Chương 83: 5.16 - Perfect Day

16. Sunday, May 7 I pulled my dressing gown more closely around me, trying not to scowl and sulk as the hotel staff changed the bedding. Every time they opened the door, a gust of cold wind sped through the room and into my bones, delaying my recovery by days or even weeks. The headache had begun soon after the Luton match, and by the time Emma and I checked into the hotel room in Milton Keynes where the women's team were staying, I was feeling quite unwell.

Overnight, I'd got a bit sweaty (which I told myself was the toxins leaving my body), so when I woke up, Emma had arranged for new sheets, pillow cases, and a quilt cover. The staff were very friendly about it but it was driving me crazy to watch them tuck everything in and then layer the bed with blankets, about eighty decorative pillows, and that stupid belt thing that some hotels put around their beds. Five seconds after the people left, I would have to undo everything they had just done.

Pointless work, for both of us! Most of the women's team were in cute little single or double rooms, but I had an executive suite with a terrace. The sofa was enormous and converted into a bed, which would be handy if my condition worsened and Emma kicked me out. She was next to me, trawling through the sports pages on her iPad, and was reading bits out even though I had asked her not to.

She was obsessed with the expression 'worldie', so she felt compelled to tell me every sentence that contained that word, and she was also amused by how every single article managed to make Luton versus Chester about Wrexham.

"This one lasted until the third paragraph! Ryan Reynolds will not be losing any sleep over these performances - on recent form, Wrexham would be more than a match for either of these sides."

"Uhh," I grunted, because words were making me nauseous.

"Doesn't it bother you, babes?" I felt like if I spoke I might throw up, so I waited until the queasiness inside me hit a brief kind of balance, then said, "Not arsed." She skimmed down.

"Describing your goal, he says Stanley Kubrick couldn't have framed the sequence any better, and had the mad director insisted on doing 127 takes, Best would have scored them all. It was pure artistry, achieving masterpiece status while fooling us into thinking such miracles are both easy and inevitable. They are not. Hang it in the Louvre."

"Yeah, it was decent." Emma lowered the iPad to look at me properly, but the hotel staff came bustling in with crazy energy that made the throbbing in my head return.

"We're finished, Mrs. Daps."

"Thank you!" said Emma, brightly. The staff departed. I got up and shuffled to the bed, tutted at the pillow pyramid (pillowmid?), threw the belt away, and tugged at the cover only to find it was tucked into the bed more tightly than Hannibal Lecter's straightjacket. I nearly burst into tears.

"Why?" Emma calmly moved the pillows and untucked the cover.

"There you go, babes." I started to get in, but she said, "Take a tiny shower. It'll help you sleep."

"Mmm," I said, thinking about it.

"Kay." When I finally slipped back into bed, I drifted off almost at once.

The women's playoff was due to start at 11: 55, a weird time chosen by the broadcasters so as to not overlap with the 2 p. m. kickoffs. For Charlton and Chester, this was a huge match, a true epic, but for the rest of the footballing world it barely even registered as a curiosity. Had the match kicked off in the afternoon, like the big Premier League games, I would have had another few hours to rest and recover, but as it was I knew I would have to take a step back from the team.

It wasn't just that I had serious brain fog issues, but what if I was infectious? Better if I didn't bump into the players before the match. I would sit alone near the dugout so that I could still claim to be the co-manager and would be able to use my once-per-match perks like Seal It Up, and if things were dire, I could go into the dressing room at half time. There was a knock on the door. Emma went to open it, and a moment later, Briggy stepped into the bedroom. Emma said, "Don't speak too loud; he's grumpy."

Briggy did a baby voice.

"Is he a fussy boy? Does he need his bottle?"

"Oh my God," I groaned, covering my face from the harsh light coming from the other room.

"I'm ill. I'm unwell. Where is the sympathy?" Briggy said, "Emma has so much sympathy, she doesn't want you to go to the stadium. Stay here and she'll bring soup and fuss your hair." Emma laughed.

"I didn't say that part." Briggy got stern.

"Max would fuss your hair if you were sick. It's not like you have to make the soup. You're ordering it on room service!" I held up a hand.

"Really enjoying this banter; it's brilliant. I'm going to the match. End of." Emma said, "Babes, come on. You said it yourself, Jay's got it under control. They only need you if there's a blip and you told me the women had trained great." That was true. They were motivated and focused. Eyes on the prize. Our starting eleven would be 10 to 15 points higher than Charlton's. Meredith Ann had reached triple figures. Halfway to her destiny! CA 100 at the tender age of 18.

"Briggy?"

"Yes?"

"When you come to pick me up and I open the door... If I'm projectile vomiting blood and huge great bones start growing out of me and I sprout wings and turn into an actual demon right there before your eyes..." She smiled.

"In that circumstance, I do not take you to the match."

"In that circumstance, you take me to the match and we watch the match and the ref blows for full time and then and only then do you put me down." Briggy turned to Emma and shrugged.

"We're going." She checked her watch.

"Team meeting in half an hour. Are you still planning to do your speech remotely?"

"Uh," I said, affirmatively.

Half an hour later, when Emma texted, the first paracetamol was just kicking in.

"Perfect timing," I said, and went to make myself a herbal tea. While the kettle was boiling, I went over what I wanted to say, then took the drink to bed, where I got cosy in a sitting position. I dialled Emma; she would take the call on her iPad and would hold it up in front of the players. Very slightly ludicrous, but not even close to the top 10 strangest things we had done in the current season alone.

"Hi, everyone," I said, as the call connected. The players were in a meeting room, casually dressed, relaxed, confident.

"Hi, Max!" called a few of them. Emma turned the tablet around.

"Babes, they want to know how you're feeling."

"Tell them to mind their own business," I snapped.

"Cheeky curtain-twitchers!"

"Babes."

"Fine." She angled the camera towards the front again. Kisi, Meghan, and Sarah Greene were smiling at my fake outburst. Like I would pass up the opportunity to talk about myself!

"Yeah, so, I'm a bit under the weather but it's not that bad. I get this at the end of every season. It's like, you've been working hard, concentrating, working towards one goal, then when it's over your body relaxes and all the bad stuff it has been storing pours out. Okay, this time there is still work to do but I think my body doesn't quite realise that.

Maybe it's the sense that you're fine - the women's team, I mean - and the kids will be all right, and my goal yesterday gave us men the advantage in the semi-final.

"Having a headache kept me awake but I never sleep after a match anyway, so I was there with my head just spinning, thinking about how far we've come. Bonnie and Pippa, Lucy and Bea Pea. A lot of people have done a lot of work to get us here. And the stakes. I'm sure you've all been thinking about what it means. Win today and you'll play against the big girls, against the Lionesses, against million-pound players, on TV, you'll be talked about in podcasts.

Your friends will suddenly be a lot more interested in tickets, your family's gonna burst with pride. I know what it's like, don't I, because the men are in the same boat but we've got a hundred million quid prize on top of all that." I chuckled to myself.

"Ladies, you only get a taste of what it's like. The utter head loss all around us. Normally-smart, sober, level-headed people are losing their actual minds thinking about going to the Prem. Brooke Star came up to me while I was in the gym and she was babbling about building what she called floating corners. Can I have ten million pounds, Max? Can I?

And then Secretary Joe came rushing over and interrupted a training session, which he would never, ever do, because he was so excited that Chester would be on Panini stickers for the first time ever. He's about 70!" I shook my head, smiling.

"All that stuff can be an inspiration or it can be a burden. I don't think you need more inspiration so I want to make sure you're not carrying any extra weight into the match.

"The good thing for you is that there isn't going to be a crowd like there was at Luton. You know the story. Last ever match at the stadium and all that. Today it's a big, modern, corporate stadium that means nothing to either team and there will only be a few hundred fans from either team inside so it's going to feel like playing a training match. For us that's good because if today is just a football match, we win. Charlton would need Luton levels of emotion to get to our levels.

"It was amazing, though. I want that for you. I want you to play in stadiums so loud all the white blood cells in your body shut down and you get sick. Win today and we will start to have those matches every season, lose and you get more of the same for another year. That would be fine, we would survive, but it would be boring. Trust me, you want what I got yesterday. Wow." I took a sip of my herbal tea while trying to gauge the reaction to my words so far.

It was hard to tell through the screen, but it seemed to be going all right.

"I've basically got three things I want to say. Three images I want to put in your head to help you play your best today. It's about what you need to do as an individual, what we need to do as a team, and how we should think about Charlton." I took another sip of the gingery goodness.

"One thing I did well yesterday as a manager was to keep things simple. Yes, there was a lot of noise and even with the world's media on its way to Wrexham, there was still quite a lot of extra attention. External pressure, and internal pressure, as you can imagine. A hundred million pounds, ladies! It's hard not to dwell on it. But I kept us in our best formation, chose the most suitable players, gave simple instructions.

When we conceded the second goal, my instruction to the lads was to complete five passes in a row. That's it. Do that and we achieve what we need to achieve. You saw what happened - they got the passing game going, the passion of the crowd dimmed, and we looked the better team.

"When I went on, I wasn't ready. Early in the match, I decided I wouldn't play - " There was a lot of noise in the meeting room. The general question seemed to be, "Why?"

"Because the ref would try to keep me out of the second leg, which I intend to fucking crush," I said, and that time, the reaction was unmistakeable - they were into it.

"I know I'm talking about myself a lot but it's only because I have experience of the type of match you're about to play, having played that type of match in the last 24 hours. Fuck the men's team - today's about you." BIG reaction to that; they loved it.

"So think about it. There's ten minutes to go and I step onto the pitch and I'm thinking about a hundred million pounds and I'm thinking about mad old Polish women demanding that I make them proud and I'm thinking Luton have a passenger but we can't push too much because if we concede a third we're toast and I'm thinking we've got to win for Christian Fierce and all the players who are leaving and blah blah blah. You get the idea. Way too much going on to perform to any kind of standard, but I was lucky.

I hadn't warmed up.

"So I'm walking onto the pitch and that one thought pushes all the others away. I'm not warmed up! It's not just that I can't help the team, it's that if I overextend I'm going to rip a hamstring and wouldn't that make the ref laugh out loud! Do you know what I mean? So I'm thinking I need to move around and get some heat into my legs.

"I'm jogging around and the ball comes to me. It's perfect for a shot, but I can't smash it. I'm not warmed up. So I don't try to hit it hard, but hit it sweetly, and of course if you hit it sweetly sometimes it goes just as fast. Goalie tips it over the bar and yes I'm aware that the mood in the stadium has already changed and the home fans are fucking bricking it because I'm gonna ruin their party but as I'm dribbling the ball to the corner flag I think, I'm not warmed up.

"So I let Lewis take the corner, while I jog fast to halfway, curve around to pick up some speed, and move forward. I'm not thinking about the tactics or the state of the tie or the rewards, I'm just thinking: I'm not warmed up.

"The ball comes to me and I can't leather it, so I do my little tekkers thing, which, yeah, I have to admit I thought I was gonna score but every individual decision was informed by the fact that I wasn't, you know, ready to do anything more intense. The final shot was a blast because if I wreck my hamstring scoring, it's worth it.

"So what I'm saying is, when you get on the pitch today, what's the one thing you're going to repeat to yourself? An image or a mantra." I smiled broadly.

"Do not copy mine. Not warming up is not big and it is not clever. I'm thinking for the defenders, you just focus on your spacing. Once a minute, you might call out 'spacing!' or 'distances!' or whatever. Midfielders, it's probably gonna be your first touch or how you hit through the ball to get that topspin. It might be visualising which feet the players around you favour so that you're not playing behind them.

Kit, it shouldn't be your finishing because you might not get a shot, so I'd suggest that you're thinking about backing into a defender, holding her off with your strength, then touching the ball to a teammate. Do you know what I mean? What's the one thing that's going to bring simplicity and clarity to your game today?" I drank some tea, feeling much better, but suspecting a crash was imminent.

"The second image I want you to think about is our shape and our amazing tactical innovation. Babes, show me the tactics board." She turned the tablet around and sure enough, the magnets were laid out in our default 3-4-2-1 shape.

"Jay, I'm gonna ask you to wiggle the VR in a second." I heard some movement.

"Babes, face me to the front. Okay. At the start of the season Jay and I got together and dreamed up a killer tactic and this is it. Charlton play two strikers and that has been somewhat effective in the WSL because elite teams normally only use one. Well, the bad news for them is that ten minutes ago we were in tier six and we've seen plenty of 4-4-2. Am I right or am I right? Our midfield is going to suffocate them when it comes to short passes, so they will go long.

They try to get one or both of their central midfielders forward to be in position to win the second ball. Goalie or defender knocks it long, striker wins the header or not, midfielders recover the ball and now they have a 3 on 4 break, sometimes a 3 on 3. We're going to solve that by using the power of VR. Jay?" I paused.

"Babes, did he move a magnet?"

"Yes."

"It's that simple, ladies. When the long ball is coming, Victoria Rose moves to DM. She's in pole position to get those knockdowns and those second balls. Remember the triangle, ladies. Femi and Meghan on the base, VR at the top, and that's going to take care of most danger. If Charlton can't pass through us and can't go long, how are they going to hurt us? Answer, they're not. Remember the triangle. But while the defenders are doing their jobs, you have to do yours.

If Meghan has to scamper back to chase a flick-on, she needs a line option. That's you, Kisi, so you'd better be working your arse off to get into position. Ditto Kit and Meredith Ann. You need to move so Megs has the option to go long. If the triangle is activated, you've got a task. Don't you?

"Right, last thing. The oppo. Charlton are defined by this shape." I switched to a whisper.

"Babes, is Jay doing anything?"

"He is now."

"Show me." Jay had nudged our magnets down into our half, and was moving four red magnets in front of the penalty box. They weren't as wide as the box, which was how Charlton liked to set up. They tended not to spread out as they moved, which gave them a really compact, hard-to-penetrate look.

"Top," I said.

"Eyes front! Thanks. This is Charlton's happy place. If they are like this, they feel invincible. But that's a joke to a team like us, who are so dynamic down the wings. I want you to think about this image, four magnets close together, because if we play fast we will wreck it. We shuffle to the right like we're doing Relationism, we draw Charlton across, and Sarah pings a surprise pass into the space on the left. Dani's there, or Saffron, or Meredith.

We're going to swap them round because that role will have a lot of sprinting. It should work consistently, because Charlton don't have a plan B. We'll move right, pass left, cause chaos in that space. We're doing it that way because Sarah is right-footed.

"Everyone's clear on that, right? If Jay thinks we need to mix things up, we'll swap Sarah and Meredith and Meredith will do left-footed passes to Kisi on the right. The point is, we can take a risk and hit those passes blind because there will be space there and if we attack at pace, Charlton won't be able to do anything about it. You watched the clips. When teams play decisively against Charlton, they create chances. When they are slow and think about what the perfect next pass would be, they don't get anywhere.

"Right. Three things to think about. One, your own performance. Your spacing or your first touch. Two, our triangle. Is it in place? Three, a line of four icons. Are you playing in a way that moves the line where we want it?" I suddenly felt exhausted.

"That's it. Gonna hang up. Let me just prepare myself for bed. Got a tiny little plate thing here, and I'm gonna dribble some of this onto it. Emma, make sure they get a good look at this."

"You're holding the camera on that side, babes."

"Oh, right, yeah. In case it isn't clear, I'm pouring out a little bit of Ganymede's new nighttime shampoo formulation. It's called The Lumberjack's Slumber. Lavender, valerian, with leathery notes so that straight men can feel comfortable using it. Wow, it smells incredible. I just know I'm gonna sleep well with this in my nostrils. Thanks, Ganymede!"

"Max, you're advertising a men's shampoo to a room full of women."

"Documentary, babes." I yawned.

"Sophie and Henri are gonna bicker about whether this is funny or not, but I don't see how they can cut it out. I win. Heh. See you all in a bit." I ended the call, lay down, thought about the dozen ways I could have done that better, then closed my eyes.

I asked Emma to go into the stadium's VIP section with MD, Brooke, Ruth, the Brig, and everyone else who had come to witness the momentous occasion. Ems didn't want to leave me, but I told her that the idea of her having fun was motivational. Medicinal.

"Let's book another night in the room so you can get sloshed." That did the trick, especially as the alternative was to drive home in the rain. As late as poss, Briggy came to get me. I felt pretty crap, tbh, but she told me she had organised everything to my complete satisfaction and I would be able to sit and suffer in silence without infecting anyone else.

When we got to the MK Arena, which was impressive and sleek, if crazily oversized for the football club that played in it, Briggy took a huge bag out of the car. It crinkled mysteriously. We went through to the stands and I laughed when I saw what she had done. A five by five section of seats near the dugouts had been taped off like a police crime scene. Briggy waited till I sat in the central seat, then revealed the contents of the bag. A hotel room quilt! She covered me with it.

"This is absurd," I said, happily tucking myself in.

"Or wait. Is this the future of elite sports?"

"You had a phase where you wanted to be in a sleeping bag in the dugout. Let's just hope no-one from the hotel is watching this or they might put two and two together about where this duvet is from." She pointed five metres ahead.

"Elin has her phone, so you can call her and make changes whenever you want."

"Top." I rolled my neck left and right, wincing as I did so.

"What?" said Briggy.

"I'd love a neck pillow."

"No."

"I'd sell my soul for a neck pillow," I said, hoping to summon Old Nick, or at least an imp.

"No neck pillows. I'm going up to the party. You're the only person in this whole section, there are stewards and police and you've got an entire bench of allies, and on top of all that, you're not going to do anything provocative. I'm leaving you now. I'm going up to the big box to get blasted along with Emma and everyone else, and then we're all going somewhere to watch the Wrexham match and get re-blasted during that. Brooke has booked the Nando's across the road. I can't believe I'm excited for a Nando's!

You promised us a party and I'm going to the party and I'm certainly not going neck pillow shopping in Milton Keynes on a Sunday."

"Right but sometimes when you order online, it comes in thirty minutes." Briggy looked from the VIP area to the pitch, suddenly nervous.

"It's going to be a party, right?" I closed my eyes and focused. Charlton had an average CA of 92, which was in line with my expectation, but a couple of their key players were being held together by spit and sellotape. Our starting eleven, fresh, youthful, injury-free, had an average of 106. 7. Very close to 15 points higher. Our Morale was higher. I had supernatural perks to deploy, though not Bench Boost or Triple Captain. Tactically, the matchup couldn't have been any more in our favour.

The one weakness we had was our bench, which was youthful, to say the least. Five players aged 18, two aged 20. I trusted them, though. A couple had made good cases that they should be starting this match.

"It's going to be a party," I said.

The match kicked off in a light drizzle and I did what I should have done right at the start against Luton - I used the Seal It Up perk to give us plus one Positioning for a quarter of an hour. It might not have made any difference against Luton, and I wasn't expecting such a storm from the notoriously cautious Charlton manager, but she might have looked at our lineup and thought we would crack if things didn't go our way at the start. The storm didn't come, and within five minutes the game had taken shape.

We played short passes, trying to move the oppo around while moving up the pitch. When Charlton turned the ball over, they did try to put together good passing moves, but we pressed them into mistakes and they booted the ball away, where our defensive triangle took control. I got my phone out and wrote: We should get Femi, Meghan, and VR to play in Bermuda shorts because as far as Charlton are concerned, they are the Bermuda triangle. I read it back and deleted it.

One of the reasons our press was so effective was that we didn't have to cover every opponent. Charlton had two defenders and a combative central midfielder with low Technique and Passing. Jay and I were quite happy for them to have the ball, and those players were quite happy to boot it to our half. The ball came back into our possession faster and faster, until with 20 minutes gone, one of the centre backs decided that the current tactics weren't working.

Instead of booting long, she tried to dribble past Kit to open up some space. Kit tackled her and the ball popped to Meredith. The CA 100 forward rushed into the gap the defender had left, lined up a shot, and curled it beautifully towards the bottom-left corner. It bounced up... and the goalie tipped it round the post. Femi won a header from the corner, but it went over. After that, the centre backs didn't try to do anything clever. They went long, time and time again. Once, it nearly led to something.

There was a duel between Femi and a striker, and for half a second it looked like the striker might win the footrace that followed, but Haley came out of her goal and made as though she would clear the ball, which caused the striker to stop running. Why bother? Haley let the ball run past her, turned back into her penalty area, and picked it up. Ice-cold, and it sent the tiniest shudder around the Charlton players.

We can't pass through this team, can't go long, and if we do get anywhere near their goal, one of the two best goalies in England will be there to sort it out. That kind of thinking gets demoralising, fast. My phone rang. It was Elin.

"Jay wants to press the centre backs instead of the left back." I glanced in that direction. Pressing the centre backs made sense - if we had infinite fitness of course we would have done that from the start - but why let the left back off the hook? She was pretty good. Well, two reasons. Charlton's long game wasn't working, so it didn't matter who was pinging those passes.

Second, our in-possession plan was to move Charlton over to that side of the pitch to create a gap on Dani's flank, so why not let our out-of-possession tactics do the same?

"Love it. Let's try it." Jay danced around, shouting and waving, and our individual instructions updated. Charlton's goalie got the ball and moved it to a CB, as she had been doing all match. This time, though, Kit and Saffron sprinted towards the ball. Mildly surprised, the CB played a decent pass to the left back. She was also mildly surprised, this time because Kisi backed off her. The left back pushed forwards five yards, which Kisi decided was far enough.

She pushed closer but instantly found the ball sailing over her head. Meghan was alert to the danger. Megs raced in, slid along the turf, and did a sliding scissors-kick to Sarah, who thundered diagonally towards the left back slot. Charlton responded by tightening - the drilling of the team was really impressive - but Sarah passed 30 yards to the left. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. It was almost perfect for Dani.

She had to break stride to gather the ball, but a good first touch allowed her to speed back up. She was driving into the penalty area from the left, with a line of three defenders coming from the right. I leaned forward. This was eerie. I had seen this before. Exactly this. Dani had a slight edge on the nearest defender but she needed to shoot quickly or the chance would be lost. She had the ball on her right side. The goalie was rushing out. Dani and the defender took another stride each.

The ball was between the three of them! Dani had blown it! Then... She nudged the ball slightly away from the defender and used her left foot to stab the ball through the goalie's legs. Through. Under. Across. In. Dani got clattered by the defender and the goalie. Dani got up. Dani got clattered by her teammates. Dani got her name on the stadium's big screens. Dani the Destroyer, scoring the goal I had visualised so many times when thinking about this match. The goal, almost literally, of my dreams.

I thought about the day I found her, when she was so good I had thought she must be cheating. I thought back to the early days of the women's team. Us losing our first match 7-0 to Puddington Pirates, which cost me my chance of taking over the men's team after Ian Evans quit. The friendly against Wrexham when the ref had booked Dani for not being able to hear the whistle. Our first proper match, an FA Cup Qualifier against Nantwich Town.

Winning it earned us the princessly sum of £1, 800, which had been a real source of joy. Then we got stuck into the league, the sixth tier, our first match being in the - deep breath - North West Regional Division One South. That had been a 2-2 draw. I wonder how many people who saw us in those days would have believed that we would soon be on the verge of promotion to the top tier, ready to do weekly battle with the big beasts, with that willowy little deaf girl still in the team.

Dani had been there almost every step of the way, scampering up and down the left wing for the majority of it, making her passes, doing her shuttle runs, doing her shuffles and slides, working hard in training, trying to be a good teammate. In my heart, I knew that all that time, she had been waiting for the moment when the team's patience with her would crack, would snap, when she would be ostracised and kicked out as had always happened with hearing teams before.

One day she would realise that such a day would never come, and that would be a beautiful moment in the life of Dani Smith-Smithe, PA 177, two-footed, fearless, and impregnable to taunts and sledges. I glanced up at the big screen again because they were doing a close-up of some idiot who had tears streaming down his face. To make him look even more of a clown, he was wrapped up in a quilt cover.

At half-time, I made a special effort to go over everything. The Match Ratings, the Conditions, the stats. The tactics screens and individual instructions for every player on both teams. I double-checked and triple-checked. I even went through the match commentary. If there was a single detail we had overlooked, a single point of weakness on this Death Star I had brought to Milton Keynes, it wasn't too late to, like, put a couple of bollards around the exhaust port, or at least an extra laser cannon.

There was nothing. We were crushing it. It was as close to perfection as you got in a sport this messy. Amy Shone, who was not in the matchday squad but was wearing the tracksuit, rushed towards me.

"Boss!" she demanded, as though she was the boss.

"Everyone wants to know what your favourite movie is." I laughed and my heart soared. I could just picture them in the dressing room, hyper, giddy, but containing it. If we won, they were going to tear through Nando's like a plague of locusts.

"My favourite movie," I said, slowly, because this was my one chance to influence how they played in the second half. The thought constricted my throat painfully. They didn't need a pep talk or advice - they just wanted to include me in the moment. I cleared my throat, an act that hurt.

"My favourite movie is the shot-for-shot remake of Psycho."

"Right," she said, and turned to leave.

"Amy, for fuck's sake."

"What?"

"They're going to say why and you're going to have to come back here again."

"It's because you want them to do exactly what they did in the first half again in the second half." I stuck my bottom lip out, impressed.

"One of these days, I'm going to stop underestimating you." She nodded.

"Can you stop crying on the television, please? The girls are going aww instead of winning duels. Thanks." I scoffed and rubbed my forehead for a minute. The pangs were returning. As Amy departed stage left, someone approached from the right. I could not believe my eyes. It was one of Old Nick's imps, who I variously called Snake Imp or Nokia Imp because the first time I had seen him, he had been playing the game Snake on an old Nokia.

He had a shit haircut and was wearing a jumper that was too small over a shirt that was too big, which made me think he was in disguise as one of the media.

"Christ," I said.

"What now?" I had been good, hadn't I? This season I had scored 9 goals and made 16 assists. Yeah, all right, some of those goals were quite flashy but The Sentinel wasn't getting his information from YouTube highlights packages set to obnoxious music, was he? He got his stats from a source like Opta. Just a big, dry, spreadsheet. There was no entry counting how many 'worldies' I had scored or how many times I had yawned while dribbling past an opponent.

Nokia stretched out his hand, and I realised he was offering me a mug of something hot.

"Take this, please." I tutted.

"I'm obviously not going to drink some fucking elixir that an imp hands to me randomly in Milton fucking Keynes. What is it, a love potion?" Nokia sniggered.

"Silly Max. It's Lemsimp."

"It's what?" I took the mug from him and sniffed.

"Do you mean Lemsip?"

"That's what I said. A lemony drink that you sip and you feel better." He whipped the empty sachet out of his pocket and beamed. He had given me the extra strength version.

"Lemsip Max! Haha!" I tried it; the stuff tasted just like Lemsip. I wasn't in a state to turn down medical care.

"I'm gonna say thanks and hope this doesn't come back to bite me on the arse." I took another sip and side-eyed Nokia imp.

"What are you doing here?" He shrugged.

"WSL2 gives twelve XP per minute. WSL1 is fourteen. That's better."

"Number go up," I said.

"Here, let me pitch an idea to you. People don't like the name of my company, and it doesn't help that I can't quite remember if it's Masterplanalytics or Maxterplanalytics. So I'm thinking of changing it to NGU Limited."

"Number Go Up Limited?" Nokia frowned, then smiled.

"I like it!"

"Would you give NGU Limited a million-pound contract to provide data services?"

"Of course not. Not a serious name."

"Great," I said, returning to the mug.

"This is your best exploit," he said.

"NGU Limited?" I said, thinking about it.

"It's a tax-efficient way to get paid by all these football clubs, that's for sure. I might be committing some minor tax evasion around the edges but I'm doing a better job of sending that money to the people who really need it than governments would. I know that's what a tech bro ghoul would say, but I think in my case it's true." Nokia Imp tutted and rolled his eyes.

"Not stupid Gibraltar Conspiracy or Wales Northern Powerhouse! We don't get XP for that! Your best exploit is the women's team. Double the XP! We didn't expect this. We're very happy. It's good if you manage the women but it's not as many games."

"Right," I agreed.

"I have to say that I'm surprised that Old Nick, basically hell's most gammony gammon, would be more supportive of women's football than the English FA. On reflection, cut that, that's an incredibly stupid thing to say. If you haven't heard, the WSL is expanding. That's what this playoff is all about; it will be 14 teams next season. Include all the cups and when we get into Europe, we'll have a decent schedule. But look, I'm thinking of stepping back next year. I can't do everything." He pointed to my seat.

"Good loophole. Sit back, let Jay Cope do the work, get XP. That's bosh. That's mint. What are you going to do instead? Talk to slugs?" I looked left and right and brought the mug to my mouth.

"I don't talk to slugs. What?" He didn't seem to believe me.

"I'm not going to bin it off completely but I can't finish the season like a husk every year. That's bad for me and it's bad for you." I had drunk about half of the Lemsip already, even though it was hot. I could feel it doing amazing things inside me.

"How are the other curse users getting on? From what I understand, they normally die."

"Or go mad!" said Nokia, delightedly leaning towards me, eyebrows waggling, the very picture of amusement. He settled back.

"They are dogshit." He was repeating 'football speak' that he had picked up because of me, but still, I didn't like it. I had realised many times that I had got lucky in the early days of being cursed. It was maddening that there was no help and that I had to work everything out for myself, but that had been a protection of sorts. I had been forced to take things slowly, and my entrance into the world of football had been gentle.

Imagine if I had been given complete tactical flexibility, Relationism, Bench Boost, absolutely everything on day one. I would have been a gibbering wreck and probably would have been put into a mental home. I would still have been there and the nurses and orderlies would be under instruction never to mention football anywhere near me. I could easily imagine how other curse users, ones given more complete 'systems', would suffer.

"Shut your fucking mouth." Nokia's eyes widened.

"But - ""I don't want to hear you talk about your victims like that. I didn't choose this and I bet neither did they. If they did, it was proper Monkey's Paw stuff. Your boss goes around tricking people and causing misery and that's not funny so have some fucking respect. Tell me why you came or get fucked." He seemed to have shrunk, except his eyes, which had grown to Gollum size. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a smartphone.

"I can't beat Crystal Palace." I groaned as he handed his phone over.

"Soccer Supremo Mobile. This is a joke, right? You're literally plaguing me to get a cheat code."

"I've got all the cheat codes. I need a killer tactic." I tutted and navigated around the screens. My anger levels rose when I saw he was playing as Stoke City. That was the alternate universe play I had proposed to Brooke. Stoke's owners were richer than God, so someone with my powers could make that club all-conquering.

"Your team is insane. How have you got these players in the Championship?"

"Cheat code. Type NUMGUP to get a hundred million pounds. You can do it as many times as you want." I rolled my head back.

"Why? What's the fun in that?" I swiped and tapped and got a sense of how this version of Crystal Palace played (4-3-3). Then I adjusted Stoke's tactics to a 3-3-4 formation. I spent about a minute tweaking the individual instructions of three players. The interface was okay, but when you could change 50 instructions in a microsecond, anything that involved a long-press on a screen was infuriating.

"Try that," I said. Nokia took the phone, eyed me, then looked away. I spent some time clenching my teeth, resenting Old Nick and his squad of trainee demons. If I quit the 'game', they would be swept off the gameboard by The Sentinel, sent to the deepest pit of hell, all the way to the back of the queue. But another demon would step up, and that prick would probably offer a psycho the chance to kill undetected or to win wars. At least if I was the starboy, some kids in Chester would get their teeth fixed.

"I lost," said Nokia Imp.

"Good," I said, harshly, but then I relented a fraction. He was a victim, too. Probably.

"Just means the game's realistic. Sometimes, everything goes to shit. That's football. That's life. And there are no perfect tactics; you have to adapt on the fly." He waited for me to finish, then yelled, "Psych!" He held the phone towards me. It said: Crystal Palace 0, Stoke City 2.

"How did you do that?"

"You need to do what the oppo doesn't want you to do. Palace are low-blocking you because you spent big. You need to get your wingers right up in their grille, but take them off crosses. You don't want crosses against those big centre backs. Okay, you might score, but more often than not, they're gonna head the ball away. But get to the byline and cut it back, that's a nightmare to defend. So set your wingers to dribble and have the midfield playing through balls.

Thing is, if you only have one tactic, the oppo can counter it, so you need another threat. On your team I set the 8 to free role, long shots, dribbles, everything. He's allowed to try some magic. He's allowed to have some personality. Trust your players, bro. Give them the support they need, the structure, but let them express themselves, too." I had to stop talking because for some reason I was making myself emotional.

"Are you going to weep again?"

"Can you just fuck off, maybe?"

"I know a sackcloth and ashes guy. Just saying." That made me laugh. I realised I was never going to get a better chance to ask questions of my captors, and while my brain was somewhat foggy, there were some that came to mind.

"Does the curse last seven years?" He shrugged.

"It could do."

"Is Temps Perdu legit?" Another shrug.

"It's a company. It's legal. It filled out the appropriate paperwork." Not helpful.

"Is my mum going to be okay?" Another shrug, but no reply.

"Where's my wedding going to be?" A frown.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Fuck me!" I snapped. I got the sense that I could ask one more question, so I rubbed my forehead harder than ever.

"Erm..." Dozens of questions came to mind, but they all seemed insipid and unimportant. How was I supposed to filter them? What was in the cross section of things I valued that this creature knew about? Almost in desperation, I said, "What am I supposed to do?" Nokia Imp got up and took the mug from me.

"I don't know," he said, looking around the oversized arena.

"Maybe... win?"

The second half got underway and went much like the first, but when Charlton risked throwing more bodies in attack, we had more joy on counters. Meredith Ann should have done better but struck a shot straight into the keeper's midriff. Sarah Greene smashed a dipping shot wide of the post. Saffron tried a chip that got everyone excited... but landed on the top of the net. Elin called me.

"Angel?" she said.

"Angel." I said.

Kisi held the ball up on the right and waited for Sarah to come and help. Sarah passed to Meredith. The three exchanged passes at a fast rate, drawing Charlton players towards them, then Sarah smashed the ball to the left. She mis-kicked it (in my opinion) and the ball flew exactly into the path of Angel (which is where Sarah's claim of 'I meant it!' gains some credence).

Angel took the ball on her chest, and while moving towards goal, bounced it on her thigh in the way I had done against Luton, and then thrashed the ball towards the top-left. The goalie got absolutely nowhere near it. Angel wheeled away, already celebrating. Haley Goodhew stretched her hands out, ready to do a cartwheel. I leaned forward, mouth open, amazed and excited but also feeling very, very sorry for the staff of the MK Arena Nando's. The ball whistled just left of the post. Angel collapsed to the ground.

Haley fell to her knees. I rubbed my mouth. Still one-nil. One moment of madness, one moment of bad luck, and Charlton would be back in it. Time to defend. Time to turtle up. Time to take the ball into the corners. I called Elin, who picked up immediately. She rushed to the side of the dugout so she could see me. I stood, letting the quilt fall from me, as I made eye contact with her. I growled, "Attack more."

Jay replaced Charlotte with Alwen, who at CA 89 actually had more of a claim to a starting berth than CA 85 Saffron. Saffron was a fraction more suited to playing left midfield, though, and with all the rotation we were doing on that side, that was important. Alwen had more attacking potential than Charlotte, that was for sure. I overwrote Jay's instructions to make her dribble, make forward runs, and take long shots.

I wanted to increase the pressure on Charlton, not to spend the last ten minutes hoping they didn't get a lucky goal. With 10 minutes to go, we attacked. With 8 minutes to go, we attacked more. With 6 minutes to go, we attacked most. It was scrappy stuff, nervous, imprecise, but the ball only traveled one direction. We went from having 12 shots to 20 in the blink of an eye. If Charlton's manager was hoping to launch a late counter-offensive when we retreated, she would be waiting a long time. Then it all changed.

Sarah Greene had the option of clipping a ball over the top for Kit to chase, but she chose to spin and play it back to Victoria Rose. I knew how this story would go. We would cower, we would protect our lead, and we would be rightly punished. I flailed through the tape that marked my territory, rushed all the way to the edge of the stand, and screamed.

"Attack! Attack, for fuck's sake!" No-one was listening, so I clambered over the advertising board, rushed along the dugout past a lot of startled employees, and screamed at the nearest player. Dani gave me a blank look. Angel tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. When Dani was looking, Angel held her left index finger up and sort of enveloped it with the fingers of her right hand. Dani checked with me. I did my best to copy what Angel had done. Dani reacted with murderous intensity.

I screamed, "Let's fucking go!" at an ear-splitting volume not even Lemsip can heal. Sarah Greene came to my side of the pitch and got an earful.

"Pass backwards again and you can walk home!" We got a throw-in that Victoria Rose strolled over to take. I had a tactical suggestion for her, which I delivered at approximately the volume of a Deep Purple concert.

"Are you having a picnic, mate? I want a second goal! Get a fucking move on!" With one minute to go, we had six players in the Charlton box and there was the most extraordinary bout of pinball. Women were hacking the ball towards goal, defenders were throwing themselves in the way, we were recycling the ball quickly, setting each other up for shots. Angel shot, Kit shot, Kisi shot. Finally, Sarah Greene got just enough space to crack the ball top right... and it was saved. Corner.

While waving my arms around, I used Masterpiece Theatre to load everyone at the near post. Elin sidled up to me and said, "What if Charlton score from a counter?"

"Then we get another 30 minutes to slap them up. What's the problem?" Elin held up her hands as she retreated. Sarah took the corner, and Victoria Rose headed it over. There was a huge groan from the Chester fans; that would have sealed it. I hated that groan. Why would you want this to end? This is what it's all about. Non-stop attacks, one-way traffic. I paced around, snarling, daring any of the players to look to the sideline for help. If they did, I would bite their heads off.

They knew what to do, and if they didn't do it, I had a fucking huge war chest to buy players who would. VR won a header, Sarah flicked the ball to Alwen, she passed to Kisi. Kisi had put in a defensive shift because we had mostly attacked down the left. Kisi dropped her shoulder left, ran around her marker, burst past, and was fouled. Free kick!

"Load the box!" I cried.

"Max," said Jay, gripping my shit hoodie, pulling me away.

"Time's nearly up. We just need to survive a minute or two and then we've done it." I glared at him, and maybe it was the meds talking, the brain fog, but I growled, "Survive? I want to win pissed we didn't get a second goal. Die on your feet or live on your knees, mate." He wavered. Most of me knew he was right to be cautious but in that moment, the impulse to do 'the right thing' was giving me the biggest headache of the day so far.

"I don't want to sneak into the Prem through the back door! I want to smash it open and nail it down! Chester are here! We're here! This is what you get!" Jay froze, but after a second, ignoring the fact that I had said Prem instead of WSL, he let go of me and smoothed my front.

"Yeah," he said, turning back to the pitch with a new look on his face.

"Fuck it."

"Come on!" I screamed.

"Come on!" he screamed.

"Come on!" Elin signed, aggressively. The three of us went fucking bananas in the dugout, pointing towards the Charlton goal. Soon all the physios and subs were up with us, shouting things like "Attack!" and "Let 'em have it!" Meredith Ann took the free kick left-footed and it was a beauty. Femi rose at the back post, headed it sideways - one of Vikki's favourites - and Meghan was there to do another scissors-kick, this time mid-air, and struck the ball sweetly... just wide.

The goalie placed the ball and with injury time all gone, she clipped the ball out to the left. The ref glanced at her watch. A Charlton sub dribbled into our half. There was utter dread amongst our fans. The dribbler cut back and swept a pass into the middle. Charlton's striker took a touch and hurtled into the box to apply the finish that would send us to extra time... Haley picked the ball up. In an anime, she would have yawned.

"Throw the ball, you dick!" I screamed.

"We've got overloads everywhere!" I swear Haley grinned. She shaped to kick the ball deep into the Charlton half, but she reconsidered. She waited until the ref started counting on her fingers to indicate how long Haley was allowed to hold onto the ball, then booted it towards Dani. It went about twenty miles over Dani's head.

"What the fuck?" I said, which Haley seemed to find even funnier. Smiles turned to screams as the ref blew the final whistle. We had done it. They had done it. Someone had done something. Jay wrapped me in his arms. Elin wrapped Jay and I in her arms. More people grabbed other people. People were grabbed, people were wrapped. The big screen announced that Chester FC would play in WSL1 next season. Music drowned the cheers of the fans and the whoops of the players. What's that coming over the hill? It is promotion.

The curse news feed confirmed what I already knew, but I kept reading and re-reading the text anyway. Chester FC have surprisingly beaten Charlton Athletic 1-0 in the promotion playoff and will play next season in the Women's Super League.

I have vague memories of being pulled hither and thither past smiles and tears and microphones, but then Briggy and the Brig were beside me, leading me off the pitch. A TV person shouted out, desperate for a word. My head had shattered into at least six pieces, but I told my bodyguards to hold up. The interviewer was delighted.

"Max! Amazing. Incredible! From the sixth tier to the first in a straight shot. How have you done this?"

"Er," I said, because I had Media Training 20.

"Look, it all boils down to my friend Bethany. She was the one who made me realise that women's football was fucking mint. I remember thinking there was an opportunity even for a small club like Chester to do something really amazing and to become elite and now we are." Saying the word elite out loud in front of the entire world gave me a bit of a lip wobble, but fortunately the interviewer was a moron and I was spared the cringe of crying on TV again. She said, "You look unwell.

Will this illness stop you playing in the second leg of the playoffs?" I fixed her with a deeply unemotional glare.

"Are you asking me about men's football after our women have won the biggest match in their history?"

"I was just wondering - ""Conversation's over," I snapped, and I started to move away. I stopped just as suddenly and got back into the frame of the camera.

"Can you see me okay?" The camera operator said yes.

"I want to give a shout-out to Charlton. That's a very serious team, very well-coached, very together, very united. It's everything you want from a team. Okay, we were better today but in a year it will be clear exactly why that's no disgrace and by the way, there's more than one way to play football. What Charlton do is valid and interesting and if it means anything to the decision-makers there, I would keep the head coach. You won't do better.

Oh, and if you're working in a bar near here and our players steam in, I'm really sorry in advance. Okay, that's it. Bye."

My bodyguard friends took me to the car, and the Brig dropped me back at the hotel. While everyone was partying, I slipped back into bed, but almost right away there was a knock at the door. I managed to get up and open it. Amazingly, it was Sandra Lane, and she was carrying an opened box of Lemsip Max and a neck pillow.

"Delivery for Mr. Daps," she said. I smiled, even though it hurt.

"What you doing?" She handed me the box of Lemsip, then bent and picked up a plain plastic bag she had hidden behind the doorway.

"I've got booze. For me, obvs. I thought we could watch Wrexham v Palace together."

"I'm sick. You'll catch it."

"I'm immune."

"Right, because you live with a disease vector."

"I've asked you not to call Jamie a disease vector." She eased past me and looked around the massive space.

"Swanky." I pointed in what I guessed was the direction of the MK Arena, and more importantly, the Nando's right next to it.

"Go to the party. That's an order."

"Get fucked," she said, sweetly, opening various cupboards.

"Where's the mini-fridge?" I pointed, then climbed back into bed.

"Soz, can you do me another Lemsip?"

"When was your last one? You're supposed to only have one every four hours."

"I'm allowed one every three hours fifty. I'm special."

"No argument there." She put the kettle on, then fumbled with a mini bottle of champagne she appeared to have stolen from the stadium. She popped it open and cackled as the alcohol poured out into a crappy and inappropriately square glass. She eyed the space next to me.

"If I get in there I can take a photo and send it to Aiden with the caption, 'in bed with mad owner'." Sandra thought that was hilarious. Then she put her glass down, made fists, and shook.

"You did it! I can't believe you did it! Back to back to back etcetera times five."" They did it," I said, looking up.

"The players."

"Yeah yeah yeah cut the bullshit; it's just me. Get the match up, will you?" I pointed to my backpack.

"Laptop."

"It's not on the big screen?"

"It's on DigiWorld, isn't it?"

"Can't you send it from here to there?" she asked, pointing to the TV in front of my bed.

"If you're here to talk about broadcasting rights or screen mirroring restrictions... I mean, why?" She smiled.

"Laptop's fine. I just didn't want you to be on your own."

"I'm fine alone. You know I'm an introvert; I'm not a social animal. Tomorrow I'll watch all the clips of everyone having fun and I'll love it. I'm happy you're here but honestly, I'd love nothing more than to fall asleep and wake up healthy." She made my Lemsip and got herself settled on Emma's side of the bed. She nudged the laptop more in her direction, then back again.

"Won't it get hot?" I scoffed.

"I pay you enough to buy a decent laptop, Sandra. Come on." We were quiet for a moment while the broadcaster put up graphics showing the Wrexham team - it was a surprise they didn't mention Ryan Reynolds somehow - and the Palace team. Then there were loads of cuts to the home fans. Thousands and thousands of screaming, passionate Welshmen. It was going to be almost as intense as the atmosphere at Luton, so today represented Wrexham's best chance in the tie.

They could win 2-0 at home and only lose 1-0 away thanks to a superkeeper performance. Progression was vanishingly unlikely, but a big home win was their only real hope. As the match started, Sandra said, "You don't seem to want to talk about it but I have to say this. What you've done with the women's team is unreal. There, I've said it, I won't bother you again." I shook my head.

"We can talk about it when I'm feeling better." I closed my eyes, thinking about the next task. Tomorrow, at the Deva, was the Youth Cup final.

"Can you help me with something?"

"Yes."

"Can you manage the Youth Cup final? I'll sit nearby, like I did today. The lads like you but they've got a healthy fear, too, because you could stop them getting to the first team."

"Win the Youth Cup? First woman to do that?" She laughed; the champagne bottle looked suspiciously light already.

"What is it with you making my CV look good?"

"Pisses off the gammons, doesn't it?" She smiled.

"I'll do it. Beat Man City? Piece of piss, innit? They wouldn't know real football if it bit them on the arse." She cackled.

"Sarah Greene. Meghan, Kisi, Charlotte. You looked after them, like you said. It was fun watching them today. Silk and steel. A lot of quality, a little bit of gamesmanship, a fuckton of heart. My only regret is that the game was so one-sided. It wasn't really a contest." I turned to her.

"This guy came up to me at the stadium."

"I saw him! Who was he?"

"Some rando. He wanted tips on how to play Soccer Supremo."

"Jesus Christ, these nerds!"

"I know. He had this thing where he could get a hundred million quid whenever he wanted but he was in the Championship still so some players just won't even go to the club, right? So he was stuck there, maybe. Anyway, I was, like, why do you do it like this? This isn't fun. But that's exactly what I've done. I've built a superteam and it is fun! It is. And next season I'm gonna go feral. People think I'll invest eight hundred grand, a million maybe." Sandra's eyebrows rose slightly.

"You want to go higher?"

"I've got the men another top keeper. I've got us the Slovakian Messi. And check this out." I looked around for my phone but it was too far.

"Ugh, whatever. Diggy Doggy told me that Man United haggled Tranmere into bidding 3 million for Matt Rush, plus 3 million in add-ons."

"Attainable?"

"Yeah. If he plays 20 matches in two seasons, that's 3 mill."

"That's a strange clause. I've never heard of that."

"He's injury-prone, they think, so he could have one good season, but if he has two he's definitely going to be worth 10 mill or so. Would you agree?"

"Probably."

"So that bid got accepted, at which point I bid 3. 5 million up front, plus 3. 5 if he plays 20 games in one season. And my contact at United wrote today that they're gonna accept it. We could have him signed before we play Luton!"

"7 million for Matt Rush?"

"We could use him in 19 games next season and that will delay the payment. Or not. Whatever. I've got loads of cash. That's what I'm saying. Even adding those three, three players who seriously add to the squad, I'll have tons and tons of cash left. I've got to dish out some pay rises - ""Hem hem," said Sandra, wagging her eyebrows. I shook my head.

"I need to keep you underpaid so you stay in football longer. You strike me as the sort of person whose bank account hits ten million and you polish your hands and retire. Buh-bye!"

"Nope," she said.

"Jamie's reign of terror will keep me employed long-term. I need a specialist on call just to fish lego out of the washing machine." I laughed, then pinched my nose, trying to remember what the fuck I was babbling on about.

"The war chest. I don't see how I could possibly spend all of it on the men's team in a meaningful way, but it will move the needle for the women all right. Five million on five players? Can you imagine what that team will look like?"

"Fuck me," said Sandra, because she could imagine that.

"I'm gonna let everyone enjoy this achievement for a while. I don't want to ruin the mood by bidding for replacement players and upgrades. That can wait. They've earned a party." We watched the match in silence for a while, mostly because the match was absorbing (for us), partly because I had a few microsleeps. There was a weird yelp that must have come from Sandra and when I forced my eyes open, the score read Wrexham 0, Palace 1.

"This is as one-sided as you predicted," she said.

"I was worried Wrexham would do it, but looks like I was wrong."

"You weren't wrong," I said.

"Just not as right as me."

"Oh, great, thanks." She shook her head and I noticed she was drinking water. She took a big gulp, then looked at me.

"Okay, let's say you're right. Palace win. We beat Luton. How do we lose the final?"

"Two words. Redemption arc."

"What?"

"Guess who trained amazingly this week? Who's bursting with Chesterness these days? Emiliano."

"No. Don't even joke about it." I cackled, but she didn't so much as twitch.

"Okay, fine. Jesus! You were the one defending him for ages."

"Then the shackles fell from my eyes. We can't defend that in public. Putting an excommunicated player into the team for the richest game in world football? Trusting the fate of a hundred million pounds to Emiliano? There are limits to what you can get away with. Yes, even you have limits!"

"I know! I was joking! Mostly. Okay, the real method goes like this. Step one. I say something in public about Owen's mum, she goes crazy, he rushes down to Norfolk and does something stupid. Come the playoff final, he's in jail."

"No." I chuckled to myself.

"Yeah, no. We have to play Owen, I think. Can't get around that. Maybe he'll suck, though. That would be helpful. What we can do is play Christian Fierce."

"Right."

"He's the club captain. There's a case that we've shown he isn't first-choice these days, but it's not a serious debate. We need his leadership and organisation skills. There isn't a single Chester fan who would, what's the word, demur? Okay and then we play 4-5-1 with a combative, energetic midfield that includes Andrew Harrison and Bark. Good players, they run around a lot, but they aren't the options with the most cutting edge. Oh, and we use Colin Beckton as the striker.

It's not an outrageous call but obviously if we're playing 4-5-1 we'd actually want someone like Gabby who is more physical and links play better. Colin's a better goalscorer, but on his own like that, he isn't getting any chances." I shrugged.

"Just a couple of things like that." Sandra closed one eye. My case was compelling.

"Right. We lose the final. What do you do next season?"

"Dominate."

"Bullshit. You'd be bored to death. What are you really going to do?"

"It'll be busy. Wedding, honeymoon, come back with the Euros already started. Then I'll do Saltney again. Get them into the Champions League. Then, who knows? Some travel. Take it easy, maybe. Long, unhurried scouting trips. Help Pradeep and Spectrum with DOVE. I have a new company name. NGU Limited. Cool, right? And, I don't know, maybe there are useful things I could do. Find someone to live with my mum. I have no idea how or I would have done it already.

Oh, and I want to find some land and get an architect and start working on our dream house. Really nice, tranquil, hedgehog safe. And a go-kart track, obvs."

"Obvs. Yeah, okay. I can see how you could burn a year without even trying."

"Oh!" I said, amazed at my own stupidity.

"What?" I had saved up enough XP to unlock the final tactics perk, but had forgotten to buy it!

"Ah, it can wait a minute. Nothing, ignore me. I'm allowed one day of rest, surely?"

"Do you want me to go?"

"That wasn't aimed at you. Let's watch Palace so we know how to beat them."

"Don't wink when you say that."

Wrexham huffed and puffed but because I didn't have the sound on, we couldn't hear their fans, and Crystal Palace played like they couldn't hear them, either. Palace scored a second and apart from a brief spell shortly after that, they restricted Wrexham to long-range shots, long throws, and just generally desperate attempts. The camera kept cutting to a disconsolate Ryan Reynolds. Final score, two-nil to the away team. The second leg would be played in London.

Palace had a great home record, Wrexham a mostly terrible away one.

"So that's perfect," said Sandra.

"That's perfect," I said. I lay back and smiled. One of my teams had ascended to tier one, paying off five years of graft, and I had saved enough XP to unlock complete tactical flexibility. Wrexham had lost heavily in a match they needed to win. Palace would beat us in the playoff final. Another top talent was inching closer to joining us.

"Just a perfect day."

"I'm glad I spent it with you."

"Ditto," I said.

"I'm gonna drink some Sangria in the park."

"Cool."

"By which I mean I'm gonna find the party and join it."

"Have fun." I eyed the empty champagne bottle she dumped in the nearest bin.

"Um... Remember you've got to take training tomorrow. And you've got to be able to stand on the touchline tomorrow night and remember which team you work for."

"Easy," she said, as she retrieved whatever she had stored in the mini fridge.

"We're the ones in blue."