3.

Tuesday, May 13

Day One - Slough

I opened my eyes and did a tiny inside yawn. A blonde was to my right, hugging my arm. As I came more to my senses I realised she had been gently shaking it. We made eye contact and she mired me.

"Was I drooling on you?"

"No," she said, and she gave my arm a little squeeze and held onto me.

I looked straight ahead and took in the sights. Football stadium, football pitch, two teams. Greens versus whites. Match underway. Quick scan for high PA guys, job done. Now to wait for a while to make it seem more believable when I got Operation Pipsqueak underway.

"How are the horses?"

Ruth gave me a surprised look. "All good. So you do like them. I knew it!"

I smiled and rubbed my eye with my free hand. "For the first few nights away I was waking up at two a.m. on the dot wondering what the hell was wrong with me."

MD was one of the Chester gang who were ready to leap into action to save some young men who had been discarded from academies. He was in the row in front, one seat to my left. He turned towards me. "That's odd, even for you."

"It's from my stable," said Ruth, giving MD a much softer look than she normally awarded him. "The automatic feeders go off at two a.m."

"It's like a crack," I said. "These shelves snap back and the hay falls. Crack!"

"I had no idea it was so loud," said Ruth. "I sleep right through it."

"I do, too," I said. "Normally. Sometimes after a match I'm too hyper but..." I found my eyes closing and forced them open again. "I need a tea."

Brooke was next to MD. She turned her head and that was enough of a signal for someone to shoot up and run off. "On it."

The surprise helped wake me a fraction. "Was that... Kian?"

Kian had been in our under eighteen side but had aged out. He had been doing odd jobs around the Deva - ball boy, trainee groundsman, serving drinks. "He's my intern," said Brooke.

"What?" I laughed. I wouldn't have expected that in a million years.

She turned to show a smile. "He's got a spark. He's smart and he's entrepreneurial. He remembers what drinks people like. We had the BoshCard people in and someone asked for a drink we didn't have. Next time they were due, Kian came prepared."

"So he's our next head of hospitality?"

"He's my assistant," said Brooke. "He's good at everything, so far. He's the you of admin, though his tan game isn't as on point as yours.."

"If he fucks up my tea, he's fired," I growled.

"Sure, Max," she said, her smile even warmer.

"Okay what is going on?" I said. "Why is everyone in a good mood?"

Ruth squeezed my arm again. "This is the first time we get to be with you since the league win! You ran off."

I yawned and raised my free hand in apology.

"How was the flight back?" said MD.

"Good. I got upgraded to First on the way out there and it was pretty amazing. It was Business on the way back and that was fine but I had to make my own bed."

"Scandal," said Ruth.

"I know, right? And I didn't get special pyjamas. It was fine. I don't think I'd want to fly Economy on such a long flight but Business was just about okay. I watched Exit Through the Gift Shop. Have you seen it?"

"No," said MD.

"It's about Banksy, the street artist. Actually, it seems to be about him but then it's about this other guy. It's really kinda bonkers and I never knew quite where I was. But there's a twist that really got my mind racing and that didn't help me sleep. Think of two artists. There's Banksy, whose stuff I don't always like but there are more hits than misses. A guy who, whatever you think about him, has been crafting his work for years. He has some skills, some technique. That's me. I'm Banksy. Then there's this guy with no skills but he decides to copy Banksy. That's Chip Star. Sorry, Brooke."

"You go right on ahead, sweetheart."

"Doesn't have a lot of original ideas but he's good at copying and good at hype and he has success. Now, even as a philistine I was watching it going 'but his art is shit'. All the artists in the movie agreed he was a copycat with no sense of craft, but I'm pretty sure the copycat is way more successful financially. It's not an amazing documentary but it's one that gets under your skin. When it was over I kept thinking about it, you know? I'm still thinking about it now. Might be the time difference and the weird sleep patterns and the shock that the Brig's suddenly driving on the wrong side of the road. Most films, you finish, you crack your knuckles, you turn the TV off. That one was so interesting. I need time to process it."

"Why did you watch that?" said Ruth.

"Er, I think I typed Exit Trials into YouTube and Exit Through the Gift Shop was the first choice after however many letters. And I thought, I've heard about this so often and Sampa was full of amazing street art. Maybe it's time to finally watch it since I'm paying for the in-flight Wifi."

"I'd love to talk about your flight for the next ten hours," said Sandra. She was in the seat behind mine. "But how was Brazil?"

"Mental," I said. "Sao Paulo is so much bigger than I expected. It's noisy and hot and crazy. I got a tan in winter. I mean, that's not right." I shook my head at the temerity of the place. "The size, though. I went hard scouting as much of it as poss and when I saw the map of where I'd been I'd barely scratched the surface. Enormous place. Not my dream city in terms of architecture and parks and that sort of thing but every expat who lives there says the same thing - it's all about the people. Maybe I was lucky or maybe it was because I was with Chelli but everyone I met was lovely."

"Tell me about these new players," said Sandra.

"Okay," I said, but my attention snapped to the pitch. Brooke later told me it was funny how the civilians did one thing and the football experts - Sandra and I - did another. We both locked onto the move as soon as it started. The greens put together a nice combination, one little dribble, through ball, shot, saved, shot, blocked, dinked finish. Applause from the many scouts, families, and agents in the stand. I made eye contact with Sandra. "See him?"

"Yeah."

"Which one?" said MD.

"White 6," I said.

"He didn't do anything!" he complained. "The greens scored!"

"Before that move he made a run into the box when his winger was lining up a cross. Extra man in the middle. The cross was blocked, ball broke, greens did what they did. That guy sprinted back and made a penalty-area block. Look at him - he's not even breathing hard. He's a natural box-to-box midfielder. I would very much like one of those. Erm, yeah so Tomzilla. I spotted him in a pick-up game and got Chelli to talk to him."

"Chelli is, er, Ruth's new hire?" said MD.

"Yes," said Ruth. "He went through a very rigorous process that came after an exhaustive investigation into whether my company needed to expand into the South American market. At every stage, it was logical, rational, and very very professional."

She was rinsing me, but still had hold of my arm. I blinked at her. "You have the Grindhog connect, multiple players on TV this season, you're in an award-winning documentary. It's time to grow. Er, is what you told me before I left." I couldn't quite tell how Ruth was feeling so I moved on. "So we're there at this football cage. It wasn't a cage but that's more dramatic so let's pretend. Chelli does the sales pitch but Tomzilla, he's like who even are you, old man? Basically takes his glove off and slaps me in the face. Oh! Challenge accepted, boyo."

"Can we talk about Tomzilla?" said Brooke. "That can't be his real name."

"It is," I said. "So we play five against six. I'm on Tomzilla's team and I think the lads were expecting me to do bits. You know, madnesses. But I played one-touch. I moved one of our guys wide left, one wide right, and every time the scrum came near me I got in there and booped the ball out. Slide pass through the forest of legs right, dainty chip left. Those guys weren't marked so they caused mayhem until the other team decided to have three defenders back and suddenly we had something that looked more like a real game. Which I bossed utterly and completely without doing a single piece of skill."

Brooke smiled. "Thought you woulda wanted to show off."

I shook my head. "That's not impressive. I'm not a TikTok skills monkey, I'm a professional. I showed them what professionalism means. Consistency. Make the simple pass every time and you rip teams open. Make the right decision every time and you wreck them. I basically did an impression of what future Tomzilla will be doing."

Kian returned with my tea. I sipped it and made a satisfied aah noise.

"Top bins, Kian mate. Yeah, being a professional is about eating well and doing weights and winning and that sort of thing but it's mostly about consistency. We got Josh Owens at this event last year and he's talented. He can give me an eight out of ten performance, but next match it'll be six. He goes 8-6-6. Wibbers has even more talent and what he does on the pitch comes with a greater degree of difficulty. He's a 9-5-5. We're coaching him and giving him minutes to get him to 9-6-6 and then 9-6-7 and so on. I kind of tried to take that theme and show the Brazilian lads what elite football really looks like."

I took another sip.

"They're not stupid. I think when you see up close what things are supposed to look like, if you have the slightest feel for that world you're going to get it. It's intuitive, right? Everyone with talent who saw me play one-touch got really quiet and really thoughtful. I'm quite pleased with how I handled that because with the directors of football I was a bit hyper and a bit silly. Tomzilla clicked very quickly and tried to do one-touch himself. Me, him, and the goalie zinged passes to each other and then one of us - me, usually - would ping a longer pass. It was like... Okay it was like playing the first time with Raffi, or with Pascal. Very, very intense and just a kind of 'right' feeling.

"I was like, God, got to get this kid signed up right away. I mean, MD, I know you think it's mental to give wages to a kid who can't conceivably play for us for two years or more but it's like playing the lottery with a fifty million pound payout and a thirty percent chance of winning. I met his family and his girlfriend and they are lovely and completely normal. They'll keep his feet on the ground. From everything I've heard about young footballers who don't make it, it's about having shit friends and no support. TZ was briefly in a youth system, too, like Raffi was, so he's not totally new to the industry. Bump that thirty to fifty percent."

MD said, "I don't really understand how he'll improve over there with no club."

"We're going to give him coaching. Ruth's paying for that."

"Am I? How generous of me."

I laughed. "My mate Nono's letting us use his training ground and even some of his coaches. I mean, fifty quid an hour is a decent side hustle for those coaches, right? We've got three players signed up in Sampa and there are a few more Chelli can run with if he wants, but they will only play in Brazil. No international moves for those guys."

"The other two, Max," said Sandra, pushing me on the shoulder. "Player profiles. Comps."

"Right. Tomzilla's an Italian-style centre back. Imagine a more sophisticated version of Zach Green. You know, one who didn't think Balenciaga was a city in Spain."

Brooke said, "I think Zach's worn more Balenciaga than you, Max."

"Yeah, well, one time he brought a special candle to Dean's treatment room and said it smelled of Texas. We all thought it smelled like Dr. Pepper. Second signing is Nasa. He's a right back. He's solid ay eff. Reminds me of Wan-Bissaka in the way he's hard to dribble past. If we're ever up against a tricky winger we can't handle, we call for Nasa. He's fine on the ball, won't lose possession, but he's not creative. He's a year older than Tomzilla and he's starting from zero but there's a ton of potential there if we're patient." It had to be worth jumping through a few hoops - he had a PA of 150. "He's not as charming as Tom and his family are extremely devout in a way that's quite humourless but I expect him to train like his life depends on it."

"There's another one, isn't there?" said Brooke.

"Yeah," said MD. "A tricky winger. The kind of player who sells season tickets. But he has been signed by the famous Saltney Town."

I grinned. "Toquinho." PA 154, no prior background in the sport. "Bit of a weird one. He doesn't have any particular strengths but I think he'll turn into a guy who's quite good at everything. Not elite, then, because at the very top level you need something that's awesome but I can imagine him turning into a sort of Alex Iwobi type player. Not gonna score loads or assist loads, but he's not gonna give the ball away, he's gonna move you up the pitch and he's gonna keep his shape when you're under the cosh. I think he's a twenty-million pound signing for a bottom-end Premier League team who need someone to follow the coach's instructions to the letter. I mentioned consistency. Toquinho's a solid 7 out of 10 every single week sort of player and for a lot of managers that's what they want."

"And he's gone to Saltney because...?" said MD.

One reason was because I didn't want to put all my eggs in Chester's basket. If I was fired in the next five years, I wouldn't personally benefit from my trip. If I registered a few talents with Saltney, I would be in line to pocket almost all the cash from their eventual sale. "Because Saltney had a couple of hundred pounds a week to spare, boss. And because I'm not sure about his character. He's quite different on and off the pitch. On pitch he's solid, reliable. Off it? Not sure. He might be a dick. Or he might party hard for a couple of years and settle down. No clue, but he's 17 right now and he'll turn 18 over the course of the season so again, he needs patience and that's what Saltney Town is famous for." I checked the Match Overview screen for the Greens versus Whites match. 17 minutes gone. Long enough that I could start to think about setting my plans in motion.

"So you found three players in two weeks?" said Brooke. "That seems lower than I expected. You found a lot more in Wales, and even here at the Exit Trials last year."

"Those are the three best," I said. "The three worth registering. In my role as consultant for Ruth's business I decided the players there need a higher ceiling than the ones here."

"And I agreed entirely," said Ruth, "after the decision had been made by Max. After I had decided I needed to expand to South America."

"At these distances, there is just more that can go wrong, right? I gave Chelli a list of the next best twenty unattached prospects and told him about a few who were like twelve years old. If they get picked up by clubs or agents in the next few years, that'll be annoying but good for them. Chelli's going to be busy enough as it is and we can't go round snatching children." I looked around for my copy of the Exit Trials team sheets - from my left, the Brig anticipated my need and handed it over. "Now let's snatch some children."

I scanned the lineups for a minute, mentally matching the names to their PAs while finishing my tea.

"Brig," I said. "We good?"

"We're good."

"Orange alert."

"What does that mean?"

"It means light the beacons."

He did a microscopic smile. "Lighting the beacons, sir."

He sent a message out via WhatsApp and all the phones around me beeped. I released myself from Ruth's delicious clutches, stood, and looked around.

* Over there by the front of the main stand were Josh and Tom - two players I had signed at the trials last season. They were ready to go into the changing rooms to pre-sell Chester to any high-priority targets I might have. One key role was to get my targets to identify their parents - one thing the curse didn't help me with.

* Over there near the back were Fleur, our scout, Henk, her son, and Spectrum, a coach and de facto head of our youth system. Fleur was very persuasive with a certain kind of parent - single dads, if I'm being completely frank - and her son was a big fan of the Chester youth system and hey! He was willing to drive hundreds of miles to tell other prospects all about it. Spectrum had more experience of dealing with the parents of young players than anyone at Chester.

* In the middle, talking to some of his mates from other clubs, was Vimsy. He was an unlikely spy, feeding back to the Brig what the Average Football Man was thinking.

* And over to the right were a couple of football club owners - Mr. Yalley (West Didsbury) and Mateo (Tranmere Rovers; College 1975). Their job was to dazzle the parents of young players where needed. Mr. Yalley would be most useful when we did the northern leg of the three Exit Trials, but he had taken a couple of days off work to help me out and he was having a blast in the process. He was, I noted with extreme pleasure, wearing his Savile Row suit.

I sat down feeling pretty good about my found family. "MD, who's on our mailing list?"

"Eastleigh, Woking, Aldershot, and Barnet are here."

I nodded. That was amazing - so many opportunities for any talented kids we found. I looked at the pitch again.

As usual, most of the players were 18, meaning they wouldn't be able to take part in the FA Youth Cup in the coming season. There were a few 17-year-olds, though, and the odd 19-year-old.

Their CAs tended to be in the 15-25 range, depending on the academy they had been released from. It was their PA that was most interesting to me, of course, and those were all over the place. There were only four over 60 in this match, but that was four careers I could rescue.

"Who do we like most? Eastleigh or Woking?"

"Woking," said MD, instantly. I really wanted to get him drunk enough that he would explain himself, but that would have to wait.

"Tell your mate to get on that left mid. Green 11. If Woking don't take him I'll loan myself back to the National League so I can beat them again. Brig, do you know the Aldershot scout?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pitch Green 4 to him. Tell him you'll court martial him if they don't give the lad a chance." I waited while they typed away on their phones. "There are two more good ones," I mused. "Half-decent goalie." The guy was PA 71. Not really anywhere near good enough for what I wanted but his ceiling was higher than my current starting goalie. "He could have a decent career and I do need another keeper for Sticky to train up. It can't be him, though. Not really. He'd crush Saltney or Gibraltar, though. Erm... MD, send out an APB on White 1."

"What is one of those in this context?"

"Tell everyone you know they should all go for it. Winners takes all."

"Oh, very good."

"What?" I said.

"Winner takes Hall. Better than your usual jokes."

Right, because the goalie was called Hall. I'd barely noticed. "Last one. Difficult. Our box-to-box guy." PA 89. Top of League Two. By the time he reached his potential, though, Chester would be in the Championship at least. "He's very good. Could train him up and cash in, and he's eye-catching. Plus he's young enough that he could play in our Youth Cup team."

"He sounds swell," said Brooke.

"It's the opportunity cost," I said. "If we get him, it's one of our last slots gone. Like, if it's him or Lee Contreras, I have to choose Lee because we need a few more guys who can start every week. If this guy lived up north I'd try to get him for Saltney or West. Tranmere would still be good. Or he could do a few years with a National League club who can sell him on. Ah, shit. Let the non-leaguers fight Mateo for him. Let your mates know he's a player, MD, Brig. Right, four players saved. Do I go to heaven now? One match down, eight to go. I need to talk to Mateo while I've got the energy."

I got to my feet and shuffled across the back of the stand, eyeing the scouts. There was no-one from Bradford City, surprisingly. No doubt Chip was back in Texas trawling through every word I'd ever said in public, looking for clues about which players to sign.

I tapped Mateo on the shoulder and nodded towards the exit. He got up and followed.

***

We did some quick catching up. "Shame about Grimsby," he said, once we had taken care of the pleasantries.

"Yeah, big shame."

He admonished me with a look. "They travel in numbers, Max. It's good to sell out the away end. Forest Green is not who I wanted to win that playoff final. They sell tickets by the hundreds. Grimsby do thousands."

"You'll be fine and Grimsby will be fine. They've got a good team."

"Didn't you hear? They're selling Danny Grant and Jayden Ward."

I hadn't seen it on the curse feed, perhaps because the deals hadn't been finalised yet. "Please don't tell me it's to Bradford."

"No, Grant to Doncaster."

I winced. Doncaster were one of the teams who would be expecting a playoff place, at least. "That's not good."

"No. And Ward to MK Dons."

"Shit." There were some poor teams in League Two but at least half had players that could win a match single-handedly. I wanted the top teams to buy shit players, not guns like Jayden Ward. Well, it was out of my hands. All I could do was make Chester as strong as possible. "Where did you get with Gabriel?"

"Gabby," said Mateo. "He wants to be called Gabby so we can market him as Gabbygol. We've had a couple of offers turned down but we're getting close to agreeing a fee. Four hundred thousand pounds, Max, give or take. That's a hell of a lot of money for Tranmere. It makes me nervous."

"Did you have problems with his agent?"

"No, it has been smooth. So far. I suggested that he didn't blab about the deal and I think he understood me."

I tutted. Gabby would have been a good signing for Chester but messing about with agents had put me off. Either I had imagined monsters where there were none, or Mateo had navigated around them with diplomacy and sophistication. The transfer was still pretty beneficial for me; my 'finders fee' would help me get REMSA set up. "Just go for it. This guy's the real deal. He's probably gonna be the best Tranmere player in the last twenty years."

"Why don't you sign him yourself? We're your league rivals, remember."

"I don't have four hundred thousand to spare and he'll be joining you after the season in Brazil ends, right?" Mateo nodded. I spread my arms. "So that's January. We'll be twenty points ahead of you by then! And Gabby will need half a season to get up to speed. Next season when he's wrecking defences, we will be in League One. Bosh. Not a problem. Anyway, I have to back myself to find someone even better; I've got the rest of the summer. Mateo, look, he might not work out, same as any player. But you need to start thinking what you'll spend your riches on. Three mill. Five mill. TEN mill! All right?" I gave him a playful little punch. "Do you want another one, yes or no?"

He looked up and away. "No. I'm tapped out."

"I'm going to the under 20 World Cup. Are you telling me if I find the next Messi for half a million and he needs to be bought right now, you don't want that phone call?"

He looked up and spoke like a robot. "Yes I want the next Messi for half a million."

I nodded towards the seats. "I need to get back to my dudes. They're all being so nice to me and each other. It's like a convention of ASMRtists."

"What about College?" He was referring to our 'joint venture' in Gibraltar.

"Thanks to your loanees, we're just as good as the Imps. We need a couple more guys to be sure of winning the league."

"I thought those guys would come from you," he said, trying and failing to be stern.

"Mate! Your backups are as good as my firsts. My backups are National League North quality! You've got my captain. I would send someone else if I had them. Trust me, I'm keeping my eyes open. Spain are at the under 20s World Cup. So are Italy and Norway. Imagine if one of those guys was desperate for minutes!"

"Yeah, right, okay," said Mateo, but he was miles away. Wondering what he'd have to remortgage to afford the next Messi, maybe. He woke up from his reverie. "Should I buy Danny Flash? Chris needs his wages off the books." The Grimsby owner Chris Hale was friends with Mateo, and his star striker Danny Flash was even more overpaid than the guy at Chelsea whose job it was to throw darts at pieces of paper on which were written the names of young footballers - the basis for the club's transfer strategy.

"Do not buy Danny Flash. Do not sign Danny Flash on a free. Erm," I added. "He'd be mint for College, but not for three grand a week."

"How do you know his salary?"

I scoffed. "I was Grimsby manager. Remember? I mean, offer Chris that you'll pay whatever percent of his wages. 25% or whatever. He would actually make a difference in Gib."

"Chris won't accept losing two thousand odd a week on his best striker."

"Chris can take it or leave it. But Danny at Tranmere? No no no. Don't do that." I squinted while I tried to think. "You've got Junior. Lucas is coming up fast. You might be all right till January. Could get a bit dicey if Junior gets injured. Maybe a six-month loan on someone? Tell your scouts to get thinking. Text me their ideas; if it's someone I've seen I'll give you feedback for free. Okay, peace."

***

There were no guys over PA 100 in the blacks versus reds match, so I waited ten minutes and called Josh and Tom over.

"Is it weird, this?" I wondered. "Like coming back to your prison?"

"Like coming back to our escape tunnel, boss," said Tom. His time at Saltney had been just okay in terms of his CA growth but he had a league winners medal, a hatful of goals, and a little bit more swagger.

"Top. There's no-one for Chester in this match so I was thinking you could go off on your own for a couple of hours. Find a church, light a candle. That's what kids these days do, isn't it?"

Josh looked at the pitch. "You don't like no-one?"

"There are a few I'll recommend to our mates at Woking but none for us."

"What about the 6 in the last match? He looked sound."

"He was pretty sound," I said. "I'd like to send you on a scouting course, Josh, with an eye like that. Could be something for you to do when you're injured. I did Youngster once but he's not a natural. Er, yeah that 6 was like 89% of what we need. I was tempted to sign him anyway but then it's less pay rise for you."

Josh nodded as though I had confirmed a conspiracy theory. "That's what this is about. Reminding us where we were so we extend for cheap."

I smiled. "No, you're here because you're my secret weapon. There are other clubs watching and if there's an obvious star they might offer a higher starting wage, better facilities, all kinds of things, but I've got four Exit Triallists who got proper minutes in my first team last season. Not 'here's two matches near the end of the season to shut Max Best up' like Tranmere, but proper matches when the stakes were high. If there's someone I want, you're my first line of attack."

"First line of persuasion," said the Brig.

"Sure, right. As for re-signing for cheap, yeah, of course, but it's got nothing to do with today. My job is to find the wage where 'very unhappy' turns into 'unhappy' and offer that to you." I scoffed. "It's not very nice but it's how we win the league while building Bumpers Bank."

"We going for the league again?" said Josh, very nearly cracking a smile.

I looked at the pitch, cupped my chin, and scratched the underside of my jaw with my thumbnail. "I think we have a shot. It'll be like last season. Dodgy start, big finish. But I think we'll get good faster so yeah, there's a chance we go on a rampage and it depends how the other teams get on. It's a bit like the National League where there are ten good teams and everyone should drop points. But..."

"Yes?" said Ruth, shaking me slightly. Perhaps she thought I was doing a microsleep.

"We're in like eighty cup competitions. It's ludicrous."

"Bin off the Cheshire Cup," said Tom. Big shot striker already forgetting his roots?

"Nope and if you say that in front of me again it's a two-week fine." That cowed him. "That's our cup. We win that. No negotiation. No, it's the other ones I'm not sure about. We could bin them off and focus on the league and that would probably let us finish two places higher. Or we could just go for everything and have some fucking fun. We'll have a big squad so the deeper we go in cups, the more minutes get shared around. The more minutes, the more development, the harder we slap at the end of the season. Plus, the prize money. We're going to split it fifty-fifty; the players get half. So yeah, Josh, your pay will be shit but there's that chance to top it up. Get to the third round of the FA Cup it's a hundred and ten thousand, ish. Fourth round's another hundred. The other cups don't pay as much but if we have a good old smash through a few rounds we could build up a decent kitty."

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Josh was nodding. "Sounds good to me, boss. Let's go for it. Go hard at all the cups."

"I have to balance what's fun with what's, you know, professional. Remember the FA Trophy? We binned it off, Barnet went hard at it, and they missed out on the title by a whisker. Props to them for going for it but they probably wish they hadn't. Anyway, I've got time to think about it. Depends who we sign, right, and who we get drawn against in the AOK Cup and who's in our Vantastic group."

"And who our early season fixtures are against," said Sandra.

I nodded. "Right. Sandra and I will have a big old think about it and I'll do a Maxterplan." I made a show of checking the time on my phone. "Go off and steal a policeman's helmet or something."

Brooke watched them go and said, "You don't need me, then? I might go and network, if MD will come with."

"One second," I said. I texted MD and the Brig the names of four players who were good. MD read the message and nodded at Brooke. The Brig got up and went to the scout from Aldershot. I doubted the scout had been in the army but they probably had dozens of mutual acquaintances.

"I want a sausage roll," said Sandra, and she went off to get one. "Kian, help me."

"Yes, miss," he said.

I turned to Ruth; we were alone. "Did you tell her to do that?"

"Of course I did."

"Were you mad about the REMSA thing?"

She eyed me, and her look grew cold. "Of course I was. It's absurd. I was furious for at least half a second." She warmed up and the amount of relief I experienced surprised me. "It's your money and I was honestly glad you were taking the agency seriously."

"I am! I do! It's just... It's the summer, right, when we progress it. I already wanted to grow it this year. The money's quite a nice safety net and okay it's very slightly frustrating to redirect that stream but it's worth it to get these Brazilian players in the pipeline. What else? Right. I've got two more players for you."

Her eyebrows went up. "From the Exit Trials?"

"No. It's a surprise. You'll find out soon but turns out I wasn't completely repellant in the Transfer Room. Let's go through the client list. We've got Bark - have you seen him recently? He's kicking on. He might get some first team minutes this season. Dani, Angel, Wibbers, they're doing well."

"Any pay increases there?"

"A little bit for the ladies. Wibbers and the rest of the men have to wait till I've done my transfer business."

"Are they happy to wait?"

"I don't give a shit. They have to wait. It's not a discussion. Then at Tranmere we've also got Lucas Cook and Nelson Smith-Howes." Those were two of the better Exit Triallists from last year.

"All three Tranmere boys will get pay rises," said Ruth.

"Really? Have you talked to Mateo already?"

"No. I'm making him stew. He knows I'm coming and he knows it will be brutal." She smiled. "Or he can give me what I want."

"Don't push too hard. They're not ready for the first team and I don't want to cut off the pipeline. Press home the need for all three to get minutes this season."

Ruth nodded. "And we've officially added Kisi."

"Yep. I'm also going to let you manage Youngster."

Ruth's head nearly exploded. "What?"

"Sponsorships only."

"Ah."

"Yeah. What did you get from Grindhog?"

"Our players get ten thousand a year, plus swag. Angel gets a bit more."

"How much more?"

"She's starting on 25,000."

I shook my head. "Jesus Christ. Is she making more from sponsorships than from playing already?"

"It's worse. They're paying that on her birthday, as we agreed, so it's for four months. They are not stupid, those Grindhog people."

"Yeah," I said. The situation was a bit of a mind fuck. "Well, fine. Can you get Youngster included, please? We've got BoshCard and Glendale for local sponsorships. Let's try to add another national one this season. Maybe talk to Elgar. Anyone Grindhog don't want to sponsor, go to their rivals. That'll teach them. Actually, could you see about getting Elgar to do kits for West Didsbury and Saltney? They will be in the news a lot in the next couple of years. And I was thinking about Pascal. He gets a new contract this summer, he'll get to a decent level, and I think he's pretty marketable, right? Do you want to talk to him about joining the agency?"

She was making notes on her phone, using her finger as a stylus. "Anyone else?"

"Zach Green, Cole Adams. Zach might be hard because his new contract isn't going to be much higher so the agency cut will leave him in the red but if you could tempt him with sponsorships he might go for it. It's worth a chat."

"Zach's always worth a chat," mumbled Ruth.

"Can everyone stop thirsting over my players, please? They're human beings with thoughts and feelings."

"Sure, Max. What else?"

"I was thinking it's all well and good getting these young players signed up and growing together but wouldn't it be great to get an established player? Keep an ear out for gossip about which agents are shit, right, and when we play bigger teams in the AOK Cup I'll have a word with players signed to that agency. Maybe we can poach someone. Or if I find someone rotting in the reserves like Zach was, I can rescue them via you. Their shitty agent got them into that mess, right? Oh, you need to get boot deals. From what I hear the big brands are only interested in paying big, big stars but you should be able to wrangle free boots for some of us. We're on TV now."

"What about REMSA?"

I made an urgent mmm noise. "Mmm, right. Can you mentor Chelli? He's good but it would be top if you had regular chats with him. And I was thinking he should get his players to film themselves like once a week talking about their journey. The ups and downs. We could get Henri and Sophie to turn it into a mini documentary one day. Another hit from Seal Studios."

"That's smart. Making it into a documentary will keep them invested in us for longer."

I froze. "That sounds exactly like Exit Through the Gift Shop."

"Does it? I haven't seen it."

"It's crazy. It starts as one thing and turns into at least three different things. But yeah, the main character gets to hang out with these famous street artists because he says he's making a documentary. Strings them along long enough for him to get what he wants. Huh. Maybe I'm more like him than I want to think."

"More like Banksy?"

"Banksy isn't the main character. It's this rando."

"That's surprising. I always thought it was about Banksy and I don't much care for his art so I never watched it. Do you like Banksy?"

"Erm, some of it. Sometimes he sprays a cat on a wall and people come and steal the wall. As commentary on art, maybe it has value. As art, I mean, he used a stencil. I could do that. Even when I'm rich I don't think I'm going to be excited to buy a Banksy piece. I'd love a Vermeer."

"Max," said Ruth, in a soft voice. "The day you buy a Vermeer. Can I come?"

I laughed. "Can you come? You'll already be there! I'll be buying it from you."

***

The yellow and blue teams had three players above 60, but one of them was a fast striker with PA 106. I sent my minions into action. Josh and Tom would sneak into the dressing room to start buttering him up and to find out who his parents were. The Brig had a better idea, though, and talked to his mate in the organising team. That guy, a big believer in what we were doing, pointed out where the parents were sitting. The Brig decided to send Ruth in first, and she slipped into the seat next to them and turned up the charm.

After the match, Josh, Tom, Ruth, and the Brig took the family for a coffee and I drove home with MD and Brooke.

I was ready to doze off after about three minutes of driving, but MD had a question. "Are you happy with that?"

"Not a great haul," I said. "And I'm worried the Brig will be annoyed."

"Why?" said MD, frowning.

"Last year he asked me to go full Max, so I did. And he loved it. Loved the idea we were storming around lifting bodies off the battlefield, bringing them back to base to get patched up and rallied. All that fun stuff. Today I was just pointing at a kid and going 'Eastleigh'. It's not very dramatic."

"The Bri - John doesn't need as much drama as you, Max. From what I could tell, you took care of eleven kids. A full team! You did it by leveraging your reputation and obvious talent. Woking, Eastleigh, Aldershot, they know what you can do and when you say 'sign that player' they're ready to listen. You don't need to prance around; you've already done the work. Eleven young men, Max. The Brig will be delighted."

"Mike is right, Max," said Brooke. "The process is very efficient. I get why you preferred it last time but it's not about you, is it? Or John. It's about those young men. They might never know what you did for them today. Same again tomorrow, please."

***

I slept in my own bed for the first time in what felt like seven years. I woke up just before two a.m. and when I heard the horse feeder snap, drifted away feeling very at peace.

***

Wednesday, May 14

Day Two - Solihull Moors

Solihull, you remember, is in Birmingham, in the middle of England. The day went pretty much the same but my allies were Solihull themselves, Tamworth, Telford, and Banbury.

Most of the Chester contingent was the same, but Josh and Tom had been subbed off, replaced by Cole and Omari. Sandra and Vimsy sat with Well In and Jude, trying to predict which players I would like. Zach and Pascal came, which I found surprising, but I later learned that Ruth had invited them. Girl moved fast.

And the Roberts family had turned out in force. William, his brother Adam (half-brother, since he was exactly half as talented), his parents, some cousins and uncles and so on. Chris Beaumont, AKA Goliath, was part of the Banbury delegation. It was great seeing him again.

I was a lot less tired than the previous day and focused hard enough on the games to get pretty much maximum XP. It wasn't much, but it was something. It was possible I would get a nice monthly perk offer - what I would pay for one that extended the effect of Fantasy Football! At the moment I could only use it once per competition per season. If I could double that, I could pretty much guarantee getting to the FA Cup third round.

The first match had three prospects. The second, five. The third, three. I made sure everyone got a good home. I had a couple of decisions to make.

There was a PA 80 right back who seemed like a real trier. I currently didn't have a specialist right back and if the season kicked off tomorrow I would have to put Magnus there. Magnus could do a very good job at right back but I couldn't go into the season with no cover. This kid wouldn't be ready for two years, though, and when I thought about Chester two years down the line I thought of a team playing against teams with an average CA over 110. This kid wouldn't be anywhere near good enough, but then again, I could train him up and move him on to Saltney or Gibraltar or sell him for decent money.

There was also a PA 104 goalkeeper. I was torn about whether to put a 'bid' in for him or not. He was slightly better than Rainman, my current third choice, but only slightly. What was the point committing to years of wages when I already had a very similar player?

I decided I would make final decisions on those when the third day of trials was over, and spent the rest of my energy talking to people.

Sandra was in a great mood because she and her partner would be going to watch the Women's Euros in Switzerland. Thanks to the pay rise she would be getting soon, she had upgraded a couple of hotels and extended her stay, and she was delighted with that.

Brooke said she'd been worried Chip would turn up at one of the days and she wasn't sure how she would handle that. I told her about FC Dallas and Orlando and she seemed delighted that I had been using my limited networking time for her benefit. She would have no qualms about jetting to Texas for a few days; she would spend time with her sister.

MD and I schmoozed some of the scouts and heads of recruitment from other clubs. It was MD's idea. If we wanted to find homes for young players at the rate we were going, we would need more clubs to take a risk on my tips. So we planted some seeds, telling them which players we were recommending so they could track their progress. When they saw the success rate was 80% or more, they would surely snap up any lads I pointed out.

So yeah, the main stand was filled with Chester people catching up, having a laugh, doing some good. The Exit Trials were becoming a huge Chester FC-themed social club and I'm not sure all the sour-faced 'proper football men' were happy about it. But as Banksy once said, "I don't give a shit."

***

The Brig whizzed me back to Chester for a special meal. It was presented to me as some big mystery, a big treat for the conquering hero. I was more than 100% sure it was going to be Nando's, but no. We parked at the Deva stadium and walked around to the away end. There was a new structure there - one of the first changes to the stadium in years.

It smelled... incredible. Meaty deliciousness.

I followed my nose like a cartoon animal until I got a better look at the structure. It looked like a repurposed sauna barrel and it had a big sign on the top. Emre's Scran.

A Turkish man was in the service window sort of glaring at me. "Next!"

"Emre!" I said, laughing. "Drop the act. Get out here for a hug."

"Order please."

"Salt Bae hugs his customers." Emre tutted and rolled his eyes. I ignored the glossy menu; I knew what I wanted. "One wrap, please. Max Best special. With onions."

"It's called an Anfield Wrap," he said, pointing to the menu and a sign that had a Liverpool badge and the words 'Chester FC warmly welcomes Liverpool fans'. I frowned. Were they going to change the menu for every team we played? Make the away fans feel at home? It's what I wanted but I was surprised we were doing it already. So great.

I watched Emre go through his expert process, slicing the meat, shuffling it into a pita bread and dolloping veg and yoghurt into the crevices between the chunks of meat. Mouth-watering, mate.

He handed it over all cosy in some foil. I peeled it back and took a chomp.

"Muh," I said, ecstatically. "Umm. Yeah. Oh."

"It's good, innit?" said Emre, doing that thing where he had a heavy Turkish accent that slipped into Mancunian at points.

"Mate. You're gonna make a bomb." I resumed eating. "Why the away end, though?"

He couldn't make out what I'd said because I had so much food in my gob, so he replied to the first part. "Your woman Star. She's squeezing me dry, Max. She has no mercy. I could lose money pitched here on a rainy Tuesday night."

I munched a gap through which I could form sounds. "How much did the barrel cost?"

"The club bought it."

"So you're in a free unit in a prime location and all the hungry away fans have to walk past you and smell the kebabs? You'll make millions."

I thought a cheeky smile crossed his lips but it could have been a shadow. "I have to deal with the rowdy fans, dunneye?" That was 'don't I', by the way. "Some idiot starts trouble out here, it's just me and four coppers, know what I mean? It's danger money, Max. You tell your woman Star to stop squeezing me like a lemon."

"I'll do no such thing," I said, before happily eating a few more inches of the beast. I took a few paces back and had a look around. I rarely went to this side of the stadium. It seemed like Emre would be able to scale up with maybe three people working in this gaff. It was cashless, so there was no risk of it being burgled for the money box. A lot of smaller clubs relied on food and drink sales to break even - I was happy that Brooke was trying to up our game. "Yep," I said. "This is top. Good work, everyone!"

"Sir," said the Brig, looking at one of his watches. "We have to get you inside."

"Oh," I said, disappointed.

"Go, Max," said Emre. "We will talk soon. I will be here every home match. 23 league plus cups."

"Cheshire Cup?" I said.

"No. Not that one. Okay, bye."

***

The Brig brought me through the stands and up into the bowels of the stadium. I washed my hands and checked my teeth for delicious remnants. I half-expected there would be a surprise party or something of the sort.

There was no party and there had been no secret upgrades. It was all just as I'd left it, though the trophy cabinet was starting to look cluttered.

We went into the boardroom, where MD and Brooke were with four randos. One seemed familiar and it turned out the group were from the local council, more specifically from the planning team.

MD explained that while we had general planning permission to develop Bumpers Bank, the council wanted to know the current state of my plans so they would be able to offer their input. This announcement was moderately infuriating. Why hadn't Brooke warned me? Or prepared me in the slightest?

The council guy who had appeared in the Fans Forum 'Save Max' videos sensed my agitation and assured me they had good intentions and they knew I was jet lagged and it wouldn't take long and this was the only chance to do it before I flew off again. Two of the guys seemed to be miring me big time - good to have Chester fans in high places!

Brooke produced an A1-sized version of my badly-drawn concept and laid it on the end of the table. I got in front of it and the others crowded around. I outlined the plan and used my phone to show photos of the portacabins I had seen listed on various websites. I blabbed on and on about how shit it was going to look. Finally, eventually, Brooke said, "But that's only temporary, right, Max?"

"Yeah. We'll upgrade when we can. One or two buildings every year, I guess. The pitches are the priority. The stadium."

But I had only just finished saying 'yeah' when Brooke whipped out another A1 sheet and laid it on top of the other. It was my layout, but there the similarity ended because Brooke appeared to have paid an architect to turn the crappy drawings I sent her into a gorgeous, architecturally-interesting space complete with happy little stick men and trees and flower pots and all kinds of details. It was beautiful. Artistic. I wanted to touch my forehead to the picture so it would suck me inside and I could live in that reality instead of this one.

The council dudes oohed and aahed and I realised that Brooke was miles ahead of me with this project. She hadn't warned me about this meeting because there was no need. I only needed to be here in person so the fanboys could swoon over me. Boxes would be ticked, documents would be signed, and I would be able to continue doing whatever the fuck I wanted.

While I was experiencing a surge of righteous power, Brooke made eye contact with me and unleashed a tiny but devastating little twitch of the lips. She sidled over to me and whispered, "Have you given any thought," she started, and the hairs on my neck went haywire. "To Employee of the Month for May?"

***

But Brooke wasn't content with showing off Emre's matchday home, or the fact that the council's planning department were putty in her hands. She had a third treat for me - the big 'Full Max' surprise she had been planning.

"I thought that was Emre's," I admitted in the back of the Brig's car.

She made a scoffing noise. "Selling kebabs to away fans who have been drinking on a bus for three hours. That's like shooting fish in a barrel. This is what I'm most pleased by."

We hadn't gone far from the stadium but I suddenly realised something was wrong. We were - yes - we were going in circles. I was still half in Brazil, so I had to force myself to remember the name. "Brig, why are we doing laps of Fountains Roundabout?"

Fountains Roundabout was just as it sounded - a circular traffic divider inside which was a pond and five jets of water. It was located just on the edge of the tourist zone, between the stadium and the cathedral, on a busy junction leading north to Liverpool Road, east to the A51 and Manchester, and south to the Forbidden Zone (Wrexham).

We left the roundabout and pulled in on a side street before walking back. MD caught up with us a few seconds later. The four of us stood on the roundabout. Three of us looked very pleased with ourselves.

"The shit is happening?" one of us said.

Brooke was the leader of this project, whatever it was, so she did most of the talking. "You said I could have some budget for marketing. I was thinking digital, you know. Targeted ads on social media, integrating with Grindhog's data collection, blah blah blah. But I know you love a bit of analogue and when the ideas come from you it's always posters. Billboards. I have to say, they get picked up by people anyway so a good poster campaign doubles as a digital one. A billboard like that one across the road there" - she pointed - "is called a 96 sheet. It's 96 sheets of paper."

"Ah!" I said. This was fascinating to me - I had always wondered about how that industry worked.

"That costs 750 pounds to hire and our poster stays up for two weeks."

"Less than 400 pounds a week." I looked around. "That's not bad. Look at all the traffic. It's possible half the city pass through here every fortnight."

Brooke's eyebrows furrowed for a second. The word fortnight hadn't been in her active vocabulary until she had moved to the UK. "Right. The problem with that billboard there is that it's ugly. This is supposed to be a nice spot, right?"

I scoffed. "It's never going to be nice. Seriously, how are there always so many cars here? It almost makes me pine for Sampa."

"I've been in touch with the owner of the billboard and he's willing to sell it to us for thirty thousand pounds."

I blinked. I hadn't expected the conversation to go in that direction. I did some quick maths, or tried to. There was one data point I didn't know. "When does it have to be taken down?"

"The council want it gone by February."

"So we would have it for..." I got my fingers out.

"Nine months, Max."

I opened my calculator app. "Three three three three recurring. That's, like, more than double the cost of hiring it every two weeks."

"Yes, it's a scandalous price. Outrageous."

"So why is everyone smiling like that?"

MD hid his smile behind a fist, pretending to cough. "Brooke has reason to believe that there is one organisation in this county who would be allowed to keep the billboard in place on an, ah, indefinite basis."

I almost did a little gasp. "The planners. They love us. That's why you made me sign those kits for them! We can get away with murder." I joined in the smiles, but mine faded. "It's a risk. New politicians get elected all the time."

"It's not a risk, Max," cooed Brooke. "Once we own it, we'll get an extension. As long as we want. Depends how cheeky we want to be. No, we'll have this for years. It'll be known as the Chester board."

"The board," I said, automatically. Only a few days until Emma and I changed into our pyjamas in First Class before spending months in South America.

Brooke was still talking. "We'll promote upcoming fixtures, build hype, thank the fans. We'll get creative and do intriguing things. Fans will come every second Monday to see what we're putting up. It will be a talking point and a half. Thirty thousand up front and many multiples of that in exposure. The only problem," she said, smiling to show that what she was about to say was no kind of problem, "will be having something new to say every two weeks."

"How soon until we can get this in our hands and put up the first poster?"

Brooke looked at MD. "Soon."

"Months or weeks?"

"Weeks."

I nodded. My mind was reeling from the possibilities, but Brooke had been thinking about this much longer than me. "Have you got an idea for the first one?"

"Photo of the open top bus, trophies, supporters. Text: thank you Chester fans. From Chester FC. Something like that."

"Yep. Great. But that's the past. We're going forward." I grinned. "I have a better idea."

***

Thursday, May 15

Day Three - Rochdale

I woke up feeling pretty groggy, which was annoying because today was the Exit Trial I was most looking forward to. The lads who lived in the north who weren't good enough for Chester might be willing to play for West Didsbury as a way not to drop out of the game completely. Some could perhaps be tempted by Saltney.

As such, I had asked Well In and Jay Cope to come. Well In had agreed to do another year at Saltney and while he was technically employed by the Welsh FA still, he was interested in having a more complete 'football manager' experience, not just the coaching and tactics side. Jay said he hadn't been approached by any other clubs and wasn't in the mood to move yet, anyway. He had his sights on breaking the record for 'most home games won in a row' and if we got him some new players there was every reason to think he would do it.

As well as those guys and my usual mob of persuaders, the Yalleys were back (sans Youngster, who was training with Ghana ahead of the u20s), Ziggy, Ryan Jack, the Triplets, Sticky, and quite a few of the women's team had turned up. Kisi had invited Meghan and Meghan had invited another member of the Under 16s team I had vanquished with the Beth Heads. Sandra was so delighted to see them she forgot I was friends with Meghan.

"Max!" she beamed, standing between the pair and hugging them. "Remember these?"

"I remember the Butcher of Burnage," I said, frostily shaking hands with Meghan. "And this is Sasha Goon, if I remember correctly?" I held out a hand.

Sarah Greene shook it. She was the PA 167 midfielder so talented the only way to stop her was to instruct Beth to kick her out of the game. A lot had happened since my adventures with the Beth Heads but I still thought about Sarah sometimes. She was getting a good footballing education at City but she was an artist, a creative dribbler, someone who could get fans excited. City wanted her to be a boring cog in a machine, endlessly passing sideways until a sliver of space had been opened up. I wanted to take players like Sarah and teach them Relationism. I wanted to create a world where her talents could flourish.

"Max Pest," she said. "I read that Wizard of Us article. It should have been called How to Park a Bus."

I put my finger to my lips as though deep in thought. "Yes, that's nearly a good line but not quite. I hope you haven't been saving that for the last two years, Sarah."

"I haven't thought about you for a single minute."

"Gosh. Apart from the many many many minutes it took you to read The Wizard of Us."

She kept an insouciant expression. "I'm a slow reader. I own that. I won't be speed shamed by the likes of you."

I laughed and looked around. "Are you here with Kisi? Meghan's told you about what we do here, right?"

Sarah looked at the pitch. "Save lads what got binned off, yeah."

Meghan's fake hostility vanished. "How's it going?"

"Bumper year," I said. "All the teams I beat last season heard I'm giving out gifts. However many lads got offers last year, we've probably already doubled it. And today we're coming with a Manchester special. You in?"

Meghan nodded. "Anything you need."

"You just be you," I said. "Never change."

She tried to give me a defiant glare. "You sure?"

"I'm way past sure. Keep your ears open for any scouts who seem interested in anyone in particular. You can text the Brig."

Sandra did a confused chuckle. "She doesn't have the Brig's phone number, Max!"

"Right," I said. "Text Sandra. I need to get in position."

***

Sunday Sowunmi.

English centre back.

Age 18.

CA 22, PA 111.

I watched him for quarter of an hour waiting for the dreaded moment where one of my many spies would overhear someone calling their manager saying they'd just found a quality defender. No-one seemed interested in Sowunmi and to be fair, I sort of understood why. For a start, he was playing at right back. Second, while he was tall, he was scrawny. He hadn't been doing his weights. He didn't look like a physically imposing centre back, he wasn't in a position to win many headers, and he gave the ball away a few times.

I'd seen enough. He could be our fourth-choice centre back and get some minutes in the Cheshire Cup or out on loan. I snapped into action. Sowunmi's background was clearly Nigerian, so once the Brig got his organiser friend to point out Sowumni's parents we sent in Sharky as our vanguard. I watched for a while as Sharky's big smile drew some very easy smiles in return. Winner.

Brooke, Spectrum, and Sandra quickly dug up some data.

"Socials look clean." Good.

"He had a shoulder injury." That would explain why he hadn't been doing weights. And maybe partially explain why he got sent to the trash heap.

"He was very highly rated when he was 14."

I made some little clicking noises. "And now he has been cut. Let's find out why, yeah?"

"Yes, sir," said the Brig. "Is there anyone else from these groups?"

"Yes, but Sowumni's mine. Can you make him a priority, please?"

"I'll find out what happened," said Sandra.

I thought about it. The Brig would be slightly better at that, but Sandra had skills, too. "Okay fine. Do you want to get Meghan with you? She's a centre back. Maybe get her to be annoyed that Sowumni's playing right back. That's a good icebreaker. Might make them open up about how his former club mismanaged him."

"On it," said Sandra, and she went off.

I signalled for Brig's team sheet and made some notes. "Find out where these guys's family homes are, right, and put them with the nearest clubs. Manchester lads can do Alty, Oldham, Rochdale. If they're north east then it's Hartlepool, Gateshead, South Shields. North west and you do Fylde or Southport. Right?"

"Yes, sir. But the lads could go to any of those clubs? If they want to get away from home, for example?"

"Yeah. That's the sort of mid-level player. They'll be reet." Right is how Sticky said 'all right' and I quite liked it. "So that leaves a couple of guys for Well In and Jay to have a go at."

I waited until half time in the 70-minute match and handed out their targets with some notes about them as players. They could watch the second half with that in mind and talk to the players afterwards.

So that was that. Events were in motion. If we couldn't persuade our targets, if another club slipped in with a better offer, if the lads decided to move to Sweden instead, all good! I had plenty of options on the free transfer market and they would be more battle-ready than this lot. I felt pretty good about my work.

I went to the back of the stand and produced a neck pillow. Quick nap before the second match. I hoped to drift away to the familiar sounds of whistles and cries, but it didn't work. The sounds of the match weren't familiar. It was far too quiet. The players didn't know each other. There was no social or footballing hierarchy and they were too nervous to shout.

In last chance saloon, the patrons were sipping their beers and no-one was playing the piano.

***

The second match went much as the first, but with no standout player that I would want for Chester.

I waited half an hour this time, because there was no need to rush if there wasn't a hot prospect I wanted. I handed out targets, made myself a tea, and went to have a think all the way in the far corner.

The core of Chester's men's first team squad was great but thin in certain positions. We probably needed two more centre backs. I needed one senior guy, a kind of higher level Steve Alton who would be happy to be used on a squad rotation basis. Such players were relatively abundant, to be honest. No problem there. I needed an experienced left mid and right back. Let's say 1,000 pounds a week for those guys.

Lee Contreras could come in and be a central midfield option for 2,000 a week. 2,000 would also get me a third striker. There were a couple of young goalies who were going to get released and 500 quid would get me one of those.

Adding that to what I already had took me perilously close to my budget. I would have about 600 pounds a week for pay rises for the entire squad.

Holy shit!

I thought about not getting a left mid or not getting a right back. We could use formations that didn't need one or the other, but realistically I needed cover for every position so I could switch formations whenever I wanted. That was my special sauce and was worth ten to twenty points a season.

Yeah no more pay rises. Easy. Bosh!

I bit my lip while smiling. Things could get very messy; players expected a pay rise now that we were in the land of TV money and Premier League trickle-down economics.

It wasn't something to catastrophise over just yet. As my eyelids started to droop, the outline of a plan came into view.

My dream South American striker, signed on loan with an option to buy, would arrive in January - if he existed. By then I would have multiple thousands a week more to play with. I could max out my budget now and worry about the next steps later. Money trouble sounded like a problem for future Max. Heh heh. That guy was wicked smart. He could sort it out. But seriously, though. The way to do it was to fill up the defence and midfield and sign a striker in the January window. I could rely on Henri for a few months, right? If he got injured, Tom would run defences ragged for 70 minutes and I would play striker for the last 20 against tired legs. Or we could use Pascal as a false 9. Sandra could run a false 9 scheme easily enough. Any matches where Henri was injured or banned, Sandra could be the manager. That would work out great for everyone.

Yeah, there were millions of options. I could get creative.

Creative like the street artists whose work I'd admired in Sao Paulo. Creative like Banksy. Creative like Daddy Star's accountants. I had a huge advertising board! It would be my own personal canvas. Who said we had to change it every two weeks? We could do a fresh poster every Monday. Some serious, some silly. Some commercial, some subversive. I could do what I wanted and all it would cost was some paper, paste, and hiring a guy with a long ladder.

I chuckled as I imagined the posters from near the end of December. It could be a series. Week 1, the back of my head on the right and a distant tinsel-lined window on the left. Week 2, the same but the window is much closer. Week 3 it's the same but half the Christmas decorations have been taken down and my hand is on the window's handle. I'm looking directly at the 'camera'. No words, just meaning. The transfer window is about to open.

Heh. People would go nuts for it!

"I've never seen anyone giggle in their sleep before."

"Shush, Megs, he's knackered."

"He's faking." The one called Megs shook me by the shoulder.

I inhaled hugely and with effort, pushed one eye part of the way open. It was Sarah Green and Meghan, right in front of me, kneeling on the seats in front, blocking my view. "I was just dreaming about you," I said.

"Ew, gross," said Sarah. "Can you not be weird pluz? Thanks."

Meghan looked behind her. "They don't know what to do."

"Whut?"

"Everyone's waiting for you. Some said to let you sleep because you've been wrecking yourself. Some said you asked to be woken up."

"Yeah, woken, yeah. Got to scout the kids. Save the kids and that." I wiped some goo from my eyes and closed them. "Wake me up Megs mate. Scout the kids, yeah?"

She shook me again, but harder. "It's now, Max. It's now."

I let out a slightly frustrated grunt but when I leaned to the side I saw half the pitch and sure enough there was a match going on. The final match of the Exit Trials. The curse told me they had played 22 of their 70 minutes. 22 minutes of what was, for most of them, the last meaningful match of their lives. The thought sobered me enough to open both eyes, though not all the way. "Okay. Okay. Give me a second."

I scanned the half of the pitch I could see and there were some good lads. Couple in the PA 80 range. Bunch of PA 60s. Would be criminal to have let them drift out of the game.

"What do you need?" said Meghan, meaning what kind of player.

"Just whatever. Talent. Someone I could put up on a big poster one day and say, yes, this guy's renewed his contract. Someone with the vision to see that there's more to this sport than the big clubs. Someone wise and brave who's willing to grind today to get jam tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," sighed Meghan. She lifted her arm like she was looking for a bite. "You don't half talk shit."

I leaned forward and got my eyes more open. "New tattoo? Is it a Megan Fox quote?"

Sarah laughed but Meghan took me seriously. "It's a dreamcatcher. The start of it, anyway. It's gonna go here like this." She showed me. "Millie Bright has one and she's my idol. What?" she added, daring me to make a joke.

"I don't think I'm very artistic," I said. "I'm not very visual. You know when there's like six high-speed first-time passes and someone's free at the back post and rolls the ball into the net? That's art to me. That's got the aesthetic quality that I find meaningful and it's harder than normal art because there are four, five, six players involved and loads of guys trying to stop you. It's the connection between everyone that's beautiful." I tapped Meghan's proto-tat. "Teamwork makes the dream work."

She smiled. "Are you giving me a team talk? That's premature, innit? I don't play for you."

"Yet," I said.

"I like your solo goals," said Sarah. I think I must have given her a puzzled look because she rushed to explain. "That's art to me. I like the team goals, course, but when you had your back to those defenders and you did keepie-uppies and took them all out with one turn! Holy fuck that was amazing. And the one for Darlington where you went like The Flash and faked a shot and two defenders slid all the way across goal to block it and you just waved at them as they went past and then rolled the ball in the empty net. I know I'm supposed to like teamwork and stuff but that's not it for me. I like solo goals."

I tried not to make eye contact with Meghan because it seemed like a sombre moment. "Is it, er... Is it wrong if I point out that ten minutes ago Sarah was saying she hadn't thought about me for two years?"

"No, Max," said Meghan. "I think it's fair comment."

Sarah punched her friend in the arm. "Dick."

I stood up and stretched. "Just joking, Sarah. To be honest the first time I saw you all I really wanted was to see you - Holy fuck." I turned to stone. I was no longer Max but a handsome sculpture of Max.

"What?" said Sarah, slightly alarmed, looking for danger. She was looking in the main stand.

Meghan had a bit more experience of me going bananas. She knew to focus her attention down on the pitch. "What've you seen? Max? Who is it? Who've you seen?"

Wilfred Banks

Age 17

GK

CA 9 PA 155

"I can't believe this," I said. "I can't believe this." The euphoria rose through me like an awesome wave. I checked that all my minions were in place - they were, millions of them. Who would I send? Sticky. The Brig. Sandra. They'd all be great, but no. This was a job for me. No chance I was going to let this one slip. I opened my mouth but what I was about to say was so preposterous it took me a few seconds to get the words out. "You know what's missing at Chester? A Banksy."

***

THE DAY BEFORE

I pointed at the billboard. Brooke was a genius for finding this deal. "How soon until we can get this in our hands and put up the first poster?"

Brooke looked at MD. "Soon."

"Months or weeks?"

"Weeks."

I nodded. "Have you got an idea for the first one?"

"Photo of the open top bus, trophies, supporters. Text: thank you Chester fans. From Chester FC. Something like that."

"Yep. Great. But that's the past. We're going forward." I grinned. "I have a better idea. People love transfers. Big transfer news. Let's put our big new signings up here. Make it absolutely massive."

"Sure," said Brooke. "Soon as we have something to announce."

I bit my lip and looked down, sheepishly.

"Max," said MD, alarmed. He had a great sense for when money was about to disappear from our bank accounts in large quantities. "What have you done?"

I tried not to smile too hard. I told myself I was a top international businessman these days and it wasn't seemly to gloat. "When I was in the Transfer Room I got matched with a guy from Man City. We mostly talked about the women's team, for obvious reasons. He said they're bringing in another four or five international stars before they get their values inflated at the Euros in Switzerland. I said it was a shame for the girls in the youth system and he said yeah. I said, look, I'm a fucking maniac but how about this..."

"How about what?" said MD, exasperated that I was talking around the issue.

"Let's just say our first poster will be a plain colour. All white, maybe, like the new team bus, Chester logo in the corner - we'll keep that there I reckon. Big letters. Are you ready to meet The Butcher?"

MD blinked. "Meghan?"

I smugged pretty hard. The guy at City thought he was rinsing me but I knew better. "Yep."

Brooke didn't know how good Meghan was but she liked my energy. "Max, you told me not to put single players in our marketing yet you keep wanting to do it!"

"Right," I said, my bubble deflating only slightly. "Okay, then. Er, on the left it says BUTCHER. On the right it says GREENE. Make it all mysterious and shit."

"Greene?" said MD. "Who's that?"

"Max is joking," said Brooke.

"Greene with an E," I said. "She's unbelievable. I once spent three weeks developing a tactical plan just to shut her down. Guys." I paused while I thought about how to say what I'd done in a way that wasn't overly self-satisfied. I really couldn't think of a humble way to say it. "I signed two of the best young players in England while I was on holiday. By accident. For the same price as this billboard." I was so tired I started laughing and couldn't stop. It wasn't long until I had tears streaming down my face. "Meghan, Sarah, Dani, Kisi, Angel. Holy hell what a team." I laughed some more before doing a wide king-of-the-world gesture. "I am an artist and football is my canvas!"

"Okay, sir," said the Brig, coming forward to coax me back towards the car. "I think perhaps a hot malt drink and an early night. Your canvas will still be there in the morning."

I allowed myself to be led away. "I'm gonna buy so many Vermeers."

"I was always partial to Sargent."

"Don't tell the general," I said, very pleased with myself. I chuckled a few times as I slid into the passenger seat. I was asleep almost as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.