Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

3.

Sunday, January 10

Emma was still in bed when I left our little house. Her dad and some of his Newcastle-supporting mates had come to town to cheer us on against Sunderland. It was the one fixture where Sebastian Weaver wanted Chester to win not just in a dutiful ’what’s good for Max is good for my daughter’ kind of way, but in a ’get those Mackem bastards, Maxy boy!’ kind of way. The Geordies, my future wife included, had cheered and screamed and at the final whistle, headed out to get blasted somewhere in the city centre. If Ems was anything to judge by, there would be a lot of sore heads this morning.

I put a selection of meds and a glass of water on her nightstand, plugged her phone in, and made sure the curtains weren’t going to let a horrid beam of light anywhere near her face. Did she mind that I wasn’t a party animal? Being a football manager had made me pretty boring. My schedule was fixed for months in advance, I couldn’t drink much, and drugs were way out of the question. Her actual dad and his fifty-something friends were a better hang than me.

I drove to Bumpers Bank without checking the map - why would I? It was Sunday morning - but there was a road with one lane closed and one of those temporary traffic lights that took fucking years to change. I stared at the red circle for so long my mind started to wander, and when I focused again the light was just switching back to red.

”Gonna be one of those days,” I said, gloomily.

At Bumpers Bank, the women were already on our main training pitch. Just another match day? No chance. The nerves and the excitement hung over the pitch like a low mist. Today was huge. Epic. Mega. You could tell just by how they kept glancing towards the stadium. How they got distracted, caught themselves, and doubled down on their focus.

They were doing their ’activations’ - low-intensity exercises aimed at getting certain muscle groups ready to operate at higher levels. I had learned in Germany that these activations weren’t best practice any more, certainly not at the leading edge of the sport, and my medical team plus the Brig (our head of performance) were developing a new methodology based on ’microcycles’. For the time being, I had decided to stick to what we knew. Players liked routine and suddenly changing the demands we put on their bodies halfway through a season seemed pretty stupid.

I scanned the pitch. Pippa and Fioled were out with the stupid bug that was spreading, but the rest of the ladies were wrapped up warm and looked super cosy. Even the centre backs were wearing gloves.

”Chilly,” said someone who had strolled up beside me. ”As we say in France, it is too cold for a duck.”

”Wonderful language,” I said. ”The 99.99% of the world who don’t speak it are truly missing out.”

Henri Lyons smiled and slapped me on the back. Long ago, I had seen him at the Deva Stadium when he was an unused substitute, unused because he had given a weird interview that turned his former club’s fanbase against him. I’d helped him get a move to Chester, but it was only when I took over as manager that he really began to blossom into the player I always knew he could be. Now he was at Tranmere Rovers as one of the ’League Two Legends’, a roving band of hand-picked mercenaries who would move from club to club but would always stay in League Two, where they would virtually guarantee success to any club willing to pay their wages. My agency, of course, would take a cut.

Henri was at Bumpers in his role as co-director of the Chesterness documentary. His colleague Sophie was on the prowl, looking for interesting angles to shoot.

”I love the FA Cup,” said Henri. ”P’raps we will face each other in the next round. Ah, wait. You were knocked out. By whom was it? Ah, yes,” he said, sniffily. ”Sunderland.” He shrugged using only his bottom lip. ”Yes, well, I’m sure they are very good.”

”They are good, actually.”

”Mais oui,” he said, and his lips curled a fraction to show how amusing he found it all. ”We beat Port Vale.”

”I know.”

”Ah, then you know about our thrilling comeback and my two goals. You know about my right-footed volley.”

”Half-volley.”

”Half-volleys are harder.”

”They’re not.” A half-volley was when you kicked a dropping ball just as it touched the ground. Keeping the shot low and on target was a piece of piss compared to a true volley.

Henri continued. ”And you know about my thumping header. I love this word. Henri Lyons scored a thumping header. My goodness, another one? Yes, another one.”

”Another one that hit your shoulder and looped in.”

The word ’looped’ triggered him, for some reason. ”It did not loopin. It thundered. It crashed. The very air seared; the moment was tempestuous.”

I didn’t have the energy to keep bickering. ”Well played, anyway. It’s a good habit to be in the right place to score, even if you scuffed your shot and mis-timed the header.” Huh. Turns out I did have the energy.

Henri bristled, but then cheered up. He jutted his head towards the pitch. ”At least you have another shot at FA Cup glory. Birmingham’s women’s team is in the top division but they lose every week. Their morale will be shot, no? They have forgotten how to win. How do you like your chances?”

”Um...” I said, and I pulled on my bottom lip.

Henri’s head snapped towards me and he let out something like a gasp. ”I know that face! It was one I rarely saw, but I have seen it. Max! You are not confident.”

I gently moved my head from side to side. ”I think we have a decent chance. Thirty percent, maybe. It’s like you said, our ladies are a lot more used to winning than Birmingham’s.”

”That is not what I mean. You are not confident. Your mauling yesterday has affected you. Come, speak to Papa Lyons.”

I cracked into a smile. ”Papa Lyons? Ew.”

His eyes widened. ”I have never said that before. I do not know why I said that.” He shook his head. ”But come. You cannot have doubts. You are the Soccer Supremo. Mr. One Hundred Percent. The Rainbow Warrior.”

I shot him an amused look. ”No-one calls me the Rainbow Warrior.”

”I read in a lot more languages than you. Also, I read.”

I tutted. ”Jesus Christ.” Henri was still giving me shit because he had bought me a weird book that I couldn’t get into. It was about a psychotic talking cat in the future and didn’t really speak to me about my life. When I hadn’t liked that one, he’d gone to the other extreme and given me Absalom, Absalom! by William Faulkner. I genuinely think I would have understood more of that if it had been written in German. I tried to change the subject. ”How come you’re here early?”

”I found it hard to sleep. The thrill of victory and all that.” He slapped himself on the wrist. ”Oh, sensitive topic, Henri. You must be more careful. I wondered what today might bring for Chester and its award-winning documentary crew. A repeat of yesterday? Bold tactics, a thrilling comeback, a heartbreaking defeat by the narrowest of margins? Sophie would be content with that but for me it would not be satisfying. I’m here looking for a different angle. Here we have it! The tortured genius stares into the abyss and the abyss stares back. When one seldom loses, the defeats are even more crushing. Pressure makes diamonds? No, that’s terrible. Unless p’raps you will play 4-4-2 diamond?”

”That’s not on my radar. Sorry to burst your content bubbles and whatnot.”

”What is on your radar?”

Elin, our coach for the session, handed out rubber bands that the players would use to do resistance stretches. I had learned that it was mostly pointless, but that was only half of the reason I let out a big sigh. ”Birmingham do 4-2-3-1. I’m starting to despise it. Does Jackie still do 3-5-2?”

”That’s his preference. It works well with the squad, as do the 3-4-3 variants he increasingly likes, and we have just enough flexibility to switch to a back four. We also come up against a lot of 4-2-3-1. You could do 4-3-3, or since you have a preponderance of attacking midfielders, simply match the formation yourself.” He looked at the pitch. ”You have Diane as a DM. Who else?”

”No-one, really. In the old days I’d have used Pippa there, but she’s...”

I wanted to say ’getting really old’ but even in private it seemed ungentlemanly. Henri knew what I meant, though. ”She has been getting less and less time on the pitch,” he suggested.

”Yeah. I’m...” I inhaled and clapped my hands together to keep them warm. ”Yesterday was a punch in the dick, to be honest, but nothing was really wrong with anything. The lads stuck to the plan, we had our golden spell in which we looked unbeatable, and we got close against a team with far more resources. It’s just... I don’t know. It made me rethink what I do and how I do it.” I pulled my bottom lip for a minute while Henri gave me space. ”That thirty minutes was amazing, but the cost of that was getting battered in the first half.”

”You did your thing where you bring on the best players against tired legs?”

That was how most people rationalised Bench Boost. ”Yes. But I should probably have started my best eleven and slugged it out. Like a normo,” I added, with some distaste.

”Normal? How awful it must be.”

”Totes. But I have to do what’s best for the team, right? I am the Soccer Supremo and Mr. One Hundred Percent and the other one, and that means some of my old tricks don’t work. It means other managers aren’t making stupid mistakes, means we can’t play dead and surge back to life when the oppo get complacent, and it’s getting harder to trick managers into fielding a weakened eleven with fake injury news or whatnot. Every team we play now is basically at full strength all the time. Until I develop new hacks, I should pick a formation and name my best eleven.”

”If you had won yesterday and you were not having this crisis, what would you have done today?”

I made some vague gestures with my hands. ”I was planning to do 3-5-2 with either Amy or Diane in the middle of the back three.”

”Amy!” said Henri, a little too loud. Fortunately, the women were too busy to hear.

”Yeah Amy would be the Peter Bauer. She’s press-resistant, right? She gets the ball from the goalie, dribbles past the first wave of contact, breaks the lines, bosh, away we go. But, yeah, your reaction is right. It’s one thing doing that in the Cheshire Cup but I can’t ask her to do it against a WSL team; that’s not fair.” Amy Shone was only CA 31, ’one for the future’ as the phrase went, although even that wasn’t certain. By the time she hit her cap of 105, there was a risk that she wouldn’t be usable - we would be up against teams with CA 140. There was more to life than CA - Amy being able to do that one specific thing on the pitch could cause an opponent’s entire tactical plan to disintegrate. But outside that one specific situation, what else could she contribute? Currently, nothing. ”I think from now on, I need to be careful about mad formations and single-skill players.”

Henri considered that. ”Are you sure you’re not over-reacting to what was a very, very narrow defeat?”

”Um... no, I don’t think so. I’ll still take big swings but... Yeah, Amy can’t play against Birmingham and Adam Summerhays shouldn’t have started against Sunderland.”

”You mentioned Diane. Using her as a centre back against a top-tier side would be almost as, ah, courageous as using Amy.”

”Diane would have been pushed up to DM.”

”2-6-2,” said Henri. Most footballers would have laughed, but Henri had seen me use that formation successfully.

”Absolutely flood midfield,” I said. ”Don’t let Birmingham get a foothold in the match. Press hard, rely on Femi and Meghan to win long balls, retain the ball when we get it, slow, patient, safe build up. Really lean in to our technique advantage.”

”Do we have a technique advantage over Birmingham?”

I nodded, slowly. ”I think so.”

”Wow. That is impressive.”

”Yeah,” I said, cheering up a little. ”Sometimes I forget how good we are. I was focusing on what we don’t have, but...” If I had picked Diane in the starting eleven, our average CA would have been 74.9. The eleven I actually planned to pick would be 76.6. This time last year it had been around 55. Great progress, and with much more to come. ”Our average age today will be under 22.”

Henri nodded. ”Young, technical, inexperienced. Not as physical as their opponents. Not as wise. Ah, but that means you have an idea of a starting eleven?”

”Yeah. 3-5-2, pick the strongest players, no messing about.”

”Then what is the problem?”

I shrugged. ”I didn’t come back to do a Jackie Reaper impression, did I?”

Henri eyed me. ”That’s funny.”

”What’s funny?”

He faced the front. ”Sometimes I think Jackie is doing a Max Best impression.” His lips curled at the edges. ”He’s getting rather good at it.”

***

The ladies finished their little sesh; I told Henri to get a camera, then asked Amy and Diane to hang around for a minute.

”Amy,” I said, when Henri was ready. The sixteen-year-old defender came over. I’d found her playing on the wing where her dribbling skills and speed made her a tricky opponent.

She came over and glanced at the camera, but the women were used to them. A lot of stressful and emotional scenes were filmed but the players had the right to veto certain sections being used in the final cut. Normally when Sophie and Henri explained why they wanted to use a sequence, the players accepted it. ”Hi, Max. Hi, Henri.”

”Don’t talk to him,” I said. ”Pretend he isn’t there.”

”But he is there.”

”It’s too meta if you talk to him.”

”You get meta all the time!”

”No I don’t, he said accurately. Just wanted a quick chat,” I said. ”Basically just checking on how you’re doing. Sometimes I worry you’re a little bit down.” Everyone’s Morale fluctuated up and down, often in a predictable cycle, with sudden lurches as real life got in the way. In general I only intervened if someone was in a prolonged funk. Amy’s Morale had been just a fraction too low a fraction too long for my liking.

”Oh,” she said, and she glanced at the camera. No, not the camera. At Henri. ”I’m okay. I’m feeling good. What have you, er... What makes you...?”

”Nothing huge,” I said. ”It’s a feeling I get and I just wanted to remind you that you can talk to me whenever, or any of us. If you don’t feel good chatting to Alex - ” our sports psychologist - ”we’ve got a new club doctor starting tomorrow. She’s here today.”

”The one with the short hair?”

”Yes.”

”She seems nice.”

”She’s lovely. But I thought I’d go first in case it’s a football thing. I know you don’t get to play much and you’re doing all this training and I think if I were you I’d worry it was all for nothing. Nothing could be further from the truth, mate. I really thought about using you today.”

”You did?”

”He did,” said Henri.

”Shush, you, you’re not here.”

”I film, therefore I am.”

”What the Ffff....rench?” I said, mock exasperated, aiming to make Amy laugh. It worked. ”Yeah this cup run is coming too early for you but tactically, this is the exact kind of match I fast-tracked you for. You’re my secret weapon against teams who get lots of bodies up top and press hard. I know it all feels tough and being part of it seems so distant, but you’re making good progress. You’ll get there.”

She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say what was on her mind, but she took the plunge. ”I’m not sure that I’m a defender, Max.”

”I get that. But you are.”

”I don’t really feel comfortable at centre back.”

”That makes sense. You’ve grown up playing right wing, haven’t you? You’ll be a decent right back - I think most managers will use you there. Actually, that’s an option for getting the ball to midfield, isn’t it? Have you dribble it out from the right. Yeah,” I said, losing myself in the thought. I wanted her in the middle so I hadn’t spent a long time thinking about the alternatives. ”Especially if there’s another option in the backline. Imagine having Peter Bauer in the centre with his range of passing. Oppo managers have to set up their zones to cover him, right? That leaves you free on the right. Or if we had a comp for you on the left, a dribbly nuisance - ”

”Dribbly nuisance!” said Amy, apparently delighted.

”One of you either flank would give analysts nightmares. Then a Zach type in the middle who’s maybe not the most press-resistant but if you give him space he can ping a pass to midfield.” I had to stop daydreaming because I didn’t want to start drooling on camera. ”Yeah, Amy, listen, you’re going to fuck teams up for absolute years but you need to learn to defend before you and I can go back to having fun. I know it’s a fucking grind but the payoff will be so worth it.” I smiled as I imagined future Amy making my rival managers tear their hair out. ”I was thinking that it would be good for you to get more full matches under your belt. You’re improving a lot just from training with the firsts but you need experience now. It doesn’t even have to be high level, just so that you can get used to playing in the back line.”

She glanced away and her Morale dropped. ”You’re moving me back to the under eighteens.”

”Christ, no, what would be the point of that?” That was the right thing to say - her Morale bounced right back. ”No, I was thinking if you agreed, I could loan you to Saltney.”

”Saltney?”

”Yeah. Saltney Women is basically a 24-hour party staffed by former Chester players, right, so it’s a good laugh but with loads of experience, too. You could learn a lot from Bonnie and Lucy.”

”Don’t have they a right back?”

”Yeah, Mel. She’ll go to right mid for a while. She won’t mind.”

Henri said, ”Is the Welsh third tier a suitable standard, Max?”

”Not really but it’s good for the next few months, I think. The ladies take it seriously but if you make a few stupid mistakes they won’t bite your head off. I think it’ll be a good platform for some rapid improvement next season. Which,” I said, slowly, as if I was trying to squeeze the thought out of my thick skull, which was a fair description, ”could well include another loan spell.” Amy was CA 31 now. She would continue to train at Bumpers with the firsts and would get some game time with Saltney. She could finish the season at CA 45 - tier four standard. Chester would be in tier two, so her match involvements would be very limited. ”Stockport, maybe, or Chorley. You’d be one of their best players so the manager would have an incentive to give you minutes instead of their own ladies. Yeah, that could work. If you agree, I’ll put some feelers out so they can take a look at you.”

”If that’s what you think will be good for me.”

”Course it will be good for you.”

”Will they want me to, like, play like Peter Bauer?”

I laughed. ”Will they fuck! As a defender, they’ll want you to hold your position, shuffle and slide, keep the structure. In possession, they’ll want you dribbling past players. They’ll probably try to move you to right wing but I’ll go mental if they do that. No, you’ll learn to defend but you’ll keep your place in the team by offering an attacking threat.”

She smiled. ”That sounds... fun.”

”Um, yeah. Could be. Could be shit. You never know with loans but Ryan will look after you. All right, that’s it for now. Have a think and let’s talk during the week. Send Diane over, pluz.”

Diane was from Liverpool, a 25-year old defensive midfielder. She was the only DM in our squad, was funny and bubbly and awesome, but she had a very limited PA of 60. Unlike with the men, the women’s team’s strength was in midfield. Not only did we have five starters better than Diane, but there was competition coming from below. Two of our Welsh starlets played in midfield and both had recently nudged ahead of Diane in terms of CA. Having a DM was handy, but I couldn’t justify keeping her around when there were amazing options right on her doorstep.

”Hi, bosh,” she said, which was as close as she could get to ’boss’. ”Henry,” she added, saying his name like he was a brand of vacuum cleaner.

”Mademoiselle,” he said, with a chivalrous dip of the head.

”Diane, listen. You’ve been great since you got here. You’re mint as a person and mustard around Bumpers. Everyone’s mad on you and you’re my only DM. But I’ve decided I’m gonna play straight 3-5-2 mixed in with 3-4-3 variants for the rest of the season. You’re not gonna get much action and I don’t think it’s fair to make you sit around watching us when there’s a better option.”

As I spoke, she got very still for a few seconds, and her cheeks flushed a little. She was trying to process what I’d said. ”You’re gonna do 3-5-2.”

”That’ll be our default, yeah.”

”And 3-4-3.”

”Variants.”

Her eyes darted around. ”If we’re behind you might do 2-6-2. Sub off a defender and put me as DM.”

”Yeah that could happen for maybe an hour out of the next five months.” She started to look defiant, like she would demand the right to fight her way into the team. Counter-productive! I switched tack so that her contrarian nature would take her in the right direction. ”Hey, look, if you want to stay you can stay and I’ll use you here and there. Try to give you some minutes to keep you sharp.” Pity minutes. She didn’t like the sound of that. ”I was just thinking you could be a starter for another team and save yourself some travel.”

She licked her lips, dreading that I was going to send her somewhere shit, like Saltney or Everton. ”Who do you mean?”

”Liverpool Feds.”

”Oh,” she said, surprised. ”Oh,” she repeated, standing a little taller. ”But they’re good.”

I shook her by the shoulder. ”I know! They don’t have a fancy training ground,” I said, smiling as I looked around Bumpers, which with all the new holes in the ground looked like a warzone again. ”But they’re a very serious outfit. We only beat them 3-2 at their place, didn’t we? They gave us more problems than most. I really like what they do there. Look, the way I try to help people get the most out of their careers is I think what would I do if I were them. If I were you, next season I’d be at Liverpool Feds. Okay so if you’re gonna be there then, why not be there now?”

Diane was smart and she was racing ahead, thinking about all the implications. ”Is this to save money? Get my wages off the payroll?”

I grinned, cheekily. ”Diane, please. We’re Chester but we’re not that poor.” She was only getting 150 pounds a week, plus all the benefits every player got like dental care, physiotherapy, and all the soup du jour she could drink. ”You’ve got a contract until the end of the season. One thing that still works in this country is contract law. If I stopped paying you the club would get shut down. No, you’ll get the money whatever you decide and you’ll be able to come here and use the gym and eat and whatever. It’s not about that, it’s about minutes. It’s about making the most out of your career and not wasting six months. It’s about putting your flag in a midfield and saying this is my house now, roar!”

She nearly smiled, but not quite. ”Liverpool Feds are coming to Chester at the end of January.”

”Yeah, and I don’t want you playing for them in that one! No fucking way,” I said, scoffing. ”But if you can help them get a result against Durham or Stoke, I’m laughing, aren’t I?”

She had a long think. Finally, she said, ”I don’t want to leave.”

Henri sort of shrugged the camera off his shoulder while keeping it pointing at us. He said, ”At least you get a choice.”

Diane realised that Henri had recently been in her exact position, almost. ”What’s it like?”

Henri frowned. ”Leaving Chester? There are good days and bad. More good. I am happier playing every week than being pushed further and further down the pecking order.”

”I’m not that far down,” said Diane, getting hotter.

Henri shrugged. ”Neither was I. Then he signs Dazza. And spends close to a million pounds on a Brazilian striker. And Colin Beckton. Did you see Colin’s finish yesterday?” Henri made an O with his lips while shaking his hand at the wrist. ”Oh là là! I think I could do that in training. Or in a veterans tournament. In Italy. But in a big cup match against a team from a higher tier? Mon actual dieu, Diane. It was a thing of extreme delicacy and beauty.”

”Hey,” I said, giving him a punch on the arm. ”You’re a thing of extreme delicacy and beauty.”

Henri smiled. ”Diane, Max wants what is best for you. A loan to these Liverpool Feds is good, no? You can see if you like the atmosphere before you sign for a longer duration.” He eased the camera back onto his shoulder and his energy receded. He knew the scene - if it ever made it to the doc - should finish as a two-shot.

”Diane,” I said, and held my finger up as though I was about to say something really amazing and wise. ”Yeah, no, I don’t have a killer line. Just think about it. It’s two weeks until the next league matches so there’s plenty of time for me to convince the Feds you’re what they need.”

Henri shrugged the camera off his shoulder again. ”For fuck’s sake, Max! You haven’t even talked to them, yet?”

”Why would I until I know Diane’s cool with the idea? If she says she wants to stay, that’s that!”

”I said I wanted to stay and you ignored my wishes.”

”Yeah, well,” I said, standing beside Diane and wrapping my arm around her shoulders. ”The difference is... I actually like Diane.”

***

With the sands of time running down, I got the ladies into the Sin Bin, our video analysis and team meeting cabin. The Bin had been moved and dumped in whatever crevice the builders could find.

”All right, ladies,” I said, as I sat cross-legged on the front-most table. ”I thought we could get the basics out of the way a bit early so that I could go around the stands and show my face. Take selfies and play kissy-kissy with the sponsors and all that.”

”Is that the right phrase?” said Charlotte, a very technical midfielder.

I looked to the left and pointed. ”Well, Henri’s mum might be here so... yes.”

There was much laughter, which doubled when Henri showed me the middle finger from behind his camera.

”Um, bit of admin. Brooke is going hard at some sponsors and she has pitched the idea that we would do some mock campaigns for them. You know, demo posters, video shit. I know you don’t mind doing that but I’m just warning you there might be more requests than usual.”

Angel, our most marketable asset and the one most interested in our media campaigns, said, ”Who are the potential sponsors?”

”We’re talking to Nutriburst and PetPride. Those are the big ones. Ruth from your agency thinks she’s close to arranging something with Jive.”

”The footwear company?” said Angel.

”Yeah. They claim to be interested in women’s footy as well as men’s, so if they come up with a boot that’s actually been designed with women in mind, we’ll probably do something with them.”

”I want in,” she said.

”Talk to your agent,” I said, patiently. ”I’m just informing you of what’s happening while making sure you remember we have a fucking cup match in about twenty minutes so if our thoughts could stay there, that would be super.”

Angel checked the time. ”It’s in two hours, Max. I’ll be ready.” She straightened a fraction. ”If I’m selected,” she added, trying to project professionalism. This was our biggest game of the season; everyone wanted to play.

”Team news in a minute,” I said. ”Couple more words on sponsorships. I’m not sure if it will affect any of you but Ruth is talking to Elgar.” I scanned the room. ”No-one’s heard of them? They make football kits. I’m happy with Grindhog for Chester - their kit designs have been sweet so far and the build quality is mint. As long as they give us our best work, I’m sticking with them. You know my other teams, though.”

Kisi Yalley, younger sister of James, AKA Youngster, smiled. ”The ones you don’t own?”

”Yes.”

”The ones you dumped on my father? So that he’s liable for anything that goes wrong, instead of you?”

I tutted. ”He doesn’t own any clubs. He owns Two Taps Limited, which owns a couple of small organisations. He’s not personally liable for shit. Jesus. Elgar have seen what my teams are doing and they want to get in on it before the big brands realise the potential. I suppose I’m just asking if anyone is interested in - Angel, put your hand down. I love Elgar and their ethos but you can’t go from being the face of Jejune to doing stuff for a tiny football equipment company. It could be a few grand here or there is all. Decent pocket money and some swag for any volunteers who get selected.” A few women put their hands up. ”Noted, thanks. Last one - I need a few people to come and do the Chester Zoo ads with me.” Every hand went up except Angel’s. I shook my head. ”Are you going to make me beg?”

She gave me a haughty look. ”Zoos are beneath me, Max. I can’t go from being the face of Jejune to a zoo.”

”You can and you will. Wow, these sessions are so slow! Now I remember why I put Pascal in charge. To fucking torment him.” I rubbed my forehead. ”Okay, you might have noticed a rando wandering around this morning. She’s actually not a rando but our new club doctor. Kelly, come and stand here for a minute.”

Our new doctor, hired after a lengthy and difficult search, moved to the front. ”Hiyas,” she said, doing a cute little wave. She was quite short, had round glasses, and was unbelievably approachable.

”Okay, ladies, this is Bones.” There was a groan from the group. ”What?” I demanded.

Sarah Greene said, ”You and your nicknames! We want to call her Kelly. Kelly, what’s your second name?”

”Don’t answer that,” I commanded.

”It’s McNair.”

”You call her Bones or you’re fired,” I said.

”It’s all right,” said Bones. ”I like Star Trek.”

”What’s Star Trek got to do with it?” wailed Sarah.

”Bones doesn’t officially start until tomorrow,” I said, talking loud to reassert authority. ”She’s just here to get a sense of a matchday because you don’t have a league game for a couple of weeks. Um... yeah, turn the cameras off for a minute.”

Henri pressed a button and pointed his camera down. From the back, so did Sophie. Angel, who always filmed everything on her phone, pressed stop.

”Top,” I said. ”You know the new-ish requirements for teams who want to go to the women’s second tier? You need a marketing officer, a doctor, some other stuff, and everyone has to be full-time and professional. Loads of clubs said fuck that, that’s too expensive, and they were doing mad things like winning promotion but refusing to go to the second tier because they couldn’t afford it.

”Anyway, you know I’m super invested in this team, in you, and I want to go all the way to the top. There’s this phase between here and there that could blow a hole in our finances and if I get sacked the next guy is one hundred percent going to see how much money we’re bleeding and let’s just say he would be justified in binning it off. I’m not saying that to panic you because the goal is to race through to the WSL, right, and to keep marketing to get fans in, and sponsors. Like I’ve just been saying!” I added, brightly, because there were a few worried faces. ”I’m just saying it’s going to cost quite a lot of money to be in WSL 2 so I’ve come up with a hack.

”Please don’t blab about this, but basically, Brooke Star is now the Head of Women’s Marketing, Secretary Joe is Women’s Secretary, Spectrum is Head of Women’s Youth Development, and Bones is the Women’s Club Doctor. Okay? Now Brooke might accidentally make a deal that benefits the men, you know, in her spare time or whatever. And Bones might find a sick male player wanders into her office and she might decide she has time to deal with him. But we’ll meet every one of the criteria for promotion without needlessly duplicating all our positions and without putting too much stress on the club’s purse strings.”

Dani Smith-Smithe, our deaf player, was following by reading Elin’s sign language translation. Dani signed back and I paused to see if there was a question. ”Dani’s asking if we should be worried. Like, you’re stretching the rules again.”

I shook my head. ”I read the regulations and so did Emma and I even got her superlawyer friend Gemma to check it. The regulations are badly worded. It only says there needs to be a dedicated women’s team doctor, women’s team marketing person, and so on. It doesn’t forbid them from helping with the men’s team, too. How could it? That would be restraint of trade. Unenforceable. These rules are intended to improve women’s football but they’re having the opposite effect because they were designed by idiots so there’s no harm in binning them off, in my opinion.

”Worst case is someone finds out about this hack and the WSL patch their rules for the following season. By then we’ll be in WSL 1, right? And we’ll probably actually need a marketing person who has a majority focus on the women’s team. But someone who only deals with the women? That’s not a thing. That’s not Chesterness, is it? We’re one club. There should always be some overlap and to me that’s healthy. Okay so that was just for info but be aware that when there’s an official statement about Bones we’ll describe her as being your doctor.” I gave Henri and Sophie a thumbs-up to say they could record again.

”Great scam, Max,” said Scottie Love, our first-choice goalie, ”but we’d like to know a little bit about Kelly.”

”First thing you need to learn is her name,” I said.

Scottie sighed. ”Bones, would you tell us about yourself?”

”Well,” said Bones, in her lovely soft voice. ”I worked as a pharmacist for a while but it wasn’t really hitting the spot, you know? So I went back to medical school and re-trained as a doctor. It was hard but rewarding and I found myself working with a lot of athletes, golfers, sprinters, and before I knew it I was the Head of Medical at a rugby club.”

”Men’s rugby,” I said. The ladies found the idea that little Bones could deal with those burly boys quite impressive.

Bones looked at Scottie, who had asked the question. ”Next thing was, I gave a talk at a conference and a couple of days later, Brooke Star started calling me. Very persistent, she is.”

”Yeah, because Bones is the top banana,” I said. ”She’s your favourite doctor’s favourite doctor.” That was nonsensical, but again it impressed the listeners. ”Brooke had an informant at that conference and on day two that person went round to the other attendees and said if you fell sick right now, who would you go to? Bones got about 80% of the votes.”

”Really?” said Bones. ”I didn’t know that.”

I eyed her, wondering if she would take it badly and quit before she had even started. ”It’s good here, but when it comes to talent ID we’re a bit over-the-top. We want the best. Soz not soz.”

”It was all very flattering, anyway.”

Kit Hodges, our star striker, said, ”Do you know much about football?”

I clicked my fingers. ”Great question. Let’s do a test! Okay, ah... Got it. In five words or less, explain the offside rule.”

Bones seemed to shrink just a little, but it was only her preparing to make a joke. She counted on her fingers. ”I... don’t... start... till... tomorrow.”

This got her cheers and applause.

I smiled. ”You can talk to Bones about anything medical. You’ll still have your day-to-day contact with the physios but if you need uppers, downers, er... turn-those-frown-upside-downers, no I already said downers. Shit. Poppers, boppers, eye-droppers... Hip-hoppers? Okay, that’s my medical knowledge exhausted. Back to the FA Cup we go!” I stretched out to bring the tactics board closer, but it was just out of reach. Frustrating. ”Wembley, here we come,” I said, straining without really moving. I hoped someone would get up and do it for me.

Meghan, an amazing centre back whose boyfriend was on a plane to Germany, said, ”Can I ask something?”

I thought about teasing her about Youngster, but decided to skip it. ”Yes.”

”It’s just... Oh, sorry, nice to meet you, Bones. I think we’re all happy to have you here as our doctor who we will loan to the men’s team... if they behave.” This speech attracted some scattered applause. ”But Max, recently you’ve been banging on and on about Wembley. I’ve asked around and you didn’t talk about it the first couple of years and only a little bit last year, and now you’ve gone Wembley mad. What’s that all about?”

I nodded. ”Fair question, Megs. Um, well it’s simple, really. Partly it’s that we’re almost good enough to get there, you know? The men’s team are one of the favourites to get to the Vans Trophy final and next season we’ll be in the Championship. Championship teams get to the FA Cup semi-final all the time, you know? Why can’t we?” Bones was one of the people who didn’t follow the implication. ”Those matches are played at Wembley.” I turned back to the main group. ”As for you, you’re improving so fast and, like, there really aren’t a lot of teams better than you. I mean, yeah we also need some luck like Chelsea and Man City getting drawn against each other early on, but... Cup finals aren’t that far off and every year we’ll get way closer. Do you get me?”

Meghan nodded. ”Yeah. And you being you, once the idea’s in your head, you can’t shake it.”

”Right. But it’s also... Okay, look, this isn’t me trying to motivate you extra, okay? I’m just answering the question. No Chester team has ever been to Wembley. You could be the first. No-one remembers the second person to climb Everest.”

Amy Shone said, ”It was Tenzing Norgay.”

”Ten points to Ravenclaw,” I said. ”I’d love the women’s team to be the first because the entire city of Chester will travel to London that day. We could have 40,000! If it’s the men, that obviously works for me, too, because I just want to get there. Yeah, fine, I admit it. I want my name on that part of our Wikipedia page, you know? The real question isn’t why do I want it so bad, but what’s the hurry? One reason is that some of this squad won’t be here next year so if we do have a chance to do it now we owe it to them to fucking try. That’s fair, right?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it’s taken without the author’s consent. Report it.

Meghan agreed it was fair.

”But there’s this other thing, too. It’s my fault, maybe, because I said a few times it was time for this club to write a new chapter in its history and we keep getting letters from, like, old people, or fans with sick relatives. They’re like, um, could you please do it this season because my dad isn’t gonna be here next year. It’s not our fault that no other team made it and we can only do our best, right? If it doesn’t happen this year it will happen next so I’m not going to sink into a depression but I am motivated enough to really do a little bit extra.”

Amy interrupted me again. ”If you want the men’s team to get to Wembley this season, it’s easy. Lose a few league matches, win promotion via the playoffs. The playoff finals are at Wembley,” she informed Bones.

”Ten points to Slytherin,” I said. I looked up, slightly annoyed, but then I realised we had an evil genius in our midst. ”That’s actually really smart. We should bring you to meetings where there’s some bullshit rule we want to skirt around.”

Amy flushed with pleasure. ”Yes, please!”

I went back to what I was saying before the distraction. ”Doing extra to get to Wembley. The Vans Trophy quarter final is on the 28th of January and that means I have to be in England that day, right, to make sure we fucking nail that one. There’s this Norwegian striker that everyone wants to sign in case he’s the next Haaland and his agent has let it be known that he will wait till the last minute to make a decision. It could be that I would have the chance to scout him and pitch Chester in the Championship to him, in person, you know, if I flew out there just before the window closes. But I have to be in Bristol on the Thursday and back in Chester on the Saturday... It’s not gonna happen.

”Yeah, if it’s a choice between signing this amazing player and getting to Wembley, there’s only one logical thing to do - go flat-out for the player. But football’s not about logic, is it? It’s about some 90-year-old dude who stood on the Harry McNally every Saturday of his life until his knees burst and if I can give him that one last happy moment... If I can help him tick off one last item on his football club supporting checklist.”

Dani signed; Elin translated. ”You mean his bucket list.”

Everyone present either winced, groaned, laughed, or some combination. ”Fucking hell, Dani,” said Angel. ”You’re so savage.”

I shook my head. ”That reminds me. The club needs a Chief Community Outreach Officer. Dani, we’d love for you to apply for the role.” That got some laughs, and the women nearest to Dani gave her a shake. ”All right, let’s talk Birmingham and their shitty 4-2-3-1.”

”What’s shitty about it?” said Elin.

”It’s annoying.”

”Oh. I’m asking because you sometimes use it with the men’s team, don’t you?”

”When I use it,” I proclaimed, ”it is exciting, vibrant, balanced, and magnificent. Okay? Now, look - ”

A little cursemail envelope appeared in the corner of my vision, and being a first-class idiot, I mentally clicked on it. I could have waited a minute until I had announced the team and was alone in my little cubicle, but no.

Norwich City are desperate to land Chester’s Charlie Dugdale and are reported to have launched a 1.1 million pound bid.

Duggers! My only real creative midfielder. He was putting up crazy numbers this season - goals, assists, and a sky-high average rating. I knew clubs were tracking him and there seemed to be something inevitable about a serious bid arriving for him in particular - he would be hard to replace and I didn’t have anyone in the squad who could replicate his output.

I had paid 400,000 pounds for him. He had hit the training cap. Anything over a million was seriously good business.

Or was it? I’d only been able to buy him so cheaply because his former club were in financial dire straits. If his real value when I signed him was 800,000, it would surely cost me that much to buy a similar guy now. My profits would be illusory, wouldn’t they?

Shit shit shit.

Wait - it said ’are reported to have launched’ - maybe that was just random curse gossip. It did that sometimes, in the style of Soccer Supremo. The gossip had almost never been about Chester before, so I didn’t know how reliable those ’news’ items were.

My phone vibrated. Message from Briggy, who in addition to being my bodyguard - an easy gig that only needed her to kick someone’s arse about once a month on average - was acting as my personal assistant.

Briggy: I just had an interesting call from Norwich City.

”Max?” said Angel, worried.

”3-5-2, Scottie in goal, Femi, Meghan, Luxury Bell. Midfield is Dani the Diplomat, Charlotte, Sarah Greene, Maddy, and Kisi. Strikers Angel and Kit. Elin’s in charge for a bit. Bye.”

***

Briggy put me on conf call with MD and Secretary Joe. Joe confirmed that a bid had been faxed through. MD said the decision on how to proceed was all mine, though he asked me to remember the old banker’s adage that any profit was a good profit.

I tried to sit down but couldn’t focus, so I went walking around the 3G pitches at Bumpers. There were matches going on, so I was able to pick up some experience points while I was fretting.

1.1 million was such a devilishly tempting amount for this bid that I spent a good few minutes wondering if someone at Norwich City had been influenced by Old Nick, the demon who had given me the curse. Nick didn’t know the first thing about football but he had some minions - weird little guys I called ’the imps’ - who were football-mad. It was their job to come up with monthly perks that would tempt me into spending my XP even when I was saving up for something specific.

If I sold Duggers, how would that benefit Old Nick? It wouldn’t make me grind harder. Since coming back from Germany I had been managing both men’s and women’s teams, plus had gone to watch school matches all over Cheshire and professional games all over the country. If I sold my left midfielder and couldn’t replace him, I would have to play more, and Old Nick did not want that. He hated when I played, claiming I was cheating and would get us both squashed by a force even greater than him.

No, it was nothing to do with Old Nick.

1.1 million. I could spend 700 thousand on a left winger and put four hundred K towards the new away end. Which... sounded all kinds of lame. 400,000 was not worth the risk of replacing Duggers with a dud.

I checked my player database, filtering for left-sided midfielders. There were thousands. I refined the search further. At least Technique 10, and a maximum age of 27. That brought the list down considerably, and three names stood out.

Joel Reid was English but played for Cardiff City in the Championship. At least, he used to, but was out of favour with the manager. Another misfit! He was 25. His position was listed as M LC, meaning he was a pure midfielder, not like Duggers, whose stated position was AM LC - an attacking midfielder. Joel wouldn’t create as much threat as Duggers, but would give me more on the defensive side.

The last time I had scouted him, Joel had been CA 120, but that number had probably decayed since then. With PA 138 he had a decent amount of upside - only five points less than Duggers.

Yeah, Joel wasn’t bad at all. He would be a fairly straight swap and if I played my cards right I would be able to keep my squad at pretty much the same talent level but with a considerably larger bank account.

Next was Myles Baker. He was playing for Stevenage in League One. I had been in Gibraltar when Chester had played against them, but my defenders had raved about him - always a good sign. I’d gone out of my way to make sure I added him to the database, and hadn’t been disappointed.

He was 23, fast, and a proper winger. AM L, so unlike Duggers he wouldn’t do well in central areas. I didn’t think Baker would do well in a 4-2-3-1, for example, playing fairly narrow behind the striker. This guy wanted to stay wide and get chalk on his boots. I didn’t mind that at all but it meant he wasn’t very flexible. Nor was I sure I would totally trust him to play wide left in a 3-4-3. Would he do his defensive work? Not to the level of Joel Reid, certainly, but put a defender behind him and watch him fly.

He was lower in CA than Reid, a mere 102. That didn’t bother me much because of the training cap. By the end of the season both would be the exact same level. But Baker’s PA was 142, four points higher than Joel’s. When the training ground was done, numbers would start flying up again, so it was worth bearing in mind even those small differences in potential.

Which brought me to Bruno Mason. He was nineteen years old and was on the fringes of the team at Salford City. Chester had played against Salford when I was in Germany, but this time there had been no-one raving about him. Bruno, in fact, was very quietly pulling up no trees. I had only spotted him by chance when one of the matches I was planning to watch got postponed and Salford was the next best thing. Mason was listed as an AM F L, so he was not only an attacking midfielder but a forward. That would be useful in a 4-3-3 shape, especially when I gained more tactical flexibility and could push him wider. I was sure I would find a role that suited him.

Bruno was only CA 85, which seemed far too low to be really useful this season, but he was PA 159. It didn’t seem like it to the outside world but he could blossom into a decent Premier League player.

Depending on the prevailing moods at the three players’ current clubs, it was possible I could get two of them. Joel Reid plus Bruno Mason would give me a solid starter plus an exciting talent to develop, and both could be sold one day for much more than Duggers. Good deal, right? With Duggers gone, I would be able to afford two sets of wages.

I brought up my bloated squad list. Too many players.

What I could do was sell Duggers, buy one of the three options, and use some of the excess cash to stock up on talented lads young enough to play in next season’s Youth Cup. There weren’t a load of Roddy Joneses in my database, but there were plenty of guys who would have better careers than Jamie Brotherhood, who I had just sold for 70,000 pounds. Any who cost fifty grand or under would be a decent deal, right? It was a no-brainer but I had never had any spare funds.

Well, here was a bunch of cash just staring me in the face.

I tried to convince myself that Duggers leaving might be a net positive. I got my phone out and called Briggy.

”Hey, can you call Ruth and Ryan and tell them what’s up? Ask them to get in touch with Norwich and say I’m willing to sell for 1.4 million. No, wait, that’s too big a jump. 1.3 million. If they drop out, cool.”

”1.4 gets him now,” said Briggy. ”1.3 if they wait till the end of the transfer window. That way, they get to feel they’re in charge and either they pay more or you get to use him in five league games and your cup match.”

”That,” I said, ”is brilliant. I love it.”

***

Women’s FA Cup, Fourth Round: Chester Women versus Birmingham City Women

I was a lot calmer by the time I strolled over to the stadium. Whatever happened with Duggers, I would be able to make it work. Seeing loads of happy, excited families making their way along Bumpers Lane towards the Deva lifted my spirits. Writing out the team sheet was extra soothing, and I found time to have a laugh with the referee and her crew.

In the dressing room, I asked for attention.

”Okay,” I said. ”My favourite movie is The Black Panther 2: Wakanda Believe It, for loads of reasons but mainly because it stars a hyper-competent all-female cast with a token hot dude.” I swirled my finger around to make it clear that the occupants of the room fit the bill. ”Also, it made eight hundred million dollars at the box office and my dream in life is to make eight hundred million dollars. The plan for today - ”

”Pardon me,” said Femi, my captain. ”Is that the end of the Black Panther 2 topic?”

”Um... no. Yes? No. Why?”

”It is my favourite movie and it is refreshing to hear you talk about media that I have actually watched and enjoyed.”

”Okay,” I said, feeling mad déjà vu for some reason. ”If you like, I can slip in some subtle BP2 references that only megafans would notice.”

”Thank you, Max. I, for one, would appreciate that.”

”The plan for today is for me to get out of your way and let you slug it out with a Women’s Super League team the way the Wakandan special forces slug it out with those hapless French army dudes. No offence, Henri.”

”Pretend I’m not here.”

”Oh, now he’s not here. Christ.” I clicked my teeth and took a couple of steps deeper into the room. ”This Birmingham team are good, obvs.” I had seen them out on the Deva’s pitch doing some light jogging and whatnot, and thanks to the curse I knew their starting eleven and tactics an hour before kick off. Their average CA would be 90, fifteen points higher than ours. ”Let’s be honest, they’re a little older, a little more physical, a little more streetwise than us. Bit like having an older brother. Are Birmingham the T’Challa to our Shuri? One thing’s for sure - we’re more technical. If we keep the ball, make them chase shadows, they’re gonna tire.”

I took a step back towards the tactics board. I wasn’t feeling the passion the day deserved.

”Yeah, I think we can wear them down but there are risks, too. If we give the ball away cheaply, they could hit us on counters and have four against three. That won’t happen very often, right, but it could, so Charlotte, Sarah, Maddy, you sprint your fucking arses off when there’s a transition so the back three aren’t too exposed.

”Other than that, it’s a question of patience. Don’t rush into action like M’Baku - you’ll get your arse kicked. Dani, Kisi, that means don’t dribble into blind alleys. We need you to be really strategic today; Always wait for support so we can safely overload. Angel and Kit aren’t going to get 20 shots. This isn’t a volume deal. This is surgical. Half an hour of clinical passing, probing, shifting defenders around, learning their weaknesses, then bosh - when we go, we go hard, nice and fast, one good, clean shot. Make it count.

”And whatever you do,” I said, making eye contact with as many women as possible, ”if we’re winning, if we’ve got them on the ropes, don’t suddenly stop fighting and say great, I’ll be back in a week to finish this battle.”

A silence stretched beyond the five-second mark.

Meghan turned to Femi and said, ”That’s not what happens in the movie, is it?”

Femi looked bashful. ”I’m afraid it is.”

”Yeah,” I said, ”it’s not the highest moment in cinema history. Okay, here’s the team. Scottie Love’s in goal.”

”Max,” complained half a dozen women. Charlotte added, ”You already told us the team. Did you change it?”

”No. Did I already tell you? Are you sure?” Everyone was nodding. ”Okay. 3-5-2, get really efficient, let control turn into domination. Girl power etcetera.”

Sarah Greene was shaking her head. ”I don’t like this.”

My jaw dropped a fraction. ”Er... excuse me, what?”

”This isn’t you. We’re playing our biggest match of the season and you’re not excited about your plan. Is this because of Wibbers?”

I added a puzzled frown to another jaw drop, which I’m sure was extremely attractive. ”Soz what?”

”Wibbers missed a penno and the men lost and you’ve been moping around since. You’re not yourself.”

I scratched my head. ”No, I’m all right. It was tough to take, but... 3-5-2, no gimmicks. This is the plan. It’s good.”

”It’s not mint, though.”

”Well,” I said, once more cycling through the other formations we had available. ”It’s our best plan. I mean... I don’t have to be excited, do I? What’s that got to do with anything? And Wibbers took a good penalty. Yeah put it a bit lower or higher, ideally, but a lot shitter pens than that have gone in. Is he beating himself up about it?”

Sarah and Wibbers were an item. She said, ”Of course he is. Wouldn’t you?”

”Um... I hope not. We prepared as well for that shoot-out as any team in history, I reckon, but there’s still loads of random chance to it. It’s just one of those things, like if you get a shit ref or an early injury. Shoot-outs don’t tell you anything about anyone’s character, except maybe the players who don’t step up to take one. Even then, is it really bad character if someone says he’s not feeling confident about taking a shot? You want him to tell you beforehand, right?” I realised I was rambling. ”What’s going on?” Sarah glanced at Henri, just for a fraction of a second. ”Oh, what the fuck, Henri!”

Henri said, ”Pretend I’m not here.”

”I’m gonna fucking batter you. What have you been saying?”

Sarah said, ”We, the girls on this team, want our manager to be enthusiastic about the plan. 3-5-2 might be right but you’re not enthusiastic.”

”No, that’s right. I’m being professional. This is what I should have done yesterday. I’m fixing my mistake from yesterday, okay? That’s a good thing.”

”But you don’t actually believe in it.”

”I do! We can boss midfield and wear them down and fuck them up!”

Sarah nodded. ”That’s better. That’s more like the real Max. But I want more.”

”The fuck are you talking about?”

”Why do we train Bestball?”

”You don’t. You train Bochumball. Which we train because I want to create a hybrid system - part positional play, part Relationism - that is devastating and that oppo analysts struggle to understand.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes a fraction. ”I think we should do Bestball, in full, from the off. You told us it’s the secret sauce to bring us closer to teams we would struggle against. It has the surprise factor. If we’re technically superior then Bestball leans into that. We will be able to control the ball while moving up the pitch. Instead of going side to side for half an hour, we’ll be moving vertically so we’ll put stress on their defence, too. They’ll get mentally drained as well as physically. We know what it’s like from doing it in training, don’t we girls?”

Many heads nodded. Meghan said, ”It’s a fucking headache. You’re never sure if you should engage with the blob or hold your position. If you don’t get enough bodies in there they can take the piss. If you send too many in, there are mad gaps everywhere. If we flood Kisi’s zone, Dani’s unmarked on the other side of the pitch.”

”What are the risks?” said Sarah. ”Counters? Four against three?” She held her arms wide. ”That’ll happen anyway. If you told us we had to keep five in the rest defence, okay, I’d think twice, but if you’re happy with three back, Bestball is valid.”

I closed my eyes while I imagined what the match could look like. Our blob moving along the right wing pretty easily but then coming to a halt around the level of the oppo penalty area. There would be four enemy defenders back, plus two defensive midfielders. ”We won’t create much.”

Sarah tutted. ”You told us we wouldn’t create much in 3-5-2!” There was much nodding around the room. Sarah was doing a great job of selling her vision. ”The men were brilliant in the second half yesterday. You gave them a plan that let them boss the match long enough to fuck up a really good team. I want that today. Bestball has the same pros and cons as 3-5-2 but it’s way cooler.”

Kisi said, ”Always err on the side of awesome.”

”You know what’s awesome?” I said, patiently. ”Winning. If we wear them down, the last ten minutes are ours. If it goes to extra time, bosh. If we get a goal and they have to stretch themselves trying to get an equaliser...”

Sarah nodded. I had made a good point. ”This is the biggest match of our season and we’re testing ourselves against a WSL 1 team. The odds are against us but if we’re going out, I want to go out in style.” She looked around; her mate Meghan nodded at her. So did Kisi. Dani. Even Femi. Sarah turned back to me. ”If you think 3-5-2 is best, we’ll do it, course, but we don’t think you really believe in it.”

’We’ meant, incredibly, her and fucking Henri Lyons. I looked up at the ageing ceiling tiles. One day soon this room would be bigger, more modern, more deserving of the talent it contained. In a low voice, I said, ”My favourite movie is Black Panther 2. It’s set in a magical, futuristic kingdom which is actually super realistic because the first time a woman loses a fight, she gets fired.”

Meghan shook her head. ”Femi, is that true?”

Femi put her forehead in her hand and looked bashful again. ”I am afraid it is.” Our captain smiled and stood up. She stepped forward and let her gaze sweep around. ”She loses a fight against a more powerful being. These beings are the best fighters in the world, who travel around the oceans on the backs of large, ah, seal-like creatures.”

”What?” said Meghan, while I cracked into a grin. Large seal-like creatures was an amazing way to describe killer whales.

”And these magnificent seal-riders,” said Femi, louder, more dramatically, ”have a distinctive look. They play,” she said, lifting her shirt from the bench, ”in Chester blue.” She grinned, hugely. She was spouting the same kind of half-true bullshit that I normally did. She continued. ”Whatever we decide to do, we must decide to do with all our hearts. This is our home. These are our memories.”

She stepped back and let everyone’s attention turn back to me. ”All right,” I said. ”Technocratic, attritional football versus a 90-minute rolling party. Horseshoe passing that bores everyone to sleep... or flicks, tricks, skills, one-twos, and ladders.”

I’d often talked about using Relationism to give power back to the players. Now my players were asking to use it. The main reason I was using the module sparingly was that it sometimes had addictive effects and made me giddy. Would our new doctor notice my simpleton expression, my dopey smile?

”You can’t spell dopamine without dopey,” I mumbled. In the away team’s dressing room, my opposite number would be warning her players about how we would try to dominate the centre of the pitch. What would her expression be when we avoided the middle completely? Heh. I could always switch back to positional play... ”Brum only have two players in their line up who are really comfortable playing out wide. Their Morale is shot and we’ll make them do something they don’t have training for. Yeah, fuck it - let’s play Sarahball.”

***

The 2027 edition of Soccer Supremo didn’t have Relationism included - the franchise had only barely introduced women’s football - and the curse was based on an ancient version. When I had made it clear I would spend huge amounts of experience points to gain access to this exotic new way of playing the sport, the imps had - heh - improvised.

The first time I had used my fancy new Relationism module, the interface had been based on something the imps knew very well - the smartphone game Candy Crush. Since that first, manic encounter the module had become a little more staid and I was fine with that. Still, I never knew what was around the corner.

Standing in the middle of my technical area, I glanced behind me, shooting Bones a guilty look. To my right, the Harry McNally stand was a little busier than normal for a women’s match. Brooke was projecting an attendance of over one thousand, which was simultaneously good and bad. The best way to grow the fan base was to keep winning. The second best was to entertain.

I flicked the Relationism toggle and let out a nervous giggle.

With ten seconds until kick-off, my vision clouded slightly, as though a curtain had fallen. A word appeared slightly to the left of centre.

Mood:

My pulse quickened. This was the part where the curse took my mental state and made mini-games around it. What had I seen so far? Moods like ’curious’ and ’introspective’. Those experiences had been good - not too frantic, not too zany.

Mood: Distracted

I felt my eyes widen. Distracted? Me?

I blinked and realised the match was underway. Birmingham had taken the kickoff and were cautiously passing the ball around. My women were lining up in 3-5-2, as they would do when we were out of possession. It was only when we got the ball that our static shapes would break down and reform into ones of the players’ own choosing.

I called out to Luxury Bell to put a little distance between her and Meghan. She eased to her right and I felt better. I scanned the pitch, nodding. Pascal and the other coaches had done a really good job getting the basics right and Peter Bauer had given a few defensive masterclasses. Our pressing game was getting better, partly because of Peter’s influence, partly because when the women were playing in an unstructured way and lost the ball they had to sprint like maniacs to get the ball back almost instantly or they would be in deep shit.

I wasn’t sure how much Relationism I would do with the men’s team for the rest of this season, or even next, but the training sessions really hammered home the importance of quickly recovering the ball when we lost it.

I brought my focus away from the pitch and onto my Relationism Match Overview screen. On the left was a meter that was filling up. Underneath was the word ’focus’. On the right was another meter, also partly filled, above the word ’distraction’.

How this normally worked was that when the meters filled I could ’pop’ them and get rewards. This was unnerving, though. When the distraction meter filled, would it trigger a penalty instead of a bonus? That didn’t sound good. Clearly, I was supposed to focus.

I snapped my head to the right. ”Yes, Kisi!” I said, scampering towards the action. Kisi had wanted to take the ball and sprint down the line, but had waited for support, as I had asked. Kisi passed to Sarah Greene, who flicked the ball backwards to Luxury Bell. Luxury pinged the ball back to Sarah, who let the ball roll through her legs to Maddy, who took a touch and passed it behind Birmingham’s left-back. Kisi sprinted to get there but the left-back slid and tackled the ball out of play. ”Yesssss!” I cried, cackling. ”So fucking cool, ladies. Yes yes yes.”

The focus meter had gotten a lot fuller. I stared at it, wondering why, but as I did, the distraction meter filled. Shit!

I spent a few minutes working really hard to focus on the pitch and nothing else. The meter filled completely and began to wobble gently, which was usually a sign that I could ’pop’ it and claim the reward. It didn’t work, though. I tried to figure out why but as I did, the distraction meter crept higher.

I redoubled my efforts to stay in the moment, yelling advice, tips, instructions, praise. I stayed focused like an absolute badarse.

What sort of attendance would be satisfying? Half of the men’s? Why only half? We had to aim to sell out for every match, right? How could we do that without giving away tickets?

Shit.

The distraction meter was full. It wobbled slightly, in time with the focus one.

I knelt, ready for my punishment to trigger.

Nothing happened.

I waited a few more minutes but I started to believe nothing would happen until I made it. I drank from a water bottle and pottered to the part of the technical area furthest away from Bones.

Then I popped both meters at the same time.

Two new buttons appeared at the top of my vision. One said ’focus’ and one said ’distract’.

Fucking imps! What were they smoking when they came up with this one?

As I thought that, the original meters returned and the distraction meter started to fill up.

Annoyed, I tried to focus on the match again. The mini-game was utterly inane but the on-pitch action was actually really solid. Birmingham simply didn’t know how to defend against the blob, but they knew not to commit too many bodies to one side of the pitch. We had control of the ball and were able to move up and down the side of the pitch at will. When we tried to break into Birmingham’s box, their defenders had to run a little harder, stretch a little further, take more risks.

My meters filled, but when they reached the max, they didn’t wobble.

The Brummies put together a good move but once again our defence was solid. We countered fast with a sort of megablob covering half the width of the pitch. Some frantic sprints from midfielders ensured the away team had enough players back, but they looked disorganised. If we could get clear just now, Dani was one-on-one on the far left of the pitch, and there were only two defenders close to Angel and Kit.

Two words loomed at me. Focus. Distract.

I smashed the distract button and laughed far too hard as I noticed the defender who was keeping an eye on Dani drifting away from her. Like she had forgotten Dani was there! I laughed far too hard and hit ’focus’. Maddy was on the ball and she surged out of the blob, drawing all kinds of aggro towards her. She rolled the ball backwards under her foot into the path of Sarah Greene, who pinged a cross-field pass to Dani, who took it in her stride and powered into the penalty area as the defender scrambled to make up the lost ground. No chance! Dani was too fast.

She dribbled into the penalty area and lined up a left-footed shot. A defender slid in to block it, but Dani cut onto her right and slid a pass to Kit. Kit ran towards the ball at an angle, intending to push the ball then smack it with her left, but as she, too, drew a block, she simply let the ball go right through...

Into the path of Angel, who was unmarked.

I gasped before she had even shot. Such a beautiful goal!

When the ball hit the net, I looked for someone to hug and lift in the air. The closest person was the lineswoman and I was on my way there when Dylan appeared in my path. He was, apparently, my bodyguard for the morning, and he was too bulky for me to hoist aloft. ”Maaaate!” I screamed.

”What a goaaaaaal!” he replied. ”Oh my fucking God!”

Elin came up from behind and joined the party. ”Wow,” she said.

”Yeah,” I said.

I walked up and down my white line, running my hands through my hair. The fucking imps had done it again. I could ’earn’ a couple of little boosts and if I deployed them at just the right time, they could make all the difference. It made me smile that I would be rewarded for being distracted - almost everything the imps did was designed to keep me engaged.

Building the focus meter up again was easy - it came with fretting that the goal had stung Birmingham into action. They played with the power, skill, and speed of a WSL team. My eye kept getting drawn to the distraction meter - I needed to fill that and claim my reward so that the next time we broke I would be able to send out the little nudges that had played a part in our goal.

How, though? Birmingham were parked around our penalty area, probing, looking for ways through. On the far side, Dani was a little isolated but if the right back got a cross in, we had three very good headers of the ball waiting. Charlotte was smart in those situations, moving closer to the centre backs in case they only partially headed the ball clear, or in case the opponent pulled the ball back low, towards the D. If that happened, she would find that Charlotte was there. Sarah and Maddy didn’t quite have the same defensive instincts but they were keen to contribute if they could. Kisi was keeping an eye on the left back, but for now Birmingham weren’t sending both full backs at the same time.

Yeah, my team was good. Talented, balanced, plenty of room to improve.

Except in goal, I thought, crouching and biting my nail until I caught myself doing it. Scottie Love was 63 out of 63. Maxed out. She was fine in our current league, especially because we didn’t concede that many shots, but if Birmingham built up a head of steam they would be able to rack up a few quickfire goals.

Our backup goalie was Queenie. 55/94 - she would catch up by the end of the season and then keep going. I hoped by next season I would have found my dream German handball star. Or maybe a Swedish blonde? Leggy blonde?

The distraction meter wobbled, along with the focus bar, and I popped them. Boosts ready and the meters began to fill again, but Birmingham suddenly broke into the penalty area and they came surging at us from all angles.

In desperation, I smacked the boosts. Kisi put on a burst of speed to get in front of an attacker, while the away team’s striker, who was running to the middle of the goal, suddenly decided to move away from goal to be in position for a ball that was cut diagonally back. Decent idea except that she already had two teammates taking up the same spot, and the full back hit the ball across goal - exactly where the striker would have been.

Had I done that?

It was impossible to know for sure, but I needed to be able to get those boosts - and fast. Filling the focus bar was getting easier and easier now that the stakes were getting higher. If we could last one hour, we would be through to the next round! If we could last 57 minutes, we’d be through to the next round! The lower the number got, the more real it felt.

What I needed was a great distraction topic.

Duggers?

I’d already looked at that sitch from all kinds of angles. If we got 1.4 million I could easily replace him for half that. Would the new guy be as good? Maybe. Would he move as beautifully? No chance. Duggers was a walking poem, an aesthetic wonder.

The meters filled and I popped them.

The thing with selling Duggers, though, is that it would be the first sale that really got the flywheel turning. Every incoming transfer fee so far had gone into a bottomless pit but now there was a chance to seriously push the club forward. Buy a player of a similar quality and have a deposit for the new away stand, or buy six talented kids, or buy two left-sided midfielders. The possibilities were actually intoxicating.

”Hey!” I screamed. ”That was the break! That was the break! Don’t give it away cheap, for fuck’s sake!”

I danced around, working up a sweat, as I barked instructions. Then Sarah was on the ball, drifting away from one challenge, and another, and she fed it wide to Kisi. Kisi turned back, following my instruction not to run down blind alleys, but when the defender reacted, Kisi backheeled the ball down the line and chased after it.

”You cheeky sod,” I said, grinning, but then I smashed the focus boost. Kit and Angel had been making the same run, to the near post, but Kit pulled away to the far post.

Kisi was running onto the ball. She looked up and aimed a cross. To Angel? Or to Kit? This seemed like a great opportunity so I hit the distract boost. It certainly didn’t affect the goalie - she raced off her line and punched the ball clear. Maybe one of the DMs got a bit casual, thinking the danger was clear, because Charlotte was first to the loose ball and had just enough time to work it onto her weaker left foot. She caressed it high, over the goalie... Over the bar, surely?

No! It dipped below the crossbar and nestled into the back of the net.

”Holy fuck,” I said, as I bounced around, this time being focused enough to move towards our bench, where subs, coaches, and physios were pouring out. An impromptu circle of Ring a Ring o’ Rosie grew, bloomed, and had its petals plucked away. ”Yeh yeh yeh,” I said after ten seconds of pure jubilation, shooing everyone back to their spots. ”I need to focus!”

Running my hands through my hair again, I wondered, how can I distract myself now?

I clicked my fingers in triumph. I would plan how to spend my experience points!

***

I was absolutely minted.

XP balance: 13,833

That was how it stood before kick-off, and with Birmingham being a tier one club, I was getting a base rate of 7 XP per minute. Double that because I was managing, add five or six minutes of injury time, and I would get another thirteen hundred XP for sure. What could I do with 15,000 XP?

Almost anything, and that was the problem.

I paused to concentrate as Birmingham broke into our box again. I didn’t have boosts ready but their striker blazed over the bar. Playing against a team with shockingly low form and Morale was almost cruel. Add in home advantage and maybe that was enough to close the CA gap. I glanced behind me. Birmingham had a much stronger subs bench than I did.

Don’t get cocky, kid!

The meters filled and I banked the boosts, waiting for the next time to deploy them.

The perk shop contained the usual tasty treats.

Attributes 11 (4,000 XP) would unlock more of a player profile. It was actually mad that I still hadn’t unlocked the entire thing, but that was testament to the imps’ skill in offering me even better options. As ever, being able to see more Attributes was attractive but not urgent.

Ditto the next formation. 4-2-2-2 had two defensive midfielders, so it was useless for the women, especially if Diane took my advice and went out on loan. It would be quite a useful formation for the men, but only in mid-February when Youngster returned. No need to think about it right now; if I decided I needed it for one particular match, I could save up the 5,000 XP needed in a week.

We were really under the cosh now - during one slick Birmingham move I panicked and hit the boosts too early. They passed the ball around us and one of their trio of CAMs found herself through on goal. She smashed the ball into the top-right.

2-1!

But wait - the assistant referee had given her offside. Offside! No goal!

I sagged with relief and went back to filling the distraction meter.

Adding more age groups to the Panopticon (for 2,000 XP a time) was always a good option. Being able to check on our young players was something I thought worth investing in, certainly ahead of options like adding expected goals to the Match Overview stats, or being able to compare player profiles side by side.

There were a couple of interesting options that I hadn’t valued fully in the past.

Bibliotekkers 1 would let me see the last 20 match reports for my next opponent. It hadn’t seemed worth the 1,000 XP cost and had sunk to the bottom of every wish list I’d ever made. But I had grown more interested over recent months because if I bought it, I would be able to see which tactics had worked against my next opponents, which types of players had done damage, even the effect of weather conditions. When matches were coming thick and fast, it would be a way to more efficiently scout. Instead of watching tons of video, I could hone in on certain incidents in certain matches - and I could do it while I was ’in the bathroom’.

A similar perk cost an immense 22,000 XP. It was simply called ’Match Archive’ and if I understood it right, it would let me see the Match Overview of every fixture that had happened, ever. Or, more likely, from the day I got cursed. I’d be able to bring up any fixture and check the tactics, every player’s match rating, the number of shots and yellow cards, and even the Match Commentaries. It would be worth it as an entertainment tool, or to win a pub quiz. I could imagine myself buying it near the end of next season, when Chester were in mid-table in the Championship and there was no drama or interest. And if I was going to one day buy it, I would never buy the ’lite’ version.

Thus poor Bibliotekkers dropped to the bottom of the pile once more!

I had survived in Germany without buying the Inverted Full Backs perk, which was overpriced at 15,000 XP. It was possible I would need it one day, but not anytime soon.

So in the end there were three main candidates for how to spend my stash.

One was to buy a couple of Attributes and the last formation, to improve my understanding of players and to see how close I was to having complete tactical control.

The second was the Transfer Values perk. It was 20,000 XP so I would need to keep grinding, but it would tell me how much my players were really worth. What if it told me I could get 3 million pounds for Duggers? What if it told me I could get one of the three replacements for two hundred grand less than I would have paid?

Femi rose and headed the ball away, but Maddy got bundled out of the way and the ball was pinballed around. One of the DMs burst forward and took a long shot that went over the bar, but not by as much as I initially expected.

The stress was rising. How the fuck long to go in this half?

The final serious option for my XP was to go hard down the Playdar route. For 1,500 I could unlock a second ’token’ slot, but then I would have to buy tokens to fill it. The tokens did things like halve the cooldown, so I would be able to use the perk twice in 24 hours. Another one would allow me to filter the search so that it would only show me strikers, or goalies, or whatever.

I was planning to spend the rest of this season scouting hard, at home and abroad, and I would get amazing use out of Playdar in the summer. The tokens were so expensive, though. Some prices would only be revealed when I bought a new slot, but it seemed like 5,000 XP was the baseline. While it would be cool to swap tokens in and out according to my specific needs, the benefits were mostly theoretical. The Transfer Values perk would help me in this transfer window.

One of Birmingham’s CAMs popped up in the space behind Kisi, dribbled, and sent in a really neat cross.

Scottie Love rushed out to punch the ball away and got her timing so badly wrong that it actually fooled the onrushing striker. The ball hit the Brummie on the top of the head and bounced up like a kid on a trampoline.

Femi headed it further clear and the ref blew the whistle for half-time.

Yeah. Playdar nudged to the top of the shopping list. One token to lead me to goalies, one token to lead me to women.

Okay, so I’d find the perfect girl in a park... and she would be CA 1. She would be my dream goalie five years from now.

”Shit,” I said, and mentally nudged Transfer Values back to the top of the wishlist.

***

At half-time I was as drained as our players and shoved loads of marathon paste into me.

”Man United are losing,” said Livia, with some relish. She was basically my dream woman in all ways but one - she was a Liverpool fan. Her look of mild glee melted away as she glanced at me. ”That’s not good for us, is it?”

”You mean because of Matt Rush? He’s only with us because Pedro Porto made it happen, so him getting sacked is not ideal. The FA Cup is United’s best chance of a trophy this season so losing to a Championship club would not be a good look.”

Ah, but hang on! If I sold Duggers for a good amount, I could buy myself a suitable right back. I couldn’t wait for Nasa and Roddy to catch up to the rest of the squad, could I? That could take two years.

I smiled - how better to fill my distraction meter in the second half than by looking through all the right backs in my database?

”Er, quick team talk,” I said. ”Sarah was right, I was wrong. Hashtag trust women. Hashtag me-two-nil.”

Elin burst into a fit of giggles at my joke and we had to wait for her to stop so she could translate for Dani.

Sarah said, ”Sorry, Max, but it wasn’t my idea.”

I frowned. ”Yeah. Fucking Henri leading mutinies from afar. What the hell, man?”

Sarah smiled. ”No. It was you. You wanted this. Games like today are what Relationism is for, right? You told us loads of times but you got messed up because of yesterday. Got inside your own head.”

I nodded. ”Yeah. Yeah I did. It’s a flaw of the manager squad model, isn’t it? If me, Sandra, Colin, and Peter are all depressed from a Saturday result, who’s gonna come on Sunday all bright eyed and bushy tailed? I was thinking I would manage you next season, too, but we’re going to lose a lot of games in the Championship. Maybe I need to split the roles properly. Like normos do.”

”Fuck that,” said Sarah. ”I don’t mind you being in a mood sometimes. Anyone else?”

Quite a few of the women shook their heads. Dani signed. Elin said, ”Dani finds it irritating and thinks he should have matured a lot more by now.”

”Well, yeah,” said Sarah. ”But I think we should set realistic expectations.”

Everyone nodded, sagely, but then Dani saw my expression and cracked up. Rinsing me! They were all rinsing me. I pushed my index fingers into my temples. ”Let’s swap Dani and Kisi to the other flanks for the start of the second half. It might slow Brum down a bit; they’re getting the hang of how to burst the blob. Also, it’ll keep Dani on the far side of the pitch from me, where she won’t be able to hurt my feelings.” Dani signed rapidly while Elin watched. I said, ”What’s she saying?”

”She’s giving me a list of things to tease you about.”

”I’m leaving,” I said, as the party atmosphere intensified.

***

The second half was fun when we got the ball - one time in three we moved the ball thirty yards in mere seconds and the ladies got to show off their skills and sense of teamwork.

But it was agonising when we lost the ball and didn’t get it back quickly. That always led to a couple of minutes of pressure and even with my well-timed focus and distraction ’nudges’, we were cracking. I got the sense that if we conceded one goal, we would concede three, and I felt from the vibe in the stadium that I wasn’t the only person thinking that. There seemed to be lots of nail-biting going on. Lots of groaning.

I thought about right backs. I convinced myself I had to buy the Transfer Values perk before proceeding with any deals. I told myself finding million-pound players was more urgent than turning 1.1 million into 1.2 or whatever. Then I convinced myself I needed to finish unlocking all the Attributes before I even thought about upgrading any other skills.

On the Live Scores screen, I noted that Manchester United had equalised in their FA Cup match, live on TV. Pedro Porto would be crouching, watching his players, hoping they would be able to save him. If he could survive until February, it was probable that Matt Rush would not be recalled.

The end of the month felt a long way off.

Birmingham moved the ball around our D and their second-best CAM hit a low shot... that Scottie Love dived and couldn’t reach. There would be no offside flag on that one. 2-1.

The end of this match felt a long way off.

***

Henri, disguised as a cameraman, came close enough to chat.

”How are you feeling, my friend?”

”I’m incredibly drained. How long’s left? Twenty minutes? Christ, I can’t take this.” I stared out onto the pitch. ”Whatever happens, I’m really proud of them. We’ve got some ground to make up on teams like Birmingham but you can already see that - ah, shit.”

”What?” said Henri, spinning his camera towards the pitch.

”Maddy.” Henri adjusted his aim. I explained what we were seeing. ”She’s been running around like Andrew Harrison, getting stuck in, tackling. Looks like she’s got a strain or a pull. Doesn’t seem too bad, but...” I would find out the full extent of her injury in the morning.

Henri let the camera linger on Maddy as she bent over and slowly let herself drop to her arse. ”Who will come on?”

”Er, the sensible option would be Ridley T.” Ridley was CA 70 and the next-best option was CA 57. ”Go to 4-4-2 and try to hang on.”

”And what would Sarah Greene do?”

I laughed and looked up and down the options. Mari Hughes could take Maddy’s role in midfield. She was actually more suited to the defensive work. Diane was an option to go into DM, but she wasn’t the best at Relationism. ”Do you think we should stick with Bestball?”

”Have you ever done it from start to finish?”

”Um... not completely, I don’t think. Sometimes we did more than half a match with the army team but all? I can’t remember that.”

Henri stuck out his bottom lip. ”If only you had the best player in the world on your bench...”

”Are you being sarcastic?”

He hid behind the camera and aimed the lens at me. ”Pretend I’m not here.”

I eyed him while I turned slightly to the left. ”Meredith Ann!” I called.

The future best player in the world - currently 53/200 - rushed over - she had been aggressively warming up since the second half started, desperate to get on the pitch. ”Yes, Max?”

I gave her my full attention. She was far from a complete player but there was one thing she was already seriously good at. ”I need you to dribble. Run, get fouled, get us free kicks so we can reset up there.” I pointed to Birmingham’s goal. ”Good?”

”Yes, boss.”

”Ridley,” I called out. My left back came up. ”You’re replacing Luxury Bell. You’ll go left-sided centre back, fresh legs. Femi will move to the right. Meghan’s still in the middle. Good?”

”Yes, Max.”

It was a shame Ridley couldn’t play left-midfield, but I had tried her there a few times and she looked like a fish out of water. Left centre back for twenty minutes? Yeah, she could do that.

I crouched and stared - my focus meter filled fast - and I got up and slapped my hands together.

That was my last real contribution.

Now it was up to the ladies... and fate.

***

Making the subs ate 30 seconds, and the Blues took 30 seconds to look at our new players and wonder what they might be capable of. They were soon back on the front foot, though.

They had a cross. They took a shot. They had a long shot that Scottie Love spilled - into the path of Meghan, who boinked it clear.

Again they came and I filled the distraction meter by daydreaming that we might only concede one more goal. If we took the game to penalties, who would take my kicks? Kit, Angel, Sarah, Charlotte, Dani. That was a formidable set, wasn’t it? Kisi at six. Wait, Meredith Ann was on. Surely she should be in the top five?

Nah. It was way too early in her career to lean on her so hard.

Ridley T sprinted and got to a loose ball first. She hacked it away and it was wonderfully controlled by Dani. She got clattered - no free kick - but again Ridley was alert. Trying to show me I’d made a mistake in not starting her? This was a great way to go about it. She fizzed a pass to Meredith Ann in the centre circle. The Colombian let the ball run through her legs and sprinted ahead. Sarah Greene’s first-time cushioned pass was perfect and Meredith burst past a surprised DM. The other one raced across to help, slid in, and Meredith almost disdainfully nudged the ball to the side. She could have gone further but she decided to follow my instructions and let herself be kicked by the DM’s trailing leg.

Free kick! And a yellow card!

A breath got stuck in my lungs. We had a free kick thirty yards from goal, central, and Sarah Greene was already looking for the nozzle on the ball. She could score from here - and I had my mini boosts. What would pressing them do in a free kick situation? Distract the goalie a fraction? Make Sarah’s Decisions score increase by one point for five seconds?

I waited as the referee struggled to control the players - Meghan in particular was winding up the women in the opposition wall. It would normally have maddened me but she was doing it to run the clock down. She was doing it for all the Chester fans who had never been to the home of football.

Henri crept up on me, moving around in a semi-circle while I crouched. I had the strangest feeling that this was the moment. If we scored, we would win the match. If we didn’t, Birmingham would equalise and then crush us in extra time.

The skin on the back of my neck went mad. I opened the Live Scores screen. Manchester United’s match had finished level at full-time and they were heading into extra time. I felt a dead certainty that Pedro Porto wouldn’t survive the day. He would be sacked when the New York Stock Exchange opened.

”Huh?” I said. Meredith Ann was lining up the free kick with her left foot. I checked my instructions. Sarah was supposed to be taking this. She had placed the ball down but it looked for all the world as though Meredith was going to shoot. I couldn’t do anything about it, so I slammed the boost buttons just as she made her way forward.

Meredith ran over the ball so convincingly that the goalie stepped to her left. Sarah arrived at the ball and curled it beautifully, slowly, up and over, to the goalie’s right, to Sarah’s left, fading away. The goalie scrambled, got her feet moving, chasing it down, and hurled out a long arm. She got three good fingertips to it...

And tipped it onto the post.

Time froze.

Hundreds of fans in the stadium with their hands flying to their heads.

Meghan, slightly unsighted, with her arms aloft, celebrating, thinking it must have gone in.

Somewhere in the McNally stand, young William B. Roberts watching in horror as for the second day in a row, an out-of-this-world save denied a Chester team.

The ball bounced off the post and descended towards the goal line. It struck, time sped up, and a mad scramble ensued - Kit and Angel steaming after the ball to stab it over the line, defenders aiming to hook it away, the goalie scrambling to her feet.

With incredible slowness, the ball booped another yard along the goal line. It seemed to me to be spinning inwards, its motion bringing it closer and closer to crossing the line. To be a goal, all of the ball needed to cross all of the line. There was a fraction of a second of absolute carnage as five players hurled themselves towards it. Somehow the ball was kicked up - presumably by a defender - and then slapped away by the goalie.

No goal!

I let out a little noise. So close. It must have been millimetres away from being a goal!

The referee whistled furiously and pointed towards the centre circle. She was staring at a little thing on her wrist.

Goal! She’d given a goal. The technology said it had crossed just enough to count. I ran around doing my very best headless chicken impersonation, noting that the curse, at least, had awarded the goal to Sarah Greene.

”Max! Max, my friend! We did it!”

”We?” I said, trying to hug Henri while not being cracked in the skull by his stupid camera.

”Incroyable. Once more we have created some football.”

”There are ten minutes left,” I said.

”Pah,” he said. ”Ten minutes. What of ten minutes? Ooh do you want in the next round?”

”The next round,” I said, reverentially. We would be in the Fifth Round! That was in four weeks. Add four to everyone’s CA. And I hadn’t used Bench Boost in the Women’s FA Cup! ”We could get to the quarters, mate. The quarters! Oh, fuck! The quarter-finals are on the same day as we’re due to play Durham. That’s the big one, mate. The only team that can realistically catch us in the league. If that gets postponed, we’ll play them at the end of the season when we’re even better than we are now. It’s the Maxterplan revisited!”

Henri kissed me on the cheek and beamed. ”You’re welcome, Max. You’re welcome.”

I put my hands out. ”What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t do anything!”

”Hmm,” he said, as he lifted the camera again. ”Perhaps it is better if you believe that. Please return to strutting around your technical area. That is great content.”

”I don’t strut,” I said. ”Go and get some footage of Maddy trying to cheer us on while she’s in agony; that’s visceral as fuck.”

Henri turned, realised I was right, and rushed towards the dugout. ”Maddy! Maddy! Does it hurt? Talk to Papa Lyons.”

***

A few hours later, we were all up in the player’s lounge in the McNally, along with half the men’s team and loads of extended friends and family. The Smith-Smithes were there, signing up a storm with Elin. Zach Green was with Brooke Star, clearly smitten. Briggy had been deep in conversation with Ryan Jack. Christian Fierce was holding his little daughter, who was in a Black Panther t-shirt.

I couldn’t see Charlie Dugdale.

A hush had come over the previously boisterous group because we were glued to the screens as we watched the draw being made for the next round of the Women’s FA Cup. A lot rested on what happened next. There were some teams we could beat without using Bench Boost. There were a handful who would crush us like a bug.

The first name out of the hat was Manchester United Women. ”No no no,” I mumbled, fingers steepled in front of my face.

Emma, recovered from her big night out, was amused. ”Praying, Max?”

”Course not,” I said, as the next team was drawn. Not us. ”Oh, praise Jesus,” I said. ”Praise the Lord.”

The next home team out of the hat - why were they doing it so quickly? That made it worse somehow - was Charlton Athletic Women. ”WSL 2,” I said. ”Might be the best we can do...”

We didn’t come out next. ”Aw,” said Emma, trying hard to give a shit.

Next was Lewes. ”Oh!” I said. ”This would be a dream. We’re in the Northern Premier; they’re in the Southern Premier. That’s the same level,” I added, because the pyramid was confusing. ”We’d be favourites for - ”

There was a huge cheer as our ball was plucked out. ”Is that good?” squeaked Emma, as I squeezed her tight.

”That’s good, babes.” We would beat Lewes using a straight 3-5-2, perhaps with a little Bestball thrown in just for fun. That would put us into the quarters, which of course would be harder but we would have some powerful perks to deploy. I bit my bottom lip as I transported myself two months into the future. I could actually hear Henri’s voice as my Bench Boosted talents finished crushing Aston Villa or Reading or Brighton. ’So, Max? Ooh do you want in the semi-final?’ I lifted my fiancée aloft - just for a few seconds she enjoyed being a trophy wife. ”That’s really, really good.”