Chương 85: 5.18 - Epilogue

18. Saturday, May 13 BeardedWonderwall Well, that was comprehensive. RetiredRed Comprehensively vile. Stoop My app has given Best a 9. 7 rating. RetiredRed We're talking football, pervert. Stoop Haha. Anything above 8. 5 is really good and you see 9s sometimes but I can't remember seeing a rating that high unless you score a hattrick or something. ButteryCrumpets Him telling the Luton fans they would be leaving early and then backing it up is all kinds of twisted. It shouldn't be allowed.

Stoop The app's saying Chester mostly played 3-3-4. I don't think I've ever seen that. LongThrowAGoGo I suppose now's a good time to start thinking about the final, right? Palace have beaten Chester twice this season. What's everyone thinking? Third time's the charm or good things come in threes? RetiredRed I'm thinking there's still a semi-final to play and Wrexham are down but not out. LongThrowAGoGo Come on, RR. We're not going to overturn a two-goal deficit at Selhurst Park!

We should make bets now while the odds are what they are. BrokenGround Lads, I've been activated! Stoop Yessssss! BrokenGround The match ended and I was doing the rounds with the Luton fans who had stayed behind to applaud their team. They were going, do we get free beers and burgers, too? I went, yeah but if the booze makes you aggro you'll have a load of brickhouse Welshmen to deal with, and they went, you'll get no trouble from us, I hope you do them in the final. Wipe that smirk off Best's face.

Stoop Men of class and distinction. I always loved Luton Town. BrokenGround The Brig and Briggy appear. They've got a job for me in the morning. I can't go, I say. I'm taking Bonnie to play footgolf and then I'm going to a Wrexham watch party at the barracks. They call Bonnie and say Max needs to borrow Dylan, is that all right? She goes of course. So whatever it is, I'm going tomorrow morning. I might get some juicy goss about the playoff final! Oh, I can say one thing.

Before the ref had even finished blowing his whistle, Brooke and her team were on the phone to every transport company in North Wales, hoovering up every bus they've got, to ferry Chester fans down to London for the final. If Wrexham do beat Palace, our fans will have to walk down to Wembley! BeardedWonderwall The fucking cheeky bastards! I can't stand how cocky they are! URGH it WINDS me UP.

DubaiGuy Dylan, if it is at all possible, can you use your interrogation skills to broach the topic of whether Max Best actually wants to get promoted? I have been watching some interviews and reading Bethany Alban's blog and I rather get the feeling he is serious about wanting to have a consolidation season. I know it sounds fanciful but perhaps you could put it to him? EnergonBot Are you feeling fanciful? Maybe you would fancy a cold, refreshing drink! Energon Zero Sugar is tastier than a thousand rainbows.

This message was brought to you by Energon, proud sponsors of the Red Army podcast. BeardedWonderwall Crumpets! The bot is back!

Sunday, May 14 BrokenGround Okay, the plot thickens, lads! I got up early, did my Brig-approved stretches, got myself mentally ready for a day of action. Briggy picks me up and we drive to what she called 'an undisclosed location', which was a lay-by on the A51. She doesn't say anything for ages, but then she looks me up and down and says, 'How's your judo?' That gets the old blood pumping, let me tell you! What the hell kind of day am I in for? She gets a text from the Brig.

I see the notification pop up on her phone. It's just one word: COMMENCEMENT. I have no clue why, but it gets me hyped. We drive to a motorway services, pull in, get out. Briggy walks me to a spot, touches her ear, says, GOOD TO GO. At that point, I get confused. She's not wearing an ear piece, so who's she talking to and how? But a gorgeous car rolls up. A Bentley, I think. Briggy goes, 'I need you to escort this VIP.'

'Where to?' Briggy gets impatient.

'To wherever! Just get in and get to work. All you have to do is sit quiet and look rugged and sort of handsome if you squint really hard.' I walk towards the front passenger seat.

'No! Get in the back!' I mentally dust myself down, open the door, and guess who the VIP is? Stoop Not Max? Sandra Lane, her partner, the little kid. DubaiGuy One of Chester's potential new signings. ButteryCrumpets It'll be someone from Newport County. Henri, maybe, and Dylan has to make sure he gets to Wembley in time for kick off. Stoop Oh that's right, we've got the FA Trophy final before the play-off second leg. Has to be something to do with that. Has to be! BrokenGround You'll never get it. It was Bonnie!

My girlfriend! Bonnie and two of the lads from 3 R Welsh. We're all going to Selhurst Park! To the executive boxes! Max pulled some strings. And he got 30 normal tickets for the rest of the lads and they're on a team bus already heading down. We're all going to London! Bonnie was in on it. She has been going on and on about how excited she was to do footgolf this morning, but secretly she was planning to get dolled up for a big day out as soon as I left the house. It was all a scam!

BeardedWonderwall This is the tenth time you have done the impossible. You have made me smile thinking about Max Best. Haha, Dylan mate. You deserve it for putting up with his shit all this time! Stoop So there's no mission, no Judo, no betting tips. You'll get to watch the biggest game of our season in style. BrokenGround Pretty much. There's booze in the Bentley.

I was saying it's a shame we can't make a proper day of it, but apparently Bonnie and I have got a hotel room nearby, so we can have a few drinks if we want! Haha I just got a voice note from Max. He basically goes, 'Mate, thanks for everything you do, you're a ledge, enjoy the day, but if you leave early I'm gonna go feral. You stick it out to the bitter end and applaud your defeated, crushed, broken players. They are shit and it's crazy how much they have over-performed this year.

It's almost inspirational how such a bunch of clowns can get to the business end of the season. The least you can do is clap them as they trudge around looking like their world has caved in, you miserable bastard.' BeardedWonderwall He has to get a few digs in while he's at it! Haha Dylan mate I'm made up for you. Maybe we'll see you on the telly! BrokenGround Do they do Kiss Cam at Selhurst Park? Asking for a friend! Stoop Dyl, can I ask one thing that's been bothering me?

I asked a few times but I think you didn't see it. Basically, what does Bonnie think about Best getting rid of her little sister? She works at Saltney so she's employed by Best so she can't really throw a strop, but what does she really think? BrokenGround Yeah at first she wasn't very happy! (Can I have my understatement of the year award, please?) You don't want your little sister to get the boot, right? That's not nice.

I tried saying, come on, Max will change his mind, which drew me a look, and later I heard the word 'withering' and was like yes, that's the right word to describe that expression. But then we went to Milan to check it out with Angel and when we got back, Bonnie was more thoughtful and I asked her why and she said she was jealous. She loves her job and she's having the time of her life building Saltney but Milan! The weather! The food! The style!

And I said you can't be mad at Max for sending her to Italy and jealous of Angel because she gets to live in Italy. They can't both be true! Bonnie disagreed with that and said it was easy to be perma-annoyed with Max and to also have other feelings and if I only experienced one thing at a time she could book a session with a specialist.

Okay, lads, I've just told her that I'm experiencing glee because I'm in a posh car and there's posh champagne, fear because Wrexham are gonna get pounded in front of the world, excitement because I might get to meet Ryan Reynolds, and vague apprehension because Max keeps saying that we live in a huge computer simulation and we don't actually have free will, we're just avatars with programmed impulses like in The Sims. And she laughed and said she had never had a 4D boyfriend before and gave me a big kiss.

I'm gonna log off for a while. There is a day that needs to be seized!

FA Trophy Final: Newport County versus Harrogate Town Wales versus Yorkshire at the home of football! The attendance was 25, 000, which was decent given that this was essentially the non-league cup final, and it was a few thousand higher than expected. Newport's demolition of the National League had got the Welsh town buzzing, while both of Harrogate's most recent trips to Wembley had been played behind closed doors because of the pandemic.

A further boost to the number of spectators could be attributed to a certain Max Best. I had booked eight hospitality boxes and had filled them with a weird and wonderful collection of randos. The men's squad, the women, the youth team, Saltney, dragonballs, Slovakians, parents, Yalleys, Boatengs, Weavers. I'd even invited some agents, including one from a Chester-based organisation called REM. Not everyone could make it, but plenty were up for a free trip to the capital.

When Aurélie Fragonard got my invitation, she had exploded. Why was Max Best hosting the party at her son's big day out? She had rented two boxes of her own and informed me that I was welcome to drop into her suites, if I so wished. She had invited perfume industry insiders, retailers, people from Gibraltar, and even Henri's dad, who accepted the invite but didn't show. What the actual eff. I was flitting from box to box like my dream midfielder, utterly relaxed, utterly content.

The season hadn't gone to plan - it had gone far better than that. Fourth in the Championship, promotion to the WSL, Youth Cup winners, more and more players being selected to represent their countries, a huge war chest to spend, big upgrades on my personal abilities, I owned 1. 39% of a company that could save my mum, and so on and so forth. I went into the first box and found most of its inhabitants were by the doors, snacking, drinking, flirting, sort of watching the match but not really.

The only person who was outside, on the flip-up seats, was Dani. I settled into the seat beside her and joined her in watching intently. Newport were well on top. The League Two Legends were a cut above the other players. Henri and Lee Hudson had hit their caps, but part of the trick of having a long career was staying at that level. The pair gave the impression they had years left in them yet.

Jaylyn Cook and Tyler Jansen weren't close to their caps and hadn't improved much over the season, but next year, in League Two where they belonged, they would get going. I got a text. Dani: Are we going to win? Me: How should I know? Dani: Don't mess with me today, Max Best, I'm not in the mood! Tell me we are going to win! Me: If by 'we' you mean Newport, that's a strange thing to say because you have never even set foot in that town, but the odds are good. But it's football and you never know.

For once, I'm enjoying a match not giving a shit who wins. As they say in Lord of the Rings, at last, his watch is ended. As they say in The Dirty Dozen, for you, Best, the season is over. As they say in Beverly Hills Cop, I'm too old for this shit! Dani: One, I have been to Newport many times. Two, how can you not care? Your best friend is playing! Don't you want him to be happy? Me: Henri is an artist and he turns his misery into art, for the betterment of the rest of humankind.

If he loses this final, we're gonna get an incredible episode of Chesterness. It will be a real tour de France, as Henri might say. Dani: Tour de force. You can go now, Max. Me: Make me. She punched me in the arm, which I thought was extremely funny. Me: I've had an idea. If Newport lose, their players will be sad. We should each pick one player to cheer up. I'll start by picking Wilfred Banks. Okay, your turn. Dani glared at me, then typed in a blur.

Dani: If you don't stop pestering me, I'm going to suggest to Wilf that he should ask me to marry him... during your wedding. Me: ROFL. Why would he burn his career? Dani: For love. Also, you've put his career on rails. You told him what to do and I will make sure he does it. Me: Roar! Get out of my way! Dani the Destroyer, coming through! You know, we're gonna do special training at our academy. I wonder if you'd be good as a Personal Development Manager?

Players would respect your talent and appreciate your straight talking. You'd help them with their football lives and then help them transition into other careers. Dani: Can you please transition to another conversation? I'm freaking out over here. I smiled, rubbed her on the back, and moved away, pausing only to check out Banksy. He was 19, had a National League winner's medal, a Youth Cup medal, and whatever happened today, he would have played in a Wembley final. CA 93, PA 155.

He could join a League One side next season, but at the first sign of inexperience, Banksy would get dumped. No, a season in League Two was the ticket. As long as he didn't try to climb the leagues too fast, he would surely get to the top. A career on rails, indeed. I smiled to myself, because this was a long way from the boy I had seen at the Exit Trials, the boy who had just been chucked out of an academy without a second thought. My phone buzzed. Dani: I'm sorry, that was weird and rude but I'm so stressed.

Every time the ball goes near Wilf my heart sinks. I never felt sorry for goalkeepers before! I gave her a thumbs-up, but got distracted by a neat move in which Henri, Chipper, and Tyler Jansen combined with short, quick passes. They were far too good for the level and while Harrogate were working hard and keeping their shape, there was no way they would keep a clean sheet. If Banksy didn't concede, his team would win.

I pottered away, made small talk with a few people, went into the next room, spotted a couple of late arrivals, and gave Matt Rush and his dad a huge bearhug. Man United had dicked us around as much as they could, but Matt's dad had done a good job of getting the deal finalised.

"Announcement tomorrow!" I crowed.

"Remember," I said, looking into Rushy's eyes, "when you reference me on social media it's Mr. Best. Not 'the gaffer', because if someone reads the message in the future they won't know who you mean and that's bad for my brand."

"Right," said Matt, amused. His dad said, "Is it too early to start thinking about European football? Saltney? College?"

"It is, yeah," I said.

"I need to get married before I can think about that. See that Frenchman down there? He's planning to kidnap me." The dad smiled.

"For the stag do." Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. I grabbed him.

"What have you heard?" On the pitch, Henri won a header, chased the ball, and flicked it up towards Chipper. The Welshman launched himself up in the air and tried an overhead kick, which went just over the bar.

"They're getting closer," said Rushy. He caught sight of something over my shoulder.

"Holy crap. Who was that?"

"What?"

"Unbelievably amazing Latin American woman."

"Where? Where?"

"She just walked past. To the left."

"Bye."

I sauntered into the next box but she wasn't there, so I rushed down the corridor and sauntered into the next one. Foquita had gone straight to the front and was eyeing the match rather like Dani. Camila was getting herself a drink and checking her phone.

"Max!"

"Camila! You decided to come."

"Henri was very good to Foquita. His movement is excellent and he is very collaborative with the other strikers."

"The French are good at collaboration."

"Is that a joke? Why are you smiling?"

"If I'm forced into a stag party, I'm going to say lots of things like that." She appraised me, but let it go.

"Lee Hudson was kind." She smiled at a memory.

"He fixed our car one Sunday when I had a big panic! He was the big hero that day. He was very modest but he saved my ass. And Banksy joined the squad at the same time as Foquita. They were the new boys."

"Right," I said, thinking back.

"Didn't they do some photos together? He must have wondered what was going on because Banksy was pretty terrible back then." If my memory served me right, Foquita had joined us with CA 99, while Banksy had been CA 9. Single figures!

"Yes," said Camila.

"He did wonder. But he mentioned it to you. Asked you about it."

"He did? I don't remember."

"You said goalkeepers improved slower but that Banksy was 'top' and if you were wrong you would give him a billion pounds."

"That doesn't sound like me." Camila did her trinkly laugh; it sounded like jewellry. Then she put her drink down on a table and let it be known with a glance that the tone was about to get businesslike.

"We told Benfica that we won't leave this summer. We will stay in Lisbon for another season. I will finish my studies. Then we will decide where next." It was like being dumped by a girl before you'd even gone on a date.

"Okay." She was surprised; she had been expecting me to be happy, it seemed.

"It is not what you hoped." I smiled, ruefully, as I looked out. Foquita was half off his seat, urging Newport forward. He was almost as invested in the match as Dani.

"I had a daydream that if Chester got promoted, we could sign him. Just for a season, of course, we couldn't afford him longer than that. But he would help to keep us in the Premier League. If we survive the first season, we can stay there. Without him..." I mentally recalibrated. Without a top striker, we would get a maximum of 15 points in the season, not even half of what we would need, and Foquita was the only near-elite striker I had the faintest hope of attracting.

The solution was simple: no Foquita, no promotion! It was probably for the best. If we did go up and if we did spend our entire transfer budget on him, Foquita would score enough goals to get us enough points, but he would be a single point of failure. One big injury and we would be in deep, deep trouble. Much better to build a proper team. Slow and steady wins the race!

"I'm sorry." I snapped out of my calculations.

"What? What for?"

"But I don't understand. It was your idea to stay in Lisbon, no? Why not be selfish? Tell him I should change to Loughborough, live out your daydream."

"My daydream isn't to scrap at the bottom of the Premier League. If we do things my way, we'll chill out next season, get good, and finish 6th or 7th in the Prem first time round. No, here's my daydream. It's to spread joy and happiness to people who deserve it. Foquita wants to make you happy. He wanted to stay put and I said it would be okay. And it will be." If only I had waited until after lunch to talk to Foquita about his future! Ah, well.

"It's all good."

"What about the Premier League?"

"What about it?"

"Scrapping at the bottom." This conversation wasn't going to add to the world's store of happiness, so I pivoted.

"When we get there, we'll be fine. There are millions of elite strikers." She smiled.

"Millions?" I extended my arms.

"Billions!"

"So Foquita is not so special." There was a roar of excitement. Harrogate were attacking fast. A winger was through on goal. He shot, but Banksy spread like a starfish and saved it. Another shot came in, but Lee Hudson got a block. The ball looped up crazily, dropped towards the goal line... and Banksy scurried, hurled himself, and clawed the ball away. Jaylyn Cook booted it out for a throw-in. Foquita was on his feet, high-fiving everyone. Camila and I had moved closer.

"Banksy," he said, excited.

"Banksy! Top player. Top." Camila leaned towards me and whispered, "There are billions like him?" I grinned, leaned back, and whispered, "I might have over-estimated." I looked from him to her, and felt warm inside.

"Your happiness is his happiness and his happiness is my happiness. Okay? Max Best has spoken."

I wandered around, looking for Sandra, to let her know that we were back onto Plan U, in which U stood for 'U R in charge for a year while I go and do side quests'. Sandra was in one of the Fragonard boxes, which was a mild surprise, and she was talking to a stupendously beautiful woman I had never seen before. She looked like Monica Bellucci playing Cleopatra - dark, regal, deadly. You'd have to be fucking crazy to interrupt her while she was holding court.

"Hi," I said, introducing myself with the offer of a handshake.

"I'm Cliff Daps, masseuse to the stars." Sandra rolled her eyes.

"Not today, Max. This is Emiliano's mother, Serafina."

"Holy shit," I said, which sounds weird now but at the time came across as charming.

"Max Best," she said.

"I have heard a lot about you."

"Don't listen to those people," I said.

"Don Pino says you're the most promising young football manager in the world."

"Your sources are impeccable." I wondered why Serafina was at the FA Trophy final, but it seemed rude to ask. Maybe her son was around somewhere and I hadn't seen him.

"Don Pino doesn't write to me much these days. I think he's not happy with how I treated Emiliano."

"Are you happy with how you treated Emiliano?" I shrugged.

"His time in England could have gone better. I wasn't perfect but he could have done more to help himself." She gave me an unblinking stare, then said, "You were kind yesterday, after the win. Emiliano was very pleased. He was very happy… yesterday."

"Yeah, he was good at the end. It seemed like things were starting to click for him."

"Click?"

"Like, he was starting to understand. I need him to be a team player. He's going to be a key player for any team he plays on so the others will always look to him. There are different kinds of leaders. Christian Fierce is the one that most people think of. He's big, strong, tall, doesn't say much but when he does, it's important. Then there are the technical leaders, like Emiliano. When you're suffering, you give him the ball because he's the one who will get you out of the shit.

He's the one who will make something happen. So it's very important that with such talent, he plays in the right way, because he's responsible. In the recent times he showed that he can take that responsibility." Serafina looked at Sandra, and I felt there was some kind of communication happening. The Italian said, "Don Pino tells me there is still a chance for Emiliano to remain at Chester. You still have the chance to, what was it, exercise the option." I shook my head.

"With regret, that ship has sailed." She didn't seem very disappointed. Maybe Don Pino had told her how stubborn I was, or maybe Sandra.

"So what should my son do next? Pescara do not want him."

"What should he do next?" I said, slowly, because Newport were building an attack. It fizzled out in quite an obvious and annoying way. I pointed.

"Newport County are a good team, but predictable. An Emiliano would elevate them to amazing new levels. They will be in League Two next season and Emiliano would absolutely smash it. League One, Tranmere, he'd play every week, he'd work under a great coach, he would be friends with Diggy Doggy. But Jackie would expect him to keep working on his attitude, which is the most uncertain thing at the moment." Sandra said, "Tranmere? League One? He's much better than that. What else you got?" I gave her a quizzical look.

"What are you thinking?"

"What about College 1975? The weather's better than here and he can play in the Champions League qualifiers."

"What? College can't afford a premium player like Emiliano. He would cost three million!" Serafina said, "Not so. You destroyed his value. He has no suitors. His next club will get him at a cut-price rate." Sandra said, "Pescara will take any deal at all, is what I've heard."

"And it's Gibraltar. There is nothing for him there except football." Serafina's tone got slightly darker.

"No distractions." Sandra said, "He'll fire College into the league phase and make you rich." I smiled; Emiliano Ferrari smacking shots from all angles against low-level goalies was quite an image, and almost believable.

"Sounds great. Honestly, though? I'd prefer him to get good. He has the potential to be a beautiful player and I'd love to see it. He needs to go somewhere he can improve, and that's all that matters. I can make my own money." Serafina frowned slightly, exchanged another glance with Sandra, then eyed me.

"How does he get good? What does he need to do?"

"Pass the ball," I said.

"It's that simple?"

"It's that simple," I said. On the pitch, Henri tussled with a defender, got the better of him, pushed the ball infield to Chipper, moved into position for the return pass, moved into shooting range, prepared his trademark dink... and rolled the ball almost sideways for Chipper to blast into the roof of the net. A stunning goal!" That simple," I said, wheeling away to find Foquita. That level of awareness was the next level for him and I wanted to chat about it.

I sat with Emma from the eightieth minute onwards, and we made each other more and more stressed. Newport were leading one-nil, but their performance levels had disintegrated. So close to a Wembley triumph! So close to a league and cup double! It was excruciating.

"Did you see Emi's mum?" wondered Emma.

"Not sure. What does she look like?"

"Like Monica Belucci."

"Who's that?"

"Never mind." The minutes dragged, so I went internal, checking out some of my screens. Your Reputation in England: Good Your World Reputation: Poor No big change there, but I had been slowly ascending the list of managers based in England. Manager Ranking: 17 Sandra was rising up the list at a rate that made no sense. She was currently number 66, two behind Jackie Reaper. Why wasn't she accumulating Manager Points at the exact same rate as me? Jay Cope was number 14 in the women's table.

He had been quietly excellent throughout the season. So had Well In, who was the number 1 manager in Wales by a considerable distance. Next stop for him was the Euros, then we would try to smash him into the top 100 managers in the world by crashing Saltney Town into the Champions League proper. I planned to build him a squad that could not only do that but could even get into the knockout rounds.

The prize money made the financial risk worthwhile: 18 million quid to qualify, 2 million quid per win, a quarter mill for every position in the league table, another million for finishing in the top part of the table, 10 million to get into the round of 16. Money, money, money. Must be funny in a Max Best world. Abba-dabba-doo. Emma gripped me.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Swedish wonderkids."

"Typical."

They did it. One-nil, a horrible mess of an ending, immense relief, then joy. Newport County, the FA Trophy winners. We had half an hour to enjoy it, to watch the lap of honour, to blow kisses at our friends, and then it was straight to the Three Lions pub inside Wembley to nab all the best spots to watch Crystal Palace versus Wrexham in the playoff second leg. Since I didn't need to look at the pitch to gather XP, and since I knew what the result would be, I was even more gregarious. I mingled.

There was an accusation that I spent disproportionate time with attractive people, but that's provably untrue because at half-time, with the scores nil-nil, Henri emerged from the bowels of the stadium and I hung out with him.

"Mate," I said, beaming.

"You did it. You created football. You drenched yourself in glory."

"Yes," he agreed.

"I did. I was Man of the Match, don't you agree?" The curse had rated Henri 8 out of 10 until his abysmal last ten minutes dragged his rating down to 7. The real MOTM was Chipper, but there was as much chance of me ever saying that out loud as there was of Wrexham coming up with a killer tactic at half time.

"Mate, you were Man of the Match by miles. Foquita agrees. So do MD and Brooke. They're over there, somewhere, blabbing with Gwen from the Welsh FA. Hey, listen. Emiliano's mum is here and she's gorgeous. She looks like Monica Bellucci."

"No!" said Henri.

"Remember when we met you wanted to go after the same woman? Let's do it now. It can be the stag party. We'll go, flirt, see who wins." A small hand appeared on my arm and pulled gently. Luisa was peeling me away from her partner.

"How about I play the game, too? What do you think would happen then?" I did a lop-sided smile.

"I think everyone would have a good time except Henri." Luisa's eyes sparkled, but she leaned into him.

"He's the hero today. Man of the Match, don't you think?"

"A billion percent," I said, and I knew she knew I was lying. She pulled him away.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"The team are going out to celebrate. We are going to join them." She eyed the screens, which showed Palace and Wrexham returning to the pitch for the second half.

"This one's dead anyway, is it not?"

"Yeah," I said, suddenly sad that Henri was leaving. But Luisa was right; he needed to be with his team. Win together, lose together, celebrate together.

"Dead as a Dodo." My friends departed, and while the room was bursting with life and laughter, I slunk to the back and took out my phone so that people would think I was doing some business and would leave me alone. After the party, the awful silence. After the ice cream, the sugar crash. After the season, I was allowed a drink. I didn't want to go crazy, but I wanted something awesome. A couple of very nice glasses of red, or a golden German wheat beer. Or maybe two tiny Belgian whites?

Dani: Wilf has gone to the party with Newport. I want to be with him. Should I ask if I can join? Me: Stay with us for now. He'll go with the lads for an hour or two, feel like part of the group, then there will be a moment where he's like, what am I doing here when I want to be there? He'll text you and you can slink off together. Dani: Oh. That sounds good. Okay. There was a massive cheer, and I looked up expecting to see a goal, but the screens simply showed Dylan and Bonnie enjoying their executive suites.

I smiled but felt someone approaching me from the left; I pretended to be making a call. With the danger gone, I placed my phone down and spun it around a few times. Newport would need a couple more players. There was the chance to get Emiliano to Gibraltar, was there? Chester needed a top midfielder. Could I find a job juicy enough in the Max Best Universe for David Bakero? There was so much to do but I didn't have the energy.

I spun the phone around a few times and realised that all I wanted to do was get married. Max Best to Emma Weaver, here we go! She was with Gemma, her best friend, plus Dani, Haley, Kisi, and Meghan. Fun group. Great times. I scooped up my betrothed and carried her away, to widespread amusement. I plopped her down on a stool by the bar.

"I need you to myself for ten minutes."

"Aww," she said.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Help me choose a drink."

"Okay." She turned to a member of staff and asked for a wine list. She knew, without me saying it, that I wanted wine; I nearly burst into tears from the happiness.

"Something by the glass, I reckon. Don't want to go mental. Have to be broadly professional for another week, just for appearances."

"Mmm," she said.

"Fuck that."

"What?" I said, laughing. How did she always surprise me?

"They never sell the good stuff by the glass." She got her phone out and called her dad. He was in the room, on the far side, and he rushed over.

"Dad, Max wants a glass of red so you need to buy a bottle and let him have a glass and a half." Sebastian Weaver, fearsome lawyer, a Rottweiler in a courtroom, placed the back of his hand on his forehead and swooned a few inches.

"Buy a nice bottle of red? Woe is me! Give me that." He took the list and pored over it.

"How are you feeling, Max? Energetic? Venturous?" He looked me up and down.

"Bohemian!"

"What the fuck?" I said.

"This is my fifth-best outfit!" Emma pulled me closer and said, "Melancholic."

"Aww," said her dad, and just for a second it was like looking at his daughter. He turned the page in the wine list.

"Sebastian," I said, eyes filling with tears, even though it was the last thing I wanted.

"I just want to say that I really appreciate that you helped to look after my mum. It was above and beyond." He looked from me to Emma and back to me, then nodded.

"Melancholic all right. Something earthy..." He ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, then slapped me on the arm.

"You're part of the family, Max." He looked at his watch.

"In 13 days it's official, but..." He looked around, then got a boyish face on him.

"Hey, is that really Monica Bellucci? Can you introduce me?" Emma wasn't impressed, but I smiled. He couldn't have said anything better to banish the blues.

"It's not, but if you find Mateo you can try to broker a deal for her son to play for College."

"No! Really?"

"Get Sandra Lane, too. She'll help." He wandered off, seconds before the wine arrived. Emma fussed with my fringe.

"You okay, babes?" I closed my eyes and had the sensation that I was spinning. Round and round, season after season, transfer window after transfer window. Ascending, always rising, but still a prisoner of the grind. I wanted a normal life. I wanted peace and quiet. I wanted to dive into a distant planet where conditions were harsh but one young man was determined to carve out a better life for himself and his community by any means necessary.

"I want to read a book." She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed.

"You can. On our honeymoon."

"Really?"

"Really. It'll be chill. So chill. I promise. There's only one thing we have to do and you'll love it to bits." Only one thing we have to do. Emma was the wind that blew away clouds, the sun that gave energy, the refreshing rain on my face, the moon that made me howl. I was so incredibly happy I very nearly threw her over my shoulder and carried her off, but my dream woman was frowning. She said, "What's going on?" I looked over my shoulder.

A hundred revellers were in the Three Lions bar, and they were spread out more or less evenly, but a throng had accumulated around two large screens. It took me mere nanoseconds to realise that everyone paying close attention to the match was either a current player or a coach, while the ones stuck to their tables were the clueless normos.

"Shit," I said, rushing away from my beloved. I found Peter and Dieter Bauer next to Pascal Bochum.

"What's going on?" I demanded. Pascal answered.

"Max, they switched to 3-4-3!"

"Palace?"

"Wrexham!" he wailed.

"At half time they made the change. It's man-to-man with aggressive rotations. They copied us. They copied you!" I felt the blood start to drain from my face. This was the killer tactic I had devised to counter Crystal Palace in the unlikely event I wanted to win the playoff final.

"But I only did it for a couple of minutes. No-one saw it! No-one knew!"

"I saw it!" said Pascal.

"I told Bethany Alban! I'm sorry, Max. I was showing off! But she didn't print the actual method. I checked! Wrexham's analysts must have read the article and studied the period that triggered your experiment." He smashed himself in the forehead." Dummkopf!"

"But why is everyone watching like this?" I said, my voice dry. Dieter Bauer put his hand on my shoulder.

"Because your tactic is slapping." His grandson nodded.

"It's all Wrexham. Palace are scrambling."

"Babes?" said Emma, worried.

"It's okay," I said, trying to believe it.

"Palace still have a two-goal lead. Worst case scenario, Wrexham score twice, Andrea Bozzini sorts his team out, they smash Wrex in extra time. It's fine, it's fine. Yeah, no, it's fine."

"Babes," said Emma, because the four football experts looked like we were at a funeral. I stood there unmoving, my insides dissolving, for thirty seconds. That's when Wrexham's aggressive new tactic forced a Palace defender into a mistake. In the time it took the defender to throw himself at the forward like he was playing rugby, it struck me that Wrexham must have made at least four changes at half time, for their lineup was suddenly choc-a-bloc with fast, technical players.

Stodgy first half, surprise changes at half time, high risk, high reward football. They had gone Full Max! The Palace defender got a red card. My hands were on my head. Crystal Palace in meltdown. Wrexham attacking from all angles. Foquita would not be a Chester player next season. In 13 days I would get married, be whisked away to an undisclosed location for my honeymoon, and would only return to civilisation in time to see the end of the Euros.

Then it would be straight into the Champions League qualifiers with Saltney and the teams in Gibraltar. How was I supposed to put together a Chester squad that could survive in the Premier League? I couldn't. Impossible. We would have to lose to Wrexham in the playoff final. Simple as that. One of their subs placed the free kick, signalled, and clipped a floating cross into the penalty area. One of the old-school Wrexham guys, one of their Paul Parker beefy boys, rose highest and headed the ball to the back post.

There was a mad scramble that again wouldn't have looked out of place on a rugby field, and then the Wrexham guys were wheeling away, celebrating. 2-1 on aggregate, with half an hour to go.

"Boooo!" cried everyone around me.

"Booooo!" Yeah. No way could we lose to Wrexham. I strode to the bar and picked up the bottle of Pinot Noir. I rushed across to where Sebastian Weaver was mooning at Emiliano's mother and deposited the bottle there. Then I went to get Christian Fierce and Zach Green.

"No alcohol!" I said.

"Not even a drop!"

"Boss," said Christian, eyes wide.

"I wasn't!"

"Not you! Them!" I pointed to the other players. They probably weren't drinking, but I wanted to hammer the point home.

"And get on the phone and check what everyone else is doing. No alcohol! We've got a match to play in a week!" I paced around the room as more and more of the normos picked up the vibe and went to the monitors. What could I do? What could I do? How could I get in touch with Andrea Bozzini to fix his shitty tactics? No way. Garggghhhh!

"Babes?" Emma had placed herself slightly to the right of my path so I could stride past if I wanted. As if.

"Sup babes?" I said, trying to smile.

"You okay?" I pointed to the nearest screen.

"Things just got weird. And ghastly."

"I know." I squashed my eyes closed hoping that would help me say something to put her at ease.

"Um..." She looked tiny, suddenly, tiny and fragile. She rubbed one arm with her other hand.

"Do we need to, like, postpone the wedding?" In response, I lifted her up, high up, and brought her back waist-to-waist, eye to eye.

"Never. No chance. Shut up and kiss me. Wait," I said, before she obeyed.

"Are you okay marrying a guy who might get sacked in about four months?" She played with my fringe.

"Are you still gonna have this haircut?"

"Yeah."

"You're hot and you're rich. Why do you need a job?" We smooched. I put her down, eased her aside, and resumed my frantic pacing. For a while, it seemed like we might get away with it, but with five minutes to go, Wrexham scored a second. The groan from the room told me everything I needed to know about what would happen to my status in Chester if I threw a hundred-million-pound match against their arch-rivals.

Palace tightened up in extra time, and had a couple of dramatic counter-attacks, but it was pretty clear that either Wrexham would get a winner or it would go to penalties. I found myself being drawn into a huge group of friends and well-wishers. Sandra Lane was by my side. Peter Bauer was close. MD and Brooke were just in front, Gwen from the Welsh FA close behind. She must have wanted Wrexham to win, but didn't want to see me suffer. For the second time in a day, I wondered why I liked football.

The whole thing was excruciating. Torture. Why did they make the clock go so slowly? In other sports it whizzed along. 118. 119. 120. Penalty shoot out!

"Fuck me," I said, falling to my haunches.

"This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I planned this so carefully. It was beautiful. I'm the celestial watchmaker, for fuck's sake!" There was a cheer, then a groan. Cowering was a bad look, so I forced myself to stand up and watch, same as everyone else. Penalties were taken, scored, saved, missed. Then a kick, a simple kick from 12 yards, and the players in yellow were running away, arms raised. In the Three Lions pub in the heart of Wembley, there was very little noise.

Lots of head shaking, lots of wry smiles. The richest game in sport just got an unwanted Hollywood twist. I grabbed MD and Brooke, used my eyes to tell Sandra to follow us. We strode away from the screens, from the mass of bodies, and we paused for a few seconds because the broadcasters had cut to Dylan, Bonnie, and the two other lads from 3 R Welsh jumping around the VIP box I had organised for them.

Dylan kissed Hot Rod, one of his fellow soldiers, on the forehead, then lifted Bonnie up and kissed her smack on the lips, until the camera cut away. Dylan, the guy who had been blown up in the service of his country, who was my bodyguard, who looked after the staff in the away end of the Deva, was happy.

Bonnie, who ran a football club that had inadequate infrastructure and battled against daily crises and challenges so that I didn't have to, Bonnie who had found unexpected meaning in life through a taciturn, grumpy Welshman with a heart of gold, was happy because he was happy. I took my team into a corridor, found a spot that was more or less quiet. Chester versus their old enemies Wrexham in the playoff final. Chester versus Wrexham, winner gets one hundred million pounds. Loser gets eternal shame.

Brooke's cheeks were flushed and her eyes were darting left and right, already spending our winnings. I saw the moment she realised how unprepared we were for 500 camera crews descending on us from all corners of the world. I even spotted one stray thought on her face - where will they all park? MD was fully in Chester fan mode. He didn't give a shit about the upside, and was imagining the world a week from today when we had lost.

It's the kind of situation that is described as 'unthinkable' even though it's very, very easy to think about. Sandra was pale because she knew what Palace's defeat meant. She knew I would have to go all-out to beat Wrexham. We would win, we would get promoted, I would get sacked, she would take over, she would get sacked. There would be no Foquita to bail us out. Or maybe there would! Sandra looked at me, pleading. MD and Brooke were clearly hoping I would have an ace up my sleeve.

Say something to comfort us, boss. Tell us it's going to be all right.

"Okay," I said, closing my eyes to gather my thoughts. I opened them, took a slow breath, re-calculated based on everything I knew, everything I had learned in six years of rapid progression towards being the best football manager in the world. I nodded, satisfied that what I said now would be the honest truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"Yeah. We are completely fucked."