From up here, it's like you're king of the world. Emperor of the known universe. That's what David Carter was thinking in a rare moment of solitude as he gazed down through the floor-length windows at the sea of emerald green below him. All the way up in the director's box, the roar and rumble of the crowd was little more than a muted hum. He could see them all, heads bobbing and feeble attempts at a Mexican wave rippling limply around a few of the rows. But he was not one of them, not anymore. 

He checked his watch; six minutes to kick-off. Now that he ran the place, he knew he should no longer feel nervous about an insignificant match like this one. But at the end of the day, he was still a footie fan, in spite of everything. And Mile End was his club. It always would be. The players were all on the pitch, making a show of their warm-up stretches for the crowd. Wayne was down there among them, waiting for the ref's whistle. Waiting for the match to begin. 

Someone behind David cleared their throat, and he turned slowly to see Rochelle, one of his media consultants, hovering agitatedly. "Mr Carter? I wanted to let you know, sir – Lorenzo has just touched down at Heathrow. He's got his entourage with him and they're coming straight to the stadium."

"Thanks, Rochelle."

"I've prepped the media hub, and we're going to interview him after the match."

"Perfect. You're a gem."

Rochelle smiled and politely withdrew, closing the door behind her as she clicked away on Stiletto heels. David watched her go with sense of satisfaction. Rochelle was young, but she was ambitious. As soon as she first set foot across the threshold of the Mile End stadium, she’d done whatever it took to get to the top. Bit by bit, day by day, he saw her getting closer to what he knew she desired. 

Colombian striker Fabian Lorenzo was quite an acquisition for little old Mile End Athletic. Not because of his (admittedly mixed) record on the football pitch, though; but because of what else he’d brought with him on his private jet – besides his entourage, that is. 

"It was a hell of a risk, you know." Max Linley was sitting at the far end of the director's box, sipping whisky from a cut glass tumbler. Max was David's second-in-command. His right-hand man. They had been friends for decades, and each man trusted the other implicitly. Max was intuitive. In some ways, he was like an extension of David's own personality. A man who could finish his sentences for him. But to look at them, they could not have been more different. David was forty-seven but looked a good decade younger. He had a head of thick, dark hair without so much as a hint of grey. His face was thin but sharp-featured. Like Shakespeare's Cassius, he had a lean and hungry look. He wore exquisitely tailored suits, the finest Saville Row had to offer. 

Max Linley, on the other hand, was rotund and balding. He dressed exclusively in tracksuits, which was ironic, as he could scarcely get up a flight of stairs without running out of breath. He drank and he chain-smoked. He also just happened to be the cleverest man David knew. Someone David would trust with his life. 

Max and David were now alone in the box, so they could talk freely. "I know," said David, "and I respect the lad for it."

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"No, I mean he took a real risk. Maybe you weren't aware, Dave, but this is the largest single shipment ever to arrive on English soil by private jet."

David looked over at Max and winked. "The largest shipment people know about, anyway. But it's not such a big risk as you might think, Max, my old man. I took a few extra precautions, you see. This morning I put in a call to the Met with a tipoff about a couple of mules arriving at Stansted. Dopey backpackers with a couple of bricks of coke up their jacksies. So the boys in blue have got their hands full."

"And what do you think will happen when they don't find the backpackers?"

"Ah, but they will. You see, I arranged a couple of decoys to arrive at Stansted just as Lorenzo touches down at Heathrow. I like to throw the Met a bone every now and then." 

"Commercial flights?"

"Yep. And I know a thing or two about police psychology – they'd much rather go for the little fish they know they can catch than the big fish they might not. It's just human nature. The path of least resistance."

Max shrugged. "Well, I hope you're right."

"Course I am. Now shut up, will you? It's nearly kick-off."

With that, David turned away to watch the drama unfolding below. But even as his gaze focused on the players assembling for kick-off, he was conscious that Max hadn’t moved.

In fact, Max was still staring at David, his glare burning into the back of his old friend’s head. Max was indeed clever, and he knew it. He was also patient. After all, he’d been waiting for a long, long time. So long, in fact, that even he could not really remember what he was waiting for. But it was moments like this – little moments of passive aggression from Davi – that reminded him that underneath the friendship was a lust for the power and acclaim that took priority. David wanted it all.

“There’s something else I want to know about,” Max said. David ignored him, but Max knew he was listening. “Silvertown.”

David twitched, as if ridding himself of a fly. “Silvertown can wait. Right now I’ve got more pressing concerns.”

Max smiled to himself. For a while now, David had been dodging the Silvertown question. 

The thin sound of the ref's whistle reached up to the director's box, and all at once the pitch was a blur of frantic motion, players darting here and there. It took David a moment to pick out Wayne from amongst them. But sure enough, there he was, at the head of the pack, pushing forward, always pressing onward. He wasn't built like a typical footballer. He was bigger and burlier, wide-shouldered and thick-limbed. When he wanted to be, he was like a tank: unstoppable. He was built to attack. Built never to accept defeat. Just like his dad. 

That's when David picked out the chant, echoing up to him all the way up there on top of the world. He'd been hearing it more and more lately. You only play coz your father, play coz your father, play coz your faaaaatherr....

"Soppy bastards," said David. "That's his own fans shouting at him. Don't they know what kind of effect that's going to have? Don't they care if it fucks up his gameplay?"

“Anything to get out of discussing Silvertown, eh David?” Max grinned slyly.

David shrugged. "You need to get your head in the game, Max. Silvertown is nothing to worry about.” Silvertown was a property development that David had been talking up for a long time. He’d drawn in a bunch of investors, but Max was dubious. 

Nonetheless, he took his cue from David and focused on the game. “Wayne's got thick skin. If anything, the chanting's good for him. It helps to toughen up. 

“Maybe you’re right,” David said. “He's still got to prove himself, hasn’t he? Not just to them, but to me."

Max studied David thoughtfully, then finished his whisky in a single swallow. "He's a lot like you, Dave. He really is."

"Thank you."

Max lit up a cigarette with a disdainful glance at the STRICTLY NO SMOKING sign. He puffed and settled back in his low-slung easy chair. He wasn't sure if what he had said was a compliment.