When David Carter arrived at the stadium the following morning, he found that his path was blocked by a number of men in Mile End scarves and hats, milling around and looking generally disgruntled. When they spotted his car approaching, a kind of collective surge of anger ran through them and they began to advance at a lumbering pace, like the living dead.

"Give us back our club!" was the chant. With a few fuck you, Carters thrown in for good measure. David instructed his driver to take him round the back.

Once he was in the building, David lit a cigarette and smoked in the foyer for a moment or two. He would weather the storm. He knew he would. He had done it before. And when it was over, he would find out who was responsible. There was a reckoning on the way; a reckoning of almost biblical proportions. Because David was, in spite of the recent hiccup, a shrewd man. But he was also a vengeful one. Some things could not be swept under the rug and forgotten about.

Rochelle stepped out of the lift to meet him. "Mr. Carter," she began, "I don't know if you've heard, but..."

"I've heard," he said gently. "Don't worry about it, Rochelle. Everything is going to be alright."

When David got up to his office, he found Max Linley waiting for him. "Max! Never really thought of you as a morning person. What are you doing here? The pubs aren't even open yet."

Max smiled diffidently. "You can probably guess why I'm here, Dave old pal."

"I think I can. Come on through."

Rochelle looked on in amazement as her boss ushered his long-time confidant through to his office with his habitual panache. It was as if the man who had tried to fire her yesterday was a different person altogether. She smiled to herself, a strange sense of pride coursing through her. No one could best David Carter. He always had a plan, and he always won. She returned to her desk feeling slightly happier and commenced drafting another press release to try and contain the shit storm.

"Whisky?" David offered, indicating a cut glass decanter.

"David," Max chuckled, "it's half-eight in the morning."

"Suit yourself," David shrugged, "but never let it be said I'm not an obliging host."

"You seem oddly chipper for a bloke who's just royally fucked his own club."

David cocked his head to one side and studied his old friend carefully. He seemed to be weighing up a decision, wondering what the best option might be. Eventually, he reached a resolution: "Max, what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room."

"That goes without saying."

"Okay. It’s Silvertown."

Of course it was. The bane of Max’s life. He had been cynical about it to begin with; after all, he was a cautious man, not inclined to ambition. That was what separated him from David. It was why David Carter was the boss and he, Max, was the éminence grise. "Right," he said.

"I thought I had it sewn up, I really did. I was sure it was in the bag. But it’s all gone, Max. The whole five billion. The fucking Popovs have screwed it up good and proper."

Max listened to this in silence. Then he said: “But that wasn’t your five billion.”

“You think I don’t know that? I mean, a chunk of it was, but most came from outside investors."

“Remind me who these investors are,” said Max through gritted teeth. He knew every little detail of the deal, of course, but he wanted to hear David repeat the information aloud. It would make the problem more tangible, more real somehow.

"There are a few. A syndicate in Central America, some Lithuanians, a handful across the US. Several others. And George McMinn."

"Well we know the Fucker is going to be an issue. No one ever retires in this game."

"No," David agreed, "they don't. Anyway, you heard about that fucking Judas Fly business. I know you didn't take much of an interest, but you probably guessed it was going to be trouble for Silvertown. First, there was what happened to Wayne, which froze everything, and then that bastard insect shut the whole thing down. So I've got a crowd of pissed-off investors baying for my blood."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Max knew that this was not an exaggeration. All the same, he felt obliged to comment: "You say 'what happened to Wayne' as though it was something you couldn't have prevented. But you could, couldn't you?"

"You didn't come here to lecture me, did you?"

"Somebody has to, Dave. The Popovs warned you, didn't they? Far as I'm concerned, they played fair. And yes, it was unfortunate that it meant Wayne had to suffer. I remember him and Rob playing together when they were little kids. I've known him all his life. But it could have been prevented, couldn't it? If you'd pulled him out of the Mile End-Chiswick match, the deal would have gone through and it would have been too late for the Russians to do anything about it. Your son would still be in the first team, and your investors would be rolling in lovely, lovely cash."

David studied his old friend coldly. "What are you trying to say, Max?"

"I'm trying to say that this is your fault, Dave. Nobody else's. And I know it's hard to hear, but this is your mess and you've got to clear it up."

"That's what I'm doing."

"No, you're not. You're making the club your scapegoat. You're letting the fans bear the brunt of your bad decision-making. They're going to hate you for it, Dave."

David got up and began pacing back and forth in front of the window. He could see that crowds were gathering outside the ground. Some with placards he couldn't be bothered to read. Not to mention TV crews. He would be all over the rolling news already.

"I know they are, Max. You're preaching to the converted, mate. I already know I fucked up. I know this is my mess. But think about it like this – what happens if I don’t take out this loan? Huh? What happens then? The Fucker and his cronies have my head blown off and I'm dumped in a ditch somewhere. Nobody gets their money back. The Russians take over. And before long, it's as if we were never here. And that's not an exaggeration, mate. That's what will happen if we're not careful. I took my eye off the ball, and the Popovs swept in and seized their chance. That's fine, they played fair, I'm not saying they didn't. But now it's up to me to make things right."

"And you're going to do that by screwing the fans?"

“Jesus, Max, you sound like you care more about the fans than you do my son. You weren’t this angry when Wayne got fucked up.”

“Don’t pretend don’t care more about your business and your reputation than you do your family,” Max said coolly. “We both know that isn’t true.”

"I'll make it up to the fans!" David snapped. "This is all part of a process. I'll make them understand. It'll be alright. But listen to me, Max, answer me honestly now: what would you do if you were in my shoes?"

Max smiled a little sadly. "I'm not in your shoes, David. And not likely to be, either."

"But just answer the hypothetical."

"Alright. But even if I were in your shoes, I wouldn't be in your shoes. Because I wouldn't have gone near Silvertown. And when I got that message from the Russians, I would have listened."

“So I was supposed to give in to threats? Is that what a strong leader does?”

“A strong leader doesn’t sacrifice his own.”

David stood with his back to his old friend for a moment, peering out the window. "Alright, Max," he eventually said, "point made. Now do me a favour and fuck off, would you?"

Max got up and left the office without a word. He said a polite goodbye to Rochelle, who smiled at him, then descended in the lift once more. His head was spinning, but not with anxieties and threats, as David's was. Max's brain was brimming with ideas. He should have seen something like this coming a mile off, but that couldn't be helped. Max was ultimately a problem-solver, not a predictor of problems, which was why he was such an invaluable asset to the club. It was a trait he had done his best to instill in his son, and now Rob was proving himself an adept businessman in his own right.

Max was clever, and he was loyal. But he had something that his old friend David did not: integrity. He stuck to his guns. And he could see the bigger picture. He was able to assess things in the long term. Wherever David Carter went, he brought with him a sense of immediacy; he made you sit up and take notice. It was how he had been able to establish control, how he was able to win over high-profile investors with his boundless charisma. David was the face of the organisation, and deservedly so.

But Max had always thought of himself as the brains.

Maybe all of this was a blessing in disguise. Maybe Mile End was long overdue for a shakeup. He, Max, was a firm favourite with the fans because of his loyalty to the players and to the fans themselves. He was plain, lovable old Max.

By the time the lift reached the ground floor and Max Linley stepped out into the plush, carpeted foyer once more, a plan was already beginning to form in his mind. He decided not to scuttle out the back way like a coward, but to face the assembled protestors head-on.

He greeted the fans with a smile, and many of the yells and chants died down to a murmur. A reporter and cameraman approached him. "Mr. Linley, have you got a minute to talk to Sky News about the latest controversy?"

"I'm a bit busy actually. Lots to do, as you can imagine."

"Can I at least get a statement for the fans?"

Max weighed up his options carefully. Should he plunge in head-first? Or should he test the waters a bit beforehand? As usual, he opted to play it cautious. "Of course. I want to say on a personal note how grateful I am to the fans for their endless support over the years. It means the world to me."

"Many of the fans here today feel betrayed. What do you have to say about that?"

"I say that I can understand it. I'm not too happy about the situation myself. But I want to reassure everyone that it will turn out alright in the end, they just need to have a little bit of faith."

"And what about David Carter? Is it time for him to go?"

Max smiled. “Absolutely not. You can count on me, everything will work itself out.”

And he headed off through the crowd.