Player Manager 5

Season 2023/24

Recap

Max Best has used his football manager powers to get a job as Director of Football at Chester FC. Three weeks ago, he saved the club from relegation by winning three matches as caretaker manager for the men’s first team. After the third match, Max was attacked outside the stadium.

***

"It's not what you know, it's who you know." Ancient Mancunian proverb.

***

1.

Someone tried to kill me.

As I left the stadium, on my way to save a man's career, someone tried to crack my skull open like a boiled egg.

As I rushed to do a selfless thing for someone who deserved and needed it, someone tried to hit me for a home run.

As I valiantly braved torrential rain to do a far, far better thing than I have ever done, someone tried to make mine the first head in space.

Bit harsh.

So, hospital. Tubes, machines, a flurry of activity, then quiet. A darkened room, for actually ages. There wasn’t much pain. Mostly just boredom with moments of terror, rage, fear, and loneliness. Exactly like lockdown, then.

My initial worries were threefold. First, fear of catastrophic memory loss and mental issues associated with traumatic brain injury. Second, the fact I couldn't feel my legs, or much else. Finally, the lack of curse. All my screens were gone. Now that it wasn't there, I realised I had become addicted to it, opening the news screen once a minute, checking the squad screens to see if my players were improving, or even just using it to tell the time. And now it was all gone.

I longed to see the list of the latest transfers. I pined for the perk shop where I could plot my path through the upgrades. I even had dark moments where I longed for the curse to make me shout FIFA! in exchange for an experience point.

Losing my powers made me angry, but anger was unhealthy. Anger was a distraction from my primary goal, and my primary goal was nothing to do with football.

So every time anger coursed through me, I repeated the mantra I'd learned from YouTube: control your anger before it controls you. Which led me to another phrase that had become important in my football career: control what you can. I searched my body for my thumb and tried and tried to feel it, then to move it. My first thumbs up came with a few tears of relief and joy. My first toe wiggle brought forth a flood.

I thought about the attack. It must have come from behind. A big sideways whack to the lower part of my head. Knocked me out. Hard enough to knock the curse right out of me, too, but if I could move my fingers and toes I wasn't paralysed. I would heal quickly. Or would I? The curse wasn't giving me super healing now, was it?

I deduced that if I was in any real danger, there would have been a lot more activity around me. A lot more tubes and pipes and drips. With effort, I could remember past events, and with effort I could move my hands and feet. So the new thing that worried me was the feeling that I had a big hole in my skull and if I moved too much my brain would leak out.

I was bored, but I reasoned that I was being kept in the quiet, darkened room so that I wouldn’t get overstimulated. If stimulation was bad for me, I wouldn’t seek it out. I tried to enjoy the boredom; I had a goal.

I set myself little tasks. Tiny targets. How many ceiling tiles could I count? Time had very little meaning, but I suppose it took a few days until I could count them all in one go. Then the game was counting how many different nurses and doctors came to visit me. It was hard because they didn’t always talk - sometimes they came in and did things and left leaving few clues about who they were. Footsteps, a certain sigh, the one who wrote like she was trying to push the pen through the flipchart. I gave them names. Made up backstories.

Finally, the boredom became aggravating and I had to work hard to quash my frustration. But I had a goal, so if rest was what I needed, I’d rest. I'd rest so hard they'd detect my stillness on seismographs.

Then came the day I felt like opening my eyes when someone came in the room. A nurse in her blue outfit. I tracked her coming in, going out.

Breakthrough.

I celebrated with a little nap.

When I woke up, a guy in a white doctor's coat was to my right. He was leaning back in a chair, with his feet up on my bed. He was snacking from a silver platter. I glimpsed caviar, blocks of feta cheese, things on sticks, a little glass of popcorn, and a Cadbury's Double Decker chocolate bar that had been cut up into easy-to-eat slices. A silver lid was popped onto the platter, which was placed on a little wheeled table. The doctor slapped his hands up and down.

With some effort, I turned my neck a couple of degrees.

The 'doctor' smiled at me. An enormous, angular smile framed by a wonderful, short, silver beard.

"Hello, Max," said Old Nick.

***

"Have," I said, but forming words was hard. Nick stood, straightened his white coat, and went around to the other side of the bed where my side table was. He poured some water into a glass, and was about to rest his hand on the back of my head - to cradle me while I drank - but he saw the fear. My skull. Cracked like a jigsaw puzzle. There's a hole in my bucket. It was easy to tell myself I was fine, so long as I stayed completely still. But the idea of someone - especially him - touching me on the back of my head... made me quite nauseous.

He loomed over me, calculating. Finally, he put his hand on the exact spot I'd been struck - I squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for pain that never came - and he ever so gently lifted me to a comfortable drinking angle.

I sipped the water.

Nick waited patiently. I said 'uh' to indicate that I wanted more, and he helped me. I drank a third of the glass before he eased me back onto the pillow. He wandered off, and I heard him go to the hand disinfectant station. He came back rubbing his hands. Cheeky fuck! My annoyance amused him, and I realised he'd only done it to score a point.

He still had his mysterious accent - part cut-glass English, part highly-educated foreign diplomat. "You were saying?"

I tried again. My voice was pretty rough. "Have you come to finish the job?"

Instead of replying, he took hold of a bed-mounted arm, the sort you get in the dentist, and pulled it so that the screen at the end was in front of my face. Nick checked the angles, then returned to his starting position and picked up his silver platter. I watched as he munched on a piece of feta.

"Today, Max, as reward for your diligence and hard work, and to aid your recovery, we are going to watch my favourite television programme."

Okay. Didn't expect that. Obviously his explanation was a load of bull, but it did seem like I'd get to watch some telly. Better than counting tiles... probably.

Nick didn't seem to expect a reply, which was good, because seeing him in my room, having him as my first visitor post-murder was disconcerting. Exhausting. I closed my eyes to steel myself and promptly fell asleep.

When I opened them, the light in the room was different. The subtle suggestion of natural light that came through in 'daytime' was gone, and the general noise level suggested to me that the ward was less busy. I guessed Nick had come at 7 p.m. and now it was 11.

He spoke as though there hadn't been a four-hour gap. "Ready? Here we go."

Nick was able to play and pause without pressing any buttons. He resumed eating his nibbles. I stared at him - his face was back to being slender, almost gaunt, and he'd lost some of his muscle mass. He put his feet back on my bed - rude - and I noticed his shoes were scuffed and worn.

"Focus, Max."

I centred my head and tried to watch.

It was a game show called The Traitors. Twenty-four everyday Australians went into a big house surrounded by lush countryside. They met each other and made small talk. The participants met stranger after stranger in the space of a few minutes, had to learn their names, had to very quickly get a sense of who they were dealing with so they could outwit them later.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep, drained by watching an introvert's nightmare.

Nick really didn't seem to mind that I kept going AWOL. He'd finished his food, except for the popcorn. When I was ready, the show continued.

Four of the participants were chosen to be 'traitors'. The rest were the 'faithful'. Every day, two people would leave the game. One would be voted out in an evening ceremony, and one would be 'murdered' by the traitors. Daytimes would be spent doing tasks to earn money for the prize pot, while the players gossiped and plotted about who was likely to be a traitor so they could be 'banished'.

"This is shit," I croaked. It was a big-budget version of the parlour game Werewolf, also known as Mafia. How is that a TV show? Have we tried literally every other format? "Have you got any Peppa Pig?"

Nick popped some popcorn in. His eyes danced across the screen, taking it all in. He was - not literally - in heaven.

Something like half an hour in, it happened.

The traitors, wearing masks and robes, gathered in their murder room for the first time. The first time they would learn the identities of their teammates. They took their masks off and there was a burst of glee and devilish excitement so strong that even in my weakened condition I pulled myself towards the screen.

"How good's this?" said the most interesting traitor. He was a lovely guy who, when he had taken his mask off, had smiled like a demon.

"I just cannot wait to conspire to murder," said another, and his teammates laughed and clapped their hands.

They began discussing who to murder first, and again I was off my pillow. The planning, the strategy, the chess moves. Should we kill a big personality to sow fear? Someone in the middle of the pack to really get under people's skins? Some abrasive types would get themselves kicked out in the evening 'banishment' sessions. There was no point us murdering them. And so on. It was thrilling. I'd immediately identified with the traitors. It was by far the most interesting role in the game, and my head was spinning with moves, counter-moves, and wondering if I'd have the wherewithal to back up my night time plotting with the daytime acting chops to blend in and not arouse suspicion.

That was the moment the concept of the show clicked. If you were one of the faithful you could never, ever truly trust the person you were talking to. And unlike a quick game of Werewolf, this one had stakes. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Life-changing money. People were playing to win. They would be unscrupulous. They would murder and banish their closest friends.

Nick paused it.

"Humans do relish a spot of evil." He got up and pushed the TV away, and I was surprised by how much that disappointed me. "I prefer the Australian version of the programme, and so will you. There are fiendish characters in that one. It's interesting that the creators vary the format. This one starts with 24 contestants and there are 4 traitors. The UK version starts with 22 contestants and 3 traitors. Remind me, Max. How many players are in the Chester first team squad?"

A pang as I tried to bring up a screen that wasn't there. I concentrated. "Twenty-one."

"Is that so?" He walked around in a small circle, touching things. "The Australian version is very strategic all round. The UK one consists mostly of weeping Brits telling people they've known for three days 'You are my one hundred percent'. Touching, yet pitiful. If I know you, Max, you're wondering if you'd be good at the game. Everyone thinks they would be better than those in the production. But being good makes you a target." He dipped his head. "As you have discovered."

"The curse is gone," I blurted out.

Nick did something I couldn't see. An eye roll, perhaps. "Everyone in your position knows to call it a system. How did you settle on curse?" He came over to my side table. "More water?" He brought it to my lips, and this time when he placed his hand on my head, it barely registered. Nick replaced the glass, then sat. "Brain injuries cause humans to become agitated. Irrational. And above all, angry. Had you woken up in this dreary hole, unable to move, unable to communicate, you would have taken your anger out on me. You would have uninstalled your system. So I have hidden it from you until such time as you are healthy enough to make good, rational decisions."

"I've still got it?" I said.

Nick pressed his fingertips together. "Relief. Undercurrent of pleading. How very, very revealing. As I said, Max, the system is merely hidden. It will return when you are ready. For now, you need to recover. I understand it is the low season, anyway."

Low season! He still knew nothing about football. "Did Chester survive?"

"I neither know nor care."

"What about my mum? Emma? Ziggy?"

"I am not a town crier, Max. People will tell you all that you missed. I understand a decision was made not to tell your mother; do not fret. There, now we can put trifles aside. We have more pressing matters."

Ah. My nerves jangled. Nick was a powerful being, and in my reduced state I was almost as helpless as it was possible to be. I decided to play it safe for once. "Okay."

"Your first question revealed muddled thinking. The very suggestion that I would harm you is nonsensical. We're a team, Max. We're very much on the same side." He showed me his teeth. Very wolflike. "I'll tell you what's coming. First, you will have a brief reunion with Emma. We shall get that out of the way so you can make the decision that a great many people are relying on you to make. Which brings us to your second meeting. Jackie Reaper - delightful name. He will inform you of his plan to resign as manager of Chester Football Club."

"What?"

Nick frowned and pointed his finger downwards. When it came to football or life I didn't care much for his opinions. But in his doctor's coat he carried a level of medical authority that subverted my defences. He was telling me to calm the eff down. I breathed in, and exhaled slowly.

"Jackie Reaper doesn't want to be the manager. You can do what you want, of course. One option is to throw a temper tantrum. A reliable standby. Another option, some might say, would be to respect the wishes of your friend." He smiled. "But what would I know? I've never had a friend. If you seem to be in full possession of your faculties, Jackie Reaper will summon Mike Dean, and he will offer you the position of manager. I assume you will be childish and difficult, but after needlessly tormenting your fellows, you will accept. Which is why I have scheduled the following meeting to be with William Barnes."

"You set my schedule?"

"I used your mobile telephone. I knew you wouldn't mind."

"I mind a lot. Never do that again." I closed my eyes, then pushed them open again. I didn't want to fall asleep and come back to an empty room. There was information I needed. "Who is William..."

"Barnes. Perhaps you only know him as Barnesy."

"Barnesy? The guy from the board?"

"Indeed."

"Why? Why him?"

"He was in your British army. You remember? He has contacts. You have asked him, via your telephone, if he knows someone suitable to be your assistant manager."

"How can I ask him that? I'm not the manager."

"Barnesy is not in constant contact with MD or the rest of the board. He doesn't know what Jackie Reaper is planning. But I see that I have been too subtle. The 'assistant manager' will, in fact, be your bodyguard. Big, strong, capable. A trained killer, no less. As your assistant manager, he will be able to follow you wherever you go. To protect you."

"The club can't afford a bodyguard for me."

"It can, but my colleagues assure me you will resist this common sense precaution so you can invest in a 'box to box midfielder', whatever that is. So here's what will happen. You will hire an assistant manager using the club's money. And a shockingly similar but not identical amount of money will later be injected into the club. Do you understand? I will finance the bodyguard, for the first year at least."

"He's a traitor," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"Like in the show. He's pretending to be one thing, but he's another thing. Is that why you wanted me to watch it?"

"He will be your assistant manager. Fitness training. Discipline. He will shout at the people you tell him to shout at. If anyone tries to stove your head in, he will stop them. He won't be a one hundred percent fit for the role, but he might save your life. What more do you need?"

My egg was scrambled, and it wasn't because of the murder. "I would want Jackie to be my assistant manager. This guy will have to be a coach."

Nick showed the first signs of impatience. "We have thought about this, Max. If it was possible the man could be a coach, we would have suggested that first. The man will be well-paid. Very probably the highest-paid employee at the club. He cannot, then, be a mere coach." He waved his hands. "You will work all this out for yourself. Do not get bogged down in details. Let me remind you of the sequence. You see Emma. You are happy. You meet Jackie. You are unhappy, but you accept his decision like a good friend. You become manager of Chester Football Club. You meet Barnesy. He tells you he knows the exact right man for the 'assistant manager' job. You are free to focus on your health. You will start rehabilitation. Walking. Watching your new favourite TV show in ever-increasing slices. And so on. You will learn that there is very little for you to do this summer. Ah! Do not interrupt. There is much you could do. But not much you must do. It is perfectly feasible that your first day of work could be on August 5th. That would give you two full months to heal."

"Heal," I said.

Nick walked around again. "Which brings us back to Emma. She will return, happy and proud that you have finally accepted the job you were born to do."

I scoffed. I hadn't been born to do anything except be a wage slave.

"And Emma will bring up the possibility of going on holiday. Spain, she will say. Some sun. Perfect conditions for an invalid."

"She's been trying to get me to Ibiza," I said, surprised that the memory had come so easily.

"Ibiza will be too hot, Max. The summer will be brutal all over the Mediterranean. You must mention Tenerife."

"Ugh, no." That was a name I associated with awful English holidaymakers - even more so than Ibiza.

More impatience. "Very well. Stay here and forever be weak and feeble. Or go to Ibiza and be baked alive. The choice, as always, is yours." He seemed to be gritting his teeth. "Another thing. Emma will offer to pay. I understand you have some resistance to the idea. You should accept more offers, Max. The last one worked out quite well, don't you think?"

"Yeah, until the murder."

"You can't blame me for that," he said, and I trembled as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was pissed. "That was all you."

"Do you know who did it?"

He took a strident tone. "When Emma offers to pay, you would be a fool to refuse.” He softened. “She will book something cheap in order to minimise your discomfort at accepting 'charity'. For my purposes, that's an acceptable compromise. The sun, the distance from home, the long lazy days, yes, it will, what's the new phrase? It will sort you right out."

"But -" I started.

Nick held up a finger. There was movement outside the door and for a moment I was scared. The murderer come to finish the job? Maybe a bodyguard wasn't such a bad idea.

The door opened and in walked a man and a woman. They were wearing suits with lanyards dangling around their necks. If they weren't police, my brain was more mashed than I thought.

"Max Best," said the man. "I'm Detective Inspector Barton and this is DI Rowan. We were wondering if you'd be up to answering a few questions."

Barton was around thirty, white, slicked-back hair, wide nostrils, very confident attitude. He came close, and would have taken a seat had Nick not blocked his path. I took such a strong dislike to him I wondered if it was a by-product of all the meds. For some reason, I turned to Nick. "What do you think?"

The demon stepped towards the female officer, causing her to back away. That left Nick free to walk around Barton in a slow circle. "Max, are you quite calm?"

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"Yes."

"I think you would find this man distressing."

"Why's that?" I said, already pushing myself onto my elbows. Fight or flight. Ready.

Nick came over and pushed me back onto the pillow. "You already won this battle, Max. Please be calm, yes?"

Already won? What? "I'm calm," I said, and it was true.

"I'd like to ask - " started Barton, trying to reassert himself in the situation. That might have worked on most people, but not on Nick.

"This one," said Nick, deliberately avoiding the word 'man', "was already at the scene of the attack, Max. Picking up overtime pay by helping fill the quota of police at the football stadium. Easy work. Easy money."

"How do you know that?" demanded the copper.

"This one likes easy money. The call came in. There's been a violent assault, come quick. He came quick, to be sure. Quickly came to the conclusion that Mr. Yalley, the man who stopped the attack, the man who called for help, was guilty. Call off the search. Send back the hounds."

"Mr. Yalley?" I said, stupefied. "Tried to kill me?"

"Is that your statement?" said Barton, whipping out a tiny notebook. I looked at him more closely. His air of confidence was utterly fake. He was a traitor trying to act innocent, and he lacked the mental agility to keep his stories straight. He was cracking under the pressure. But what pressure could a rando in Chester be under?

"Dear, oh dear," said Nick. "Your desperation is most unattractive." I couldn't see, but I think Nick flashed a sexy smile at the female officer. She swayed like a tree in a breeze. Nick sat on the side of my bed. "I'm glad you're calm, Max. That's very good. You see, Mr. Yalley was, and was not, this one's typical victim. This one discovered, to his cost, that Mr. Yalley was not such an easy target as he seemed."

"He was by the body, covered in blood!" spat Barton.

"And where was his weapon, pray tell?" Nick was having a blast. "As I was saying, not such an easy target. You see, Mr. Yalley is under the protection of Max Best."

"I didn't do anything," I said, confused.

"You did. Who was in the stadium that day because of you? Sebastian Weaver, who turned the full might of his legal empire to the defence of a man he had never laid eyes upon. Bethany Alban, a rising star at this country's most popular newspaper. It is pro-police, of course, which makes its reporters tilt even harder at crooked cops."

"Hey," said Barton. "I'm not bent. And Yalley was covered in blood."

"To have a duty and to do the opposite is the definition of crooked. Of course, you thought you were safe. Who would believe Mister Yalley's version of events? Oh, no-one. No-one save for everyone who knew him. Bethany was fierce; Mr. Yalley is an honorary Beth Head. The Weavers bared their teeth. Allies heeded the summons. Dozens of players from Chester, from Manchester City, a coach from Altrincham, why, even his own pastor was in attendance. For ignoring a veritable United Nations of character witnesses, Mike Dean has banned this one from the stadium. The seven members of the board distributed a collective denouncement. And beyond the aid guaranteed by the friends of Max and by those who consider Mr. Yalley to be one of the faithful, he can also count on the unwavering support of anyone with enough brainpower to answer the simple question: if he is guilty, where is the weapon?"

I let this information settle. Nick didn't care about Mr. Yalley, or even the concept of justice. I got the feeling he was genuinely angry that Barton hadn't caught my murderer. Of course... maybe that's what he wanted me to think. "How did they know there was a weapon involved? Could it have been a punch?"

"Your physio, Dean, was summoned. After doing what he could for you - you might perhaps think about not sacking him in the near future; I like the idea of someone so calm in a crisis being near you at all times - he almost at once described what would have caused your wound. A heavy cylinder. Some building materials were found nearby. Metal rods. All the police needed to do, Max, was talk to Mr. Yalley. Where did the attacker go? What was he wearing? They might have found him. Instead, they decided to banish one of the faithful and the traitor is free to strike again."

I felt a surge of heat, but quickly got a grip. This Barton fuck was in deep shit. Sebastian hitting him from the left, Beth from the (far) right, Nick from below. Me being mad at him right now would add nothing, would only delay my recovery. "Nick," I murmured. He leaned closer. "Get rid of him."

Nick gave me a grin so sharp it could have sliced Culatello ham. "Get rid of him? How would you like me to misinterpret that?"

I rested my head back on the pillow. If Nick murdered the guy and made me pay for it, I could probably have lived with it. But Nick seemed content to stick to our current arrangement.

He went over to Barton and clicked a button on a tiny cylinder that had appeared in his hand. He shone the light into Barton's eyes, and lifted his eyelid. The dude didn't resist in the slightest.

Nick clicked off the light and mused. "What is... Candyflipping?"

I didn't know, so Nick looked at the policewoman. Her eyes darted between Nick and her partner as she said, "It's when you combine LSD and MDMA."

"So many letters!" laughed Nick. "Whatever do they mean?" He stepped away, then put his hand on Barton's shoulder and turned him around. He gave him a little push and Barton started to fall. He seemed to come out of a stupor, jolted awake by his imminent fall, and stumbled towards the door. He hurt himself grasping for the handle. "This one will not be a problem, Max."

"What about her?" I said. I would want my attacker to be caught. I would want to cooperate with the police for that.

"She is complicit," he said, and the officer turned white. "That one is this one's one hundred percent. Never fear, Max. Soon you will have access to other resources. Do you understand better, now?"

I did. My assistant manager slash bodyguard would also be my detective.

I closed my eyes, knowing that when I opened them I would be slightly more healed. And that there would be no demons. And no traitors.

***

When I woke, I was able to twist and turn to check if anyone was in the room - more progress. It was empty, and there was no sign of the silver platter or the extra table. I checked - there was a screen on the end of an arm behind me. If I turned it on, would Nick's show still be on there? I wanted to finish the episode. Reaching the arm and pulling it into place was beyond me. For now.

I thought about my conversation with Nick. He was the antagonist in my story, I was sure of that. But he wanted to help me heal and recover. It made sense - the sooner I was back grinding for XP, the better, for both of us. And yet I couldn't help but feel like a contestant in The Traitors. I had to trust someone I didn't trust. But what benefit could there be to Nick of me going to Tenerife, soaking up the sun, and giving Emma exactly what she wanted?

It just felt too good to be true.

The alternative? Stay in England. In Henri's house in Darlington, while all my neighbours gawped at me and little kids asked their mum, 'Didn't that guy used to be Max Best?' Shuffling around the supermarket, catching my breath in the cereal aisle, always looking over my shoulder, flinching at every bang and unexpected movement. Fleeing to Spain didn't seem so bad.

But what was Nick's angle? He'd given me water, kept me calm, banished a traitor, and yes, even given me a treat. A trashy Australian show that I couldn't wait to finish.

In the show you had to make people feel you were on their side so they'd trust you so you could betray them. Which of the things he'd done hinted at which future deceptions?

And why had the conversation gone the way it had gone? I had twenty important questions I hadn't even thought to ask him. Why had he chosen me for the curse? Why exactly didn't he want me to be a player? What was he, and what were the imps? He'd called them colleagues. Does the curse have an expiry date? What happens when I retire? What happens to me if Nick dies? Can Nick die? Are there more like me?

Was it my brain injury that had pushed those thoughts away, or was it one of his enchantments?

Mildly frustrating.

And Jackie. Mate.

Thinking about him made me tired. So I went back to my aggressive resting, and my incremental gains in movement, flexibility, and awareness. Getting myself in shape for when Emma arrived.

***

A nurse said, "There's an Emma to see you. Will I let her in?"

I gave him a thumb-up.

He walked off and I had what, thirty seconds?, to mentally prepare.

Emma would have been sick with worry. Three weeks of crying. Maybe she'd watched The Proposal on a loop because it was 'our movie'. There was simply nothing I could have done to make her feel better.

That didn't stop me feeling guilty as fuck. I'd put her through an ordeal. And now she'd see me like this, feeble, bed-ridden, and she'd only worry more. My goal, then, was to try to be normal. Calm. As much the old Max as possible. And, as with all our bedroom scenes, I wanted to last as long as possible.

She came into the room and blinded me with masses of long, blonde waves. In an instant, I saw that she'd done her hair, her nails, maybe spent the whole morning getting her make up just right. She was wearing what I can only describe as a denim cardigan with more buttons than her leather jacket had zips. I turned away and closed my eyes. When I did that, her footsteps slowed. She got to the side of the bed, not knowing if she should sit or stand or what.

"Max," she said.

"Have you got a hat?"

"What?"

"You're hurting my eyes."

"Do you want me to go?"

"I want you to be less radiant. For a minute. So I can adjust."

"I'll try." She sucked in a breath, held it, and let it go. "Is that better?"

I half opened an eye. "I'm still feeling overstimulated."

"Sorry." She had placed her hand next to mine on the bed. We were touching, but there was a gap. A gap caused by however many days of separation, however many intense emotions experienced alone. Did she want distance, or was she hoping I'd bridge the gap? Whatever happened, I didn't want her to think of me as fragile. I commanded my hand to inch left, on top of hers. She flipped hers round. I was holding my girlfriend's hand. Like a real boy. I swallowed, hard. She must have felt something similar, because her attempt at low-key positivity failed. She croaked, "So how are you doing?"

"Mustn't grumble." Me talking like a pensioner made her laugh, but also brought tears. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see that. That wasn't my goal. "I've been dreaming about football."

"I bet."

"No, I never dream about football. These... it must be the drugs. It's football that doesn't exist. Freeform football. No positions. Murmuration."

"I'll have what you're having."

I risked another look. Either it was getting easier or the light had shifted and wasn't bouncing off her so much. She was exquisite, of course. Flawless. But I knew her. "This has been hard for you."

"Yes," she said. "At first, I was in bits. I was here every day. Frantic. Desperate." A huge tear formed and started trekking down her face. She wiped it away with her free hand. "But they said it wasn't as bad as they thought. They had to pump you full of drugs for a while but you made good progress, they said. And they moved you in here, so every day got a little bit easier. Every day there was progress. You weren't going to... you know. But there was always that worry."

"That I wouldn't be the same."

"Right." She sniffed, damply, but she smiled as she remembered something. "Then I got your message."

Hold up. Message? I hadn't... Nick! Of course he hadn't told me this part. "Oh. They had me on all kinds of meds. Remind me what I said."

Full smile, now. Only positive thoughts behind it. "I was out in the little waiting area they've got there. By the vending machines. And a doctor came over with his white coat and his stethoscope and clipboard and all that and he said, 'Are you Emma Weaver?' And I said yes. And he said he had a message from Max."

"Go on." I wanted a description of the doctor, but I felt pretty sure I knew who it had been. The only question was, why hadn't Emma recognised him?

"He flipped up the paper and read it out. 'Tell the hot blonde I'm doing my best to get well but knowing she's out there is distressing and, like, totes the opposite of relaxing'."

"Totes?"

"He read it word for word, he said. 'Totes the opposite of relaxing. So tell her she's not allowed to hang around whatever hospital this is like a weepy ghost and she's to go clubbing and find a huge guy with no neck and cheap tats and have a quick porking in a sticky-floored nightclub bathroom and I'll text her when I'm ready to hold court.'"

"That's insane," I said. "That doesn't sound like me."

Emma squeezed my hand. "It does. You always say mad things like that. So I knew you were all right. You know, inside."

A quick porking? How had Nick come up with that? "Did you see that doctor again?"

"No. I haven't been back. It was hard but I stayed away. Went to that hotel we go to. Got some sleep, finally, knowing you were going to be all right. Really all right."

So Nick had done me a favour, there. Told Emma what she needed to hear. Reduced her stress and worry by an order of magnitude. Thanks, dude. Or... was it another stratagem? I yawned and took my hand out of Emma's so I could put my arms over my face. This brief interaction had been draining.

"I don't want to strain you; I won't stay long. Listen, Max. They asked me to talk to you about Chester. I told MD and Ruth what the doctor told me - that you would need to heal and recover and do rehab but you were mentally sharp as ever. You don't need to worry about what's happening this summer. Everyone is chipping in. The jobs are getting done. Oh, and they got you a place to live. In Chester. They're going to make it really, really easy to get back to work, and there's no hurry. You can take as long as you need." She paused. "They're going to ask you to be Chester's manager. The men's team."

"Mmm," I said. "Bout Jackie?"

She shrugged. "He doesn't want to do it. Says he's not cut out for it."

"You think he's right?"

"He knows a lot more about being Jackie than I do."

"Do you think I should let him just walk away without a fight?"

"I honestly have no idea. I think it's hard for him."

"How?"

"You're much better than him. And everyone knows it. Everyone except you, he says."

I shook my head slightly, a gesture which led to me closing my eyes. I'm sure I fell asleep because Emma was suddenly reading something on her phone while holding my hand. I'm sure she was relieved that I was okay, that I was myself, but I had been pretty flat. There hadn't been a big, romantic kiss. No excessive display of emotion. It must have been disappointing, even if she understood why. I'd learned that being emotional drained my battery double-quick, and I hadn't worked so hard to get to this moment only to have one big sloppy kiss and then lapse into unconsciousness. But now that I was close to my limit anyway, I decided to ramp things up. To start with, I'd break Nick's timeline. Bastard had it all worked out, did he?

"Babes," I said, and she nearly dropped her phone from the surprise. "The dude said I'd be able to start my physical rehab soon. At St Cyril's, couple of minutes away. I'll be walking around in no time. And the doctor you met told me I should go on holiday. Somewhere warm. I think he said, 'bit of sun will sort you right out'."

"We can go to Ibiza?"

"He was weirdly insistent about not going there. He said Tenerife."

She looked doubtful. "Those flights are over four hours. Can you manage?"

"I'm top manager. Jackie said." Another wave of tiredness. "If you're still offering to take me away this summer... Tenerife." I'm not sure why I decided to trust Nick on that. He'd messed my head up by showing me that Traitors TV show. Got me all paranoid, thinking about double and triple-bluffs. I thought about asking Emma not to book something expensive, but Nick had already told me she'd go for the bottom end of the scale.

"Okay. I'll start looking for places in Tenerife." Hesitation. "When?"

"Oh. What is it now?"

"End of April. Nearly May."

May was the exit trials. Hundreds of talented kids would be there. Ones cut from other teams. I'd been so looking forward to those days, but it wasn't going to happen. I had to focus on my personal recovery. Had to. So May would be rehab month. Nick said I still had the curse. I still had super healing, then. I'd push myself hard, but sensibly. I'd use Dean, Magnus, and Livia (if she still worked for me) to augment whatever resources I'd get from whoever was paying for my treatment. I'd be able to walk in four weeks, surely? I only needed to be able to get on and off a plane. "June?" I suggested.

"That's quick, Max. Even for you. Look, I said, everything's being done. There's no need to hurry."

I covered my face again. I wanted to lift myself up, but thought better of it. So I lay my arms beside me and settled down like I was in a coffin. I could be emotional, or I could say what I needed to say. I chose words. This was it. A lot of effort to get to this moment. I refused to waste it on gestures.

"Ems. Bebs. When I woke up here and realised what must have happened, I had a choice. To rip my tubes out and walk out of the hospital like heroes do in movies. Or to do what I yell at my players to do, which is to be a model patient. I tell them if you need to rest, rest. I'm normally a mad hypocrite. But this time I've been resting like an absolute legend. I'm a titan of tranquility. I knew you'd be out there, worrying, crying, and I had to push that aside and focus on what I needed to do."

"Yeah, I know, course."

I swallowed. "It was hard. I must have been off my tits when I gave the doctor that message, because when I was alone with my thoughts, they were cold. Stay still. Don't move. Don't rush. Let your body heal. Don't get in the way. Let it happen. Slowly getting better as fast as I could. Because I knew," I said, and I had a sleep crisis that I snapped out of. "Because I knew that was the way to get to this moment the fastest. This is what's kept me going. This, now. Here with you." I exhaled, shakily. "It was scary. Wondering if I'd ever feel my toes again. Wondering what'd be wrong with me. Losing my... memories. It was a big shock to go from feeling all-powerful, to this." I closed my eyes, but not to sleep. Had to blink away a couple of tears. "And I'm scared of you and what you mean to me. I'll do whatever it takes to get on that plane. So you go ahead and book it. If I have to ignore you for a few weeks while I get my legs to work, I'll do that. But I promise you, I'll be next to you on that plane. And I won't pack a single hoodie."

That got her. She fell into bits. In a good way, I hoped. This scene was familiar - me immobile on a bed while Emma sat by me. Our date in Darlington, after I'd run myself into the ground the night before. I wanted to swear this would be the last time we'd be in this situation, but I couldn't promise that, could I? The traitor in the police had let my murderer literally saunter off. Perhaps he would want to strike again. I needed a bodyguard. Perhaps I would finish the summer with one. But for now, I needed to be careful. Treat everyone like a potential threat until I could defend myself. If they came for me, they might get Emma, too.

"Babes," I said, eyelids desperately heavy. "Don't tell anyone where we're going. Or when."

"Why?"

Questions so tiring. Just trust. "Please."

"Okay."

One last burst of effort to hit my goal. Finish with a goal. He shoots, he scores! Gol gol goooool! Gol de Max Best! I was virtually motionless as I prepared to finish my speech. My team talk. Team. Squad of twenty-one. Three traitors. Players. 4-4-2, dissolving into a shape that can't be expressed through numbers. From 4-4-2 into a stanza, into a sentence fragment, forming and reforming, a mist, moving according to rules only those inside the cloud knew. Fractal football. No! Don't sleep. Emma. Got to tell Emma. Got to tell Emma she's my one hundred percent. Got to. Got to. Do it now. But though I chased the ball with all my might, I was too slow. Too slow. Too weak. In despair, I fractured into many copies of myself, curving, sweeping, dancing. We surrounded the ball. The goalkeeper came rushing towards me. I put my foot on the ball and laughed. You fool! I was pretending. I'm the traitor. Now. Watch what I can do...

***

I didn't say much as Jackie told me why he wanted to quit. Nick had got in my head. Respect the wishes of your friend. Jackie didn't say anything I agreed with. He couldn't handle the pressure. He was too slow, too cautious, too fearful. He couldn't do what I could do. The best thing for Chester would be for me to take over.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But he wouldn't listen to me. It was like the time I swore to him I wasn't a good player. You can't scout yourself, he said. And he was using his victory then to admit defeat here.

Respect the wishes of your friend. But Nick would say that, wouldn't he? He wanted me in charge of the men's team. I would get more XP per match, and there were 46 league games for the men compared to 22 for the women. And impressing with the men would make it more likely I'd be offered prestigious jobs.

I had been staring straight ahead, which was borderline unpleasant but it was the only way to keep my face from showing my true feelings. Now, I looked at him. "The best thing for Chester is I keep doing what I'm doing and you keep doing what you're doing."

He shook his head, gripped it, rubbed his face, pulled his cheeks down. "I can't." Haunted stare. "I can't."

I blew some air out. I couldn't convince him, but maybe someone else could. "Is MD here?"

He didn't question how I knew that. "Yeah. Will I get him?"

I didn't reply, which he correctly interpreted as affirmation. While he was gone, I tried to do some slow breathing. Deep down, I understood this was hard for Jackie. Probably very hard. Nick had told me off in advance about making it harder. But come on, Jackie mate. Seriously, come on. Fuck.

MD came in, looking extremely nervous. I'd have to get used to that. Even the nurses - who knew better - treated me like I was made of glass.

We did a bit of small talk, but I pretended to be more tired than I was so we could get on with it.

"What do you think of all this, MD?"

He licked his lips. "It was incredible what you did in those matches, Max. I'd be very, very happy if Jackie stayed on. I'd fight to keep him if you hadn't... you know. In the most loyal possible way, you made Jackie's position untenable. The tactics, the sense of fun, the passion, the way you dragged the fans back onside, the way you saved the club from relegation. And made it all look so easy. I want Jackie to stay, but every time we lose two matches in a row people will call for you to take over. No-one can work like that. Jackie has stayed on while you recovered, but he told me his intentions after the last game of the season. We've looked at it from every angle, Max. Either you take over... or we call Ian Evans. Sorry, that was a joke. We want you to be the manager, Max. There's no plan B."

"Great," I said, lifeless. In theory it was my job to choose the next manager, but I couldn't blame them for not trusting me to do that in my current condition. Letting Jackie go was a mistake, a huge mistake, but it wasn't mine to correct. I felt justified in making one last pitch. "Jackie thinks I'm a better football manager than him. Across three matches, sure. Let's agree to that. Bad news is, next season is 46 games, plus cups. I can't improve players. The club can't replace Jackie's coaching. The chances of us getting a coach of his quality are zero. The men's team has three main assets: Pascal, Raffi, and Youngster. Next June, with me as manager..." I had a little think. Pascal had been just below CA 30 before my murder. I could double that, maybe. What's a CA 60 nineteen-year-old worth? What about the CA 70 he'd reach under Jackie? "With me as manager for a year, he could be worth 30,000 pounds. With Jackie, at least 50. Raffi?" I expected him to kick on even more. He'd start most games for either Jackie or me. "Under me, he might go for 60 grand. Under Jackie, a hundred. Youngster? Me, a hundred grand. Jackie? Half a mill. We're talking about millions of pounds of added value over the next ten years."

"If we can find the players," said MD.

"Which I can't do if I'm managing Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday. Guys! Think about it."

"Max," whined Jackie. "You only talk about what I can bring as a coach. I'm supposed to be the manager."

"As manager, you can get us promoted," I said. "Easy. While I find players and run the women's team. The current situation is the golden ticket. Me as manager? I'll win games. Big whoop. What about the players? What about Youngster? What about Raffi's dreams? He can't have a season of bad coaching. Not at his age. I'll make more money in the next ten years from Raffi and Youngster if you're their manager for the next couple of years. That's a fact. So you're a cash machine. Do you want a pay rise? Let's talk. You're worth it. And managing? You've had an apprenticeship. Four wins, three draws, four defeats. In tough circumstances. Seven away games out of eleven! Why are you beating yourself up? It's fine. And it'll only get better. Jesus Christ. I got nine points. You got fifteen." I'd worked that out when Jackie told me how the last three games had gone. "Fifteen is more than nine. You saved the club."

"No-one who saw the matches thinks that," said Jackie. "Without you I'd have relegated the club and been sacked. Every other manager had my number, and I didn't twig until you pointed it out. But you know what it was? It was when Sam Topps got concussed. Everyone in football right up to the top ten managers in the world would have put Wisey on. Easy. Job done. Only you would use it as a chance to put Pascal on to mark a left-back. Livia asked me what the hell you were thinking and I had to say, no fucking clue. Thank God Spectrum explained it on Seals Live otherwise I'd still be scratching my head to this day. I can't do that, Max. I can't win a game with one substitution. And I can't walk around Chester like I'm top dog when I'm not. I'm not the right man for the job so I have to step down. It's that simple."

"Be a coach, then. Coach us."

Jackie looked away. I'd made a mistake - I should have said 'be my assistant manager' but Nick had distorted my view of the future. If things panned out Nick's way, the assistant manager position was taken.

MD stepped in. "He can't go from being the manager to a coach. Come on, Max."

"Why not?"

"In my old company, if we did that to someone, demoted them but kept them in the same teams, they'd sue us for constructive dismissal. It's what you do to show someone they aren't valued. It's what you do to force someone to quit without a payoff. You can't ask someone to volunteer for such humiliation."

"We'll show what we think of him. We'll make him the highest-paid employee in the history of the club. He'll earn double what I get. Triple."

It didn't tempt him in the slightest. "Thanks, Max. But no."

"Fine. Great. You'll stay in place until the end of July."

More shaking. What the fuck had happened to him? "I can't."

So he was going to leave me with untrained, half-fit players? A player's CA probably dropped over the summer, and without Jackie, it'd be slow to recover. Guaranteed bad start to the season. Another mountain to climb. Another bad decision I'd have to fix. A surge of fiery anger went through me. Control. Emma. Holiday. Hundred percent. I made my lips relax from whatever hideous shape they had formed. I thought about asking what Jackie planned to do instead, but I was too angry at him. It wasn't treachery exactly, but I did feel betrayed. "MD. Am I allowed to fire him?"

"No, Max."

"Who accepts his resignation?"

"We can do it together."

"The Two Amigos," I said, resting my head back on the pillow. Jackie and MD got to their feet and tried to leave quietly. "MD, hold up."

I felt Jackie hesitate, wondering if I planned to say goodbye. I should have. But I didn't. With one last glance at me, he turned and left.

"What do you need?" said MD, quietly, because the room suddenly felt cavernous. Empty. Desolate.

"We've got loads of guys out of contract. I need to talk to some of them. The ones we need to keep."

"Ah." MD got shifty and slunk back into his chair. "Max, your injuries... we were told you were very badly hurt. And we thought you would need months to even get to this point." I blinked and he nearly jumped from his chair as if I'd shouted at him. He was acting guilty. Had he traitored me in some way? "The doctors told us, Max. Told us it looked bad."

"What did you do?" I said, with no heat whatsoever. He flinched anyway.

"We. We renewed contracts. So that you wouldn't have to rebuild the whole team," he said, pleading. I eyed him with amazement. He knew he'd fucked up but this reaction was weirdly intense. "And they won six out of the last seven, this team. But we've got more budget. You can still bring in a few hot talents. But, you see, this way there's no rush for you to come back. We could start the season tomorrow. It's all okay!"

I looked up at the ceiling. "Mike, will you calm down? I'm not mad at you. Just tell me you didn't renew Trick." Trick Williams, the worst human being in Chester. Apart from the one who tried to murder me and the one who tried to pin my murder on an innocent man.

MD's face told the story. The blood drained from his face. "He's our only left-back. He's... he played well. Didn't he, Max?"

I blew more air out. Another year of Trick. Holy shit. "I know Len left. And we had twenty-one players."

"We had twenty-two," said MD. He was out of his depth when it came to football, but he was able to count. "If we include you."

Twenty-two. Just like Nick had been saying. The British version of the show had twenty-two players, with three traitors. "You renewed every contract... except three."

MD blinked. "How did you know that?" I didn't say anything. "Oh, they must have told you their intentions. Yes, Doug Walker and Chad Flintoff left." Three traitors. Just as Nick said! He wanted me on my guard. Wary. Less trusting. "But please leave the details to us, Max. I'm not doing this in a vacuum. I've had Jackie, I've got Vimsy, Jill, the whole gang. We're looking at everything saying: What Would Max Do? Do your physiotherapy. Go to Italy." I gave him a sharp look. Emma had lied to him about where we were going. What a woman! My hundred percent. "When you come back, when you're ready, there's a little bit of budget and a lot of goodwill. We're ready to follow you, Max."

Emma had said people were banding together to make my return easy. Seemed she had heard right. I didn't need to think about Chester FC for a while. "Does Livia still work for us?"

"Yes."

"Can you get her, Dean, and Magnus to come here? Today?"

"I'll try. Why?"

"To start rehab. I've got a plane to catch."

***

I didn't have the curse. The system, as Nick wanted me to call it. Two items from its news feed, close together, would come as no shock to anyone. No shock to anyone except my murderer. If his motive was to stop me progressing my football career, he’d soon know he had failed. Would he try again?

Jackie Reaper has resigned as manager of Chester FC. Chester will now be looking for a replacement manager.

Max Best has been appointed as manager of Chester FC.