Chương 68: 5.1 - The Return of Tommy Tactics

Recap Max Best is ascending. Chester's player-manager has taken the club from the dregs of the sixth tier to the playoff spots in the EFL Championship, England's second tier. Winning the playoffs would catapult lowly Chester into the Premier League and earn them a truly absurd nine-digit payout, but Max knows a cursed chalice when he sees one. The club isn't ready for the very top - they need another year to improve the stadium, the facilities, and the squad.

Max will allow Chester to reach the playoff final but no more than that. For the men's team, this is a consolidation season, but Max can continue to improve in other areas. The women's team have a great chance to reach the summit, the under 18s are favourites to win the Youth Cup, and Max's clubs in Wales and Gibraltar are doing well. With his empire growing at a fast but manageable rate, Max has the time to look inwards and focus on developing his own skills. Next stop, tactics.

Who needs the Premier League, anyway? At the end of the season, Max will win the greatest prize of all - the hand in marriage of Emma Actual Weaver.

"Luck favours the prepared." Edna Mode, The Incredibles.

1. You awaken to the sound of music.

"I KNOW I'VE DONE WRONG. LEFT YOUR HEART TORN." The next line echoes into nothingness:"IS THAT WHAT DEVILS DO?" Sight returns; you're on a road. Cars are driving on the left, which means you must be in one of the more civilised parts of the world. It's sunny and you are moving smoothly, taking in your surroundings. With a bend, you pick up a discarded newspaper and see the massive headline: I HATE FOOTBALL. You turn to the back page: THE GAME'S GONE: MODERN FOOTBALL IS RUBBISH.

The upbeat music returns, but without John Newman's voice. It's a great tune regardless: with a propulsive beat, funky brass instruments, and a hint of a Gospel vibe. You drop the paper, rotate left, and see a friendly sign. WELCOME TO BUMPERS BANK TRAINING GROUND OF CHESTER FC AND THE CHESTER KNIGHTS (Lack of apostrophe intentional.) You glide ahead, past a gleaming Glendale Logistics truck, and see a woman named Jojo. She's smiling at you - what a start to your day!

- as she pulls open a door to let you into a building. This one's a canteen. Behind a kitchen counter you see a string of cooks. They are each reading a copy of a vegan recipe book while scratching their heads. One cook holds up a large piece of meat. The head cook shakes her head and points to a sign. NO GAMMON. Your next stop is a dining table where a dozen people are talking to each other, smiling, laughing. They are fans of Chester FC, a small community football club.

The people have been chosen to represent a broad spectrum of society: men, women, white, black, Christian, heathen, the disabled, the left-handed, people called Gary. One of the people looks right at you - the others howl with laughter. Strange. The singer's voice returns. He belts out:"I NEED TO KNOW NOW KNOW NOW CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" You keep going, taking in the expensive-looking coffee machines, the way the dining area is split into sections by means of flooring and lighting changes.

You fly into the kitchen, straight into a dumbwaiter, and you emerge in the floor above, where you zip around a large room with fancy round dining tables. A sign on one table reads: FUNCTION SPACE AVAILABLE FOR HIRE WEDDINGS CORPORATE EVENTS CHRISTMAS PARTIES FOR COSMIC SUMMONINGS PLEASE CONTACT AFC WREXHAM You fly out of a window, turn right, and Jojo is there again. She holds open a door to a building labeled 'The Sin Bin'. Inside are rows of cinema-style seats, rising upwards.

On one seat is the famous player-manager, Max Best, with a notebook and pen. He's watching something with great interest. He's making notes, nodding to himself, before turning his attention back to the screen. He taps on a laptop. You turn to see what he's doing, expecting him to be analysing a football match. Instead, he's on a website with the page title 'When's The Right Time To Build Yourself a Statue?' He brings up a search box and types: How to remind people that football is blinking awesome.

"CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" You leave and turn right. You see something interesting and ascend ten metres to get a better look. You seem to be looking at a Japanese-style zen garden that has been plonked down in a nearby field. Odd. Back at a normal height, you go past a gym where some footballers are lifting weights. You pause while looking down at the ground, thinking about what you just saw.

Wasn't that Pascal Bochum, a short German player, lifting a cartoonishly enormous set of weights, while Magnus Evergreen, a former world champion bodybuilder, was lifting a bare rod? You retrace your steps and see that the men are lifting the sorts of weights you would expect. Huh. You must have imagined it. On you go to the first team's main training pitch, where a selection of players are working on set pieces. You rush to get a closer look.

Vikki, a coach from Norway, is demonstrating the setup she wants but instead of magnets on a tactics board, she's using Player of the Month awards on a Chester-branded beach towel. The players listen to her instructions, nod, and rush into position. Within seconds, all the players have fallen over, tripped up by various trophies and shields that have been left lying around. There are cups everywhere!

"CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" You zip inside a building and see a dressing room and a clean set of showers. You fly up some stairs and see offices. There is one big, open-plan space where the marketing team is trying to put together a collage - we see dramatic photos of William B. Roberts, Roddy Jones, and Dani Smith-Smithe. One employee is experimenting with potential titles. The current favourite seems to be THE FUTURE IS NOW. Another option is: A THOUSAND BATTLES, A THOUSAND VICTORIES.

The marketing team's work is being hampered by the sheer volume of football trophies in the area. There are cups everywhere!

"CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" On a separate table, Brooke Star and Zach Green, both from Texas, are looking worried. They have a small Lego model of the Deva Stadium in front of them but there's something about it that's not right. Brooke removes one entire side of the stadium. On its roof, facing the front, are the words: The PetPride Stand. Zach tips out one of the many trophies in the area - some Lego bricks fall out.

He passes them to Brooke, who sticks them onto the base of the PetPride Stand, which the pair slot into the stadium. The new stand is bigger. One Lego block bigger! Brooke and Zach are pleased; they high-five each other.

"CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" You shoot out of a window, fall safely, and do a 180 into the medical block. You know it's the medical block because you're in a room full of people in doctor's coats. They're in a semi-circle around a skeleton that is wearing full Chester kit. Livia, a physio with a ponytail, is checking the skeleton's pulse. Physio Dean is keeping its skull in place with sellotape. Jonny Planter, the club's groundsman, enters the room. He's carrying all kinds of cups and trophies.

He passes the skeleton, does a double-take, reaches inside its rib cage, and comes out holding a winner's medal. The skeleton sits up straight and does a thumbs up.

"I NEED TO KNOW NOW" You float through a few doorways into the coaches' office, where Sandra Lane, Peter Bauer, and Colin Beckton are standing around a tactics board. They seem uncertain about their plan for the next game. You get into position and see that they are looking at a single word: LOSE.

"KNOW NOW" Sandra frowns - she doesn't like the plan - but then she spots something written lower down the board and gets excited. She points to it and her senior coaches slap themselves on the forehead. Of course! The word they like is: WIN.

"CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?" You go outside and ascend. You look down on three small pitches and note that four more have been marked out for future development. You descend as you glide over a large all-weather pitch, then you complete your circuit by heading towards the main entrance. Before you get there, you cross another full-sized all-weather pitch, where hundreds of people are having one massive game of football.

To get a better view, you go behind one of the touchlines and ease along, seeing Chester's coaches calling out tips and encouragement. Max Best is walking in front of you, keeping a close eye on every part of the pitch. On the halfway line, he picks up a toddler wearing a 'Jamie 77' Chester shirt. As Best walks, the others fall into step behind him. First it's Sandra Lane and Brooke Star. Behind them it's MD, Secretary Joe, and Christian Fierce.

Then it's Inga (from the club's admin team), Jojo, Patricia the head cook, and Terry, the manager of the Chester Knights. And so on. Everyone who works so hard to make Chester FC a success flows towards and beneath you in an ever-expanding river.

"FILLED WITH ALL THE STRENGTH I FOUND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN'T DO" Then you spin around and it's nighttime and everyone's heading towards the Harry McNally stand of the Deva Stadium. They pass wooden stalls selling food, drink, and merch, and you head through a turnstile and now you're over the pitch. One end of the stadium is lit up in blue and white, the other is bathed in gold. The music swells to epic proportions as you swoop down to see Max Best striding out onto the pitch. It's awesome. It's incredible.

"I NEED TO KNOW NOW" Just as you can't get more hyped, Best trips and falls. He gets up and puts his hands on his hips. There are trophies everywhere! Jonny Planter appears and picks up the nearest couple with an apologetic look towards his boss. Best shakes his head but then sprints away and there's a cut to show that the match is ongoing.

"KNOW NOW" Wibbers scores after a knock-down from Gabby.

"KNOW NOW" Max Best curls a free kick into the top left corner.

"I NEED TO KNOW NOW" The music distorts into silence because Wolves have a penalty. Ian Swan saves it. Christian Fierce hacks it away. Max Best chases it, keeps it in, and the music comes back with a vengeance. Drums, bass, trumpets, vocals, they're all backing Best. He sprints, he accelerates, he surges towards the goal, does a stepover, does a ludicrous piece of skill to knock the ball through the goalkeeper's legs and into the goal.

The Chester fans go mental; Best takes his boots off and hurls them into the crowd. You fly over the Harry McNally terrace as the fans go bananas. Your feed slows to a crawl so you can pick out individual faces, individual celebrations. Dads and sons, brothers and sisters, best friends in a state of pure abandon. This is what it means. You turn in a 360 as you take in the entire scene. Players jumping into each other, fans bouncing, strangers hugging, limbs everywhere.

You fly up and look down on the stadium, brightly lit in a sea of darkness. There's a referee's whistle and you hear one final echoing, distorted refrain.

"I NEED TO KNOW NOW CAN YOU LOVE ME AGAIN?"

Saturday, February 12, 2028 EFL Championship Match 32 of 46: West Bromwich Albion versus Chester I was ambling around the Black Country, minding my own business, when I saw a crime unfolding before my eyes. A man in a blue-and-white striped football kit was trying to rob someone I knew.

"Stop, thief!" I cried, as I sprinted to the scene. The criminal was dressed like a Chester player but he played for West Bromwich Albion. I was wearing a beautiful yellow top with BEST 77 emblazoned on the back. I showed that part of the shirt to the man who had stolen the ball from us. Showed it to him as I put myself between him and the ball, forcing him to crash into me.

"I say!" I complained.

"Umpire!" The referee did nothing, so the West Brommer (also known as a Baggle) grappled me from behind, and not in the enjoyable way that my fiancée Emma sometimes did. This guy was strong - he nearly made me lose my balance. I had the ball under the sole of my foot and was rolling it around as I resisted this stranger's attentions.

"I say! This chap is taking liberties! Unhand me, you oaf!"

"Max!" cried William B. Roberts, a super-talented young forward. He was running to my right and was calling for the ball. The cheeky fuck was even pointing where he wanted me to kick it, like I couldn't work that out for myself. It was pretty hard to kick the ball that way, what with the six foot two octopus hanging off my back.

"Max, yes!" I tried to swing my left leg in a way that would allow me to make the pass but was almost ripped off my feet by the octopus guy. He tried to push me away so he could get the ball and counter on us, but I once again showed him my name and number, and once again he crashed into me. I returned to rolling the ball under my right sole, but the delay had allowed Brom to regain their defensive shape. One of their other midfielders came at me, hoping to steal the ball. Another would-be criminal!

As he came, I leaned into the octopus, forcing him a few inches away, then rolled the ball towards me and away, fast, in one slick move. The ball went through the second guy's legs. He crashed into his teammate and I was free to sprint. I ran, veering left and right, before lining up a long-range shot. Just as I was about to unleash it, I leaned back and slid a pass through two defenders and into the path of Wibbers, who hadn't stopped moving.

He took one touch, looked up to see the goalie rushing towards him, and chipped the ball. It went high, dipped - surely it was going in? - but landed on the top of the goal netting. Close. The ref blew his whistle to indicate it was a goal kick. I glared at him and wanted to make a sarcastic comment along the lines of 'oh, the whistle works, does it?' But aggravating referees was counter-productive. Aggravating opponents was much more fun, and in this case, essential.

West Brom were one of the toughest opponents we would have in the remainder of the season; they were 7 points of Current Ability (CA) stronger than us. Any advantage I could eke out was worth pursuing. Tough matches like these required high-level strategic thinking, planning, and flawless execution. To that end, I walked towards the two defensive midfielders who had been tangling with me a moment before.

"15? You're shit." I often called players by their shirt numbers as if to suggest I didn't know their name.

"You are fucking abysmal."

"Fuck you, Best."

"What a joke of a footballer you are. Christ knows how you're paid 15 grand a week more than your mate." I nodded towards the second DM, whose aggression turned to surprise when he heard what his colleague was being paid.

"At least this guy can pass the ball. You can't even pass a buffet. You've got to be the least fit footballer in this division. Fuck me, if you were one of my players I wouldn't even put you in the bomb squad - you'd eat the fucking bombs!" Pascal Bochum, one of my unlikely on-pitch generals, dropped a little deeper so he could join in.

"Max, do not fat-shame him. He probably has a medical condition."

"That would explain why he smells like fucking cabbage." Brom's goalie kicked the ball to a defender and the action continued. I scanned everything using the screens in my head. The tactics, every player's match rating and physical fitness, which team was having the most possession and the most shots. The data was all pretty even, but Brom had committed more fouls, which hinted at a desperation when we were attacking.

They were lucky the ref was shit because with anyone vaguely competent in charge, half their players would have picked up yellow cards. As it was, we would just have to grind it out. Brom passed the ball around in a harmless area, then moved into a zone too close to me. I flicked our team's instructions to 'pressing: yes' and instead of jogging around, everyone near the ball sprinted towards it. Gabby, Pascal, Wibbers, and Joel Reid.

I sprinted towards where I expected the ball to go next, and the adrenaline coursing through me hit ludicrous new heights when the ball went exactly where I would have wished. I got there at the same time as the intended recipient, shoulder-barged him, took control, and tried to drive forward. The right back grabbed my shirt and even though I pounded my legs, I couldn't get going. The ref blew his whistle and I blew my top.

"Fucking HELL!" I screamed at the ref.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" He didn't like me much.

"I've given the foul."

"That's this prick's fourth yellow card foul and he's got away with it again! No wonder people are sick of football. You can't even fucking dribble at goal without being mauled. Is the problem that you can't spell his name?"

"I can spell his name, Best."

"T-W-A-T. What the fuck. There are 27, 000 people here who paid to watch attacking football. If they wanted to watch this prick rip off another man's shirt, they could go on his OnlyFans page. He gets into it, from what I hear." The right back, wearing shirt number 2, had stuck around to delay us taking the free kick quickly - more evidence the ref was weak as piss.

"You what? You calling me gay?" I pulled my shirt up and showed him my abs.

"Get a good eyeful, bro. Something for you to dream on." Pascal appeared next to me. He lifted his own shirt.

"This one prefers twinks, Max. I can tell." The defender was raging, but he kept it contained.

"I'm not homophobic." I looked away while I wondered what to do with this free kick.

"You keep telling yourself that, bro." It was a pretty feeble way to conclude the scene, but all I was doing in provoking these guys was looking for a crack in their psychology. It wasn't just to try to get a win today, but also because it was possible we would meet West Brom again in the playoffs. We would play them twice again next season, so any advantage we could get today would pay off again and again. Nothing was quite working, though. Brom had good Morale and good togetherness.

For now at least, they were united and disciplined. I decided to let our right midfielder, Cheb, take the free kick. He smashed it straight into the defensive wall. One of the best players in the league smashed a precious opportunity into the first obstacle.

"What the fuck?" I groaned. It had taken thousands of calories of effortful work to put the ball in that spot. It could easily be five minutes before we next got to this part of the pitch.

"Sorry, boss," said Cheb.

How good are you at your job? I was pretty good at mine. Despite having meagre budgets, I had taken Chester FC from the sixth tier of English football to the second. I was beyond compare when it came to scouting and squad building. I felt I was pretty good at what I would call 'kingdom building' - the process of expanding and future-proofing the club so it could survive my eventual departure.

I had spent the last few months powering up 'the curse', unlocking every Attribute so that I could see a player's entire profile, from Acceleration to Agility, from Flair to Tackling. I had maxed that side of the curse and the transfer window was closed so there was no way to trade players. That meant the only way to improve our on-pitch performance in the short term was for me to get better at tactics.

I was quite good at setting up a team and making rapid adjustments during matches, but there was always room for improvement. The ball was fizzed towards me. I deflected it away from one challenge, took a few strides, and helped it to the left, where Lewis first-timed it back to Christian Fierce. Christian was a warrior, I was his general, and that's why I had recently dipped into my battered, aggressively-highlighted copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu.

My buddy Sunz loved to talk about winning battles before he even raised his army, but I always got the impression he was someone who went off doing wars as an excuse to not think about his impending wedding. Still, some of his ideas resonated. He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks. Totally. That's why I was insane about our culture.

It's possible I wasn't always completely fair with every single player at the club, but the result was that the ones who boarded our team bus had a unity of purpose. (Christian Fierce jogged to his right, passed back to our keeper, and then put himself in the way of Brom's striker, who was trying to rush the goalie. The striker had a choice - go the long way around or hit a brick wall. He chose to hit the wall, amazingly enough, hoping the ref was shit enough to give him a free kick. He regretted his decision pretty fast, and Christian bent to shout at him, which was a pretty intimidating thing to happen outside of a battle.) Quickness is the essence of war. I mean, yeah. If you've got lightning fast forward players you're going to be lethal on counter-attacks. If your defenders are fast, you can move them all the way to the halfway line and give your opponents no space to breathe.

If your coaches can make quick decisions on the touchline and communicate them instantly, you will make the most out of your limited resources. (Our goalie, Swanny, passed to Peter Bauer, who smashed a pass to me at the speed of lightning. As I deflected the ball 'round the corner' to Pascal, I switched us into a 4-2-4 formation with me as the right back. That gave us four attackers against four defenders, plus Pascal. Lots of attacking threat. Pascal moved ahead but took an unusually heavy touch that led to a Brom defender sliding in and coming out with the ball. He hoofed it clear. I switched us back to our original formation but we had players all over the place. Brom played a few slick passes and earned a corner kick.) Invincibility lies in the defence; the possibility of victory in the attack. Yes!

For most of the season, we had been something of a defensive side, relying on structure and togetherness to give ourselves a chance of getting something out of matches. Our defence had kept us out of the relegation zone. But in recent weeks, our individual improvement had got to a point that I had taken the handbrake off - I had enough confidence in my lads to take more risks, to be less defensively-minded. The rewards were obvious. In our August matches, we had scored an average of 0. 6 goals a game.

In September and October the same number had crept up to 1. 5. In November, it was 2. 3 - impressive - but in December and January we boshed 2. 7 goals per game. The best thing about scoring more freely was that opponents grew wary of us. They set themselves up more defensively, took fewer risks. They relied more on set pieces, such as corners. (Brom piled bodies into our box. I sent Pascal to the halfway line. Brom took two players out of the box to cover him. I sent Wibbers up to the halfway line. Another guy retreated. Laughing, I sent Lewis up there, too. Yet another Brommer retreated. There were two guys on the penalty spot, being marked by Joel Reid, one of our midfielders. One Brommer tangled with him, leaving the other free to roam. This was something Vikki, our set pieces coach, had pointed out in the team briefings, so we knew where the ball was likely to go. Gabriel, our Brazilian striker, had clearly been paying attention because he rushed to mark the guy who was in motion. Gabby won the header and I chased the ball to the edge of the box. I hacked it downfield, hoping one of our three speedy boys would get on the end of it. Brom's goalie took a crazy risk, leaving his penalty area and heading the ball out of play. I turned to our dugout and gave the team a thumbs up, then slapped Gabby on the arse when he jogged past me.) Victorious warriors win first and then go to war.

This was the Sun Tzu precept I found most interesting, because at first it had appeared to have no modern-day equivalent, certainly not in the world of football. One night, high on cheese, I was lying in the garden in a sleeping bag hoping to catch sight of a hedgehog, and that's when the concept clicked. In football terms, it meant 'get better players than your opponent and then smash them up'. Teams could beat themselves just by looking at your team sheet.

I was moving in that direction but it was a slow process, and unlike ancient generals I didn't have the option to skip certain encounters. The wise warrior avoids the battle? Tell that to the Football Association! I had to play 50 to 60 games per season whether my archers were fit or not. (We took the throw-in, moved the ball from left to right and back again. The match had been punctuated by periods of cat-and-mouse, of scoping each other out. I'd have preferred to rush headlong into the fray, to play heart attack football, but unfortunately for the neutral fans who were watching this, I wasn't a fucking cretin. If we needed to be patient, we'd be patient. We would be the best English patient since Ralph Fiennes.) (Cut that, that's terrible.) Be where your enemy is not. In most cases, this was the ultimate in advice for the modern football manager. Your opponent places his pieces in a certain way, leaving gaps and space that you can exploit.

If he's strong in the middle, hit the sides. If he's strong out wide, attack through the centre. There are gaps all over a football pitch and you can create even more. (Pascal darted to the right, Wibbers and Gabby to the left. I surged diagonally to the right, dabbed the ball to Cheb, and ran in a semi-circle until I was behind him. That gave him the freedom to keep progressing, and now the front three were making the opposite runs - right was left, up was down. Gabby stopped moving all of a sudden, which caused mayhem. Brommers didn't know where to go. My heart soared. This was fucking beautiful. Brom had played some good football but when Chester hit the heights, we touched the sky. We were poetry in motion. We were the Warring Arts - dance, music, theatre - um... why was the ball at my feet? I did a few kick ups, drawing the nearest oppo to me, and when he came I leaned back and played an exuberant 40-yard pass along the ground to Lewis on the left touchline. At least, that was the plan. In fact, a Brommle booted me up the arse. No free kick. Why had the ball come to me in the first place? Because Cheb wanted to make amends for fucking up the free kick by passing to me. I clambered to my feet, went to the Algerian international, and gave him a hug. Brom's manager switched to 4-4-2. I moved us into a 4-1-4-1 formation while I worked out why he had made the change. Thirty seconds later, he switched back to 4-2-3-1. What was that all about?) While 6 foot 2 athletes sprinted after a plastic sphere, kicking it a few yards that way, a few li the other way, I wondered if Sun Tzu would like football. In the first 70 minutes, to the untrained eye, not all that much happened. Sun Tzu would probably have nipped out to make a cup of tea and to conquer the state of Chu. Or maybe he would have read the situation correctly. A small state - Chester - was facing a larger enemy, and was at times making its richer foe look slow and stupid.

'What are their budgets?' Sunz would have cried.

'West Brom lose 700, 000 pounds a week', one of his aides would have cried out, 'while Chester make a small operating profit!'

'You fool!' Sunz would have replied.

'Nothing can sustain such losses on an ongoing basis. Check your work or I'll have you thrashed.' Nah, bro, those numbers are right. Every team in this league except one makes a loss. What's a million a week to a billionaire? Sunz's response to that: 'What's a billionaire?' In his day, the rich pricks had slightly more jade than the middle classes. Today, the rich pricks were building armies of killer robots and were trying to live forever. I spotted danger and sprinted left.

The constant action was taking its toll on me. I was dripping with sweat and finding it harder to concentrate. I wasn't even trying to mentally disintegrate the oppo.

"Joel!" I cried.

"Watch Cabbage! Cabbage coming. Cabbage Boy in your zone. Have you got the cabbage? The one who stinks of cabbage, Joel! Have you got him?" Okay, so I had some spare energy. A minute later the guy lunged at me, trying to land a good hit. I saw it coming and hopped over him, earning a free kick and provoking some 'handbags', where grown men push and shove each other. When it was settling down I stood in an arrogant pose and yelled at Brom's captain.

"Basic farming, boyo. Keep your cabbage away from the GOAT!"

The ball was passed over the halfway line - more danger. My opponent, the guy I was supposed to track when we were defending, was West Brom's number 7. He saw the move developing, ran forward to get into position to support the attack, but stopped and actually took a few steps backwards, towards his own goal. What was I supposed to do?

If I stayed with him, he couldn't get the next pass, but it was my instinct that the next pass would go wide, to Brom's right, and that the best place for me to be was on the edge of our penalty box. Sun Tzu would probably tell me to get back and be an extra body in defence, but Sandra Lane would tell me to stick to my man and trust our centre backs to do their jobs. It made me feel queasy but I moved towards my rival.

Sandra knew a lot more about football than a guy who died thousands of years before the offside rule was ever formulated. West Brom moved the ball to their right and sent in a cross that a striker headed just wide of the post. Jesus Christ, that was close. I rubbed my temples. Had I made the wrong decision? Or had West Brom set up in such a way that every decision I made would be wrong? At the next stoppage, I jogged to the touchline.

As I went, I stared at the substitutes, both in my vision and in the screens in my head. I was physically wrecked, sweating hard, panting. Ideally, Youngster would have been available and he could have replaced me on the pitch, but he was in the concussion protocol. Andrew Harrison could take my spot - he would run around at high speed for the rest of the match, but he was only CA 117. Magnus Evergreen was an option - he was 10 points better than Andrew, but no more creative.

If we went too far into our shells, we would get smashed. My co-manager, Sandra Lane, handed me an energy gel and said, "What are you thinking?" I set aside thoughts of subbing myself off, and pointed to our penalty area, where memories of West Brom's most recent attack was fresh in my mind.

"I wanted to drop back when that attack was happening." I took in a little more gel.

"But it's even better if we can stop attacks at source." I breathed hard.

"But we can't."

"Max, we're playing great."

"I know. This is the best we can do." I breathed and sweated and brought up our tactics screen. I had been alternating between 3-4-2-1 and 3-4-3, thinking that Pascal and Wibbers could put pressure on West Brom's goalie and defenders one minute, then on their defensive midfielders the next. It seemed like a good plan on a tactical level but it wasn't working. WBA's players were too technically secure, while our forwards weren't collectively good enough to force mistakes.

"I like 3-4-2-1 but we need to train it more. Get the connections going."

"Noted. Get back out there, Max. Give us ten good minutes and I'll sub you off. Oh, and you take the next free kick, yeah? I'm sick of seeing people smash it into the wall."

On page 5 of The Art of War, Sun Tzu writes, 'Always begin a match description with the starting elevens, the formations, and the relative strengths of the competing sides,' which is pretty good advice that I will belatedly follow. West Brom were at home, cheered on by 27, 000 noisy fans. We had shut them up at various points in the match by dominating long stretches of play, but when the Baggers put a few passes together and got some attacks going, their supporters came back to life.

They were doing 4-2-3-1, yawn, with a very serious average Current Ability of 138. By my reckoning, they were the fifth strongest team in the EFL Championship, the league Chester played in, and that thought was backed up by the bookies, who had them as 5th favourites to get promoted. West Brom had beaten us twice this season already, once in the league and once in the AOK Cup. They were really good, then, but so were we.

When planning for this match I had been leaning towards choosing a 3-4-3 shape, mostly because that was beautifully balanced and would give us loads of CA. Three defenders, four midfielders, three strikers. But did I want three strikers against a team that was slightly stronger than us? Imagine you're playing chess and you can move a castle vertically. If you move it to the final row, it can then only move in three directions. If you put it on the 6th or 7th rows, it can move in four directions.

I wasn't the best chess player, but in football, extra flexibility was almost always better. Also, a piece on the 6th row can more easily help a piece on the 4th or 5th row. That's why I had decided to use a 3-4-2-1 system. Instead of three strikers we had two attacking midfielders and one striker. It felt right to me, especially given our starting eleven. In goal was the reliable Ian Swan (CA 127, capped), who was better than most goalies at passing the ball.

The three centre backs were Christian Fierce (capped at CA 120), Peter Bauer (121/166), and Zach Green (131/139). They gave the side a good range of skills: Christian was a leader and a pure defender; Zach was tough and determined but could play a nice pass; Peter was a bit less physical but was sensational with the ball at his feet. These days, most young players with his technical quality were taught to play as wide forwards.

I felt that the only reason he had played as a defender was that because Peter had a famous grandfather he got treated different to the other lads his age. I wasn't complaining - having someone with such skill and vision playing in my defence was an unbelievable luxury. Left midfield was Lewis Lamarre, 134/156, a Northern Irish international. Next to him was Joel Reid, 136/138, who I had bought for only half a million pounds. Joel was left-footed, which gave us balance, and he was a solid all-rounder.

Beside him was a handsome chap called Max Best, who was being booed by the home fans every time he touched the ball. Why? Had to be a case of mistaken identity because I hadn't done anything wrong. To my right was Cheb Alloula, an Algerian international we had on loan from Bayern Munich. He was 149/168 and was absolutely outstanding on either flank, in defence or in attack. I would have loved to buy him, but that would have cost more than the new PetPride Stand.

Cheb's next club would need to pay 20 million Euro to register him. Honestly? That was a bargain. In a year he'd be worth 30. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. The two central attacking midfielders (CAMs) were Pascal Bochum, a German forward with 129/133, and William B. Roberts, 134/185, a two-footed wrecking machine who was already worth as much as Cheb. The spearhead of our attacks was Gabriel, a Brazilian striker with 132/161.

That gave us an average CA of 131. 3, only 7 points behind the home team. Being this good had been unthinkable at the start of the season, but here we were. Now we needed a bit of magic, a bit of luck, or the referee to wake the fuck up.

Brom had a purple patch. I rushed around trying to plug gaps and to make interceptions, but most of their moves were ended by shit passes. I had opinions on what I was seeing.

"Wow!" I said to one guy who hit a cross straight out of play.

"You get 23 grand a week to do that? If I was paid more than 50 nurses I would probably practice a bit."

"Fuck off, Best." Another guy took a shot from long range that went miles over the bar.

"Holy shit!" I told him.

"If that's what you think of your teammates, why don't you just pull your shorts down and take a shit on the grass?"

"You're a dead man."

"Nah, seriously, though. If you were told by a betting syndicate to kick the ball out of the stadium, blink twice. I'll tell the police you're in trouble."

"Fuck off."

"Where are you going? Bro! Come here! I'm trying to save your life, bro. The fuck's wrong with everyone today?"

The purple patch ended and it was our turn to dominate. It was getting hard for me to multitask so I stopped changing things around on the tactics screen and I played very simple, first-time passes. Swanny passed the ball to Christian, who was the weak link in the team when it came to passing. Opposition analysts rarely told their bosses to target Christian, which I found strange. Sun Tzu wrote: The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.

I always tried to put pressure on the opposition's weak links or to find flaws in their 'strengths'. Other analysts probably didn't look too closely at Christian because they spent all their time fretting about how to stop Peter Bauer. I had ideas about what I would do if I ever faced Peter Bauer, but I hoped that scenario would never play out. Peter got the ball, waited for an opponent to come close, dribbled past him, then hit a dreamy pass wide to the left of midfield.

The ball landed on the shoelaces of Lewis Lamarre. He rolled it to Joel Reid, who took the ball and looked for a passing option. Joel thought about it for slightly too long and got into trouble. He turned back towards safety but got knocked off the ball by a Scottish midfielder. Danger? No. I was on the scene in a flash, crashing into the guy who had crashed into Joel.

"My ball!" I screamed, obnoxiously. I touched it wide to Lewis and returned to my slot. For some reason, the home fans were booing. Fair play to the guy I'd dispossessed, he just got up and got on with the game. I noted his name and his profile because his contract was running out at the end of the season. His wages were crazy high but if Brom released him and he didn't get any other offers... Lewis passed to Joel, who was sharper this time. Joel passed to me.

I shaped to play a straight ball to Cheb on the right of midfield, but when his marker 'cheated' - stepped forward to intercept before I had even started the pass - I pushed the ball behind him. This was an incredibly productive avenue for our attacks. Cheb got the ball, pushed it forward, and there was a brief, delicious moment of pure chaos. West Brom players retreating in panic, our forwards bounding gleefully ahead like dogs chasing sticks. Cheb looked up, considering his options.

Cheb passed the ball to Pascal, who slowed, then sped up, taking a defender with him, but leaving the ball on its previous course. The ball continued on its path, stopping at the right foot of William B. Roberts. Wibbers dug his foot into the base of the ball, imparting tons of back spin onto it. Pascal had continued to run - his eyes lit up. He easily outpaced his opponent and played the ball square - at a right angle - across the six-yard line.

Gabriel had been moving around, constantly asking questions of West Brom's centre backs, and this movement bought him half a yard of space. Gabby was first to react when Wibbers passed to Pascal, and Gabby was first to react when the ball was fizzed low across goal. Gabby side-footed it into the net. Keeper no chance. One-nil Chester.

I thought about rushing to join the celebrations - I had been practising my Samba dancing in secret because it was the only dance I 'knew' and my wedding was looming, but Wibbers and Pascal beat me to it. The three forwards stood in front of the Chester fans and Sambaed. Gabby with the gold medal, Pascal silver, Wibbers... disqualified. It still brought a smile to my face and to those on the touchline.

"Sandra, I'm wrecked."

"I know, Max. Chin up. Just give us a few more minutes. Their manager's waiting for you to sub off so he can make his changes. If we wait, he'll have to go first and our changes will be better." I sucked on energy gel and smiled.

"I like you when you're savage." I tried to think of what I was supposed to say next, but nothing came. Sandra saw I was struggling and took over.

"We need to keep the ball better," said Sandra. She was from the Manchester City school of keeping the ball with the intention of keeping the ball in order to continue to keep the ball.

"I know you think it's boring but we're a goal ahead now. It's valid."

"Yeah," I said. My job wasn't to entertain the West Brom fans, it was to send our lot home with smiles on their faces.

"What would you say about 4-2-2-2 right now?" Sandra's eyes nearly fell out of her head. I had been saying for years that 4-2-2-2 was off the table.

"It's too narrow against a 4-2-3-1. Too many players in the middle - we would find it hard to complete passes. If we're going to make subs, what about a back four with inversions?" The ref blew his whistle.

"You'd better go." I jogged back to my spot. I had asked about 4-2-2-2 because it was the last of the 'default' formations I could buy in the perk shop. Sandra was right, though. Too narrow for today. Too narrow for most days. On an abstract, conceptual level I really didn't like the formation but when I bought it I would give it a whirl. Maybe I would use it in the playoff final to make sure we lost. What about inversions? That was when a full back moved into midfield when we had the ball.

The plus: an extra body in the centre of the pitch. The minus: we'd be more vulnerable to counter-attacks. Based on my current skills, I couldn't do inversions via the curse. There was a perk that would make it easy but it cost a massive 15, 000 XP. Far too much! In the meantime, since I was on the pitch and I didn't obey myself, I could approximate the effect. I changed us to 4-4-2 with Peter Bauer as a central midfielder and Pascal on the right, with Cheb as the right back.

4-4-2 was the most effective defensive shape and it was incredibly easy for players to be in the right position at all times. I tweaked it by dropping Wibbers from striker to CAM - that would give Brom's DMs something to think about. We were lined up in a 4-4-1-1 formation. We sat in that shape for a minute and it all felt very solid. When we got the ball, I hit a couple of hotkeys. One moved Wibbers back into the striker slot. Another swapped me and Cheb, which meant that Cheb was playing in central midfield.

Think about it - Cheb was a right back when we were defending and a CM when we were attacking - the very definition of an inverted full back! And I didn't have to pay 15, 000 XP to achieve it. I'll admit it was all a bit of a hack, and it was a hack that had limited scope. To do it, I needed to be on the pitch and I needed to be playing CM, so it wasn't a technique I could employ very often.

I scanned the pitch and moved Peter Bauer from CM to DM, where he was more comfortable, moved Lewis as high as he could go, and Joel as close to the middle as he could go. Those moves weren't very far. If this was chess, I could only move one piece by one square, though I could nudge any number of pieces slightly away from the centre of their zones. I hoped that when I bought the final formation, the curse would allow me to unlock total tactical flexibility.

For now, I had a goalie who was good with his feet, two centre backs, a left back (Lewis), no right back. Peter was a DM. From left to right in midfield I had Joel, me, Cheb, and Pascal. If I moved Peter into the formation's 'proper' setting, that gave us an extra central midfielder and I could use the deformation to bring Wibbers closer to us. With so many talented ball players in such close proximity, we spent four glorious minutes playing short, safe passes between us. The clock ticked down.

When we lost the ball, I reverted us instantly into 4-4-2 and sprinted towards our goal to help prevent counter-attacks. One counter from the home team resulted in them getting a free kick in a dangerous position. This was the problem with inverted full backs! High reward, but high risk. We set up a defensive wall, I stationed Pascal on the halfway line, and I mentally bit my nails. This was tense. West Brom's most technical player lined up the free kick... and blasted it into the wall.

I scrambled to get the rebound. One lusty swipe of my boot would send Pascal through on goal! But a defender reacted well and got the ball away from me. When the ball was next out of play, I shook my head. That was the fifth time in the match someone had sent a free kick crashing into the defensive wall or hit a corner onto the first defender's head. It was a criminal waste of an opportunity. From the restart, we knocked the ball about while I moved us into our 'inverted' formation step by step.

We once again drained time from the clock while pushing West Brom back. It looked like we were pressuring them relentlessly but we weren't really targeting the penalty area. We wanted to keep the ball. If we had the ball, the other team couldn't hurt us. That was the theory, anyway. Cheb passed to me. I passed to Peter. He passed to Cheb who hit the ball towards me. I let it go through my legs because Wibbers was on the other side, dropping back to get involved in the game.

He nudged it to Joel and moved back to his zone. Joel waited for Lewis to overlap him, waited... but didn't play the difficult pass down the line. Instead, he played the ball five yards to my feet. I mentally swapped Lewis and Joel - the latter was closer to our goal. While Joel took up the left back slot, I passed to Peter, who looked right for Pascal, but played it instead to Cheb, who first-timed it to me. I first-timed it back to Cheb.

The ball was whizzing around the pitch beautifully, but the West Brom players didn't like it. One clattered into Peter as he was playing a pass. The ball got to Cheb, who deflected it to me. Cheb was clattered, too. A third Baggle came at me with evil intent, so I dropped a shoulder and nutmegged him. With so many players out of position, the risk-reward balance changed completely. I fizzed a low pass to Wibbers, who turned and set himself up for a long-range shot. He, too, was knocked off his feet.

The ref gave a free kick and all hell broke loose. My guys pushing into West Brom guys. Pushing, finger-wagging, even a little forehead-on-forehead rutting. I kept out of it while I thought about this free kick. Before he ran off to join in the silliness, Brom's goalie had indicated that he wanted a four-man wall. The distance was close enough for me to shoot, but even with the wall partially obstructing his view, the goalie would have plenty of time to see the ball and move into position to make a save.

That was fine by me. I didn't really want to score unless I absolutely had to. The demon who had cursed me with the abilities of a top football manager had accidentally made me an elite player at the same time, and he claimed that if I abused these unearned powers, I would be squashed by a cosmic referee known as The Sentinel. At the start of the season I had given myself permission to score eight goals and to create 19 for other players (assists). Those were decent numbers but not outrageous.

You can't get squashed for scoring eight goals in 50 games, for fuck's sake. So far this season I had scored 6 and created 10. Perfectly reasonable. Did I want to score one of my two remaining goals against West Brom? No, of course not. But they were pissing me off.

"Swanny," I called out.

"Yes, boss?" cried my goalkeeper, long-distance.

"Get into the box."

"What?" I pointed.

"Box."

"There's 10 minutes left. And we're winning!" Normally, teams only threw goalkeepers into the other team's penalty area when they were losing, and even then it was only ever in the dying seconds of a match. Doing it now would be utter madness. That's why he wasn't moving. I nearly lost my temper.

"Hurry the fuck up!" Seeing my goalie trundling forward, not to join the melees but to attack this free kick, electrified the fans. The Chester mob groaned. What's he doing now? The home fans sat up straight. We're gonna block this free kick, run up the pitch, and score from inside our own half! Chester don't have a goalie! I glanced at Sandra. She had her hands on her head, a stance of complete disbelief. Had I been lying about trying to win all of our remaining games? Swanny said, "Where do you want me?"

"Far post, along with everyone else." I had a perk called Masterpiece Theatre that allowed me to position players at set pieces. It wasn't totally reliable - players often did whatever they wanted - but I could set a general tendency. I moved every icon to the far post. The idea was that I would cross the ball that way and the sheer mass of bodies would wreak havoc. Teams didn't train to defend against ten players in one circle. Why would they? West Brom's goalie was back on his line, very slightly panicked.

He quickly decided he didn't want four in the wall. He told two of those guys to come and defend the inevitable header. I looked at Sandra and tried to wink without moving my eyelids. Amazingly, it seemed to work. Instead of holding her head, she grabbed Vikki, our set pieces coach, in an excited way. I was pretty sure I saw Sandra say, "Holy fuck, he's going to shoot!" The ref blew to let me take the free kick, which was interesting because the pushing and shoving hadn't really stopped.

The lack of closure on that scene bled into this next one. The defenders looked on edge. Rattled. I hit the Free Hit perk to boost our chances of scoring by 10%, then held up one arm. I pointed for someone to move slightly out of the mass of bodies, but it was just theatre. Of course I was planning to shoot. I smacked the ball as hard as I could, aiming for Swanny, knowing that the ball would curl wickedly.

The initial trajectory of the shot made West Brom's keeper take a step to his left, but then he got a proper read on the flight. He stepped right, right again, then realised he was deep in the shit because the ball was rocketing towards the top-left corner. The goalie pumped his legs, hurled himself into the sky, and threw out a hand. He got the merest fingery touch onto the ball and deflected it onto the post. It rebounded towards the mass of players and was hacked away by a defender.

It was our throw-in, so Swanny could take his time getting back into position.

"Was I a decoy?"

"No," I said, as he passed me.

"I was aiming for you but mis-kicked it."

"Mis-kicked it," he scoffed.

"Mis-kicked it top bins."

"It's funny how often I do that," I said.

"Sandra's gonna have opinions about this stunt."

"So?" I scoffed.

"I'm not afraid of her." Christian jogged close.

"Boss. Sandra wants a word." I hid behind him.

"Tell her I'm out." He laughed.

"She wants to make some subs." I glanced at the sideline. West Brom had four guys lined up, ready to come onto the pitch. Three were worse than the players they were replacing, though one was better. Two were big, big lads, which meant West Brom were planning to take a more aerial route to goal. It was a good time for us to make some changes of our own. Sandra had them all lined up. Cole and Helge for defensive height, Andrew and Magnus for midfield energy.

I took the armband off and slipped it onto Christian's arm. I thought about saying something to motivate him. Something like, 'if we win today, we're definitely going to the playoffs. You will get to play at Wembley!' But why bother? Christian's Morale was high and his motivation was unrivalled. He was an interesting case in that motivating him more would tip him into uncertainty and hesitation. I simply smiled at him and gave him one of my trademark friendly slaps. Go get 'em, tiger!

I left the pitch slowly, soaking up a standing ovation from the away fans. A few yards from the touchline, I stopped to give them my full attention, clapping with my hands over my head, a gesture which the nearest West Brom player took exception to. Rude! The game is nothing without the fans. The Brommer shoved me, which made me almost take a tumble. In the process of trying to keep my balance, I moved in a wide arc, but finally succumbed and crashed to the turf.

Inexplicably, I was even further from the touchline than when the guy had shoved me. The home fans were screaming at the guy, chastising him for being so stupid.

"Max Best - is a wanker, is a wanker!" Wait, what? I was the victim! The ref showed the pusher a yellow card, then told me to leave the pitch. I crawled forward, army-style, which caused yet more booing, and which earned me a yellow card, too. I laughed at the West Brom fans and made a 'crying eyes' gesture that infuriated them and their coaching staff. It would get a lot less funny if their team equalised or got a winner, but as my bro Sun Tzu liked to say, 'If your opponent is of choleric temper, irritate him'.

I walked to the home dugout and shook the hand of the assistant manager.

"I'm gonna get a shower," I said.

"Well done, though. Your tactics were spot on." An older guy growled, "I'm the fucking manager, not him." I let out a crystalline laugh.

"Yeah, sure, officially. But everyone knows this guy's the brains of the operation." With that, I ambled down the tunnel, whistling softly. Calm as you like. Cool as a cucumber. Then I bit my nails in the dressing room until I heard the final whistle. I would have liked to watch the last few minutes to get more XP, but my cockiness had definitely rattled the home team. I didn't hear the final whistle, but I saw the Match Overview screen in my head change format. The game was over.

1-0 away against a potential playoff rival? Yes, please! If we drew them in the playoffs, all these seeds I had been planting would ripen in spectacular fashion. Heh. I mentally high-fived Sun Tzu, then rushed into the showers in case Brom's manager turned off the hot water.

XP balance: 2, 625 4-2-2-2 would cost 5, 000 XP. The men's team alone had at least 15 matches left, giving me a potential haul of around 17, 000 XP. My ambition was to do whatever it took to achieve total tactical mastery by the start of next season, but I knew the curse wouldn't make it easy for me. It seemed to treat my entire existence as a tutorial, only giving me new powers when it was absolutely sure I could handle them.

I couldn't say it was wrong - if I had been given complete flexibility from the start there's no way I would have learned as much about the sport as I had. The limitations imposed on me had forced me to really try to understand the formations I had at my disposal. Sometimes it had been frustrating but it had also saved me from embarrassment. Was I ready to kick off the training wheels? I mean... probably? Right?

All I knew was that I needed to get to 5, 000 XP as soon as poss, even if it meant driving around the country watching random matches for the next few weeks. Emma would understand. Hell, Emma would barely notice. She was starting to freak out about the wedding and my one attempt to help made her storm out of our cottage. All I said was that we should have the reception in a Nando's and get an Elvis impersonator instead of a priest.

Sunday, February 13 WSL2 Match 14 of 22: Chester Women versus Burnley Burnley had an average CA of 69, miles behind ours, so it was the perfect time to do some experimenting. Officially, I was the co-manager of our women's team but that title was mostly a hack to double how many XP I earned and to use my arsenal of perks across more teams. Instead of getting 6 XP per minute merely watching the women, I could get 12 XP by co-managing them. Yes, please! Jay Cope was the real manager.

He was very young (24) but was great tactically. In the morning we'd had a conversation that led to us agreeing that 3-4-2-1 would be the most viable formation for the women's team in the medium term. 3-4-3 was great against weaker teams, but it had the disadvantage that the three strikers could get isolated. What's the point having three strikers if we couldn't get the ball to them?

Throughout Jay's time at the club, we had dropped one of the three into a central attacking midfield slot, and my theory was that we should lean into that and make it a permanent feature of our play. Against teams like Burnley it wouldn't make much difference, but turning two of the forwards into attacking midfielders would be far more appropriate against stronger teams - it would give us more control of the midfield, as I had demonstrated against West Brom.

The tweak didn't change much in terms of the current squad. Jay read out his starting eleven and ten names were the same as they had been all season. The player who missed out was Angel, our second-best pure striker. Was it a coincidence that this vital new formation led to the exclusion of a player who had pissed me off? Of course it was a coincidence! I'm Max Best! I'm a woke champion of the underdog and I'm vegan-curious. Not curious enough to actually eat vegan food, but I liked the idea of veganism.

Why would such a person act in a small-minded, petty way? Answer: I wouldn't. I truly believed, hand on heart, that 3-4-2-1 with Saffron Walden (CA 72) in the team was superior to 3-4-3 with Angel (CA 91). I sat on the bench watching with interest as the tweaked formation played out. Our average CA was 98. 7, almost 30 points better than our opponents, so victory was almost assured. I, for one, found the match illuminating. Kit Hodges was the starting striker, of course, because she was far, far ahead of Angel.

CA 105 compared to CA 91. If you can only pick one striker, you pick Kit. Behind her, Saffron was playing as a CAM alongside Meredith Ann (CA 90, PA a stupendous 200). Behind that pair were two central midfielders, Charlotte (98/101) and Sarah Greene (104/167). It was a great 'square' to have behind a good striker. The four women brought lots of clever movement, energy, great passing, and goal threat.

Shortening the distances between the players made our passes safer and easier and Burnley's midfield spent much of the game chasing shadows. Playing this way, we would wear a lot of opponents down. It was a little less explosive than having three strikers, but it was a lot smoother.

"This is a winner," said Jay.

"I love this."

"It suits us," I said.

"It suits the type of player I want to bring to the club. Let's lock this in for the rest of the season, I reckon."

"Cool." That was this season settled, then, but I was already thinking far, far ahead. Saffron and Meredith were improving rapidly but were underpowered for the tests to come. Charlotte was nearly maxed out. Sarah was so good that the flaws in the other three didn't matter today, but it was unfair - and stupid - to rely on her so much.

In the summer, I would sign a massive upgrade on Charlotte, and at least one experienced forward who could play as a CAM for a season or two while Saffron and Meredith learned the ropes at tier one level. What would I do with Charlotte, another player who had pissed me off? It seemed cruel to keep her around as a fourth or fifth-choice central midfielder but the alternatives didn't look much better to me. I would have to gauge how much interest there was from other clubs before making a decision.

She played quite well - they all did - and we won 4-0. Three points in the league, three goals for Kit Hodges, and I earned 1, 140 experience points. A good day? That remained to be seen.

"Ciao tutti," I said, bustling into the boardroom. On one side of the table was Angel, the striker I had told Jay to bin off - that is to say, the striker who had slipped down the pecking order owing to tactical forces beyond anyone's control - and her agent, Ruth.

"Hi, Max," said the latter. She knew what this meeting was all about. Angel remained silent, watchful, wary. But hopeful too - it was her birthday tomorrow. I grabbed a bottle of still water and opened it with great aplomb before taking my seat. I thought about pouring the liquid into a cup to seem more fancy, but the women knew I was as common as it got. I poured directly into my mouth, wiped my lips with the back of my hoodie's sleeve, and got right to it.

"My boy Sun Tzu is full of amazing advice. He said, rewards for good service should not be deferred a single day. That's what this is all about, Angel. A reward for your good service. An early birthday present. I've been thinking about you and Emiliano." Emiliano was a talented Italian attacking midfielder that I had signed believing I could fix his shitty Team Work score. I had failed. Moreover, he had hooked up with Angel, causing a dressing room split.

I didn't totally blame him - or Angel - for the crime of being super hot and super horny, but they had done a few things that exacerbated the team's divisions and I was done with the pair of them. In football, unity was a pearl beyond price. If I didn't have unity in both men's and women's dressing rooms, I couldn't experiment with new tactics.

Emiliano was training with the men's first team but I had taken his name off the squad list - he wouldn't even get on the bench for the rest of the season, not even in the Cheshire Cup. In May, he would return to Pescara, the club that controlled his player registration.

"Oh?" said Angel, still wary.

"Yeah," I said, leaning back.

"You're not going to play as much because of the new tactical paradigm, and obviously Emiliano's going back to Pescara in a few months and I was thinking you'd want to be in Italy with him. You're stuck here until the summer, same as him, but I wouldn't want to stand in the way of your true love. As you know, I'm getting married myself when the season's over, so I think I have a good old grasp on that side of things. Romantic as fuck, me." I took a hearty swig.

"My first thought was that you could go to AC Milan or Inter, but I had a look at a map and Rome is a short hop across the country from Pescara. Two hours. It's like from here to York. Barely any distance at all. I have contacts at the Milan clubs and Roma and all three would be very interested in acquiring your services. Your agency - " we looked at Ruth - "has a new European division and there are incredible marketing opportunities for you. That's why my first thought was Milan.

When it comes to sponsorships, why stop at perfumes? Clothes, shoes, jewellery - the world is your calamari." Angel was trying to be impassive, but I could tell she was not pleased.

"The European division? You mean Briggy?" I shrugged.

"Briggy's a top international businesswoman. Just coz she can punch a man to death with his own hand doesn't mean she can't make a few phone calls. You'll play for a top European club in the Champions League, you'll boost your profile and get new sponsors, and you'll be with Emiliano. Bish bash bosh. Talk to Ruth, have a think, tell her which club you'd like to join and I'll make it happen." Angel was weirdly unexcited about this reward.

"What will the transfer fee be?"

"Fee? Nothing. I wouldn't want to stand in your way by insisting on a fee. That would be tacky." She couldn't hide how pissed she was.

"You're letting me go for free?" I made a vague gesture.

"I trust that Ruth will be able to negotiate you a better financial package than the one you've got here. Better you get the money than Chester FC, right? We don't need it. If the men get to the playoff final, that's a million quid we didn't expect, and I've still got all the Dazza money and the Wallace Wells money. I can afford to be generous in this matter." Angel turned to Ruth.

"Isn't it bad for us if there's no transfer fee?"

"No," said Ruth.

"If there was going to be a fee, we could demand it as a signing bonus instead. The money would go to you instead of to Chester." Ruth was right, but Angel's vanity wanted a big transfer fee that everyone would talk about. Ruth said, "Any fee would be low at this stage in your career, but Max is right to suggest there would be incredible marketing opportunities." Angel wasn't thinking straight, it seemed, because she said something crazy. She looked at me and said, "I can't believe you're binning me off."

I frowned.

"Huh? Maybe I didn't explain myself very clearly. This is a reward. This is a good thing. This is you getting to live in a beautiful, sun-drenched country with your dream boy, getting to play in the Champions League, getting to meet the world's leading designers, to try on their latest clothes, to be in their marketing campaigns. Think of your Instagram feed in June and July! New country, new life, new team. A new manager who lets you do whatever you want.

This is everything you ever dreamed of, and I'm delighted to be able to give it to you."

"What if Kit gets injured?"

"Then you'll play. You're here until May. Birmingham keep winning and unless they slip up, we're gonna have a playoff match against Charlton. That will be the biggest single match in this club's history and you could make yourself an all-time legend by scoring in that one. You're an important part of the squad."

"But next season. What if Kit's injured next season?"

"By then we'll have one or two new strikers. Kit will be second or third choice so if she's injured, it won't be such a blow." Angel's eyes darted around, calculating, but I wasn't interested in battling her. The deed was done. Que Será, Será, whatever will be, will be, you're going to I-tal-y. I pushed my chair back, stood, and gave them a friendly nod.

"Let me know if it's Milan or Rome." I had planned to stride out, but what I said gave me pause. My expression softened and a genuine smile emerged.

"Milan or Rome? How cool is that? Pasta on tap, Vespas, forts, history, bella donnas." I pressed my index and middle fingers against my thumb and gesticulated while doing a flawless Italian accent.

"Eyyy bambini, where's the new Angel merch? We got dieci coachloads of schoolkids coming today and they gonna wanna spend some serious Lira." I switched to an equally impressive but different Italian accent and made the same gesture with my left hand.

"Capo, relax, eh? It's in my Fiat out-a-side. We sell the merch, no problemo. But first a cigarette, a leetle black coffee, and a siesta. Eyyyy." Ruth's eyes widened during my performance.

"I think I understand why you don't get on well with your only Italian employee. Jesus, Max." I rapped the boardroom table three times.

"Great meeting, team. Good job."

Monday, February 14 I invited the senior coaches (Sandra, Peter, Colin), Sticky (the senior goalkeeping coach), the senior medical staff, the Brig, plus Brooke and MD to a bigger-than-usual planning meeting. I would have liked to do it in the canteen, with its easy, relaxed vibe, but it wasn't practical - or private. The Sin Bin scored highly on the latter point, even if the layout didn't promote people sharing their thoughts.

People liked to sit in random spots and I didn't see the point in making them move together. Brooke was the last in.

"Am I late?"

"No," I said.

"How was the reception to the drone tour video?"

"Amazing," she said.

"Statistically, it's one of the best pieces of content we've ever produced. It was a good idea to give it a theme beyond 'here's some stuff we built' because it's being picked up by fans of other clubs."

"Whose idea was it to give it a theme?" Brooke turned to the people behind her and did a tiny sigh.

"It was your idea, Max." Peter Bauer called out, "Round of applause for Max!" I waited patiently, 2% annoyed, 98% amused.

"Have you quite finished? I wasn't fishing for compliments, I genuinely didn't remember. Right," I said, slapping the table beside me gently.

"Let's power through this." MD cleared his throat.

"I have a few questions and comments first, Max."

"Yo," I said, which meant 'hit me' which meant 'go for it'.

"Some things that came to my attention recently. One, is it true you intend to let Angel leave the club with no transfer fee?"

"Yep."

"And there is no chance at redemption for Emiliano? He's a player we can acquire for a few million pounds and you say he will one day be worth sixty to eighty million."

"No chance at redemption," I confirmed.

"I've been reading a lot of Sun Tzu again." MD perked up. As a regular user of LinkedIn, he basically lived on a diet of ancient quotes.

"Great! Repetition is the mother of learning."

"Sun Tzu wouldn't bring whiny, self-absorbed generals with him on his way to conquer Chu, would he? He'd dump them in Italy and get on with his life. That's what I'm doing. As for the money we will air quotes lose, it will cost us far more money to have unhappy players around."

"They're not unhappy," said MD.

"They will be if I can't get rid of them," I said, with a little heat.

"Because I've been reading The Art of War, I've also been thinking about chess again. My favourite thing in chess is the idea you can take a pawn and move him to the other side of the pitch and turn him into a bishop or a knight."

"Or a queen," said Peter.

"Really? You can have more than one queen? I've heard of speed chess but I've never heard of harem chess. Right now, Angel and Emiliano are pawns and they're blocking a lane. Move them aside and there's more space for other pieces to cross the board. Saffron Walden will become a priestess and Dan Badford will become a knight - if we give them minutes on the pitch. Don't worry about which players cross the board, just know that we've got an endless stream. The only thing that can stop them is if we lose our culture.

As long as we have people like the Brig working here, that culture is rock solid." Everyone turned to the Brig because what I had said seemed so out of place. The former commando tried to look impassive, and mostly succeeded. The others turned to MD again. He sighed.

"We have to trust your judgement, of course, but I wish we didn't have these... these unfortunate outbreaks of disharmony."

"The outbreak has been contained, MD."

"Well, fine. I received some complaints about your behaviour at the Hawthorns. You were calling West Brom 'the Brommers' and things like that. This is an old club, Max. It has won the FA Cup five times. And you spent the entire match provoking their players and staff. I was in their executive lounge and I have to say that I was a little bit embarrassed." I nodded.

"I know it's not your style but I've come to realise a few things." I got up and perched on the edge of the table.

"I want to do things. Various things. One, save football from itself. Two, earn loads of money. Three, attract players and sponsors to build this club. Four, and this is my favourite, I want to humiliate billionaires who buy English football clubs. I achieve all those things by winning matches. I'd love to sit down opposite the guy from West Brom and have an 8 by 8 grid and the exact same pieces, but we don't. West Brom have a huge budget. They lose 700, 000 pounds a week. We're not playing the same sport.

Their striker, on his own, earns more than my goalie and back three put together. If I go out there and I'm meek and I accept my fate, you'll be embarrassed anyway because we'll lose 5-0." I lifted a finger.

"I'm going hard at the rest of the season because if we finish 4th, that means there will be 20 clubs owned by billionaires below us. That's 20 guys who bought soccer clubs to brag about while they're playing golf, but they won't even mention that they own them because if they do they'll have to admit that a poverty-stricken fan-owned club is kicking their arse." Sticky made a fist and bellowed, " Come on!"

"Mike, we've got 15 games on our schedule right now. 14 in the league, 1 in the FA Cup. You know that DOVE uses the Current Ability system from Soccer Supremo? I asked it to tell me how strong those 15 teams are on average, and it spat out a number: 127. Right now, Chester's best possible eleven is about 130. If we play 15 games at full strength, we'll win 5, draw 5, lose 5. Is that enough? Not for me.

Throw in some injuries, some suspensions, some rotation because the games are coming thick and fast and our number will drop. To make up the balance, we need to do some dark arts. But look, I actually agree with you. I wish we didn't have to do it, so let's compromise. I'll only behave like that against clubs who are owned by billionaires, okay?"

"That's almost everyone!"

"Yeah," I said, with regret.

"It's best if I don't make promises I can't keep, anyway, because I want to win the FA Cup and I want to get to the playoff final and I can't really factor your dignity into my thinking. Soz." To my surprise, Sandra spoke in my defence.

"We might get West Brom in the playoffs, Mike. I don't know exactly what Max said on the pitch and to the manager but it seemed to mess them up in the last ten minutes and it could help us when the stakes are even higher." Colin said, "Or it could galvanise them." I pointed to a spot behind Colin that was supposed to be Birmingham.

"They can't be any more united than they were on Saturday. They were really impressive. When the enemy is united, MD..."

"Divide them," he said. I got up and walked around a bit.

"In the next three months I want to work on my tactical skills. I feel like I can level up in terms of positional play. Inverted full backs, player rotations, complicated pressing schemes. If I manage a CA 100 team, I can make them play like they're CA 108. What if I can nudge that to CA 110? That would be good, right? But that's only going to take us so far. We need to keep working hard to improve our base levels and we need to take every opportunity to weaken our opponents. Okay, well, not every opportunity.

I'm not going to kick a guy in the knee on his first game back from injury. I'm not talking about psychotic things. But if there's an existing division, it doesn't seem all that wrong to put our finger on it and press." MD said, "I can't quite think what..." I moved to the table.

"You need an example. Here." I clicked around on my laptop and beamed a video to the big screen. It was simple - just a player from about 15 years ago, running around in slow motion, punching the air, cheering, celebrating with fans, lifting up trophies, that sort of thing.

"What's this?" said Peter Bauer.

"What team is that?" He looked at Vikki, who shrugged. MD was shaking his head.

"That's Bristol Rovers." Sandra frowned.

"We're not going to play Bristol Rovers; they're in League One." MD said, "That man in all of those clips is currently the manager of Bristol City." To Vikki, he said, "As you may expect, City and Rovers are huge rivals. I suspect Max wants to show this on the big screens when Bristol City come to the Deva Stadium in a few weeks. It will remind the City fans that their manager is a Rovers legend. Why is a Rovers legend managing their bitter cross-town rivals?

It was a strange decision by the City board - it can only end in tears." Peter said, "Okay, so emotionally it would be the equivalent of Max leaving Chester to play for their bitter local rivals for a month. Tranmere Rovers, perhaps."

"Great joke," I said, "but it's okay when I do things like this."

"Why?"

"Because I said so." MD said, "Max played for Tranmere, yes, but that club helped him out after his recovery from a coma. Chester fans weren't ecstatic about what Max did but we all understood it. Grudgingly admired it, you might say. The Bristol City manager crossed a divide that shouldn't be crossed." He groaned.

"Divide. I just heard myself. If the enemy is united, divide them." He sighed.

"Hoist by my own Sun Tzu." Brooke scanned the room.

"Does anyone have an objection to this?"

"Not me," said Peter.

"It's brilliant. So simple, so effective."

"Then let's press on, shall we?" said Brooke.

"Max is gonna do Max things. Trash talk doesn't cross the pale. If you can't stand the heat, quit yer bitchin' and get out the kitchen. Max, what did you want to talk to us about? Hang on, where's Spectrum?" I said, "In Brazil with Pradeep, setting up the camera system in the stadiums of the three big clubs, plus one training pitch per club.

We should get decent coverage of the players in Sao Paulo and if Chelli, my agent friend, finds some starlets it will be easy to get them onto a pitch where I can scout the lad remotely." MD looked impressed.

"Do you really think you can find players like Gabriel and Nasa just from the software?"

"I think so, but I would have to fly over and check. I'm not sure when I would go - the matches are coming thick and fast and the week after the playoff final it's my wedding. Hey, show of hands, who'd come to my wedding meal if it was in a Nando's?" Brooke said, "Get on with the meeting, Max."

"I want to do a quick money chat. It overlaps with training and tactics and pretty much everything because if we're going to buy specialist new equipment I want to do that now so I know how big my summer war chest is going to be. I'm happy we spent money on green energy and the new all-weather pitch. Reduce our costs, increase revenues. Top. The PetPride stand financing is in place, right?"

"We're 98% done," said Brooke.

"It'll be confirmed this week. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched, but you can count on 98% of these chickens."

"Top. That leaves us with just over 11 million pounds and there's no reason not to invest almost all of it into the squad. Do we buy one amazing player for ten million? That could guarantee us promotion next season, but there's a risk of another Emiliano situation." The mood in the room shifted; most of the others believed I was not treating Emiliano well and that the problems only existed in my head.

They weren't entirely wrong, but what was in my head was far more accurate than what they could see with their eyes. I pressed on.

"We could do another round of young players like Wallace Wells. Buy for a million, sell in a year for four million. Do that enough times and we're laughing all the way to the bank. I'm not completely sure what's best, but this money could be a force multiplier on everything we do - if I spend it well.

"Which brings me to the point, finally. Before I start talking to players whose contracts are running out in the summer and guys who have release clauses below their market value and all that fun stuff, let's talk about training and if there's anything we need to spend money on. Colin, you have been experimenting with VR headsets. Would you say they're worth the investment?" He nodded.

"Definitely. The headsets are affordable. The software subscription can be pricey, but I talked to Spectrum and Pradeep and they think they can use DOVE to recreate certain moments in games. We can put players back into their own bodies in exactly the positions they were standing and they can see what they could have done better. Apparently, DOVE can show what would have happened if players had made different decisions."

"That feature is coming, yes."

"With all the age groups, Saltney, the Welsh kids, the tech will get used a lot. I would love to set up a dedicated space for VR training. Players could do that when they're injured." Sandra's neck snapped round.

"That would be great." Colin smiled. He didn't get injured a lot but when he did, it was torture. Being able to keep 'training' when crocked would really boost my players' Morale. He said, "And if we link the headsets to DOVE instead of the recommended software, we can keep costs down." I stared at the ceiling while I thought.

"I'm imagining a Star Trek-like room where a bunch of kids can put on headsets and be transported into any stadium in the world, into any match state we want. That alone would be worth a hundred grand as a recruitment tool. Imagine we're trying to convince the dad of a talented kid to come here instead of Liverpool. We can put the headset on the dad and put him on the penalty spot at Wembley Stadium. Take a penalty to win the World Cup, dad!"

"Sweet!" said Colin.

"We could put him and his kid on the centre spot in the Deva and say, this is what it's like now, click our fingers, this is what it will be like in 3 years. Two new stands finished, 20, 000 fans screaming, all lit up, big screens showing the kid's face. We could really ham it up." Brooke's eyes were filling with shiny pennies.

"Could we offer that in the corporate boxes on a match day?" I looked at Colin. He frowned a little because he hadn't thought of any applications beyond coaching.

"You mean..." Brooke spread her hands as she imagined the scene, "It's half-time and before eating, our VIP guests go into a special room, or they put on the headset that's under their seat, and they see themselves from the point of view of Max or Wibbers as they score a goal. They feel what it's like to score at the Deva in front of thousands. They can pause and look around in a 360 before the key pass is made. They marvel - how did Peter Bauer make that pass?

From where Peter is, you can't even see that player, let alone the direction he is running!" Peter was smiling.

"That sounds incredible. Not my pass, the idea. An action replay of what you've just seen, but you can watch as anyone. The goalscorer or the goalkeeper." Brooke looked at me.

"This could end up in every corporate box in every major stadium in the world. Is this a Chester product or a Maxterplanalytics product?"

"It's no-one's. It doesn't exist yet. You just dreamed it up."

"The question is who pays for the development of this service. It's going to be built on DOVE technology."

"But Colin's going to push the VR setup and he'll be supported by Chester staff and facilities." I pulled on my lip.

"Joint venture?" Brooke turned to MD, who nodded. I summed up my thoughts on the matter.

"We build a coaching tool that's good for player recruitment and in parallel, build something that lets fans experience what the players are experiencing. We're going to build it anyway and if there's a market for any of what we develop, we can both benefit. Okay, I didn't really expect to launch a new company before breakfast, but there we go." I tapped on my laptop and showed clips of players blasting free kicks into walls.

"This is doing my nut. Even Meredith Ann did it twice yesterday. Look! Right into that girl's face. It's driving me bonkers but I saw a free kick trainer thing and I'm wondering if we should buy one. It looks like a six-foot tall foosball table rod with four players stuck together. As a player is about to take a shot, a coach taps a button and the whole thing rises like real humans jumping.

It's got all sorts of settings - you can set the height of the players to replicate the exact opponents you'll face in the next match, you can make different guys jump different heights, and there are two guys hidden round the back. You can swing them forward to make it a wall of five or six if you want. The whole thing gets painted in your colours with the right sponsors and logos and everything.

It looks cool but Bayern Munich didn't have one, as far as I know, so I'm wondering if anyone has experience of this sort of thing." Vikki nodded.

"Yes, I've used one."

"It's expensive. Is it worth it?" She shrugged.

"I can't really answer that but it makes free kick training more realistic. If cost wasn't an issue, I would very much recommend it. It's good for goalkeepers, too. Sticky, have you seen one of these things?"

"No," he said.

"What am I doing?" I said.

"There's a promo video." I clicked around and launched it. As a player struck a free kick, the defensive wall jumped. A coach used an app to adjust the heights of the players. It all looked very simple, very easy.

"It looks very expensive," said MD.

"Yeah, it's like 30 grand a pop."

"A pop?"

"We should get one for Saltney, too." Peter said, "I thought you were against the idea of football clubs losing money."

"I am," I said.

"But Saltney have free kick specialists at all age levels and those beautiful little bastards will win us more matches if this helps their Set Pieces score. Also, I want to put this thing perpendicular to the goal line and use it for corner kick practice. I hate seeing corners headed away by the first defender and I reckon this thing can help us train to take better corners, too, even if it isn't specifically designed for that." MD grunted.

"That's one of my personal bugbears. If there's even the slightest chance this could help, it's worth a small investment."

"Done," I said.

"Buy two, please, MD. Oh, Brig, do you want one?" The Brig smiled.

"No, thank you." Brooke frowned slightly.

"Why would the Brig want one?" I turned the big screen off.

"That's the final thing I wanted to talk about this morning. We're going to have to either restructure our team or find a new Head of Performance. The Brig is leaving." Someone gasped, but I wasn't sure who. Sandra said, "What? Why?" Colin said, "Are you going back to being a merc?" The Brig rubbed his forehead.

"No, Colin. Hem... How can I say this? It's all rather perplexing, in fact. I can't stay at Chester for very long, much as I want to, for the simple reason that... well, put simply, unlike Max, I actually have bought a football club."