Soccer Supremo - A Sports Progression Fantasy

3.

Cold Open

Emma squeezed my hand as the names were drawn. The Champions League first-round qualifier! I had been splashing the cash, so Saltney had to get through a few rounds just to stay afloat. Staying afloat was always top of one’s mind when one was on a yacht, but progressing through the qualifiers and entering the group stage of the CL was worth 18 million quid. 18 million! I could invest 5 in the club, pay off 3 mill of MD’s loan, and keep 10 mill for myself.

I would be sacked by Chester, but with ten million quid in the bank, I could use my free time to scout a location for my dream home. Close to Chester? That wouldn’t be a factor in a few months. Halfway between Chester and Manchester? Somewhere with plenty of space for me and my family, my precious go-kart track, a hedgehog sanctuary, and, of course, my rescue pig fun park.

I had the feed on mute because the voice of anyone representing UEFA made my skin crawl. The subtitles were enough.

’Saltney Town...’

Emma squeezed my hand so hard all the bones would have broken if she didn’t have tiny girl hands and power to match.

’Will play...’

Ah, now that was starting to hurt. Good job, girl! She had ascended to Wife Strength.

’Will play Pestis FC.’

”Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I said, pissed. Pestis were the club I had humiliated when I was temporarily in charge of Bayern Munich. My dream had been to get Hungary kicked out of UEFA, but that hadn’t come close to happening. At least Hungarian teams had been banned from playing in their home country, where homophobia was enshrined into the law of the land.

’The first leg will take place in Budapest on the 4th of July.’

”No!” I yelled. ”What the fuck!”

Emma was on her phone, tapping away. ”Pestis are... They’re allowed back in their stadium. When was this announced? They’ve tried to sneak them back in, babes!”

White dots were appearing in my vision, and it was nothing to do with the curse. The idea that I would have to go to Budapest to risk my life to play a football match left me fuming, made me absolutely livid, but one thought took the edge off. I needed that 18 million. I was a married man these days; my first responsibility was to Emma and my future family. When it came to standing up to the fascist fuckwit who ran Hungary, I had done everything I could. Last time, my arm had been broken and I had fled in the boot of a car. Was I supposed to offer up more bones?

I felt my face harden. ”I stick my neck out for nobody.”

Honeymoon Week 1 - Emma Gets Me All to Herself

There was absolutely nothing I needed.

I sauntered into the hotel’s restaurant, hands in my pockets, head in the clouds.

What a wonderful world! What a time to be alive!

Just me and Emma and no-one else. Life as God intended it.

”Max! Don’t you dare ignore us! Come and sit at once!”

I let out a dramatic sigh and looked down. Hogging the best breakfast table, as always, were two elderly English women called Irene and Rita. They were feeble and shrivelled but their eyes shone with wicked amusement. I couldn’t tell which roles they would play in an Agatha Christie book - murderers or detectives. ”Why would I spend my honeymoon chatting to a couple of spinsters?” I said this while easing down into a chair opposite them. They had the view of the burnished sky, the volcano, and most dramatic of all, my hair. I had a view of them. ”One of you swap places with me.”

”Shan’t,” said Irene. ”We aren’t your football players to be bossed around.”

”Meester Max,” said a cute Spanish waitress. ”Tea or coffee?”

”Gala,” I said, locking eyes with her. ”I wrote you a poem.”

”Another?” she said, impressed.

”It’s superficially similar to the others,” I admitted. I cleared my throat and took ten percent off my volume and speed. ”Roses are red, my heart is too. If I wasn’t married, I would give it to you.”

Gala smiled. ”Yes, is much better than yesterday.”

”Will I write it on a card and you can stick it on your fridge?”

”I think no, not this.”

”Wow,” I said, turning away. ”Tea, please.”

”I have questions,” said Rita, as the waitress swayed off with a big smile on her face (citation needed). ”About this club of yours. This Chester.”

”I don’t talk to the gutter press, so good luck with that,” I scoffed, leaning back, stretching one palm on the wooden table. Emma had booked the same room in the same hotel in Tenerife in which I had recovered from my coma. This time we could have the holiday she had dreamed of. ”I’m on my honeymoon. There is to be no talk of football.”

”My nephew Paul says you did a transfer.”

”Yeah, signed a centre back on loan from Everton. Good player.”

”Ooh, gosh,” said Irene. ”On loan. What does that mean?”

”Everton have too many players. I have too few. They are lending me one for this season. Murray Burnett, 22, English. Tall, physical, has had a bit of Prem experience but needs a run and we can give it to him.” Murray was CA 150, PA 164, and was costing 45,000 a week in wages. 3.5 million all-in, including a small loan fee paid to Everton. Pretty good deal, but one I wouldn’t have done if I thought we would stay in the Prem.

Rita said, ”You have too few players? What kind of manager are you? Whatever does Emma see in you?”

”She sees my seven-pack. They didn’t have seven-packs when you were young. They’re new.”

Rita said, ”I bagged a twelve-pack once.”

”Oh?”

”Six of one, half a dozen of the other.” She cackled.

I shook my head in disbelief. ”You are the dirtiest old women ever. It’s actually scandalous.”

“How did you two meet?”

It took me a second to remember. “Of all the delis in all the towns in all the world, she walked into mine.”

“That’s nice.”

”My nephew Paul sent me an article in The Sportsman. Let me see here. It goes something a little like this. Hem hem. Chester will enter the Premier League with the least-prepared squad of all time, the youngest manager, no fixed tactics, and half a stadium. Derby County, who hold the unwanted record of having the lowest points tally in a PL season, will be licking their lips, while fans of Chester will soon be reminded of the axiom that what goes up must come down.”

”Tell your nephew Paul you’re cutting him out of your will if he sends you more claptrap.”

”Is it wrong?”

”No, it’s bang on. I don’t want to hear it on my honeymoon, though, do I?” I grinned. ”Anyway, there’s still time for me to sign a top striker and a Swedish wonderkid.”

Irene said, ”Aren’t you going to go to the buffet?”

”I’ll wait for Ems. It’s more romantic that way.”

Rita lifted her phone, moved her glasses onto the top of her head, and read something. The font was so big there was barely one letter on the screen at a time. ”This gentleman of the press describes Chester FC as impecunious.”

I pursed my lips. ”What has snooker got to do with anything?” Irene cackled at that.

Rita eyed me. ”It means lacking in wealth.”

”Totes, yeah. We’re the poorest team to reach the top-flight maybe ever.”

”And is that very bad?”

I shrugged. ”Football is a talent business. Have you heard of Messi?”

”Yes.”

”He was pretty much the best midfielder plus the best forward. You could say if you’ve got him on your team it’s like you’ve got 12 players. Or he gives you a half a goal head start every match. Something like that. Whatever you pay him, he’s worth more. That’s top talent, right? I was reading about Claude Rains the other day. He was the first actor ever to be paid a million dollars for a movie.”

”Which movie was it?”

”Something with Julius Caesar,” I said. ”He was Caesar. The way I thought about it was if you need a top, famous actor to be Caesar there aren’t so many candidates because you need the right gender, age, looks, voice, and every element is gonna push the price up. If I need a goalscoring wide forward with pace, that’s gonna cost. If I need it urgently, that’s gonna cost more. If I need him to be English to fill a quota, wow. Double everything. It’s a talent business. Money talks. You can list teams in order of how much they pay in player wages and that will more or less be the final league table.”

”What a terribly thrilling sport!” said Rita, so earnestly it took me a second to realise I was being rinsed.

Emma arrived, carrying a backpack for some reason. She placed it between us and kissed me on the forehead. ”Good morning, Mr. Babes.”

”Good morning, Mrs. Babes.”

”Emma,” said Irene. ”What’s 9 times 9?”

”81.”

”Oh. How very disappointing.”

Emma frowned slightly. ”Why?”

Irene pointed to me. ”He told us he had banged your brains out.” She cackled.

Rita slapped her on the arm. ”Stop that! Emma, take no notice. Max said nothing of the sort. He’s a lovely young man. Also, he said ploughed.”

As you might guess, Emma found the whole thing hilarious, and we went to load plates with morning scran. Grilled veggies, grilled halloumi, grilled bread (AKA toast). When we returned, the grilling resumed. ”How dire is your situation?”

”Mmm,” I said, munching on a croissant. ”I could say that there is one player at one team who earns as much as my entire playing budget, but let’s do a comparison using... cake! There are three or four clubs in England who have giant cakes. What’s the biggest cake? One of those showstoppers from Bake Off?”

”Wedding cake,” said Emma.

”Good call! Big wedding cake, three tiers. Now, it is reported that Manchester City have a secret under-the-table cake, too, located in Abu Dhabi, so the jaw-dropping salaries they report are only half the story! Also, they don’t pay for ingredients in the UK. They have a chain of bakeries around the world, see?”

Emma shook her head. ”What are you blibbering on about?”

”Nothing, nothing. I don’t believe the allegations about the secret cakes. Not even for a second! After the wedding cake clubs, you’ve got a bunch who have big, hefty chocolate cakes. Then come the muffin clubs. Wolves are a cupcake. And all the way down at the bottom you’ve got Chester FC. We are a single atom of self-raising flour.”

Emma shook her head. ”Sorry, Mr. Babes, but that doesn’t make sense. You can only have an atom of an element. Cake isn’t an element. God, I wish it was. You should say a molecule of self-raising flour.” She slapped me on the arm. ”That reminds me! The Tranmere lot signed the contract. It’s a done deal. I brought your laptop.”

”Oh, top!”

”What’s this?” said Rita.

I opened the laptop and typed out an email while Emma explained. ”The owners of Tranmere Rovers hired Max as a consultant last season, and they want to do it again.”

”Lovely.”

It was lovely, in fact. A lovely half a million quid for five minutes’ work. It hadn’t been easy working out the terms, because Diggy Doggy’s group wanted to pay me a percentage of any transfer profits I generated for them. I pushed back, saying it could take two or three years to see results and you couldn’t hurry a player’s development. The investors eventually agreed to pay a flat fee, and in return I would recommend a bunch of players that Jackie could improve. My focus was on players in the PA 110 to 120 range. Bottom half of the Championship. Next season, if the investors were happy, we could negotiate a deal in which I would get paid if they were promoted, which of course I was already secretly setting up. Being a genius is really sweet, sometimes.

The email I was writing was a simple list of names with dates of birth and the last clubs the players had played for. That was to make it totally sure they signed the right Michael Browns or whatever. Because I liked to overdeliver, I added a suggested pay scale, too.

There were eight players on the list. Two free agents, two foreign lads who would take up ESC slots, two guys from relegated teams who should be cheap to get. Include the two players I wanted to loan them and Jackie Reaper would start the season in very good shape.

I got that email typed, then texted Alfie Clitheroe and Adam Summerhays telling them their Tranmere loans were definitely going ahead.

All the Chester players I was loaning out were getting pay rises to sweeten the deal and while there was natural disappointment that they wouldn’t get to play in the Prem (yet), the lads understood.

”Bosh!” I said, as I pressed send on the texts and the email at the same time, which was more fun than it sounds.

My phone vibrated. There were many unread notifications, but the latest was from Pascal.

I’m available.

”Soz, ladies, can I make a quick call?”

”Max is handing out pay rises like there’s no tomorrow,” said Emma.

”That’s because there isn’t going to be a tomorrow.” I hugged her from behind and pointed at the spinsters. ”Don’t let this pair lead you astray.”

I strolled outside, around the pool, towards the strange, alien landscape.

Our honeymoon had settled into a pattern. Lazy breakfast during which we would talk to randos while I did enough business to feel like the day had already been productive, and after a spa session and a few chapters of our books, we would go for a long walk, a bike ride, or to play footgolf. Once a day we would go to a football pitch, where Emma would ’coach’ me while I practised free kicks and corners. Then a nap, dinner, and what top international businessmen like me called a daily debrief.

Chester’s budget for the first team hadn’t been fixed yet, not officially, but there was a simple number I could work with: 700,000 a week. When we got relegated, we would be given a parachute payment of 40 million quid. Realistically, we would lose a bunch of players next summer, and most would have pay cuts factored into their contracts, but still, in the first season back in the Championship, the club should be able to spend 40 million in wages without blinking.

I had already improved a few contracts, with the new terms due to kick in at the start of July.

Peter Bauer was more than trebling his pay. He would be getting 18,000 a week, as would Owen Elmham. Lewis Lamarre was going to 19 thousand. Gabby was getting twenty, Youngster thirty. The goofy little weirdo had signed a four-year contract that would guarantee him six million before tax.

Oh, and one minor deal to mention. I had bumped the pay of a lad called Max Best. Can’t remember the exact amount, but it was somewhere between 49 and 51. Thousand pounds. A week.

The call connected. ”Yes, gaffer?”

”Pascal, bro. How’s it going? Don’t answer that; I’m on my honeymoon. I just want to get some improved contracts sorted out so that the enormous pile of work gets smaller, not bigger.”

”I understand completely.”

I perched on a low brick wall and let my eyes rest on the volcanic rocks that gently sloped upwards. Last time I was here, I had wanted to prove my fitness by climbing the Teide. Now I was almost certainly the fittest man on the island, but could potentially be one of the least fit players in the top tier. ”Premier League, mate. It’s crazy. Teams of runners. Giant, hulking brutes who run fast and run endlessly. How am I going to use you? Honestly? Sparingly. Probably a lot of appearances as a sub. If we can get a lead, you’ll come on so we can pick teams off on counters. If we’re ever against a low block, you’ll find pockets of space so we can get through. But there’s gonna be a lot of game states and match types where you’re an unused sub. It could be a long season, mate.” Pascal’s PA was relatively low, only 135. ”Personally, I’d like to have you around because when it’s the right game for Pascal, Christ is it going to be the right game. But if you want to play thirty-plus games this season you need a move and we can talk about that.”

”Please skip to the part where you tell me my new salary.”

”Mate! I need to make sure you know it’s going to be tough.”

”It is going to be tough.”

I laughed. He was far more intelligent than the average player, but he was still a footballer, which meant I wouldn’t get any sense from him until I had said a number. ”I want to double your salary.”

”Oh,” he said, flatly. Pascal was on 4,200 a week, and I was suggesting he would get 8,400. Over four hundred grand a year; a vast sum by normal standards, but he would be one of the lower-paid members of the squad. ”I know you have doubled some players but more than doubled others.”

”Yep.” I waited for him to say the next thing.

”This offer mirrors my worth to the club.”

”It reflects that you’ve earned a pay rise, that you are a valuable member of the squad, that I plan to squeeze the most juice out of you that I can get. Also,” I added, ”that I want you around to help us get back up if we go down.”

”I see.” He chewed it over for a while. What he was hearing was that I thought he was a Championship player. ”Where else would I go? It is probably a fair offer. But I should talk to Ruth.”

Pascal had joined Ruth’s agency a couple of years ago, which meant I had a stake in his financial well-being. I was taking good care of Chester’s money - too well, some fans would think when the transfer window closed - but if some cash splashed over the sides of my cup, no real harm would be done. ”I’ve already workshopped that meeting and I know how that conversation is going to go. She’s going to say mean things, grab me by the nuts, and refuse to let go until I agree to give you ten grand a week.”

”Ten grand!”

”Yeah. I want to change your 2 plus 1 to a straight 3, relegation clause so the club doesn’t go bankrupt because of you, but when we win the Championship next season, you automatically go back to 10k. It’s all laid out, nice and simple, so that you have financial certainty no matter who the manager is.”

”Don’t talk like that.”

”Mate! It’s my job to make sure you’re looked after in all scenarios. 2 plus 1 is fine if I’m in charge, right, but what if the next manager is Ian Evans and he doesn’t like the cut of your jib? Nah, we’re doing it like this. Say you agree so that I can get on with my honeymoon.”

I heard his grin. ”I agree.”

”Call your agent and compliment her on her tough negotiation style.”

He laughed. ”I will do that.”

I rang off, satisfied. Eleven down, seven to go. I would probably do Bark or Cole Adams tomorrow; they would be easy. Even if Helge and Wibbers pushed hard for big money, the club would easily be able to afford them. Keeping the old gang together would be a piece of piss - for one more season, at least.

My share of the REM income was becoming considerable, too. Pascal’s improved terms would push me towards 450 grand a year.

The main reason I was happy to sort out Pascal’s future was that the post-season curse update had happened. There was an interesting and unexpected change to the perk shop, which I will describe later. More prosaically, reputation scores had updated, which meant more players in the database were interested in joining my clubs. The coaching staff’s profiles had updated, and the once-per-season perks had reset.

Thanks to perks called God Save the King and God Save the Queen, I had the option to improve one Attribute on one male player and one female player. I wasn’t sure what I would do with the women’s team, but for the men it was simple.

I upgraded Pascal’s Off the Ball rating from 20 to 21, which increased his CA and PA from 135 to 138.

Strolling back towards the dining area, I allowed myself to daydream about Pascal’s future. After one phone call, he was much closer to being a top-quality player. If he gained another 3 PA in the next two seasons, and maybe 4 each in the following two...

”Aged 27 he could be PA 152,” I said. ”Assuming I don’t find a better target in the meantime.” And assuming I still had the curse.

I turned around slowly, taking in the luxury spa hotel’s pool and immaculate staff. The warmth of the sun, the consistency of the weather, the quiet, the way my squads were filling up nicely. On days like these it was hard to think of the curse as a bad thing.

Back at the breakfast table, Emma said, ”Babes. This is our last day with Irene and Rita.”

”Oh, no!” I said, and for a moment I was actually moved. ”Ah, well. Ladies? I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”

”Show us yer abs,” said Irene, before cackling madly.

***

Chester’s first team wages: 293,000

Budget: 700,000

Surplus: 407,000.

***

Honeymoon Week 2 - Eurout of Your Mind

As Euro 28 kicked off, there were many things I wanted, such as minutes for Helge and my Slovakians, but there was only one thing I needed: for England to face Wales. There was a chance that could happen in the Round of 16 (if both teams finished second), but even with the odious Alan Turner in charge, England had so much talent they were likely to top their group.

That meant Wales needed to do the same and for both teams to win their Round of 16 matches. It was quite a lot to ask given that Wales had Portugal and Slovakia in their group, but I desperately wanted the chance to show the world that Turner’s amorality and cowardice would prevent England from winning anything.

I once again set Llewellyn ’Well In’ Kendrick as my ’ally’, meaning I would be able to help Wales with a half-strength Bench Boost, and had a quick chat with him almost every day to help as much as I could.

The tournament started with Wales being battered by Slovakia but somehow fluking a 1-1 draw, and the next day England roared out of the blocks, got two goals ahead against Belgium, and shut up shop.

It didn’t seem that I was going to get the chance to poke Alan Turner in his blind eye after all.

Well, shit.

***

Emma was keeping me in the dark about our schedule, which added a little excitement to our days, but there were plenty of moments of blissful boredom. When books and podcasts didn’t hit the spot, I browsed the database in my head, comparing players who had contracts expiring soon or who had relegation clauses that meant I would be able to buy them on the cheap.

And I reviewed the message I got when the curse had updated:

UNIQUE SPECIAL OFFER!

New perk available until the end of the season: The Perk Construction Kit.

Cost: The PCK will unlock once all other perks are bought.

Effects: With the Perk Construction Kit, system users will be able to design their own perks! It’s fun and easy. When a new perk is suggested by the system user, a cost will be calculated. The user may then decide to buy the perk he has designed, or not.

To prevent abuse of the system by users with a history of abusing the system, a maximum of one perk design can be submitted per day.

Yeah, interesting, and potentially amazing, but what it meant in the medium term was that I had to buy all the useless junk that was currently in the shop, and I had to do it before the season ended. Ah, well. Whatevs. The imps didn’t seem to realise that I would soon be stepping back from the hotseat and that my years of grinding were behind me. I would chip away at the task without much fuss.

***

We left Tenerife on a yacht and sailed along the coast of North Africa. One time, our captain informed us that we were drawing level with Marrakesh, which was inland, and we popped into a port town called El Jaddida for a couple of days of sightseeing and watching Euro 28 games in bars. I hit Playdar, because why not, but couldn’t get to the relevant location.

I didn’t worry about it for long, because it became clear to me that Emma’s plan all along was to take me to Casablanca.

Casablanca! My favourite movie!

I giddily counted down the nautical miles, and leaned off the starboard side of the boat like a happy dog, only to have to do some amazing acting to hide my disappointment as we breezed right on past. Quietly, I muttered, ”Here’s looking at you, kid.”

”What did you say, babes?”

”Nothing, babes. It’s all good.”

I went to the maps again and realised we were heading to Gibraltar. The Rock.

The Rock! My favourite movie!

***

We used my flat in the national stadium as a base to do tourist things. Walks, bike rides, more sailing around more coasts, doubling the wages of Roddy Jones, tripling them for Bark. It was unhurried and chill, but in most of the evenings we had company for meals.

We had dinner with Mateo, Rachel, and their bodyguard John Driver. We had breakfast with Glenn Ryder, who didn’t seem too put out that every year I moved him ’down’ a rung on the Gibraltarian football ladder.

The next evening there was a very pleasant surprise - Brooke and Zach, plus MD and Gwen from the Welsh FA. MD was piling up the conflicts of interest, and who could blame him? Gwen had come as a quick distraction from her duties. For her sake - and MD’s - I hoped the distraction wouldn’t be too quick.

***

The six of us had a pre-dinner gossip sesh. Gwen bitched about UEFA and how annoying their staff were, how stressful it was to run a tournament. She said she had heard that I was trying to help the Welsh team and she thanked me for that.

”I just wish I could do more,” I said. The farther Wales progressed in the tournament, the more money the Welsh FA would get.

She shook her head. ”We knew your input would pay off long-term. This tournament’s a little early to see the fruits of your labours, isn’t it?”

MD said, ”I’ve got some gossip you might find useful. West Brom are in the mud, financially. If you like any of their players, they might be going cheap.”

”Huh,” I said, bringing up a couple of profiles. West Brom had been flying high in the Championship, and they had some good players and a couple of exciting youngsters. ”Yeah, that’s good to know. I’ll have a think and maybe we’ll pile in. But soz, everyone, can I have a private chat with Brooke and MD? Won’t take long.”

I took Brooke and MD to a crevice.

”Okay,” I said, gathering my thoughts. ”Premier League, whuuuut? The numbers we are dealing with are surreal. Do you remember I had to beg for eight grand to buy Steve Alton?”

MD smiled. ”I do, but let’s cover the basics so that we can get back to the group.”

”Get back to the group,” I scoffed. ”Get back to the babe, you mean. We’re gonna get 109 mill in broadcast money. Brooke, what are your projections for other revenue?”

”The baseline for gate money will be about five and a half million but we can talk about that over dinner.”

That was odd. ”Er, okay.”

”Commercial, I was shooting for 12 million but after mulling it over, I’m hoping to squeeze a couple more million from the sleeve sponsorship and the perimeter advertising.”

”14 million,” I said, deeply impressed. Okay, that was shit for a top Premier League team but it represented amazing growth and if I had my maths straight, it compared quite well to some of the smaller clubs.

”For the sleeve sponsors, we’ve got offers from a Swiss company called Comparis, plus a couple of others. My plan is to play the others against each other to drive their bids up, because if both fall out, we’ll always have Comparis.” I waited for her to look at the reader and wink, but she kept talking. ”I really want to push our merch. We should be able to triple our income there. We will have slightly more coming in from the pitch rentals. All told, I’m aiming to bring in 26 million from non-broadcast sources.”

”That’s such a sexy number.”

”Surprisingly,” said Brooke, ”if we include your transfer profits, our total revenue wouldn’t be all that terrible in comparison with Burnley, Wolves, and so on. The main issue is that we can’t make a loss, ever, because unlike those clubs we don’t have a rich owner who can fund a loss-making enterprise.”

I let these astronomical numbers wash over me for a while, then shook my head. ”I assume this rapid growth is partly dependent on us hiring a bunch more staff. Mike, when I took over, you were being superstitious, refusing to use the word relegation. We called it Scenario B, remember? Well, Scenario B is now Scenario A so please hire the minimum number of new staff because any excess are going to lose their jobs at the end of the season. Keep that in mind when you’re hiring, Brooke. That said, we will have some flex to carry some extra costs down into the Champ.”

”The parachute payments,” said MD.

”Right. That’s why I want to set my starting budget at 700,000 a week.” Even though I had been in contact with him, the poor guy nearly choked to death right there and then. I think it was the first time he had heard the number said out loud. ”That’s the parachute payment amount, remember. Every player so far has agreed to a relegation release clause, so I’m being mega conservative. I don’t even think I’ll get close to 700, but if we sign four key players that could be 200 grand a week. Our budget could escalate quickly, is what I’m saying, so I want that head room. I want to set 700 as a working amount.”

MD was having a mid-life crisis right in front of our eyes, but he recovered pretty well. ”Let me crunch the numbers with Brooke. It seems doable but I’m worried about guys coming in on outrageous salaries, getting injured, being impossible to shift. You are a fan of Sunderland ’Til I Die. They signed a top prospect on 80,000 a week, he never played, and they were still carrying those wages in League One!”

I waved away his worries. ”They didn’t have a relegation clause, MD. They were idiots! If someone wants to come here but won’t sign a relegation clause, he doesn’t really want to come, does he? So he can get fucked. I only want good characters. I think when you hear my plans, you’ll be begging me to sign some flashy shitheads instead.”

”Oh, Christ,” he said. ”I hate this. Can’t we go back to the National League North? I liked it there. I was happy there!”

”Soz not soz.”

Brooke said, ”We have a birthday present for you.”

”Oh?”

MD regained some of his usual poise. ”That’s right. Here.”

He showed me a photo of a document. I clasped my hands together. ”It’s just what I always wanted!”

MD tutted, but he was smiling. ”We couldn’t bring it here, could we? It’s a contract.”

”Uh...”

”A three-year contract on ifty a week.” He said fifty quietly, almost inaudibly, like it was a dirty word. Back in his normal voice, he continued. ”If we have to fire you, as you fear, it won’t be me. I’d rather quit than do that, unless you go totally off the rails. The new MD will know that sacking you will mean paying the rest of this contract, which will cost the club 7.8 million pounds. It’s a considerable amount, even for a Premier League club, so the sheer cost of sacking you might buy you some time. Enough time to turn things around.”

”Mate,” I said, truly amazed, although later I remembered that this had been my idea in the first place. ”This is...”

”You have earned it, I would say. But also...” He looked at Brooke, who nodded. MD got cheeky. ”It’s a gamble. I’m gambling that you’ll survive the sticky patch at the start of the season and then we’ll have you! Chester will have you locked in for another three years and those will be even more amazing than anything you have done so far! And if another club wants to poach you, they’ll have to buy your fucking contract!” He jabbed me with his finger. ”Either you’ll get this money, or the club will, and I like my chances.” He slapped his phone. ”This will be ready for you to sign when you get back home.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from NovelFire; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I was torn between laughing and crying so I fell back on an old staple, quoting my favourite movies. ”I’m shocked - shocked! - to find gambling going on in here!”

***

The six of us ate and talked shit. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the only one with insane plans, but we’ll get to that.

I told the others that I wanted to buy ’some office space’ near Bumpers, and that I thought there was value to be had across the river. ”Ten percent yield, too,” I said, carefully not mentioning that I wanted to build a bridge. ”So as well as solving a problem and future-proofing the club - oh, and getting us more parking spaces! - it’ll generate income. Also, I want to expand Winsford, Brooke. The first pitch is coming online soon, but let’s just go the whole hog and finish the project. That’ll be two mill or so. Gwen, you came with us to see Winsford, didn’t you? You saw the potential for a big footy centre there. And I want to buy the five-a-side gaff that’s a stone’s throw from the Deva. Four million for a quick deal and they have to throw in a copy of their booking software. If they don’t agree to sell or they play hardball, we’ll build our own centre near theirs and ruin their business with crazy low prices. Oh, prices! I want to increase the base cost of a match day ticket.”

”What?” said MD, astonished. ”You always fought against price increases!”

”From a 20 pound base price,” I said, ”to 20 pounds twenty-eight pence.” I leaned forward towards Gwen. ”Because it’s the year 2028.”

She smiled. ”The season runs into 2029.”

”At which point,” I said, magnificently, puffing myself up but then losing confidence in the bit. ”Yeah, you get the idea. It’ll be funny. I’m thinking every season we do a huge, regretful marketing campaign. What’s the word? Self-flagellating. Soz but we have to put prices up, boo hoo. Except it goes up by one pence every year. The media will compare us to Spurs and Arsenal where it’s inflation-busting rises year after year. Everyone’s second-favourite club. Bosh.

”Right, so listen. Getting to the Prem is fun and whatever but it comes with costs. We need to rush Bumpers Phase Two and Three, we need to spend millions on cables and shit for the outside broadcast units, we need to make special TV gantries on the roof of the main stand. We need tons of new employees, need to make sure all our volunteers are employed and drenched in cash. Oh, I want a new Sealbiscuit for the men’s team. The current one can go to the women full-time. Which reminds me, I’m going to spend crazy money on the women’s team. Money is going to flow out of this club like wine at a stag party.”

”You haven’t mentioned transfers,” said Zach.

”Right now I’m mostly looking at loans and frees,” I said. ”But I’ll spend five to ten mill on the women and the youth team. Basically, what I’m saying is, it’s very expensive to be given loads of cash suddenly, so there’s less money for transfers and wages than you would think. That’s the official line, please spread it.”

Brooke was watching me like a hawk. ”Have you finished? Okay, y’all, I had a swell time back home, getting married, starting our honeymoon, freely using the word ’soccer’ as God intended. Max, I already gave the go-ahead to speed up the construction of the PetPride.”

”What’s that?” said Gwen.

”Extra crews, extra teams, to get the stand up and ready in record time. Spend five million pounds to get five million in extra income by the end of the season. It’s a financial wash, but it’s more atmosphere, more fans who get to see Chester in the Premier League. I believe in Max but it’s possible this might be the only time this happens and so it’s vital we get every seat possible online as fast as poss. Right, Max?”

She was up to something, but only I realised it. I felt some of the old electricity in the air. She was playing a game, just as she had when she was trying to get the job. I bit my lip while I tried to work out her angle. ”Right.”

”We’ve heard about Max’s idea to spend our boon on the nearby five-a-side centre and to buy some ugly ol’ office buildin’s across the river. Just like Pep Guardiola would do, or Jurgen Klopp!”

”Babes, she’s making fun of me!”

Brooke took out a pen, grabbed a napkin, and drew a rectangle. ”This here’s what I’m gonna call a soccer pitch until my honeymoon is over!” She drew the three stands of the Deva, with a hashed rectangle to represent the PetPride. ”We’re missin’ a stand, for a few months at least. Reduced capacity at the worst possible time. Our first - perhaps our only - at-bat in the big leagues. So how about...” She drew four little curves next to the stands. ”Corners.”

”Corners?” I said, pulling a face.

She gave me a sweet smile. ”Not your full-sized, permanent affairs. I know you want the stadium to be traditional, with the corners empty, so I’m talking, small, temporary, like the stand Wrexham had up for a couple of seasons. These corners would seat 780 folks each. That’s 3,120 extra per game. Three thousand fans of the future, three thousand tickets we can pitch to tourists so that what you’d call a real fan doesn’t want to sell his ticket to make a quick buck. Normally I would say these seats would be offered cheap but every seat is cheap! It’s an extra 60 grand per match, plus burgers an’ beers and footfall in the shops. Heck, think of all the extra tattoos!” She tapped her drawing. ”This is a two-million pound idea.” She leaned back, very pleased with herself.

Emma started a slow clap. Gwen joined in, then me, MD, and by the time Zach got in on the act, Brooke was on her feet, bowing, laughing.

”I think I might have had too much wine,” I said, ”because I like it. But how does this work when the PetPride is just a hole in the ground?”

”It should work,” she said, ”and the hole won’t be a hole for long but if there is an issue, we start with the ones beside the Main Stand and add the others as soon as it’s practical.”

I couldn’t think of an objection, and I found myself nodding harder and harder. I liked it a lot! It also showed that Brooke had spent her time away thinking about Chester. Not Middlesbrough or whatever American organisations had tried to woo her, but Chester. The thought made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I pointed at her. ”Marriage looks good on you.”

”I could say the same about you.”

Gwen said, ”But won’t the cost of the temporary stands come out of your transfer budget?”

Brooke said, ”No. Well, sorta. They would come out in the summer window but go back in time for January.”

I raised a glass to Gwen, then gestured towards MD and Brooke. ”This is a little game we play. They put things on the bill, I tear up the bill. It is very convenient.”

***

The next night, Ruth and the Brig came to visit. We ate on the superyacht that was moored in the marina; the food was good and the view even better. As well as catching some sun, Ruth had two clients she wanted to fight for in person: Cole Adams and Wibbers.

”Cole’s on 3,500 a week,” she said. ”He’s your best left back, he can play on the left of a three, he came this close to being named in the Ireland squad for the Euros.”

Cole was 22, had two years left on his deal, and was CA 136, PA 147. He would hit his ceiling this season and spend the next decade playing for top Championship clubs or being a handy squad member for a lower-ranked Premier League club. If Pascal was utterly useless in the Prem, Cole would be a decent option to get the God Save the King boost next season. Maybe we could push him over CA 150... Maybe I could use the Perk Construction Kit to let me dish out more than one boost per season. ”Nine grand a week,” I said, in an attempt to skip some of Ruth’s grandstanding.

”Thirty.”

I must have looked like MD for a second. ”You’re joking.”

”I’m not.”

So far, my professional relationship with Ruth had been extremely good. We had seen eye-to-eye about balancing player development with getting paid, and she hadn’t pushed back too much about my suggested pay increases. But with only two clients left to finalise, she had apparently realised that much of my enormous war chest was going to be spent on other players and she was going to push me hard, just for the thrill of the deal. It pissed me off. ”No deal. Tell your client he won’t get a pay rise this summer. If he wants to look for another club, I won’t stand in his way.”

Emma was shocked. ”Max!”

”Based on his performances and how he shows in the data, I reckon Chester could get around three million for him.”

”Similar to Zach Green, then,” said Ruth. ”What’s he getting at Middlesbrough? Cole should get that plus a Premier League bonus. Thirty thousand.”

”Boro are overpaying for three reasons. One, Zach’s American, which could be good for some of their sponsors. Two, on the pitch leadership. Three, the club want to be in pole position to recruit Brooke when the Chester adventure comes to an abrupt end. A better comp for Cole is Joel Reid. He’s getting ten grand at Hull.”

”Ten grand?” said Ruth, in a disgusted tone. ”For a Premier League, international left back?”

”He has one cap and he has never played in the Prem.” I scoffed. ”I don’t even need left backs. Left backs are so 1990s.”

”Fifteen thousand,” said Ruth. ”No cut for relegation.”

”Don’t even go there,” I said. ”I’m not putting the club’s stability at risk for anyone. Eleven thousand this season, he drops down to 4,000 in the Champ.”

”Fourteen thousand now, six thousand Champ, three million release clause.”

My jaw dropped. ”He doesn’t get a release clause! He’s a solid Championship player! The only ones who get a release clause are the guys who should be playing in the Prem!”

”Fourteen thousand, six thousand Champ, five million release clause.”

I looked for help from Emma and the Brig, and got none. It was all Monopoly money to them, and they only cared about the human beings behind it all. To Ruth, I said, ”Thirteen, five and a half, no release clause, extend to three years and as a special bonus I won’t tell Cole how you nearly wrecked his career.”

”Dear God,” said the Brig.

Emma said. ”That sounds quite good to me, Ruth. It’s more than Pascal, more than Rushy.”

Ruth sighed and looked out onto the water. ”Fine.”

”Wibbers,” I said. ”Can’t wait to hear this. For the tape, Wibbers is 20 and he’s currently earning 7 grand a week.”

Ruth had become wary. ”He’s your best player, so - ”

”He’s not. He’s behind Murray Bennett, Owen, Marek, Lewis, Youngster, Leo, and me.” That was stretching things somewhat. Wibbers’ CA was equal to or a point higher than everyone except Murray, the defender we were loaning from Everton, and Owen. ”He’s our eighth-best player. Come back in a year and you might have a point, but for now, let’s try to keep things realistic.”

Ruth swore under her breath, ordered another drink, took a moment to compose herself, and said, ”Forty thousand a week.”

”Thirty,” I said.

”That’s - oh. I thought you would start much lower.”

”No, I would go higher, in fact, but he’s 20 years old. 21 on my spreadsheet. So far he has been really good with his money, hasn’t been flash, has been sensible, but 40 grand a week could wreck him. I think 30’s healthier, and when I first met them, I promised his mum and dad I wouldn’t let Wibbers turn into a basket case.”

”There’s no European football for him,” said Ruth. ”That incentive has always been your explanation for keeping his salary down, apart from the club’s lack of resources. You don’t have poverty as an excuse now and you won’t give him the footballing adventure he craves.”

”The Prem is the adventure this time. It’ll be really hard, even for him. When he gets a goal, he will have earned it. Look, put him at 30, if we get relegated he goes to 20, release clause 60 million quid. You’ll charge his next club a five mill agent fee and you’ll get Wibbers a five mill signing bonus.”

Ruth wasn’t happy. ”It’s not enough. 30,000 a week for one of the country’s top talents?”

”It’s almost the same as Leo, the Slovakian Messi. But Leo’s two years older and he understands the value of money.”

”Max! Wibbers is English. He scores more goals than Leo. He’s more exciting, more marketable. 40 is already well below par!”

I had an idea, and opened the calculator app on my phone. ”30 grand basic. That’s already more than treble. No-one should more than treble their wages in one summer.”

”Except you,” said Ruth.

I smiled. ”It wasn’t long ago that I couldn’t afford onions on my kebabs. I’m not gonna do anything extravagant with my money.”

”Except build a go-kart track and a pig sanctuary.”

”Who told you about that?” I said. Emma looked suspiciously innocent. ”Anyway, hang on a sec. Okay, let’s try this. If we stay in the Prem, Wibbers gets a half a mill bonus. That’s the extra ten grand a week. He might not get it, obvs, but if he does he’ll be a year older, a year wiser. Bosh. A solution as elegant and fair as its inventor.”

Emma gasped. ”Babes! Did you just invent performance-related pay?”

”I think I did, yes.”

Ruth was doing some calculations. I got the feeling she didn’t think much of my bonus idea, which might have been because she knew there was no chance of us staying in the Prem. ”Where does thirty K rank in the squad?”

”Um, joint-third,” I said. I would get 50, Leo Los 32, while Marek and Youngster were on 30.

”Babes,” said Emma. ”Don’t forget Murray.”

”Shit, right. He’s on more but that’s Everton money, if you get me. The way I think of him is that I’ve paid a flat fee to lend him for the year. I’m not counting his wages in any of my calcs. Wibbers would be third in the real list.”

Ruth said, ”Make it 30,500 and you’ve got a deal.”

I pinched my nose. ”Jesus Christ. Why?”

”So I can tell him how much you value him in words he can understand. He doesn’t want to hear that you don’t trust him with more pocket money.”

”Fine,” I said, pouring myself more water. ”Fine fine fine. Here’s me wanting to fight on the side of the underdog. Turns out to be a very expensive hobby.”

Emma put her fists to her eyes and mimed as though she were crying. ”Boo hoo! I get to play with my generational talent for another year! Boo hoo!”

I had to laugh, and any frostiness that had accrued inside me while defending my position was blasted away when Ruth said, ”Do you know what just happened?”

”We rinsed each other and both ended up feeling unclean?”

”Your share of REM’s income just hit five figures.”

I had added this data to the curse’s note-taking area, but it wasn’t a spreadsheet and the numbers didn’t automatically update. (Maybe that could be something for the Construction Kit?) I looked up while I changed the entries for Cole and Wibbers, got my calculator out to check my work, and smiled. My new cut was 10,800 a week. Over half a million a year! ”Can I be really obnoxious for a minute?”

”You?” said Ruth. ”Impossible.”

I grinned, attracted a waitress (easy), and ordered the coldest bottle of champagne. ”Emma was on Instagram the other day and there was another story about that skier, Eileen Gu, who made a hundred grand in prize money and 23 million in sponsorships. Apparently she was the 4th highest-paid female athlete in the world. That got me thinking about the men, and I found a graphic with the top 100. The usual suspects were at the top, but in 100th place was a basketball guy I’ve never heard of. His income was 98% his contract, 2% endorsements. The list was done in dollars and I looked it up and to get into 100th place, I would need to earn 28 million pounds.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. ”Where’s this going?”

I looked around, lowered myself, got quieter. ”Here’s one way this season could go. Saltney get into the Champions League qualifiers. That’s 18 million quid plus 2 million for every match they win. There are bonuses to pay out to our squad and costs of all kinds, but that could be a proper bonanza. Call it 10 mill so that I can keep the train chugging along in future seasons. If College get in the CL, I get half of that. Chalk up another 9 million, minus costs. The Magpies and Lions could chip in. If I sign a long-term Chester contract before they sack me, that’s 7 mill. Being employed for a few months plus my sponsorships, that could be another mill. Newport win the league? Mill. Tranmere half a mill. REM, half a mill.”

”DOVE,” said Emma.

”Right! It’s adding up. At the top end we’re looking at 30 mill. That would put me in the top 100 highest-earning sportsmen in the world.”

The Brig was impressed. ”I’ll drink to that.”

The champagne arrived, we toasted the absurd economics of sport, and I took a lusty swig of the bubbly.

***

Chester’s first team wages: 335,000

Budget: 700,000

Surplus: 365,000

***

The final dinner guest in Gibraltar was another agent - Don Pino.

It was surprising that Emma was in touch with him, and surprising that he knew my schedule.

”In the morning, Max, after breakfast, when you go to Mateo’s training centre to do your sprints and your set pieces, there will be a special visitor.”

I raised an eyebrow. ”Really? I hope it’s Emiliano’s mother.”

Emma folded her arms. ”Why do you say that, husband?”

”Because she’s fit. Duh!”

Don Pino watched in amazement as Emma tucked back into dinner while cackling. He said, ”I’m sorry to disappoint. In fact, it is a player I wish to pitch to you.”

I stopped chewing so I could appear suitably unimpressed.

Don Pino’s eyes twinkled. ”Fifty grand.”

”Pardon me?”

”The agent fee I will demand for helping to arrange this deal is fifty thousand pounds. No tricks, no hidden fees, no need to bite my head off as you did with poor Estevao. What? With a fee so low, you can’t object to my being a parasite.”

”I don’t mind a parasite. I object to a cut-rate one.” I resumed chewing. ”Okay. Tell me more.”

He grinned. ”I would like it to be a surprise. I don’t often get the better of you, do I? I would like to see you amazed.”

Annoying. I had spent two weeks being surprised every day, not knowing what Emma had planned for us, but do you know what really annoyed me? How excited I was getting. ”You seem confident I’ll want to do this deal.”

”You will want to do this deal. You can afford it, too. The transfer fee, the wages, the agent.”

I was shaking my head while grinning hard. ”What’s the catch?”

”No catch. The player is not one hundred percent sold on the idea of the move, but if you are charming, well...” He preened for a moment. ”It is the agent’s job to make things easy, no? I have made this very, very easy for you. You might perhaps thank me one day in the future. One day when I am down on my luck, you will remember the day that Don Pino handed you your dream striker.”

”Striker?” I said, surprised. ”Tell me more about him.”

Don Pino shook his head. ”Tomorrow, all will be revealed.”

”I’ll be there at six.”

”I will be there at ten.”

***

Mrs. Best and I ate at the training ground, and after taking a stroll together around the pristine grounds, I took a large bag of balls to a pitch and did some running, some shooting, and some tekkers. The latter involved Emma throwing balls at me that I had to control before weaving around mannequins, but she got bored and went to do some REM paperwork.

Imagine finding legal documents more interesting than watching me train!

I popped my AirPods in and did an extended tekkers sesh, trying to dream up promotional videos. Making a video to go with the Harry Styles song As It Was had helped me to sign Dani, and I had a lot more resources these days. Christ, I had a whole content creation team. What would be possible now?

I fired up a playlist called ’Absolute Bangers’ and got dancing. I bounced the ball from one shoulder to the other, but couldn’t ever do it in time to the beat. Doing pure kick ups was easier, but it was also old news. I balanced the ball on my head, let it roll down my back, caught it in the crook of my knee, turned that into a kick up.

”Dogshit,” I said, giving up on the entire idea, and settling into a routine of sprinting from point to point, retreating, then sprinting with the ball and firing past an imaginary goalie.

After twenty minutes, sweat was dripping off me, but I felt great. No-one in the Champions League qualifiers would be fitter than me. No-one.

Three people hoved into view. Don Pino, a rando in a tracksuit, and a woman. I can’t explain why, but I was instantly sure the man was not a player. Not a good one, anyway. The woman, though, held herself like a baller.

Of course. The star striker was a woman! That’s why a superagent would take a measly 50 grand fee! I squinted, trying to work out who she was, but I wasn’t sure I had ever seen her before and the curse wouldn’t help out unless I could get her to do some kick ups so I could smash her with Playdar.

It was hard to tell her age. She wasn’t super young, like not a teenager, but she could have been anywhere from 22 to 42. She was white with blonde hair, tall, slim. If I had to use one adjective to describe my first impression of her personality I would have said: wary.

Maybe that’s because I was sweating like a pig even though I had an appointment. Great first impression, bro! There was no way to undo the mistake, so I decided to style it out. I kicked a ball towards her. ”Are you going to gawp, or are you going to train?”

Don Pino and the man exchanged a glance. If the idea had been to trick me, it had failed. The blonde gave me an uncertain look, but her gaze drifted around the pitch. She spoke with an accent I couldn’t initially place. Was she German? ”What’s the drill?”

”This one?” I said, looking behind me at the madcap constellation of cones and mannequins. ”This is custom. I’m a special player.”

Don Pino beamed. ”She is a special player, too!”

He was no fool, and clearly thought she was a stellar talent. Why didn’t I know who she was? Maybe it wasn’t so surprising - when it came to women’s football I had been pretty insular. There hadn’t been any point scouting international women’s teams because I simply hadn’t been allowed to get work permits for foreigners. That had all changed when our ladies won the playoff final. ”Let’s do it like this,” I said. ”Train with me and I’ll devise a custom schedule that fits your strengths and weaknesses and you can have it for free whether you come to Chester or not.”

That impressed her. Whether it was the offer itself or the cockiness, it impressed her. She took a backpack from the younger guy, and swapped her trainers for boots.

She flicked the ball up, did a couple of kick ups, I smashed Playdar and promptly fell in love.

Elsa Lund, 26, Swedish (26 appearances, 9 goals).

CA 162.

PA 181.

Striker.

I felt my face get hot, so I knelt, untied my boot, fussed with the laces. Should I continue to act like I didn’t know her? Surely not, right? She was an international player. A serious director of football with an interest in European women’s football would know her.

”Elsa, soz, can I have a very, very quick word with Don?”

As I suspected, me dropping her name had a positive impact. ”Sure.”

I took Don aside. The curse told me which club she currently played for. ”Miss Lund is at Frankfurt, right?”

”Yes. She moved from Wolfsburg but it turned out to be a step down. Prior to that, she was at Häcken in Sweden. Top clubs, Max. Elsa Lund is a top, top player.”

”Yeah, yeah, you don’t need to do more selling. Tell me what this would cost.”

His eyes flicked from side to side as he calculated how much to rinse me. Not much, was my guess. He wanted to break into women’s football, and despite me wrecking Emiliano, he wanted a good relationship with a man who suddenly had nine figures in the bank. ”The transfer fee would be 1.4 million pounds. Frankfurt do not want to sell. For salary, based on comparable players, I would ask - and expect to receive - 300,000 pounds a year, basic.”

”We only do basic, as you know. Why would I give a striker a goal bonus? It’s literally her job to score a goal. What’s 300 grand divided by 52?”

”Urgh,” he said. ”You British and your weekly wages. I will never understand it.” He tapped on his phone and said, ”5,770.”

I said, ”Make it 6 grand. What are the sticking points for Elsa?”

”Ask her.”

I walked away, going through Elsa’s profile in more detail. She was fast, good in the air, technical enough, strong enough. She was basically the player I wanted to turn Angel into, although Angel had higher Finishing. Elsa’s was 16, which felt low. ”Have you been injured?”

She looked away. ”I’ve had some tough times, yes. Nothing too long-term, but they add up.”

”9 goals in 26 international appearances.”

”How do you know that off the top of your head? Don Pino said this was a surprise.”

”I’m a treasure trove of random facts. I’m something of a football obsessive.” Elsa responded badly to that. It was a fleeting expression, but I spotted it. I kept going with my line of inquiry. ”I think I’m just wondering why an elite striker only has 26 caps and then why it’s only 9 goals.”

She looked away and her chest heaved with a weary sigh. ”Blackstenius.”

”Gesundheit,” I said, which was my go-to joke when I didn’t understand a word.

Elsa didn’t smile. ”Blackstenius has been the first name on the team sheet for Sweden for ever. Like literally for ever. She has 150 caps, 50 goals. Many of my appearances were as a substitute. 9 goals is a good return for the number of minutes I played.” She didn’t want to talk more about that, so she moved a mannequin.

”What are you doing?” I said.

”Free kick practice.”

”No,” I said. Lund had Set Pieces 5. ”Not for you.”

Once again, she reacted badly. ”Not for me?”

I put a ball down, aimed, and lashed a curling, dipping thunderbastard around a mannequin and into the top right corner. Then I switched to my left foot and did a Beckham, which curved beautifully around a dummy and hit a post with a satisfying crack. I couldn’t help but be smug about it, even though I tried hard not to. ”I’m a subject matter expert, Elsa. You’re not a good free kick taker and training them is not a good use of your time, the same as goalie training would be a waste of your time.”

I grabbed a mannequin and moved it a couple of yards to the left. I had an idea for a drill we could run.

”You should focus your training on what’s going to take you to the next level. You’re very good but you could be world class. Dribbling, Decisions, Finishing, Off The Ball, Technique. It would be valid to work on your Long Shots, too, if you need more variety, but the drills at Chester are fun and intense and they will push you. You won’t be short of a challenge and when you drive home from work, you won’t think you could have gotten better instruction elsewhere.” I moved more mannequins into place, and moved a cone. ”Start here. Play the ball to me, run to that cone, back, and I’m gonna give you an awkward return pass. You have to control the ball into the gap between mannequins in such a way that you can get a shot off.”

We ran that drill for a while, and it highlighted her relative lack of Technique. She got frustrated, which made her more determined to succeed. Yes, yes, yes! She was the one. The only one for me!

I pushed her a little harder than I probably should given she was on holiday. In a break, she sat on the grass, panting, taking on water. She fell on her back, breathed, then sat up again. She eyed me. ”I’m only here because I loved what you did at Bayern Munich.”

”Okay.”

”And because Don Pino said I’d get a free holiday out of it.”

I laughed. ”Okay.”

”I have played for three of the top twenty women’s teams. Chester is not on the list.”

”That’s an outdated list,” I said. ”Chester will be top five by the end of the summer.”

”That’s impossible.”

”Wanna bet?” I needed to keep moving, so I did a few kick ups. ”All right, let’s be conservative and say top ten. But we’ll be top five next year, and top one the year after that. I’ve got Premier League money now.”

”You mean WSL money.”

”No. Premier League money. I’m gonna blow everyone out of the water. I’ll admit I had a tiny identity crisis when I realised I would have, effectively, infinite money for the women’s team. Did I want to be accused of buying the league? Wouldn’t it be more in keeping with our ethos to evolve the team more organically, with young players? And the answer is yes, but in the meantime, let’s just fucking buy the league.” I laughed. ”I’m in a hurry. I understand some scepticism because I haven’t signed anyone yet but also, I mean, look at our trajectory. Our young players are already amazing and they’re just gonna keep getting better.”

Elsa nodded. ”I have seen the documentary.”

”Oh! So you’ve seen we started with nothing and now we’re massive.”

She plucked a blade of grass. ”I quit social media. I don’t want to be a personality any longer. I don’t want to be in a documentary.”

I shrugged. ”If you come, I’ll cancel the next season.”

She looked up, amazed. ”What?”

I leaned left. ”Okay, maybe not. We need one more season to wrap it up, narratively. If I canceled it, I would lose my best friend. But you don’t have to be in it. They film everything and if they really need a scene that’s maybe awkward or unpleasant, the producers explain why they think it’s needed for the episode or the overall series but if you say no, that’s it, done. You don’t have to be in it except for the crowd scenes. Christ, I don’t even want to be in it but I set the targets and stuff so I sort of have to be.”

”We can opt out?”

”You can opt out. It’s not like there will be a shortage of new content. There’s the whole WSL thing, the new stand, more media attention, Angel in Italy, six new signings.”

”Six?”

”Backup goalie, because I’m super happy with Haley but there’s a gap between her and the third. Elite centre back, two elite central midfielders, elite CAM, elite striker. I’ve already added a UEFA Pro coach to the staff and there will be more. We’re still building things and expanding but you’ll be able to hit the ground running and I expect us to challenge for the title at the first go.”

”That’s impossible.”

I frowned. ”You say that a lot.”

She plucked another blade of grass and stayed hunched for a while. ”I’m sorry, Max, but I don’t think I’m the player you are hoping for. I’m... I think I am burned out. I don’t enjoy football as much as I used to. The world is so shit and it only gets worse. It’s utterly depressing, awfulness as far as the eye can see. You tried to do something and you had an impact, a small impact, but now the tide of shit is washing over even that.”

”What - ”

”I thought leaving Germany might be a new challenge, a new life, might spark something inside me like what happened when I left Sweden, but the closer I get to a real decision, the more I’m afraid to take the plunge, the more I fear I’m only setting myself up for disappointment. I’m sorry. I want the world to change but I can’t face change. You must think I’m a coward and a weakling.”

”Yeah,” I said. ”God knows I don’t want players who have a healthy sense of perspective.”

It took her a few seconds, but she looked up at me, blinked, and said, ”What?”

”Do you still like scoring goals?”

She almost looked shy. ”Yeah.”

”Do you like winning?”

”Yeah.”

”I think we might be in similar states. I got married and I started to think about having kids and I need quite a lot of money to look after my mum, too. This season might be my last chance to really cash in, you know? So I’ve been scheming to make money. Loads and loads of money so that I can just sort of retreat to my safe little compound and read comics all day. Disengage from all this bullshit. I don’t feel like a coward. I did what I could and got barely any support. So what’s the fucking point? I’m done sticking my neck out.” I pointed downwards. ”I want to be selfish for a while, and part of that means putting together a women’s superteam. A Team of All the Talents. If you join Chester, you’ll be part of my legacy. You don’t need to be in the doc and you don’t need to be an activist. You do need to visit a children’s hospital or help at a food bank and you do need to be a role model to the little baby strikers in Cheshire.

”Oh, but hey. We’re building this academy thing - because we have to - but we’re gonna put a spin on it. We want to develop the future leaders of the sport. Directors of football, finance directors, all sorts. We’re gonna create an army of administrators. Every goal you score will be a fuck-you to the empty suits who run the game, and every win will take us closer to being the centre of gravity for the entire fucking sport.”

”What happened to being selfish? Not sticking your neck out?”

”This is what that looks like. It’s gonna be so subtle no-one even realises what I’m doing. Look, I know it’s not your dream holiday, but will you come to Chester? Check out the vibe, the plans. Meet the coaches, some of your team mates. I know you’ll like it, and I know you’ll like that I make you work harder than you’ve ever worked before to unlock the full extent of your talent.”

”What makes you say that?”

”It’s obvious. You don’t believe in the world but you believe in yourself.”

”What happened with Angel? She was the star of the doc and now she’s gone.”

”She outgrew the club so we agreed to send her somewhere that would fit her profile.”

Elsa’s expression didn’t change much, but she seemed to harden. ”If you really want me, tell me the truth.”

”It’s not fair to talk about other players, other people, behind their back.”

She softened slightly. ”Agreed. I won’t ever request this again, but I need to know. Tell me the truth about why Angel left.”

I let out an enormous sigh, flicked a ball up, let it drop. ”She stopped putting the football first, and she messed with team dynamics. She pissed me off so I binned her off.”

Elsa Lund mulled that over. ”How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce.”

***

Honeymoon Week 3 - Everybody Comes to Rick’s

Mrs. Best outdid herself.

We packed our bags again, went sailing again, and after a few deceptions, we plonked ourselves...

In CASABLANCA!

Mate, she did it so good. The earlier disappointment was just an entrée in the seven-course meal that was our honeymoon. It was foreshadowing of the highest order. Chekhov’s Casablanca.

We had an evening to ourselves, and in the morning...

”Mr. Best?”

”Yes, Mrs. Best?”

”I got you a birthday present.”

Henri appeared, with Sharky and Pascal close behind.

When I was playing for College 1975, trying to fire that club into the UEFA Conference League, I had spoken at length of my ambition to take everyone to Casablanca to watch Casablanca. It proved to be impractical, but Emma had spent months pretending to plan our wedding while actually drinking loads of gin, and during that time, she turned my dream into reality.

Not everyone could make it, of course, but plenty did. Henri, Wes ’Sharky’ Hayward, Pascal, Jack the Lad, Lee Hudson, Jesse Picardo, and Glenn Ryder. There was also the newly minted Premier League phenom William B. Roberts, who we called Baggers for old times’ sake, and Magnus Evergreen.

”Magnus!” I said, letting him bearhug me. ”Christ! I was worried.”

”Why?”

”I’ve been trying to get you to agree a new contract for ages. There’s only you and Colin Beckton left, and Colin’s on a long holiday with his family. I thought you were thinking about quitting or something.”

”No,” he said, smiling. ”You can drench me in cash. I don’t mind.”

I laughed and slapped him on the back. ”We’ll find a minute to talk about it, yeah?” More people arrived. I leaned over to my wife. ”Mrs. Best, what the fuck is happening? These guys never played for College.”

She shrugged. ”I booked a whole cinema, babes. It would be rubbish to have it mostly empty.”

”Er, no, it would be awesome.”

”Tough shit, babes.”

What could I do? I smiled and welcomed the newcomers. Peter Bauer had invited two guys from Bayern Munich: the Romanian defender Dumitru ’Dumi’ Demetrescu and the English defender slash defensive midfielder Edgar Wilde. Both guys were getting on in years, but they had been staunch when I pulled my stunt in Hungary and I was happy to see them. Dumi should have been in the Romania team that would face Wales the next day, but he had fallen out of the spotlight or out of favour, and that was good news for Wales because if used well, the weirdo still had a lot to offer.

We had brunch, spent the day being tourists, then went for an early dinner, after which we would watch the best movie of all time.

***

Casablanca was filmed in America, but a bright entrepreneur had spotted a business opportunity and had created a restaurant called Rick’s Cafe, designed to look as much like Rick’s Café Américain from the movie as poss. Columns, arches, level changes, portable pianos, roulette wheels. She had done a pretty good job!

The service wasn’t stellar but the food was good and the vibe was second to none. When Henri went to play ’As Time Goes By’ on the piano, I was in heaven. Absolute heaven.

That lasted for a full hour, which was how long it took Henri to push his plate slightly away, lean back, and say, ”Max, what are you going to do about Pestis?”

”What about them?” I said, while poking around in the remnants of a tagine.

”Saltney have been drawn against them. If you play for Saltney, you will have to go to Hungary.”

Inexplicably, there was dead silence. All eyes were on me. ”I’m not going. Mrs. Best and I discussed it and it’s not fair on her that I would go and she would be, like, checking the news feeds all the time, tracking the flights to know I’m safe and whatnot.”

Peter Bauer said, ”But Saltney will go?”

I shrugged. ”What’s the alternative? If we refuse to go, it’s a three-nil defeat, instantly. I mean... nah. First of all, a lot of players have signed for Saltney in good faith, expecting us to get into some kind of UEFA league stage. MD put up huuuuuge amounts of his own money to build the training campus. I can’t just, you know, bin all that off.” I scratched an itch. ”I’ve got responsibilities.”

Peter said, ”But - ” and I very slightly got heated.

”Mate! I did what I could! I risked my whole future! UEFA couldn’t wait to sweep the whole thing under the carpet, right? What am I supposed to do?”

There was a slightly awkward silence. Pascal Bochum eyed me. ”Refuse to go. Win the second leg four-nil.”

”What the fuck,” I said, dropping my cutlery with a loud clang. I rubbed my eyebrows hard, but calmed a fraction. ”Okay, look, I get it. Everyone wants me to stick my neck out, but I can’t. I need to look after my wife and my mum. I’m an adult now. And Chester are in the Prem so I can’t just move Baggers there for a few weeks and I can’t use the free agent trick to stuff random teams full of players like Magnus.”

”Why not?” said Magnus.

”Because you’re fucking mint!” I said, louder than I planned. ”Because you’re astonishingly good and I work for the people of Chester and it’s my job to tie you down to a contract as best I can!” I calmed myself and lifted my palms. ”And because I’m the only one who would be at risk. I’ll send a good team to Hungary to get a nil-nil or a one-nil loss and we’ll fuck them up in the return.

”Making a stand is worthless. Nothing changes. The makers of Casablanca thought they were helping the war effort but barely anyone watched it when it was released. What’s the movie about? Europe under the heel of Nazis. We smashed them up for a while but they’re back, aren’t they? They’re back and people can’t wait to obey in advance. So what’s the fucking point trying to resist? Just... Just don’t ask me to stick my neck out again. I did my part. I did my bit. I forced UEFA to do something, and now, at the earliest opportunity, they have undone it. Big whoop. Put that on my gravestone.” My eyes were stinging, which made me the first alpha male in history to get overwrought in Rick’s Cafe.

”Babes?” I took my hands away from my face and exhaled. My wife was holding her hands out. I placed my palms underneath and she let go of some discs. Gambling chips! ”I got them to open the casino tonight. I hear 22 is a lucky number.”

”Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend,” I said. I looked Emma full in the eyes. ”Babes, soz, but can you ask the manager if she has a paracetamol or something?”

”Course, babes!”

She rushed off; I took the chance to speak freely to the group. ”Guys, I’m sorry. I know you mean well but it’s a bad time to be asking me to do stunts. I can’t believe this has happened. It means I’ve got no allies. Like, none. I’m still building Saltney’s squad but even if it was finished, there’s no way we’re gonna overturn a three-nil deficit, right? This isn’t Bayern Munich; I have to be rational. I know it’s not very noble or whatever but I don’t give a shit.” I took a sip of water. ”I’m married now. Emma would fucking hate to hear me talk like this but she’s my top priority. Top. She’s number one, the end. If we get to the Champions League group stage, we are set for life and so are my kids. I will eat UEFA’s shit now and complain about it later, okay?

”Plus Chester are deep in the mud. The Chester manager needs Magnus and Sticky. We’re an elite team and there is no possibility of us doing a free agent scam, not this season. One, Emma, two, Chester, three, everyfuckingbody else. Do you get me? That’s the reality. If you want to discuss it with me, fucking wait until the winter. All right? If you want activism, maybe it’s someone else’s turn. Yeah?”

The group stayed silent, and when I caught a glance of a blonde head of hair coming round the corner, I slammed my fist into the table.

***

The guys did their best to get back to being jolly, and I tried not to be such a sourpus and grumpyface.

Ice thawed, wine flowed, laughter was once more the order of the day.

We piled into taxis and emerged at a fairly modern-looking cinema. My spirits rose. This was going to be amazing!

Inside, we had more snacks and drinks while the staff got things set up. Peter Bauer pulled me to the side.

”Boss, I’m really sorry about before. We were only curious about what you would do. Your position is understandable and defensible, of course.”

”I’m not mad at you, Peter! Or anyone here. Henri a little bit...” Peter grinned; I smiled. ”Of course I’m pissed at UEFA but mostly I’m mad at myself. I’m not that old but I’m old enough to know how the world works. Can’t win, don’t try.”

”Maaaaax,” he said, with some disapproval. ”Come on! You achieved more than you know. But listen, forget all that. It’s not good honeymoon fare, is it? When Emma invited me here, I thought about getting you a birthday present of your own. What do you think about Dumi and Edgar?”

I shrugged. ”Dumi’s all right if you can stop him from talking about Stalin. Edgar’s so deadpan you sometimes think he’s an actual dead pan.”

Peter laughed and pushed me. ”As players! For Chester! What do you think?”

”Oh!” I said, and the old brain kicked into higher gear. Both players were still under contract at Bayern Munich, which was one of the clubs I had in my head. Both players would become free agents on the first of July unless there was a late change of heart from Bayern. That seemed unlikely.

Dumi was 36 and while he was getting slower with every breath, he had fought tooth and nail to cling onto his CA. He was 147/159.

Edgar was a sprightly 34, and while it took him longer to turn than a pint of milk, he was 148 out of 177.

”What, so... Free agents? To Chester?”

Peter nodded. ”They’re good, right? You rate them?”

”I mean, yeah. Sure. Very experienced, they’ve played high-intensity matches, they wouldn’t be overawed by a trip to Arsenal or whatever.”

”So what do you think? They don’t have tons of offers. Shit, that’s bad salesmanship! What I mean to say is they might be amenable to a move now but could be snapped up quickly later.”

That much was true. Dumi and Edgar! Given regular football they would get back over CA 150, I reckoned. They might dick me on wages but there would be no transfer fee. They were experienced, were good lads, and both were flexible players. Dumi could play centre back or right back, while Edgar could play centre back or DM. They trained great and would be good examples to our youngsters.

Most of all, in signing them I would be seen to be adding to the squad. Raging against the dying of the light! And Chester’s fans were always starstruck by mentions of Bayern Munich. They had loved Cheb Alloula. Here were two more Bayern dudes! Oven-ready.

I found myself rubbing my fringe.

”What?” said Peter.

I woke up. ”Oh, nothing.” I shook him by the shoulder. ”This was a great idea. I’ll talk to them.”

”Really?”

I nodded. ”Totally.”

He looked pleased, but his face fell. ”We’re not in Chester now. Tell me what that was.”

”What what was?”

”That thing just now when you... when you were regretful.”

”Hmm? Oh. I was just thinking it would be fucking top to sign them to Saltney, get their help in the qualifiers, then move them to Chester.” I sighed. ”But that’s small-time. Those days are over, and these are two thingies. What’s that expression I’m thinking of? Something like grand dames? Dumi and Edgar are grand dames of European football. You can’t shuffle them around like bits of Lego. I need to stop thinking like that.” Someone rang a bell. ”Thanks, Peter. This could be really helpful. Second-best birthday present ever!”

”What was the best?”

”That’s between me and Emma and a nurse outfit.”

Peter laughed. ”She would look very good in such a costume, it is fair to say.”

I tutted. ”I was in the nurse outfit, bro.”

***

We took our drinks and snacks into screen 1, and settled down. As soon as a black-and-white map of Europe appeared and the narrator described how families were having to flee the Nazis, heading to Lisbon via Casablanca, Dumi began droning on. It was a matter of minutes before he turned his monologue to the topic of Stalin, so I told him to shut the fuck up or get out. I also suggested that if I saw someone’s phone screen light up, that person would lose a phone.

Behaviour improved, if not morale.

With Henri to my left and Emma to my right, I settled into the movie.

The best movie.

***

Rick, the cynical cafe owner who had been disappointed by life and UEFA one too many times, was entrusted with a pair of special visas. The holders of these visas would be free to travel to Lisbon, no questions asked, and in Lisbon they would be able to travel to America, the world’s melting pot, a country that knew better than any the value of immigrants and freedom. (At this point, I once again had to tell Dumi to shut his mouth.)

Enter a charismatic Czech dissident, effectively the leader of continental Europe’s resistance, and his beautiful wife, who had once had a fling with Rick, thinking her husband dead.

Cue very entertaining angst, decisions, revelations, and Rick insisting he would stick his neck out for nobody.

The highest point in a movie that is essentially one long high point is when a group of Nazis commandeer the cafe’s piano to start a fascist singalong. The Czech dissident needs to keep a low profile, needs to avoid stirring the pot, but he can’t. It’s not in his being to stand by, so he tells the house band to play the French national anthem. They do, with spine-tingling passion. It’s incredible. Those who love freedom sing louder than the Nazis, who shut the fuck up. The silent majority is the majority, and when they find their voice, it’s deafening.

The scene gets me every time.

***

Victor Laszlo: Play La Marseillaise. Play it!

Rick: [Nods to the band, taking a side despite everything he has said.]

Max Best: Oh, shit.

Mrs. Best: You okay, babes?

The actors, most of whom had fled their actual homes because of the war: [Sing lustily.]

Nazis: [Try to get louder.]

Henri Lyons: [Stands and sings.]

Max Best: [Stands and bursts into tears.]

Nazis: [Shut the fuck up and get back in their grimy little crevice.]

French women: [Singing intensifies.]

Max Best: [Blubbers.]

Ingrid Bergman: [Falls back in love with her dissident husband.]

Emma Best: [Munches on Moroccan sweets, humming.]

The actors, plus Henri, Max, and others: Vive la France! Vive la France!

***

I got the staff to pause the movie, went to the front, and shook my head. I swallowed, painfully. ”Okay. I get it.” I stared down at my feet. ”I’m gonna go Full Max. I’ll forfeit the first leg. I’m gonna put 18 million quid on the line, give up the girl, make another stand.”

Emma was still eating, but she paused long enough to say. ”Uh-uh. You aren’t getting rid of me that easily. I didn’t marry you for your money, babes. I married you because you look good in a nurse costume. Heh.”

I rubbed my forehead, which was throbbing. ”I want to apologise for my outburst earlier. But, uh... I realised just now I would never be able to enjoy this movie again if I... you know. So... Okay. Thanks.” I moved to retake my seat.

Peter Bauer stood. ”Hang on, Max.”

”What?”

”I want to be released from my Chester contract.”

”What?”

”You can’t sell me, anyway, so I don’t have a transfer value. I won’t play for anyone else. If I stop being happy at Chester I’m gonna quit the sport. Let me cancel my contract.”

”But - ”

Emma said, ”Babes, don’t be a dolt. He wants to play for Saltney and then rejoin Chester.”

”Oh.”

Magnus stood. ”Me too! I’m out of contract anyway!”

”Bosh,” said Emma, as she chucked another little candy thing into her gob.

”I want to play!” said William, nearly hopping out of his chair.

”Sit down, Baggers,” said Emma. ”You can’t.” He sat.

Pascal eased out of his seat; Emma shook her head. Pascal plonked his arse back down.

Edgar and Dumi eyed each other, then stood. Dumi said, ”We can.”

Edgar said, ”Four-nil second leg? We beat them by eight before and we can do it again. Fuck those homophobes.”

Dumi said, ”Those who forget the past are condemned to relive it.”

I put my finger up. ”That’s a lot of fucking talent who just raised their hands, but guys, if we lose, if we don’t win the second leg by more than three goals, there’s no money and you aren’t getting paid. It’s crazy to even think about doing this. Don’t do it. Don’t stick your necks out.”

Peter looked around the room, then at me. ”With all due respect, boss, shut the fuck up. We’re in. You worked at Bayern for minimum wage so you know it’s not about the money.”

Emma stood. ”Right, so that’s Peter, Magnus, Dumi, and Edgar joining Saltney. Babes, you might want to think about getting a goalscorer to balance the squad.”

”Yeah, but - ”

”Shush, babes. I’m trying to watch Casablanca in Casablanca, okay?” She looked up at the projection booth, put her palms beside her mouth and yelled, ”Hey! Play it, Samir!”