16.

If you read the Table of Contents and assumed there would be a playoff arc, then ha. You fell into my trap. This is, in fact, the epilogue. Serving suggestion: nice big glass of chilled champagne, two types of ham.

***

Sunday, April 27

I was tucked in behind some randos, halfway along the plain white floating corridor that led to the plane, when my phone pinged. I had set it to allow notifications from Emma and Emma alone, so I checked what she had sent.

Bebs, we missed an epic party. Vibe is that it was a great day, but now there is raaaather a lot of worry that you weren't around. MD would like to put out a statement squashing rumours that you have quit. People are so [eye roll emoji] but let me know what you want to say, if anything.

I hacked out a quick reply.

I'll record something when I get to my seat and bosh it to you.

Amazing. I had a lovely day. Thanks. And I'm making you a present. If you're cheaping out on Wifi it'll be there when you land.

I smiled. Emma couldn't understand why I would pay two thousand pounds for a flight but not twelve pounds for wifi access. My reply had been simple. "Because it's twelve pounds." It was exorbitant. Crazy. Anyway, I needed time to process what had happened. Get my head straight.

Chester are the champions.

We did it. Absolutely bonkers.

While I had been planning for next season I hadn't really allowed myself to believe it would happen. Not really. But we were going to the football league and the main bottleneck was behind us. There would be hard times ahead, for sure, but nothing like what we'd just been through. Never again would I be so overwhelmed by a situation that I would actually freeze. I mean, taking a penalty that would shoot us to the Premier League - yes, stressful. A hundred million pounds would be on the line. But it wouldn't compare in the fucking slightest to needing two goals in ten minutes against Woking. Yesterday's match would always be a top five highlight - and high-octane nightmare fuel. The margins were so tight you could take virtually any incident and change it and we'd have lost the league.

Someone looked at my boarding pass and indicated I should turn left. The normos went right.

I, Max Best, a nobody from the side streets of Manchester, practically a street urchin, until recently a drone in a call centre, was about to fly... business class.

Oh, baby.

My first impressions of the space were very, very positive. This section of the plane had been turned into a sort of open-plan office at a cutting-edge tech company. Every passenger had his own cubicle with space for the seat to recline fully flat. In the company I was bringing to life in my imagination, staff were recruited in San Francisco by saying, "You'll save on rent! You can live in the office! There's a ball room!" The prospective employee would look around at the black surfaces, the tasteful lighting, and say, "A ballroom? Where you dance?" "No. A room with little plastic balls so you can swim around like a toddler." "Amazing. Hire me."

"Is everything all right, sir?"

One of the cabin crew had come to help me, since I seemed to be stuck. I waved my hand around. "You've got these cubicles arranged in a 2-4-2 formation. That's freaking me out. Have you tried 4-3-3? I suppose people want window seats. 4-2-4, maybe?"

He smiled. "We had Gareth Southgate on last week. He was happy with it as it was."

I pulled my sunglasses down so I could eye him properly. "Was that a joke about Southgate's tactical inflexibility during his time as England manager?"

"Yes," he said.

"Ten out of ten, no notes."

He smiled and I dropped my backpack into my cubicle. It was shaped like a bath with walls around it. That's not a description you'll find on the British Airways website, by the way. At first I couldn't really tell if I thought it was tacky and shit or clever and comfortable, so I plopped myself down, sighed happily, and started messing about with the buttons, storage areas, and experimenting with the seat.

It reclined all the way flat, as promised. Absolutely brilliant. Lying there for six hours was just about on the cards. It would be snug and I liked to toss and turn but if I got sloshed on the free booze I'd paid for I reckoned I would be able to sleep just fine.

I remembered the video I'd promised to make. Everybody involved with Chester Football Club had packed themselves onto an open-top bus and driven around the city centre while crowds clapped, sang, and cheered. I mean, I supposed that was what happened, but I wasn't there. As soon as it was seemly for me to leave Woking I had whizzed Emma to London and there we had stayed doing tourist things until it was time for my flight.

I put my phone in selfie mode, took my sunglasses off, and pressed record.

"Hey, Chester. Heard there are some rumours I'm leaving. Yeah, I'm leaving. Leaving the country." I showed the cabin briefly. "Exactly as promised. I said about a hundred times as soon as the season was over I was going to Brazil." I frowned. "I think they prefer it to be called Brazzil. You know, with a bit of sass about it. I need to check that. I'm off to scout players, like I said." I did a playful smile. "You really need to practise active listening. What, you think 'as soon as the season's over' means two weeks later? Come on, guys. Our season ended yesterday and today my pre-season begins. I'm working, lads, and you can have a party without me, so..."

I paused because I sensed a presence. An older female member of the cabin crew was patiently waiting for me. She was smartly dressed and had a very slightly posh air about her. I pressed stop and looked up. She said, "Sorry to interrupt."

"You literally didn't interrupt. I became aware of someone looming over me."

She smiled. "I've never loomed before."

I returned the smile. "You're a natural."

"Beginner's luck." She glanced to her right, towards the front of the plane. "Your friend has invited you to join him in first class, Mr. Best."

Huh. What.

"Invited join him first class," I muttered, to see if that would help me gain some sort of understanding. Sort of rebuilding the sentence brick by brick. Comprehension Lego. "My friend," I added.

"Mr. Nicolini," she said.

It took me far longer than you might think. "Nick. How's he looking? Cheerful? How's his outfit? Super expensive? If you were me, would you move seats?"

"If I were you," said my new best friend - her name tag read June - "I'd move to first class because then you'll get served... by me."

I couldn't really imagine turning down the upgrade. The basic price of Business was two grand, and for First it shot up to eight. Yeah, for six grand of extra service I could sit next to Old Nick for a few hours. Maybe I'd finally remember some of the questions I always wanted to ask him that I forgot when he was actually around. But there was no need to make a rash decision. I would talk to him and then decide. See what kind of mood he was in.

I looked at June. "Inside an aeroplane," I pronounced, grandly, "may be the perfect time to ascend." This effect of this magnificent speech was dampened somewhat as I reached out. "Giz a lift." June pulled on me and I winced as nerve endings from locations as far apart as my toes and earlobes shot messages of alarm to my brain. "Thanks," I said. I thought about taking my backpack with me, but there was nothing valuable inside. Nothing that anyone would steal, anyway. I pushed it out of sight and followed June.

"Will you need help with your mobility, Mr. Best?"

She meant the pain. "No, no. Got kicked around a bit. I'm a bit stiff if I don't move but it's not a problem. You should see the other guy."

The other guy was Chris Hale, lifelong Grimsby Town fan, who was presumably getting absolutely roasted by his fellow fans. Why did you sack Max Best, you idiot? Can you sell the club, please? You're actually shit.

Have some of that, you stupid bastard.

Just as I was delighting in the image of Hale's pain, Old Nick came into view. He smiled at me in a way that suggested he knew what I'd been thinking.

"Max, my boy. Where's your luggage? Please join me."

First class had eight booths similar in design to the ones in business class. Here there was double the space, access to a private bathroom, and a more extensive wine list. There was one pod by each window and two together in the middle. 1-2-1 formation. Nick was in the 'two', meaning I would be forced to sit next to him. There was a divider between the booths that I could pull across and get a tiny bit of privacy, though at first glance it seemed like business class was actually more private. I stepped inside the empty booth, the one that could be mine if I so wished. "What are the conditions of me coming up here?"

"No conditions," said Nick. He was dressed in one of his incredible suits, his haircut was next level, and while I couldn't see his shoes from this angle, everything about him spoke of money. He had been using the XP I was generating to have a lovely old time. If anything, first class on a British Airways flight was a massive step down. "You had a first class season and deserve first class treatment."

"That's true."

He grinned. "My colleagues wrote that line. They'll be happy it was effective."

I turned to my right. "Are they here? In cattle class? In the hold?"

"It's just us, Max."

"You seem to be in a good mood. Not very chompy."

He rocked his head back and laughed at the ceiling. "I left a party to be here. Most inconvenient, but I assure you I am in high spirits. Come, join me. We will talk for five minutes and then you may pretend I'm not here."

"So there is a condition."

He smiled again. "We do not have to talk for five minutes but it could be a pleasant experience. You may like to hear, for example, why I am on this flight."

Well, he wasn't lying about being in a good mood, and June was waiting for me to decide. I was sure she had plenty of other things she needed to do. "Fine. I'll come here. But if you ask me to explain about pronouns again, I'm going back to business. Okay?"

I started down the aisle but June insisted she would get my backpack for me. I sat down and explored my new domain. It had cupboards, recessed storage bins, power outlets, lamps, a big screen for the in-flight entertainment, and there was a wonderfully tactile dial that allowed me to adjust things precisely to my liking. The best thing, of course, was the seat's 'bed mode'. I was playing with it when June discreetly slipped my bag onto the foot rest that would come into play when it was time for bed.

"You know what's weird," I said, back in seat mode, as I messed about with the absolutely awesome double-sized table that was cleverly tucked away in a crevice until needed. "Since I was spending the club's money on this trip, I did look at First Class seats. And they were all sold out. It seems you bought two of them before I even knew I'd be taking this flight. Now, that's a head scratcher. Makes me wonder about concepts such as free will."

Nick had produced a neck pillow and he was leaning back against his seat looking ready for a nap. In retrospect, I think that was a trick to get me to talk more. "No need for melodrama. I had the previous occupants of these seats kicked off the system. After you registered for this trip," he added. He eyed me. "Why are you here, Max?"

"Not you as well," I groaned. "I said it. It's one thing I was totally open about. When the season's over I'm going to Brazil. And here I am."

"Yes, but what has confused and confounded my colleagues and I is that you are flying to Rio with your friends two weeks from now. When you didn't show at the celebrations today, my colleagues were worried. When they discovered your name on a passenger manifest, they were frantic."

"Aw. Are the imps worried about me? That's sweet." Nick didn't react much, but patiently waited. "Would you like to hear my plans? Would that put your mind at ease?"

"Very much so."

June was back, offering me a glass of champagne. "Ooh, bonus," I said. Another member of the cabin crew gave Nick one and I was about to drink when I proved just how good my good mood was: I offered Nick the chance to clink. "Cheers," I said.

He raised an eyebrow but accepted the offer. We tapped our glasses together. "Wait," he said, before I could take a swig.

"What?"

He glanced around. "That was a very British clink."

"What does that mean?"

"In most countries, what you did was rude. You should look me in the eye when you clink the glasses."

Being corrected was annoying, especially when it came to manners - I mean, who gives a shit which fork you hold as you pick up a pizza slice and shove it into your gob? - but I decided it was better to be corrected by Nick now than at a formal event one day when I was trying to get a prince to sell me his superyacht. "Thanks," I said. I tried again, making sure to look him in the eye when I tapped the glasses together. We produced a satisfying chime. "Good clink!" I said. I took a swig. "Good plonk."

I put the glass down on one of the very many surfaces that were all mine for the duration of the flight.

"My plans are perfectly simple. I'm flying to Brazil and I'm going to watch football matches and find football players. Some people, mostly Emma, are bewildered by this but it's what I want to do and what I don't want to do is drive slowly around a city while 50,000 drunks throw beer on each other and chant about hating Wrexham. I've done the season, the season is over, it's my time now. I chose Sao Paolo because there was a non-stop flight and I've gone business class because I'm a big deal now. Also, Secretary Joe, it turns out, is an air miles fiend and he has been collecting miles on the club's credit card and I'm the first person who ever asked to use them. The retail price for my seat was like two grand return but he used points and we only had to pay like three hundred pounds cash. I asked him to teach me how to do it and he was happier than if I'd told him he was playing left-wing against Slovakia."

"Focus, Max."

"Right. So I'm going to Brazil to do curse things. You should be happy! I've got two full weeks to go full Max, recover, get my head straight, and find a few thousand players. Right? Then I fly back on the 11th of May, back in Blighty for the Exit Trials. That's all set up. I had a big meeting with the Brig and Ruth and Brooke and told them what I want and the Brig's going to turn that into a fucking military operation. It's going to be absolute clockwork and it won't matter if I'm jetlagged because I'll point at one player and say 'Tranmere' and I'll point at another and say 'priority target' and my team will swing into action and I can fall back asleep. That's the 13th, 14th, 15th of May. I get a day off to rest so I'm not grumpy - Emma insisted on that - and then it's the big trip. Rio. I won't need to do as much scouting if I've already got 20 viable prospects, right? I'll be able to focus on learning Relationism and being a better boyfriend. Good plan, right?"

Nick allowed his head to drop a fraction, which in context meant 'you have absolutely nailed it, mate, good on you'. "What's logical and clear to you is utterly perplexing to the rest of us." He frowned. "It explains why you didn't bring the bodyguard I paid for."

"Hey! You only paid for one season. Yeah, that's right. You owe the club like a hundred grand."

He looked to the right. He had forgotten! "I will check the details of our agreement."

"Do that."

"Don't you need to watch the playoffs?"

"Nope. Don't give a shit who wins. Your turn. Why are you here?"

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He downed the rest of his champagne. "When we met you were walking through a park in a dangerous area of a big city and, knowing the risks, you intervened to, a-ha, save me from some young hoodlums. Now, on the back of an unlikely triumph, feeling invincible, you have decided to jet to an even bigger city. You do not speak the language and do not know which areas to avoid. You will follow your perks wherever they lead, down dark alleys, into the nooks and crannies of the city in pursuit of the next, ah..." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a sticky note. "In pursuit of the next Ramyan."

"That's upside down."

"Ney-mar. And he is what? The Mozart of football?"

I considered that. "Maybe the Macklemore."

"Was it very funny, what you just said?"

"Yes."

"Good for you."

"Okay I'm looking for the next Mozart, the next Barenboim, in a place where such talents grow on trees. So?"

For the first time, he looked less than relaxed. "So it's idiotic. You don't know the country and you're combustible. You will get into trouble and you'll react with aggression and who knows what will happen?"

"It's your fault I'm aggressive," I said.

Nick looked away - the plane was backing up. Satisfied everything was in order, he fished around in his pocket again. He had a bunch of notes stuck to each other. He found a pink one with a lot of handwriting on it. "He thinks we made him more aggressive," read Nick. "But he edited his player to have 20 in the good Attributes and 1 in the bad ones. He has Aggression 1 because he didn't want his character to get red cards." He turned the note around. "When he's angry that's because he's a Manc twat and nothing to do with us tell him to stop blaming us thanks." He squashed up the note. "I understood that one."

Okay so that was a bit of a bombshell but there would be a few more of those on the flight. "I'm not aggressive. I'm a zen master."

Nick's eyebrow twitched up so briefly I nearly didn't spot it. "I didn't have time to organise counter-measures. I'm here to make sure you are not clobbered again."

"Counter-measures?"

Nick shrugged. "Undercover security to follow you and forestall trouble. A wily temptress who would lure you to a secluded mansion. I don't know. I leave the details to my colleagues."

"Have you got a photo of the temptress?"

"I will not be in your way. You can go about your business, follow your strange routines, attend your tedious sports events. If you find yourself compelled to sleepwalk towards danger, I will dissuade you."

"You didn't dissuade me from leaving the Deva when a nutjob was waiting with a metal bar."

"I didn't know he was there or that you would rush out into the rain. I can't protect you twenty-four hours a day. I can try to make sure you stick to the main roads of Sampa." He sorted through his sticky notes and found the one he wanted. Reading it seemed to cause him actual pain. "If you are being sensible yet find yourself crushed by a giant safe which is being dragged around the city by two sweet souped-up rides, that is regrettable but I will have done my best."

The note referenced a scene from the movie Fast Five. "Tell the imps that scene was in Rio, but I appreciate the effort. I really think you're worried about nothing. It's no more or less safe than anywhere else and I'm not going to favelas. I'll stick to the beaches. I'll be fine. You can go back to your party."

"The beaches of the city of Sao Paulo, Max? You have proven my point."

The plane had lumbered to its holding position by the runway. The captain said something and the cabin crew went around collecting our glasses and making sure we were belted up.

The noise in the cabin had been rising and it had gotten as loud as a busy coffee shop so I had to strain to hear what Nick said next. "It so happens that my other prospects have failed and I find myself relying solely on you. Temporarily. Whether you like it or not, I'm coming." He pulled the little curtain across, separating us.

Other prospects! Other people with curses. My mind exploded with the possibilities. Some fragment of a memory hinted that he could only control three 'players' at a time. Or was it four? One per imp? "Did they die?"

The curtain slid open. Nick said, "Please pay attention to the safety instructions. This aircraft may be different from others you have travelled on."

The curtain slid closed.

***

We took off and I explored my space even more thoroughly. The screen was decent quality but the interface had a two-second lag on any input, which would have been infuriating if I hadn't just won the league title. I found a British three-pin plug, several USB outlets, and three old-fashioned TV holes. Maybe you've seen these - one is red, one is blue, one is green. It made me wonder if maybe this plane was older than I was, but my thoughts were interrupted as June appeared and asked me some questions.

Yes, I would like to order my dinner and yes I would like her help choosing the wine to go with it.

Yes, I would like to be woken if I was sleeping when the second meal was served.

She told me that a bag I had been scared to touch was the bedding and that she would give me some BA pyjamas. When I was in the bathroom putting them on, she would make up my bed.

Just awesome.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought how hard I'd had to work to get to that point. The rewards were starting to come faster.

One had arrived that very morning. A part of the curse that almost never updated... had updated.

Your Reputation in England: Poor

Your World Reputation: Unknown

Roar! Double roar! I had ascended from 'Very Poor'. I was pretty sure a manager's personal reputation was used in various parts of Champion Manager and Soccer Supremo. For example, it was one of the biggest factors when applying for other jobs. Not relevant to me - I hoped - but good for my ego.

I was also pretty sure it would help me sign players. Put Guardiola or Klopp in charge of Chester and a whole swathe of players would suddenly be far more interested in joining. Now that I was a poor manager, the next Zach Green would be a little easier to convince.

What else? Would it help me attract better personal sponsors? Maybe. Probably not. It made me appreciate the Welsh FA even more, though. They'd put their trust in a Very Poor manager. They bought my music before I went mainstream.

The crew brought us three small amuse-bouche and a drink. The prospect of scran perked Nick up and he pulled the curtain back.

"How do you like your new lifestyle?"

I scoffed. "This is a treat. It's amazing but it's a treat. I'm miles off this as the default."

"Not miles off," he said. "You have your pay rise coming. You have the three clubs you own."

"I own one," I said. "I have a single share in West and literally no connection to College 1975. That's all Mateo."

He grinned. "Think who you're talking to. You will do well from them, we believe. It's curious, though."

"What is?"

"You manage Chester. You send players you don't need or can't use to one of three other clubs. You have a very close connection with a fourth club, Tranmere. It seems awfully like the multi-club model I presented to Sheffield Wednesday. The one you were so enraged by." He took a sip of his drink - something brown - and his eyes twinkled. "I know it's not hypocritical because you would never say one thing and do another. No, not you."

"Saltney and College have zero fans between them. They are empty vessels. West has a fan base and that's foremost in my thinking when I make decisions about it. West will never become Chester B. It's its own thing and always will be." I didn't give much of a shit what Nick thought - he was just being provocative. "Here, you'll like this."

I shoved the last morsel of food in my gob and searched through my phone until I found the set of photos I was looking for. I handed my phone to Nick, which I wouldn't have done if I had been my normal cautious self.

The pics had been taken in south Manchester. "That's West on the last day of the season. Big crowd to see if they could make it undefeated for the whole league campaign."

"Did they?" said Nick. He was incredibly uninterested in the sport that, as far as I could tell, was keeping him from being squashed flat and put back in the demon box.

"Yep. Jay smashed it. He's way too good for that level and he even slapped Chester's women and developed loads of young players and everything. He's amazing. I hope he's off the radar enough that Chip doesn't spot him yet."

"Chip Star?" said Nick. "You're thinking of who will become the next Bradford City manager?"

"Yes," I said, very slightly tense for the first time since the news came through that we had won the league.

Nick took another sip and looked through his notes. "Who do you fear Chip will choose?"

"God," I said, feeling the anxiety rise. "I mean, Sandra. Jackie. Those would hurt. Er, Jay. Well In. Someone like that, you know, who's on a path to glory as one of my, er..."

"Imps," suggested Nick.

I giggled. The alk had kicked in! "Yeah. Don't take my imps."

"Hmm," said Nick. If he was thinking about saying something mysterious, he changed his mind. "It will be Folke Wester," he said, before crunching up a note.

"Jesus fuck," I said, slamming my skull against the head rest.

"Is he very good? Are you outmatched?"

"Don't talk shit, okay? He's just a dick and I thought I was done with him." I shook my head. "He should have been sacked by Darlington but he stayed on somehow and he won the league. He can't hack it in League Two so he won't be player-manager. He won't be able to get on the pitch and kick me. That's something." I stared at nothing for a while. "Fuck," I said. But then I thought - it's not that bad. Folke would get Bradford playing brutal football and they would get so many red cards and suspensions they would never be a threat to anyone. He would cross the line in terms of gamesmanship in a way that would not go well with the world's media watching. "Give me that." Nick handed the phone back, but I was only unlocking it. I swiped to the next photo. "Keep going," I said.

Nick swiped through some - to him - tedious photos of West's final match. He was slightly more interested in the post-match celebrations, but then he sat up straight. "Mr. Yalley!" he said.

The man in question was in his best suit, holding the league trophy up. The players were behind him, spraying him with champagne. Nick swiped and there were more photos of Mr. Yalley with the West fans. "He's already a beloved character," I said.

"Quite right, too," said Nick. "He wouldn't want you jetting off to strange new lands at random." He swiped back and examined the photo some more.

"West's on the up," I said, ignoring Nick's latest whine about my safety. "Emma's dad wants to sponsor us. Not with his Newcastle firm this time, but his sports lawyers. It makes a lot of sense because that company's based in Manchester. He's putting more money in so I'll be able to pay Vivek and a few more guys who can boss the next level. We will have a tier 7 team in tier 8, Jay will crush it again, rinse and repeat."

I took the phone back and did the photo album version of a lazy stroll around the garden. Meandering through my 'recents'. "What was that one?" Nick said, peering over.

I held it up. "That's Well In and the Saltney lads celebrating. Another league win the curse doesn't seem to want to factor into my worldwide reputation. I'm huge in Malta, you know. There's Rainman, Omari, and Tom. They learned a lot, I think, not that it really shows in their CA. I think they'll kick on faster thanks to this experience." I glanced at him. "You have no idea what I'm talking about."

"It's your system. You would know it better than me."

"Here's a fun pic. That's me running around like a crazy person after winning the league. I think I thought I was a bird or something, don't really remember. I'm hugging this rando. See that kid there watching us?"

"Yes."

"That's Roddy Jones. Future star. I didn't know he was around."

"He is, to put it mildly, impressed by your achievement."

I swiped. "Here's Wibbers with his family. His brother Adam has been coming up to train when he can. Adam's literally exactly half as good as William. Did you do that as a joke?"

"I did not. Is Andrew Harrison three times as good as his youngest brother?"

"Not too far off that. But I've seen loads of younger brothers who are miles better than their siblings; it's not like there's a rule about it. Ah, this is a fun photo. This is all the eighteens who were out on loan wearing the kits of the clubs they were at."

"Mmm," said Nick.

"Not impressed by that one? That's a banger, mate. What am I doing? Photo slideshow? I hate those. Did you make me do that?"

"I did not make you do that. Why don't you have any from the event today?"

"Because I wasn't there. I think Emma was maybe getting some of the good ones together for me. She said she was going to send me something during the flight when I was offline."

"Why are you offline?"

"Because I'm too cheap to pay for data."

Nick shook his head and called for his cabin crew person. "Mr. Best would like Wifi access."

"Certainly, sir."

Within a minute I was logged in and downloading a bunch of images Emma had sent. I remembered people were freaking out about me potentially quitting so I recorded the video I had been making, sent that to Emma for her editing magic, and went back to my pod to scroll through my unread messages and emails. "Rather a lot," said Nick.

"Dieter Bauer. David Cutter. Ian Evans. That's, er, descending order of playing style." I chuckled, but Nick found all footy excruciating unless I was playing. "But equally considerate in their own way. Yeah, loads of congrats. Got one from Bradley Rymarquis. He vanished after the Brig gave him a little talking-to but it was sort of a peace offering from him so I replied to that one right away. Trying not to drown in grudges, do you know what I mean?"

"You're talking to the wrong person. Grudges and I go like leek and onion."

The phrase made my mouth water and seconds later, our mains arrived. June set my table - full cloth, real cutlery, real fancy - then came the dishes.

I concentrated on my food for a while - gorgonzola and walnut ravioli with goat's cheese crumble paired with a Shiraz June recommended - then took a proper look at the pics Emma sent. It told the story of the trophy parade.

The first one showed thousands of people crowding around a tourist bus that had some hurriedly-made banners dangling over the sides. The destination read: Chester FC, EFL bound. On the bus, players and coaches drank beers and waved balloon trophies and the EFL logo. They weren't all balloon trophies, though. At the front of the top deck were the various actual trophies we'd won, being guarded by Glenn, Christian, Bonnie, Femi, and Zach - the captains and vice captains and vice vice captains. I could just imagine the roar of the crowd every time a trophy was hoisted up.

I swiped through dozens of similar images at different locations with different constellations of revellers.

I stopped at one in the middle which was more of the same but the bus was outside the Liverpool FC club shop in the city centre and it had its shutters all the way down even though it would normally have been open on a busy day of shoppers and tourists.

"Ha! I finally got the fucking Liverpool shop closed. Just for the day but it's a start. Get the fuck in," I added, with a bit of spitey triumph. Spite has a bad rap. I like spite.

The next interesting sequence were five photos centred around Brooke. I got the impression someone had told her to stop talking to councillors and sponsors and get fucking drinking. She had refused and refused - my imagination told me - until Zach said, 'aw come on lady let's fucking go'.

1. A semi-circle of male and female players have gathered around Brooke. She has a pint of beer in one hand and is giving it a hesitant glance.

2. She's bringing the beer to her lips.

3. The scene is virtually identical - mere seconds have passed - but the glass is empty and the players around her are absolutely stunned.

4. She has turned to soak up the acclaim.

5. She is visibly rolling her eyes as Zach high-tens Bonnie.

I had a bit of a fit of the giggles before returning to the stack.

I didn't see Ruth or the Brig in any of them, but I suspected I knew where they were. Two of the photos were of one of those 'message planes'. A small little thing was flying around carrying a banner that read: IN MAX WE TRUST.

The photos got increasingly beer-drenched until by the end, in the darkness, everyone looked somewhat worse for the wear. Youngster looked like he was about to have the first hangover of his life. Pascal was sucking face with his girlfriend, Tiggy. The captaincy group were waving Chester shirts and scarves and they had all acquired some sort of Japanese headbands, though only Zach was topless.

"Quite the party," said Nick.

"Just like the old days in Mesopotamia," I said, hoping to get him to reveal some information about himself. He looked at me to show he recognised my effort, but considered it too lame to warrant a facial expression. He returned to his meal. "How come you need to eat?" I wondered. "I thought you would, like, absorb energy from the sun on the back of your neck."

Nick chewed for a few seconds, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, wiped his hands clean, and pulled the curtain closed.

"I can still see you," I said, lifting myself up. "Go on, you can tell me things. What's more full, heaven or hell? Is purgatory like Groundhog Day and you keep reliving your life until you're not a dick and then you get to go to heaven? Is hell really awful but the live concerts are killer? Who's your favourite imp? Is there really a Sentinel or did you make that up to keep me obedient? How many humans have curses and how many end up getting squashed flat? What's this game you're playing and how many other demons are doing it? What's your prize for winning and how do you win?"

Nick was starting to get a hint of a snarl around his mouth but suddenly he was shaking his head and smiling. "Have you finished?"

"Er, one more." I thought about what question I would most want to get the answer to. What's the top thing? The main thing? Why me? Not interesting. How am I doing compared to other peeps with curses? Not really important. What would happen if I pressed Retire? I knew I wasn't going to do that unless Nick overstepped the mark in some way. Something about God, the devil, right, wrong, morality, the future of the human race? "Oh," I said. The sound just sort of popped out of me. Nick pulled the curtain open and gave me a watchful look. I couldn't meet his gaze. "You can do things. Get helicopters and kick people off flights. Can you... If I keep giving you XP and if I play 20 minutes and don't take the piss too much, can you... Can you help with my mum?"

I felt his expression soften by maybe one-millionth of a percent, but it was enough. He spoke carefully but not harshly. "How would I do that?"

"Like if there's a drug that's hard to get. One that works but it'll be ten years before it's mass market. If you could help me get it. I mean, I'll pay and that but some of the experimental ones, they're, you know. Inaccessible. You can do things. You can get us on the list."

He pointed straight ahead. "I can't help you if you're dead in a ditch."

I bit my lip. "Okay. I'll stick to the main roads. No side quests. You can follow me around and I won't be difficult." Nick ruminated. I got the feeling he was revising down his future spending plans and he didn't like it. "You know," I said, leaning forward, "I never actually made a wish."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yes, you did." He was quiet for a full minute at least. Finally, he said, "If there is ever a list you want to be on, I can get you on that list."

"Oh." It popped out of me again. I suppose I had been expecting a straight no, or to be tethered by conditions and tricks and scams. "Thanks?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing." He took some bread and mopped up the sauce on his plate, then took a huge swig of red wine.

"I'm going to the Prem," I said. "Champions League. Gonna fuck some shit up."

He did a sarcastic jazz hands thing. "Wow!" He chuckled and dabbed his napkin. "You like movies. What should I watch?"

"Wall-E."

"Thank you." He pulled his screen out and used the remote to navigate. Even given the slowness of the interface, it was maddening to watch an old person use technology. Especially someone as old as him. What was he, 3,000? He glanced at me and narrowed his eyes. So they could hear my thoughts! The fucking nosy pricks. Nick said, "Have you checked the day's transfer activity?"

"Yes. It's normal stuff. Nothing unusual. Why?"

He frowned and checked his watch. "Ah. He'll announce in a few hours, perhaps. Get the week off to an exciting start, sell some season tickets. Yes, could be that. Do try to get some sleep so you're rested when we land. And try not to be too agitated by what's coming." He smiled as our plates and cutlery were taken away in a dazzling display of synchronised service. "And before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with it. This was all you. Goodnight, Max."

The curtain closed.

***

June sensed me getting fidgety and asked if I was thinking about going to sleep. She nudged me towards the bathroom where I slipped out of my black hoodie and cheap jogging pants and into the First Class pyjamas and special socks. I felt the fabric - supersoft. A tactile feast. It would cocoon me and I would emerge refreshed and ready for action even after a ten-hour flight. Unreal. Who was this Max Best guy?

I shoved my hoodie and joggers into a cheap plastic bag and looked at myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Emma's description of Harry Styles popped into mind - hot but safe. I smiled as I tested out some poses I might use for my character in EA Sports. The moody Christian Fierce look. Dan Badford's 'I don't know' shrug. Angel's 'oh the camera's on me again oh gosh' lip-twirl.

Hot? Yeah.

Safe? Tell that to Grimsby.

The creatures of the Cambrian period tried on every possible anatomical costume. It took them millions of years to grow hard shells, teeth, and claws. It had taken me two years to get to First Class and I was just getting started.

Nick's warning that there might be some unpalatable transfer news came and went. Whatever happened, I'd be ready. Whatever happened, it wouldn't stop me absolutely crushing League Two and going deep in some cups.

I smirked and did one last pose - a Maxy Two-thumbs.

***

Bradford City have appointed Folke Wester as their new manager. Wester will be given considerable transfer funds and will be expected to achieve automatic promotion in the coming season.

Bradford City have agreed a fee with Grimsby Town for the signing of talented central defender Tom Hickman. The fee is expected to be in the region of £40,000 rising to £100,000 if targets are met.

Bradford City have agreed terms with Leslie "Chipper" Thomson. The Welsh striker will leave Crawley Town for a nominal fee and is said to be 'ready to fight tooth and nail' for his new manager.

Bradford City have concluded a deal to sign goalscoring midfielder Raffi Brown from Al Fateh SC for a fee in the region of £200,000. Brown will receive the remainder of his salary in full so that his club can sign a high-profile overseas player. Brown is said to be 'keen' to return to England.

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[Guys please remember the mid-book break! No chapters next week then... Max in Brazil!]

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