. Wolves were the lowest-ranked, weakest boss on the map, and they were still five times our height. My players were giving it everything. Young coaches up and down the country were watching my every move. My reaction to this setback mattered.

I pushed myself to my feet, hobbled to the edge of the technical area, and got into the weeds, tweaking our shapes, probing for opportunities, trying to squeeze every marginal gain from the remaining time. The final whistle blew. 1-1. We were still on minus points, but we were undefeated in two games. We were on a roll! The next four fixtures loomed at me like an oncoming truck out of dense fog: Man United, Leeds, Everton, Chelsea.

Would we even be in positive points territory after 12 games, going into the international break? There was a world where Willi Tillmann and Foquita didn't bother coming to us in January. Even with that pair, Chester couldn't get 40 points in half a season. I made a show of shaking hands with Owen Roberts, then hobbled down the tunnel and into our dressing room.

"FUCK!" I screamed. I took the fucking Dalek off my foot and had a shower, but as I got dressed again, I didn't feel the slightest bit better.

I had agreed to go up to the VIP box after the game, so I put my foot coffin back on and hobbled up the stairs. Brooke had been entertaining Michael Ning, who was in attendance with Gong Bang and a few executives from Wolves. I didn't pretend to be in a good mood, and slumped into a cosy chair in a corner, sticking my foot out where everyone could see it. A constant reminder of life's injustices. Brooke pointed to the case and said, "Good news, Max. The FA have charged Slab with violent conduct.

He's going to get a three-match ban."

"Oh my fucking God," I said, leaning forward to unclip the stupid boot.

"Of course they waited for us to hand in the team sheets to announce it. Bunch of twats." Michael Ning eyed my foot.

"Is it very serious?"

"The top of my foot looks like a goth's makeup, but it will be all right. I don't like to complain." Brooke snorted.

"I see you had your post-match shower and came out feeling like a ray of sunshine, as promised." I tutted. Michael said, "I felt it was a close match. What will I see when I look at the data?"

"We had 1. 4 xG to your 0. 88. We had more possession, more shots, generated more threat over a longer period. It was close, but I would say you were lucky." Michael listened without emotion, then carefully said, "Chester have improved much, for sure. On our side, we invested much in the summer but we do not seem to have put as much distance between us as one would have expected."

"No," I said.

"You wasted sixty mill. Chanko is top, though. He might keep you up. I'm pissed with him right now but he's a dreamweaver. I really like him as a player."

"That is good to hear. Would you tell me which sixty million pounds I wasted?"

"As you know," I said, "I'm one of the world's top international businessmen. When people ask me about business, I say this: Half the money I spend on marketing is wasted; the problem is I don't know which half." Michael fixed me with a disappointed look, but he glanced at Brooke and a tiny smile came out. He loved a bit of banter! A bit of oneupmanship, a bit of to-and-fro!

"I am willing to proceed if you are, Miss Star." I frowned at Brooke. She explained.

"Our conversations today were rather productive. CFC, the EV company Michael has an interest in, would like to sponsor the main stand. Further, they want to be our sleeve sponsor. Both deals to start next season. It's 2 million for the naming rights to the stand." My head jerked backwards.

"That's... a lot for a stand."

"As I explained to Michael and his team, it's effectively stadium naming rights. Not quite, but close enough. The PetPride will be seen on TV, will be the focus of much of the match action, so that's a good deal for them, but nothing compares to the main stand. That's where the managers and the subs live, so there is a lot of media focus on that part of the stadium. The dressing rooms will be in the main stand, most of the media zones, the museum, the trophy room, the board room, everything of importance."

I nodded.

"Yeah, I see that. It's kind of stadium naming rights without giving that away. We keep the stadium name pristine, which is right and proper because it's part of the club's heritage, but it'll be quite easy for you to talk about the CFC Stand in promotional materials. Yeah, okay. Yeah, good." Brooke had more good news.

"CFC are willing to pay 5 million a year to be our sleeve sponsor and official EV partner." My eyes bulged.

"5 million!" I tried to put the number into context.

"That would be one of the biggest amounts outside gambling companies outside the top six." The stand and the sleeves would generate 70 million over ten years.

"Those are Wrexham numbers. That's... wow."

"Wow indeed," said Brooke.

"And Chester FC can feel good about having the letters CFC on their sleeve. Michael wants a long-term deal. Five to ten years. If we are relegated, the numbers will halve, and will return to the higher amount when the club returns to the Premier League." A million for the main stand, 2. 5 for sleeves in the Championship, those were enormous numbers. Vast.

"Brooke, this is outstanding as always. You are the Expedition 33 of football executives."

"Thanks?"

"Ten times the quality, half the price. But listen, you two. We're not going down, so don't even waste printer ink putting that into the contracts." Michael grinned.

"We do e-contracts; no need for physical copies. I am glad you approve of the numbers. They are generous but we know this investment will pay off. I can't remember who said it to us, but it struck a nerve: Always Bet on Best." He leaned forward and offered me an envelope.

"Miss Star drives a hard bargain."

"What's this?" I mumbled, but as I pulled out the sheet, I realised it was obvious. In tandem to the Chester deal, Brooke had negotiated the fee for my personal endorsement: one million pounds a year. I burst into a grin. So much money! So ridiculous. It was more than all my other sponsorships combined. Just to pose for some photos? What a world.

"I reluctantly accept," I said.

"Can I be paid in cars?" The entry-level CFC was sold in the UK for 14, 000 pounds. Michael said, "You would like 71 cars per annum?"

"Whoa, did you just calculate that on the fly? I've never been big-dogged by maths before. That's intimidating." Michael played it off, but I think he was pleased. I got my phone out and mumbled, "Just need to fire off a text..." In the past, Brooke hadn't accepted payment for working on my behalf, but this deal was too massive to handwave the fees. The way to her heart was through her horse, Biscotti. You have to cut yourself in on this. Ten percent. Think of Biccy. He needs new horse blankies.

Golden hooves - are they a thing? Oh, and thanks. This is amazing. While I was typing, Michael turned behind him, checking the sitch with his colleagues. When I put my phone away, he leaned closer.

"Please talk to Scott; he is more unhappy at the Premier League than he will admit, and he is very excited at the prospect of launching your products."

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my forehead. I couldn't say whether it was the energy gels I was chewing or the infusion of new money, but I was feeling perked up.

"Yeah, I should let him get on with it; I've got enough on my plate." I leaned back and felt a wave of calories reach my brain.

"I don't know why I get like this. I'm so hard on myself; I don't like it. A 38-game season is more of a mindfuck than a 46. Everything's compressed, so there's more pressure." I sighed and tried to will some positivity into my thick skull.

Chester's CA was rising, work on the PetPride was underway, architects were thinking about the new main stand, phases two and three of Bumpers were well underway, new money was coming in, the club's soft power was growing, we had another point in the Premier League, we had another goalscorer. I always knew there would be days like these, and we were making great progress.

"Chester Women are the fifth best in the country. It won't be long until they're the fourth. By the end of the season, third. Could even be more, who knows?

"The men are twentieth, I think. I'm not sure about Leeds. I'm fairly sure the bottom three are much of a muchness, so we should be 17th soon, then there's a bunch of clubs we can overtake. Clubs like Everton. They've got old players, old old old, so they're not getting much better. They are what they are and we'll whizz right past them. We'll be something like the 14th best team by, like, Feb. Certainly by the end of the season. You're doing the right thing, sponsoring us. We're going places."

"Ohh," said Michael, and for a moment I thought he was looking impressed as a subtle form of bantering. He turned to Bang Gong and spoke rapidly in Chinese. They had a little back and forth while I munched on gel and Brooke glanced at her phone. She smiled.

"My apologies," said Michael.

"I was asking Bang to look into the phrase 'we're going places'. Could be a good slogan, don't you think?"

"You could extend it across multiple products. Do you have any breweries in your portfolio? Beer going places."

"Outdoor sports," said Brooke." Gear going places. Touring theatres: Shakespeare going places."

"Okay, okay," I complained.

"You win. Jesus Christ, you think the players are overly competitive, so you come up here to chill out for a minute..."

"Max, I've said it before. Don't fight a battle of wits unarmed."

"Oof," I said, crunching my stomach as though I had been punched. Brooke looked to her right, "Hey, by the way, something came for you. I brought it up here to show everyone what I have to deal with." She went to a corner of the room where a few boxes were sitting, all wrapped up. Strange. Some kind of late wedding gifts? But Brooke didn't touch those boxes. She came back with a simple framed photo. It showed a man's bicep and was signed, 'Chris Acorn.' I laughed.

"The madman actually did it. Maybe he's got a future in this sport after all." I admired the photo, then angled it so I could fully see Brooke.

"I know that face - you want one of these." Brooke laughed.

"Zach's guns are way sexier than those."

"Please," I said.

"Zach's are asymmetrical and they're all veiny. Look how smooth these ones are. It's pure muscle. Hubba hubba." Brooke took my gibberish well, and in that moment I missed Zach. Specifically, I missed teasing Brooke about him, but he'd had to go. Eventually, everyone had to go. I nodded towards the gift-wrapped boxes.

"What are those?"

"Games consoles," said Brooke.

"PS sixes and Nintendo Switches. A gift from Michael for our Foundation. Do you know Get Well Gamers?"

"No."

"It's a charity that puts consoles into children's hospitals and hospices. Studies say that playing games can relieve pain." Michael said, "And relieve boredom. As a young man, I had a long hospital stay. Very long. I was sick. Very sick. The doctors said I wouldn't make it. There were no books and there was no TV. It made the ordeal ten times worse. No child should suffer as I did."

The simple way he spoke was more powerful than my most heartfelt speeches, even more so because I hadn't been expecting him to talk about his private life. I eyed the boxes.

"Would it be good if I brought them to where they're going?" Brooke blinked.

"That would be the most amazing thing. You know the kids around here idolise you. But we planned to do it this week. Won't you be busy preparing for the Man United game? The club you supported as a boy. You'll be playing at Old Trafford for the first time..." I fell into a tiny reverie. Man United, Old Trafford, 76, 000 gobby Mancunians falling silent as I slammed in yet another goal. If poss, I would unleash Matt Rush against his former club.

I wasn't the only Chester player with an axe to grind against the Red Devils. Brooke was watching my face. She nodded.

"Sandra told me not to even bother trying to schedule anything with you this week." I got to my feet and pointed to the boxes.

"Schedule this. The only thing I like more than a patient gamer... is a gamer patient. Wow, nailed it! And don't worry about the match." I stared through the large glass windows towards Manchester.

"United will get what's coming to them."