12.

Football glossary: The Magic of the Cup. A phrase used to summarise everything that's good and holy about English football: the romance of small teams competing against (and sometimes beating) bigger rivals; the fact these minnows often feature plumbers and electricians in their first eleven (leading to a media frenzy); the collective memory of past glories; the fact that Sir Alex Ferguson's career was saved by what today would be considered a meaningless third round FA Cup match. Just mention Ronnie Radford, the white horse of Wembley, or Mark Robins, and football fans of a certain vintage will be transported to a former time, a better time. (Imagine the Jamaican bobsleigh team, but every year since 1871.)

***

Sunday, September 10

FA Cup Qualifying, First Round. Nantwich Town FC Ladies versus Chester Women

***

Did you ever have one of those days where everything turned to shit?

***

I woke up, happy as a clam, and immediately started daydreaming about FA Cup glory. I texted Emma, whose interest in attending football matches all over the country had diminished somewhat. I thought if I could get her hyped about the cup, she might come to watch the men's team the following Saturday.

Me: Today, magic will be made.

Emma: In the first Harry Potter book, he doesn't cast a single spell.

Me: I know. I told you that.

Emma: Go ahead. Tell me about magic.

Me: Put every team in the country in a big hat. Pull out two names. They play each other. TO THE DEATH. Straight knock-out, no group stages, no Swiss models, no seeds, no coefficient rankings. Simplicity is beauty.

Emma: Gosh. So if you win today, you could play Newcastle next.

Me: They aren't in it, yet.

Emma: Did you know the things you call simple... aren't?

Me: The whales get released into the tournament step by step. First it's us tiny fish trying to eat each other. Today, all the teams are like Chester, or even smaller.

Emma: Today it's the Nemos.

Me: It's loads of local village teams with a fisherman goalie (picking shots out of the net, boom!), IKEA employee defenders (set up in a flat pack four, badum-tiss!), and Conservative MP far-right-winger (no joke needed, lol).

Emma: Maybe you should get another hour of sleep.

Me: Too excited.

Emma: I don't get it. It's just more football. It's the same as all the other football.

Me: It's not. It's got 30% more magic. Today it's the women. Next week, the men are playing Tadcaster Albion. They're in tier nine. Ziggy would be by far the best player in that league! You could beat some of them in footgolf!

Emma: I'll come to the final.

Huh. Obviously we wouldn't get to the final. Not of the main FA Cup. We were a good few years from doing that. I dropped my phone onto the bed and pottered around my little city centre flat. The chat with Emma put me slightly on edge. I looked out of the window to see if there was a group of sinister men waiting to get me.

Nah, fuck that! It was FA Cup day. I intended to stay positive.

The phone vibrated. It was the Brig.

Brig: This FA Cup. I get the sense it's an irritant to most managers. Will you pick a weak team?

Me: Why would you say that?

Brig: It interferes with the league. Managers who get knocked out seem pleased. They say they can 'concentrate on the league'.

Me: Those managers don't like football, and I don't like those managers. Even Ian Evans went hard in the FA Cup. The women's league is only 22 matches. It will be incredibly boring without a couple of cup runs. I will pick a strong team every round.

Brig: I see. So we can win it?

Me: Of course not.

Brig: I see. Then why expend so much effort?

Me: Why do short people wear lifts? Why do bald men wear wigs?

Brig: Please enlighten me.

Me: Glory! Eternal glory! We play for the heritage. A link on Wikipedia. Prize money. It's also my only chance to pit my wits against managers from a higher level.

Brig: I am not sure every player shares your enthusiasm.

Me: They will share my enthusiasm or they will share my WRATH.

Brig: Understood. I will pick you up and bring you to the team bus. I will drive separately to the match with a VIP.

Me: Very Intimidating Person?

Brig: Just so.

I threw my phone back on the bed and got a football and did some tekkers. Strange that Emma and the Brig didn't have massively positive sentiments to the FA Cup. To me, it represented everything that was good about this sport.

Why was I bad at conveying my passion? I shrugged. I supposed it didn't matter.

Feel free to take ten seconds to conjure up an image of a small or large dog biting me on the arse. That visual might come in useful. Pawshadowing, they call it.

***

When we got to Nantwich, I was pleasantly surprised by the venue. We'd be playing in the Swansway Stadium, where the Nantwich men's team played. There were two small covered stands, and lots of standing room on the rails around the pitch. The capacity was 3,000, with 300 being seated. Someone told me it cost four million pounds, which was a little bit depressing. Four million didn't stretch too far, it seemed.

Still, it was great to see the club treating their women's team well. Playing where the men played was pretty basic, really, but lots of teams didn't even do that. Including, sadly, us. Our women's team would only get a few matches at the Deva this season, because I didn't want the pitch to get ruined by playing too many games on it. As we moved up the divisions, I'd invest in the pitch - undersoil heating, top drainage, more groundsmen, all that jazz - so we could put a bit more strain on it. For now, Nantwich were well ahead of us in that respect - or they didn't care about the kind of free-flowing football I wanted my teams to play.

In the dressing room, my players were buzzing - most of them. Well, some of them. A few were hunched over, concentrating on their studs or shoelaces, not looking at me. We had played a few friendlies in the Deva stadium, but this was a competitive fixture. This was the FA Cup! There were TV cameras filming the action. Ah. They were avoiding eye contact because they didn't want me to see that they were nervous. Fair enough. But some of them, like Charlotte, couldn't stop grinning.

"Hey," I said. "You're looking hyped. Didn't City eat games like this for breakfast?"

"Well, yeah," she said. "But I didn't play, did I? I was like a ball girl for most of it. This is real, today." I held my fist out for an affectionate bump. I loved making dreams come true.

"Ladies, listen up," I said, and they stopped fussing with their boots and whatnot. The changing room was a bit bigger than those at the Deva, but ours looked better. A fan had spent 400 hours rebuilding them from scratch based on what he'd seen from Premier League footage. There had been a presentation for him at half-time in the first match of the season, but I hadn't been aware of it - I'd been doing my vanishing act. "As you all know, my favourite movie is The Prestige."

I normally started team talks like that, and there was normally a roar of friendly abuse. This time, almost zero. The nerves, I thought.

Pippa shook her head. "Max, you mention more movies than we have time to watch. Skip to the meat, please."

"Ugh. The Prestige is legit amazing. Seriously. Ugh! Be like that. Nantwich Town Ladies. Note that they've gone for Ladies instead of Women. That's very psychologically interesting, don't you think?"

"No," said Bonnie.

"Yeah, me neither. The Chester Prestidigitators? No? I genuinely don't get why you enjoy having a boring name. All right. Magic of the Cup. Nantwich are in the tier below us. Got some okay players, focus on physical strength, couple of fast ones, but they're inconsistent, judging from the results. And they're not technical. So if we play to our best, and they play to their best, we win. Simples." Nantwich actually had a CA of 15, which was fractionally higher than ours, but we had way better passing. "We go 4-5-1, loads of bombing forward, loads of dribbles from the wide players. Good? Robyn in goal." She had CA 10, PA 14. Like a few players, she would max out her talent very soon. Lots of squad-building needed, but it was harder to simply turn up to other clubs' women's training the way I did with the men. It wasn't always obvious where or when they trained, and I couldn't think of a way to ask.

"What's that? Is that the number one?" said Robyn.

"Yes! I've spent some of Ruth's money on fancy magnets. Do you like them? They're a bit bigger, shinier, and they've got your squad numbers on."

"Oh, amazing!" said Robyn. I really fucking wished I had the Morale perk, because I was sure she'd just increased a few points.

"Yeah, now that we're all serious and whatever, I have to give you a squad number and that's your number for the whole season. League rules." This innocuous announcement got a similar reaction to when I'd hinted the men's team might get some free boots. "What?"

"Do we all have squad numbers?" said Bea Pea.

"Yes. You're number nine."

"Yes!" she said, like she'd scored a last-minute winner. Another morale boost! Management was a piece of piss.

"Dani says, what am I?" said Mo, one of the defenders I needed to upgrade.

"She's 777. That way her army of fans have to buy three sevens to press onto the back of the shirt and the club can make triple the money."

Dani did her special laugh. How granular would Morale get? If it was a score out of 200, I'd probably see a few numbers go up when Dani laughed.

"Can I get back to naming the team, now? Sake. Er... Lucy, Mel, Mo, Bonnie. Bonnie's captain." I moved four magnets into position, with the numbers 23, 22, 15, and 4. The gently ascending balloon of happiness went crashing down to earth. I blinked. I could literally feel the... the what? The anger? I glanced back at the whiteboard. Then I nearly smashed myself in the face.

So stupid.

(If all that follows is absurd to you, just keep in mind that being given the number eleven or under is like winning at three-card monte.)

In giving Mo the number 15, I'd signalled to her that I planned to sign a better centre back, and that woman would get the number 5.

In giving Mel the number 22, I'd told her that I planned to sign a better right back, and that woman would get the number 2.

Lucy, 23, better left back, who'd get the coveted 3.

I'd done it this way because there had been a four-month gap in my squad-building. In my numbering system, I'd left space for the real first-teamers to come in. Well, it made sense to me, and it very much made sense to the squad. Problem was, it told them all exactly who I thought had a future, and who didn't. Why couldn't I have just given them all random numbers?

Because I was a football purist. What Emma had called a romantic. I wanted my first team to have the numbers one to eleven.

If I'd done that, a tiny rational voice said, I'd only have postponed this bad feeling until next season, when the better players would have asked for better shirt numbers.

But mate, said the same rational voice. Don't dump this shit on the players just before the first match of the season!

Well, yeah. Good point. But it was done now.

I slid the number 16 magnet to the side of the defence. "Erin, you're defensive backup." She nodded, but she also seemed slightly more downcast. She was CA 9! What did she want? A fucking six-month run at the Pantages theatre? She didn't have star quality! I hesitated before continuing, knowing there was more pain to come. Not as much - the midfield was where most of my talent was. "Gracie, Maddie, Pippa, Charlotte, Dani." Magnets 14, 11, 6, 8, and 7. Gracie had CA 12, PA 17. I think she knew she wasn't as good as the others, and 14 was better than she'd feared when this whole ordeal had started.

The mood was so sombre, I nearly burst out laughing. The whole thing was so mental. I wore fucking 77, for Christ's sake. Grow up!

But I didn't laugh. I'd chosen 77 for myself, and that was totally different from being given a high number by someone who despised me as a way to make me feel less valued. Stupid as it was, I totally understood the reactions, and should have seen them coming.

Our only other midfielder of note was Susan, who was CA 12, PA 21. She got squad number 12, which, again, was better than she'd feared.

Bea Pea already knew she was the nine, so I slid that across.

Some of the women had seen a shirt on their spot, laid out by Jill, and gone to the bag to get one with a number they liked better. Those women peeled off the wrong shirts, and put the right ones on, in the process, shrinking. Then they sat, staring forward like they'd just been sentenced to actual death.

My lineup had an average CA of almost 14, with not much progress having been made in the last month. I expected a big push in the coming weeks as we started to feel like a real team. I suspected, though, that there was a link between Morale and how well players trained. Had I just cost us a few weeks of progress with my thoughtlessness?

"Seriously. Okay. Nantwich, straight 4-4-2. Physical, no technique. Let the ball do the work, pass it around, they'll get tired, we'll crush them second half. Any questions?"

I regretted asking for questions as soon as I'd said it - I really didn't want to talk about why I valued Maddy so, so highly but thought Susan was so, so shit. The difference in their squad numbers was one, but it was the difference between being on the life raft, and dying just next to it.

Fortunately, no-one wanted to be the first to speak.

I clapped my hands. "Great. Let's go win a cup. Abracadabra."

The players ambled out, their buzz shot to pieces, their boots not smacking onto the concrete but slipping along.

I stayed back for a moment. Jill and Livia hovered around. Jill knew I wanted to bring in a really amazing coach who could also manage the team. It can't have been a nice feeling, knowing I didn't think she was quite good enough. Livia was the opposite - in case we'd fallen through the relegation trapdoor last year, I would have sacked Dean and made her the head of a much reduced medical department.

This was something I'd struggled with - these moments where I'd let slip to a player where exactly I saw them in the pecking order. How good I thought they could be. It was one thing telling Raffi Brown I thought he could play in the Championship - he could try to prove me wrong by making it to the Premier League. It was something else to pick Mo ahead of Erin, or Gracie ahead of Susan. There could be single-match tactical reasons for that. But seeing me leave the best squad number blank? In the hope that I might sign someone better?

"The magic of the fuck-up," I said.

Livia zipped up her medical bag. "Was it a fuck-up, or were those the right squad numbers for those players?"

"They're the right numbers," I said. "If anything, I was charitable in a few cases."

"So you didn't do anything wrong."

Jill didn't completely agree. "The timing could have been better. We could have done the squad numbers on Monday, let them have a week to get over it."

"Get over it?" said Livia. "It's a number on a shirt. Wait till they're in the medical room with their knees shattered, or they do an ACL." She bent and rapped her knuckles against the nearest piece of bench. Touch wood. "Then see if they still care about their shirt number. Let's make sure they're warmed up properly."

That last comment was aimed at Jill. The older woman was surprised, but hurried out. Livia nodded at me, heaved her bag, and went to the dugout.

Nice to have an ally. Nice to get a sense of perspective. Amazing to see Livia back to her old self - that meant she'd stopped worrying about Jackie.

But I fretted. As we got more serious, more professional, I'd have to be ruthless. How could I do that while making the women's team what I'd promised Dani it would be?

***

It took me a minute to decide what to do to make sure we won this match. I ingenieured a plan. A sort of woman sawn in half approach. One side of the woman - the head, I guess - would be me tweaking every player's individual instructions according to the needs of the match, getting really granular in a way I sometimes didn't bother with - pass left, no forward runs, pressing yes, offside yes, man marking no. The other side of the woman - also the head, because I hadn't thought this image through - would be a vigilant watch for weaknesses in Nantwich's temperament or tendency, which I'd lay out in a thunderous, detailed, handsome, half-time team talk.

The two halves of the woman would then be magicked back together by the stagecraft called 'victory'.

That was terrible. Cut all that.

I stormed towards the dugout, ready to get to work. Blood thumping in my ears, only a narrow cone of vision. Nantwich's all-green with a black slash versus our blue and white stripes.

Fuck your morale, you pricks! You'd better win, or I'd give you something to really be unhappy about. I'd learned that there was a name for unfit footballers being snatched away and forced to do a military boot camp - beasting. The beastings will continue until morale improves. Great line.

In my new, hyper-determined mood, I nearly smacked Triple Captain and Bench Boost, but I held off. I wanted to use them in the first round of every cup competition, because if we got knocked out there was no point keeping it in reserve. It wouldn't roll over to next season! That would be amazing, though. Perk perk perk! I thought, trying to convince the curse to give me that option.

No, if we couldn't beat Nantwich we had big problems. I swiped the options away.

"Max," said someone, on the edge of my awareness. You know how this bit goes. I stewed and ranted and raved some more, and the person kept saying my name.

Eventually, I realised there was no sign of the match starting. That made me breathe properly and my field of vision widened. "Oh, what the shit? What now?"

It was fucking Beth. How did she always find me when I was at my lowest? She was by the side of the pitch with the referee and the Nantwich manager, Chrissie Priest. There was also some rando and a photographer. Beth waved me over. "Max!"

I actually turned away and grabbed onto the top of the dugout, held myself there for a few seconds. I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve to be knocked out of the FA Cup in front of the Daily Mail. To have my unhappy players turn traitor and tell Beth all the mental things I'd been doing.

Yeah, I was a bit of a dick, but the universe repaid me tenfold for anything I got wrong. I dangled for one last second, one last second where I felt like I had some choice in how my day went, then tried to sort of swing myself into a good mood. My arms disobeyed, refusing to defy gravity on my behalf. I let go, turned, and pulled my hood over my face. It was something.

"Hi Beth," I said. "How's the Death Star?"

"I don't work for FIFA, Max. Stop moping around. What's wrong with you?"

"A busful of women are mad at me because I got overly romantic."

Her eyes darted around, crazily, while she tried to guess what had happened. Was this a hot scoop? "Go on, I'll bite."

I pushed the hoodie back a bit. "If we lose today, it's because they didn't like the squad numbers I gave them."

The response to this statement of OBJECTIVE FACT was annoying. The referee sniggered into her hand. The Nantwich manager turned away and did a quiet bobbing motion. The rando and photographer laughed out loud. Beth tried to be like the referee, and mostly succeeded.

I bit my bottom lip, then let fly. "Squad numbers have rules. First choice goalie is number one. Backup is thirteen. Third in line is twenty-five. Anyone disagree?"

Beth rubbed her smile away. "No, Max. There is only one way to do football. The Max Best way."

"Quite right. Please tell them that." I gestured to my shitty players.

"Does that mean I can talk to Dani?"

"No. Stay away."

"Well, this is about her," she said. She turned to the rando and he stepped forward with a fluffy white sweat band and a referee's whistle.

He spoke excitedly. "It's a whistle!" I wanted to step away, like I did from all crazy people, but it wasn't a good look in my new role so I was trying to get better at that.

I checked my phone. We were two minutes overdue to start the match. "Guys, this is the FA Cup. What the shit are we doing?"

Beth shook her head, grabbed the sweat band, and pushed it up my arm, towards my bone-dry, neutral-smelling armpit. "Captain of the ship," she said, and just for a second, while I was the only one who could see, there was a bit of flirty heat in her expression. I opened my mouth to complain. She snapped, "Fuck sake, Max! This is important!" I looked around. That had given me a big jolt of deja vu.

I fiddled with the sweat band. It wasn't touching my skin but it still felt itchy.

Beth took the whistle and blew it, right in my face.

I backed away, pretty pissed off, but then I realised what was going on. The sweat band had vibrated!

I took it off, had a look at the inside. There were a few bits of electronics. The rando stepped forward in something of a panic. I dared him to complain.

Beth was in control of the situation. "This is Raymond Richardson, inventor and Daily Mail reader." For some reason, everyone followed Beth's gaze to my scowl as she said the last part. "And like most Daily Mail readers he was moved by the story of little Dani and her shockingly unfair red card."

I gave this Raymond guy more consideration. Now that I knew he was an 'inventor' his look fell into place. Oddball, had a shed full of wrenches and tiny screwdrivers, knew a lot about waveforms, forgot to pay his water bills.

"So he set about solving the problem."

Raymond took his cue. "The deaf girl wants to play sports and she should be allowed!"

The unfairness stuck with him more than her name. I didn't mind that. He was clearly a nutjob, but my kind of nutjob. I closed my eyes for half a second so I could calculate. Beth had obviously done a number on the ref and the Nantwich manager. She only needed my go-ahead. I didn't like being forced to pick the card the magician wanted me to pick, but this wasn't about me or my distrust of Beth.

"Bea Pea," I called. "Get Dani." Bea Pea was in the best position to get her attention.

Dani jogged over. The photographer acted like someone had just flicked his switch. He went full pap, pushed his camera to his face and kept it there, somehow able to navigate the world with his vision several metres in front of the rest of him. Dani saw Beth and smiled. Shit.

Beth gestured that I should put the armband on Dani. "Do the honours, Max."

I glared at Beth. She was sailing close to the wind. I imagined this scene turned into a newspaper article. "Raymond should do it. He's the star of the story."

"We'll get one of him and Dani if the armband actually works in a match situation. For now, a picture of you and Dani in happier times. It'll pay off the previous picture where it was all a bit intense. It'll be thematic. I know you love that stuff." She said it sniffily, as though she hadn't written The Wizard of Us.

I was keen to get on with the match, so I pulled the armband off. Beth wanted me and Dani in her hero image because it would get the most clicks. I didn't exactly mind, but my goals were slightly different. "No, Beth. I want the referee and Chrissie, err... Miss Priest in the photo. The story isn't me and Dani, or Chester and Raymond, it's the whole football community welcoming a new member."

"Oh, I like that," said Priest. "Call me Chrissie, by the way."

Beth glanced at the photographer - tried to communicate with him non-verbally. Something like, frame it so we can cut out the spares. "Beth, I swear to fuck."

"Fine," she pouted. She blew air out her cheeks. "Fine," she said, brighter. "You're right, Max. That's the story."

That earned her a suspicious little frown, but with the referee and the Nantwich manager behind Dani, I slipped the armband past Dani's elbow and up to the short sleeve of her top. "It's a bit loose," I said.

Raymond stepped forward to check. "I had to guess how thick her arms were. I can do it a bit smaller."

"Should be fine for today," I said. "Let's try it out. Dani has no clue what's happening."

Beth handed me the whistle. "You do it."

"Absolutely not," I said, a bit louder than the rest of the conversation. I wasn't totally stupid. "I mean, the ref should do it."

The ref took the whistle, and I made sure to step back so the photographer would be forced to focus on those two. The ref blew, Dani looked at her arm in absolute astonishment, and three seconds later, all Beth's dreams came true - the biggest smile in the history of smiles.

Dani signed, wildly.

"What's she saying, Max? And to who?" said Beth.

"Why, Beth, she's talking to you. She's saying that this will make a wonderful story. She's saying it is lovely, sweet, unplanned, unstaged, and uncynical."

"Aw," said the referee.

"She's also saying let's get on with the match because Max's naps are carefully timed and if he misses one, he gets grumpy."

The ref laughed. "Right. Let's make some FA Cup magic!" She looked down at Dani again, blew the whistle, and smiled in response to Dani's smile. "Some more magic."

***

I shuffled into my technical area, not knowing what to expect. Half my team were throwing girl-sulks, but my most talented one was far beyond the highest morale it was possible to get, and my current best player, Charlotte, looked ready to put on a show.

Beth had followed me. She looked good in the technical area. I wondered what her manager profile would look like.

"What do you think, Max?"

"I think you're way too good at your job."

"Do I get something?"

I turned my head, amazed. "What? What?"

"Access to the next Das Tournament. The inside scoop on your new adventure. Access, Max. An interview. Maybe one in a few months that explains why you left Chester and went back to Darlington. Put your side of the story out."

She was fishing. "What makes you think I owe you something? You've got two great stories out of this unfortunate incident."

"One was simply reporting the facts. This one is a simple feel-good tale. Everyone who reads it will go aww. But I've saved Dani's career. She can play without fear, now."

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"Until some ref refuses to use the special whistle."

She scoffed. "You hand the whistle to the ref before the match. If she refuses it, call me. There will be hell to pay. I might have a word with the referee's boss for Cheshire."

"See that," I said, "would be an example of you really doing something for Dani. And not for yourself."

"Okay." She punched me on the upper arm. "Fair comment. But I still want something."

"And what? I get protection from the Daily Mail?"

She laughed. A free, lighter-than-air laugh. "You're the wizard, not me; I can't do magic. No, no-one can save you from yourself. You're fair game. You know the British media. We build people up so we can knock them down." The match kicked off and Beth's expression changed. She wasn't a reporter, now, she was a footballer. She eyed the action with something like hunger. "4-5-1 again? It doesn't strike me as a Max Best formation."

"Is this the interview?"

She snapped out of her analysis of the match. "What?"

"I owe you an interview, you think. Is this it? You want to waste it on the Women's FA Cup Qualifying First Round?"

Her attention flickered from the pitch, to me, to the pitch again. She started to wander away, towards the inventor and the pap. She paused. "I'll need a quote after the match. About the armband."

"Nah," I said. "Busy." Smiling sweetly, I said, "Make one up, Beth. I trust you."

***

Good play here from Chester.

Gracie touches the ball to Pippa.

She helps it on to Charlotte - the debutant is really catching the eye.

It keeps going right, this time to Maddy.

Maddy plays it first time to Dani, who lays it off and sprints away.

Maddy sends the ball down the line.

Dani hares after it!

A patient move, and a surgical through-ball! These two are operating on another level.

But it's given offside.

What a pity.

I'd never seen anyone more delighted to be given offside. Dani, unable to stop smiling, gave the referee a big Dani two-thumbs.

Now that referees were adding time stolen from the viewing public by cheats onto the ends of matches, making that kind of cheating futile - on an unrelated note, Newcastle United were suddenly, inexplicably struggling to win games - I had a new bugbear. The biggest crime in football, apart from the usual things like bad tackles, was a right-midfielder being caught offside.

It really shouldn't happen; from that position you are looking down the line of the other players. How can you not see that you're offside? It had cost England several good opportunities in the World Cup final, I'd seen it on TV when watching Premier League games, and now Dani was doing it.

I wanted to let her enjoy her day, but I also needed to win.

We'd started to bring A5 sheets of white card and markers pens so we could give Dani some simple instructions. I bent and wrote:

If you are caught offside again

I will get the Brig to kidnap you

And make you watch French movies

For a week

When we got a throw-in vaguely near me, I raced to stop it being taken quickly and showed the message to Dani.

She rolled her eyes, did her laugh, and nodded.

I walked back to my technical area, staring at my screens. The demotivated players were on 6 out of 10, some flirting with fives. Dani was on seven, touching eight. Charlotte, the former City player, was the best player by miles, absolutely crushing the game. She was different gravy, and her nine would hit ten if she scored or assisted.

I'd been leaning on the match rating screen ever since I'd got it, and it was a fantastic tool. Like all tools, it had its limits. It was quite biased towards attacking play. Goals and assists would bump a player's score up no matter how badly they did everything else. I supposed I was fine with that, since goals were the game's only real currency.

But the match ratings over-rated activity in general. For example, the kind of work Bonnie did, the organising and talking to her teammates, scored her bugger all, even though it meant the other team got fewer chances. For Bonnie to go from a six to a seven, she needed to win headers, win tackles, and complete passes. Being so well-positioned she stopped an attack without getting within ten yards of the ball? Curse didn't give a shit.

So I couldn't just sit in the dugout reading Dan Brown books. And on a day like today, when small things were going wrong all over the pitch, I could actually influence the game. Get players to focus on the details.

I spent fifteen minutes yelling at the defenders, trying to get their lines right, get them more solid. But it wasn't working. They wouldn't listen.

For the next five minutes, I gritted my teeth, scowled at them. Three of the four defenders were sulking, including the vastly experienced Lucy, who was 42 years old! Imagine being 42 and still getting upset about tiny little slights. I planned to stop overreacting to every little thing that ever happened by age 25.

What were my options, here? I could sub Mo and Mel off, put Erin on, and go to 3-5-2. That'd mean the only really sulky player on the pitch would be Lucy, who had the best chance of snapping out of it during my half-time tantrum.

"Erin!" I called. She came, reluctantly, next to me. "I gave you shirt 16, same as Roy Keane. Same as Michael Carrick. Anything you want to say about that?"

"No, Max."

"I need someone for the second half. Someone with a clear head. Someone who wants to play. Someone who gives a shit about the FA Cup."

She scratched her eyebrow. "I want to play."

I pointed to our other young defenders. "If you play like that, you're done here. Do you get me?"

"Yes."

"Do you still want to go on?"

"Yes."

"Aight."

Erin swung herself away from me, but turned most of the way back. "Why are you so into the FA Cup?"

"What?"

"The league's the most important thing, isn't it?"

She seemed genuinely confused, which genuinely confused me. "Are you saying you don't care about the cup?"

She shrugged. "I thought it was all about the league. We get promoted, it's bigger crowds, better opponents. The manager will give more of us contracts. Get promoted again, we'll play in the Deva every week, train every day."

"That's very rational," I said.

Something in my voice made her reluctant to keep talking, but she had a high bravery score. "You're rational," she said. "You want to go to a bigger club." She pointed to the number 16 on her shorts. "The squad numbers are rational. I wish I was number 5, but I'm not. I'm not good enough."

I shook my head. "You're good enough to win this game for me. Go and loosen up."

She walked behind me. I heard the moment she stopped. "Did you mean Roy Kent?"

"What?"

"Roy Kent from Ted Lasso."

"I did not."

I shook my head. Some of these ladies needed a history lesson.

***

At half time, Dani smiled as, for the first time ever, she was able to walk to the changing rooms at the exact same time as everyone else. It's the little things.

The score was nil-nil. We'd dominated, and some of the play between Maddy, Dani, and Bea Pea was causing anxiety for the home team. But Nantwich had caused us a few problems, too. I felt that if they scored just one goal, we'd be heading out of the cup. Next goal wins.

The proximity to disaster was getting to me. Making my neck hot. It didn't help that Beth was here, writing it all down.

And what was worse, it seemed like half my players wouldn't give much of a shit.

Erin knew Roy Kent but not Roy Keane. What did the Cup mean to these players? The heritage, the glory? Probably nothing. They were trying to win because they were competitive, but that's where their motivation ended.

As usual, I let them talk to each other for a couple of minutes. Everyone went to check out Dani's new toy, and the invention plus Dani's smile undid some of the morale damage I'd caused.

"Right," I said, and for the first time in my management career, that wasn't enough to get their full attention. If the Brig had been there, he would have shouted, but he was in the main stand with Ruth.

Bonnie had to get everyone quiet. I shook my head, trying not to get too angry. First I would try to communicate our way out of this hole. Rage could be plan C.

"Right," I said again, in a sarcastically jolly tone. I switched to something like normal. "That was..." I swallowed the word shit. "That wasn't your best work, ladies. At first I thought it was because you were demotivated by the fact that I want to improve the squad and need premium squad numbers available to entice elite players to join us. But then I remembered you were strong, modern women and wouldn't let yourselves down with that kind of primary school 'she took my coat hook!' bullshit. And then I remembered, I've already told you millions of times it's my ambition to bring this team to the top. So you know there will be churn and change and, of course, you know that playing like sulky brats will accelerate that churn. And change."

Good start. Nicely passive aggressive. I pottered around.

"But then something occurred to me. I've told you I want us to take the cups seriously, but maybe you thought I wasn't being serious. Maybe you've seen the new Tottenham manager. He said he'd take the cups seriously, but he made nine changes for his first cup match. Tottenham lost. So now his team can't win anything this season. And he might say that finishing fourth in the Premier League is worth more than winning a cup. And he's right, financially. But football, ladies, is about glory. It's about memories. It's about playing in a cup final at Wembley, the home of football. It's about the last game of the season, Chester Men versus Darlington, and after we win eight-nil, we parade our cups and shields and plaques and medals. I want a fucking mountain of silver there, all the men, all the women, champagne, ticker tape, confetti, vegan hotdogs all round.

"So if you're playing like dogshit because you're not motivated to play in cup matches, then I'm not motivated to invest time and money teaching you to play this game. If you don't think the cup is magical, I suppose that's fine, it's a free country, but you better get it into your thick skulls that I do. Let me be super honest with you. Brutally honest. What I saw out there was three players writing a resignation letter. Three players flying little planes over the stadium with the words, 'I don't want to play for Chester' trailing behind. You've got ten minutes to save your career. Show me that you give a fucking shit. Then I'm switching formation and bringing Erin on."

Livia was on chat duty. "Dani says, why are you so thirsty for the cup?"

I checked the time. "I'd need more than five minutes."

"Give us the executive summary."

I clicked my fingers. "That's it. It's the difference between sport as sport and sport as business. The league is business. That's your bread and butter, as the saying goes. You have to go hard at the league to feed your kids. The cups? The prize money is shit - for the big teams, anyway. But you go to Wembley and you win a trophy. When you're old, are you going to say 'oh we finished 14th in the National League North one year, let me find the photos of that'? Or are you going to say, 'Hey! We got to the third round of the FA Cup and we were beating Birmingham with ten minutes to go. We were so close!' You've all met Smasho and Nice One, yeah? What stories do they tell? Cup games, mostly. Giant killing.

"This is a business. Your job is to train. But this is a sport. Your dream is to win.

"My first match as a professional was in a cup. The FA Trophy. Alfreton, 4-5-1. I put in a ten out of ten performance that no-one who was there will ever forget. You've seen my goals from that game. An otherworldly eighty-yard dribble and a free kick known in some circles as 'The Transported Ball'. The word of the day in the papers and online after my feats? Magical. League games aren't magical. They're a grind. Maybe at the end of the season you get some of that feeling, because there's no room for mistakes any more. All your chips are on red; it's all or nothing. But every cup match is like that. I am a football romantic, and every cup match is Valentine's Day."

The bell rang.

Maddy stood up. "Great speech, Max. I love the cup now." Sarcastic little shit! "I'm playing to win because I hate losing. And because their number eight keeps elbowing me. But you're missing the point."

I was incredulous. "I am missing the point?"

"People aren't playing shit because of the squad number or because it's the cup. It's because you're leaving."

"Leaving. Leaving what?" For some reason, I patted my pockets. Had I left my keys somewhere?

"Leaving the club."

I had no clue what she was talking about. I racked my brains thinking of a club that I had joined. She couldn't know about my five dollar a month subscription to Chess For Overachievers on Patreon. "What club? I'm not in any clubs."

"You said you were going to Darlington," said Livia.

"No, I didn't. When?" I said, but the bell went off again. The players filed out, motivation lower than ever.

Worst. Team talk. Ever.

***

Some of the ladies had, at least, been paying attention.

Mo Walsh had taken my 'ten minutes to save your career' thing to heart. In the first minute of the second half, she crunched into a tackle. She got the ball, but followed through, wiping out her opponent.

The ref, amazingly, didn't give a free kick.

I thought Mo was trying to intimidate that particular striker. Defenders often did that, and it often worked. That was one great thing about Dani, by the way. She was so used to being kicked in her old pan-disability matches that she barely noticed it happening. She certainly didn't take it personally.

Mo, however, was either self-destructing to punish me, or her motivation had gone into overdrive to prove how badly she wanted to stay. She thundered into another reckless challenge, this time missing the ball completely.

And this time, the ref had no hesitation in brandishing the red card.

Before Nantwich could take the free kick, I subbed Mel, our right back, off, and put Erin on. I switched to 3-5-2 with the missing player being the second striker. We would still be solid, would still dominate midfield, and if we played with a bit of spark, we could nick a winner.

A Nantwich player with mediocre technique and finishing blasted the ball towards the left-hand-side of the goal. It hit our defensive wall - Erin, of course - wrong-footed Robyn, and squirmed, apologetically, into the bottom-right.

One-nil to the home team.

I rubbed my face and scrubbed my fingernails through my hair. What could I do? The only decent player I had on the bench was Susan Butler, a CA 12 central midfielder. Useful if we got an injury or to replace tired legs, but she couldn't change the game. I had no options, except the very, very mediocre one of pushing Dani into attack, making a 3-4-2. From what I'd seen, Dani was more likely to score bursting from midfield than being stationed up front and marked closely.

The only card left in my deck was Free Hit. If I was desperate, I'd use it on a late corner. But the odds we'd score, even with the ten percent boost to the probability, were long.

For the first time that day, I sat on the bench. Powerless. At the mercy of the players on the pitch. Players whose morale had been shot before the match even started, because of the mind games I'd been playing with Folke Wester. What I'd thought was nerves was resentment and only a few players had been buzzing with anticipation.

This defeat was my fault, because I hadn't thought about every possible consequence of my actions, and not my fault, because this particular outcome was absurd. Regardless, I had no rabbits, no hat, and now I was about to be dumped out of the FA Cup by some nobodies.

I stared ahead, face blank, with an XP counter overlaid on my Match Overview screens. At least I'd get something from the day. Watching my XP grow by four XP per minute. The magic of the cup.

I could have wept.

***

All the setbacks, all the morale swings, all the nerves, the fact that our meltdown was being filmed and would show up on some compilation of sporting disasters and 'cupsets'... It was too much. We were toast.

I sat forwards, gloomy, then sat all the way with my head resting against the plastic. Gloomier.

But then I leapt out of the dugout, rushed to the side of the pitch, heart pounding.

Nantwich were going men behind ball. Shutting up shop. Holding on for a famous victory!

I laughed. I couldn't believe my luck!

All they had to do was keep going, maybe even attack us harder. But they retreated.

I ranted and raved until I'd locked eyes with Bonnie, Pippa, and Lucy. The senior players. I threw my arms towards the other team's goal. One; one; one two three! Attack; attack; attack attack attack!

Nantwich fell further back, let us move twenty yards up the pitch without having to work for it. Now, Maddy and Dani were twenty yards closer to Bea Pea. They started to get their combinations going. Little, dancing triangles. One touch layoffs, ambitious scoops and chips. Trying to conjure a little piece of devilry.

I knelt and pounded the grass. How many times had I told them? I got a marker and sheet of white card. I wrote:

LET IT HAPPEN

I danced around the side of the pitch showing it to anyone who'd look.

Charlotte saw me with, from her point of view, a tiny postcard, came closer, read it, sprinted to Dani. She made some hand gestures that were too distant for me to follow. Dani nodded. Charlotte ranted at Maddy, at Bea Pea.

I stormed around, fuming, furious, desperately screaming at everyone to relax. Just chill! I screamed, calmly.

The next few minutes made it all worth while. Our right side, the three young guns, supported by Charlotte, whirled and rotated and glided across the pitch, a lava lamp of movement and counter-movement, keeping it simple, keeping the defenders reacting, giving them decisions to make. Once we settled into our patterns, stopped letting the ball go out of play, once we sustained the pressure for more than ten seconds at a time, Nantwich looked like the team with one player fewer. They could keep their shape for a time, but then Charlotte, schooled in the Guardiola style, would switch the play to the left. Nantwich had to slide all the way across, but then Charlotte would bring it to the right, again, and we'd probe and pass and feint and go on overlaps, but we'd keep the ball, keep the ball, and then:

Dani receives the throw-in. She holds the ball up well.

She passes back down the line to Erin.

Erin sweeps the ball left.

Charlotte fakes to pump a high ball to the wing, but turns back and plays it to Maddy.

She exchanges passes with Dani.

Dani sprints down the line ready for a pass...

But the ball is played between the centre backs. Bea Pea will get there first!

She dinks the ball over the onrushing goalkeeper.

The goalie gets a hand to it...

But she can only push it onto her own defender.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

Disaster for Nantwich! It's the unluckiest own goal you will ever see.

Chester are back in the game. They've equalised with only ten men!

I sagged - all the anxiety and fear I'd been trying to keep myself from feeling came flooding over me, but then came the gigantic, absorbent sponges of relief and pride.

Jill tried to hug me, Livia too, but I was pretty drained.

And then, when I was wondering if the curse would ever update its text commentary with more modern versions of phrases like 'down to ten men':

It looks like Nantwich are taking a more attacking approach.

Game on! Bring it, Chrissie Priest!

I'd learned it was hard for teams to switch their mindset - once they went defensive, their attacking play had less potency. At the levels I dealt with, anyway. I could imagine an elite counter-attacking team being exempt. My teams seemed to be more flexible than most. Either it was the curse, or the way my players knew defensive periods were part of an overall plan to attack as much as possible.

I moved Dani to the vacant striker position and Maddy to the right. It was shit, but it was all I had. I was playing chess without a full deck of cards.

I need more players. Urgently.

Nantwich tried to build up a head of steam, but our defenders hadn't been busy for the last ten minutes. It had given them time to clear their heads, or Bonnie had talked them into a state of calm, or something. Whatever it was, we stamped every Nantwich attack out with gorgeous efficiency, and with a couple of neat passes, Charlotte would be on the ball.

Her match rating hadn't touched eight for some time - it was a solid, solid nine. A high nine. And with two minutes left, while I was looking at the Match Overview instead of the pitch, it jumped up to ten.

My attention snapped over, and I just caught the end of the move. Charlotte was dribbling at the centre backs, which was unusual for her. She'd been trained in the Man City style - plans A, B, and C were passes. But Nantwich backed away, on their toes for the inevitable pass to Dani or Bea Pea, who were making opposite diagonal runs. Nothing we'd trained, but the moment they crossed paths, the defenders suddenly didn't know what to do. In that moment of pure chaos, Charlotte let the ball roll onto her right foot, and curled it from the edge of the penalty area around the goalie and into the bottom-right of the net. Two-one!

I collapsed to my knees and put my head on the grass like I was about to pray, then felt unsafe having the back of my head exposed like that. But what could I do? I wanted to run on the pitch. I wanted to whip my top off and whirl it around my head while I sprinted the length of the pitch. I wanted to explode in a giant fireball.

When the final whistle went, I still hadn't cooled down. I thought about asking if I could do sprints around the pitch for half an hour to burn off my surplus energy, but for once decided the thing that came into my head was too weird to say out loud.

I shook hands with the Nantwich manager, thanked the referee, and found myself in the dressing room, in front of the victorious Chester Women squad. They were all looking at me, waiting for me to speak.

"Football is a business," I said. "Nothing more. The winners of this match, us, got 1,800 pounds. That's all that matters."

They jeered, they booed. As I'd hoped, victory had brought us closer.

Livia came forward. She had her medical gloves on while she administered post-match massages and stuff. "Enough shit, Max. We want to know if you're staying."

"You do or Dani does?"

"We all do."

I raised a hand. "You know I'm looking for a top coach to take over. Are you saying you won't... play for someone else?"

"No," said Bonnie. "But I came here, God help me, because I wanted to be on the Max Best train." She shook her head. "Christ knows why. You don't have to drive the train. But you..." She faltered. Her metaphor had led her down a tunnel. "You have to be the Director of Football of the train."

Quite a few nods. "So if I get offered a billion pounds to go to Saudi Arabia, you're going to what... hate me?"

Pippa finished taking her boots off and stood up. "I won't hate you. But we've made a commitment to this club, in our own way. You believe in us, and we want to believe in you."

I tried to hide a grin. This conversation was serious, but I couldn't help myself. "Sorry, Pippa, it sounds like... it sounds like you're asking a sexy twenty-three-year old international playboy to whisper sweet promises in your ear."

"Pippa can get in line," said Maddy, but I wasn't sure if she was talking about herself or teasing Dani. Or someone else. "I won't hate you if you go to Saudi. Or a big team. But I will hate you if you go to Darlington."

"Right!" said Bonnie, and several others.

I held both hands up. "All right. I've heard you. You want certainty in an uncertain world. Totally understand it. But that would be a hell of a magic trick, wouldn't it? If I could do that." I smiled, then tilted my head. "Who's texting Dani?"

"Me," said Erin, who had already showered and changed. I put my hand over the screen. "This can't go on record. This can't go in the chat history." I crouched in front of Dani and mimed texting and then 'no-no'. She was puzzled, but gave me a thumbs up. "Someone explain it later. Listen, I don't want to go to Darlington. I didn't think I'd have to explain that to you. I didn't have to explain to the men, and they're thick as pig shit."

"So what's going on?" said Gracie.

"I am fucking with Darlington," I said. "It's going to be a long season and I'm going to be fluttering my eyelashes at Darlington as long as they're rivals. Okay? I'm fucking with them. Tying them in knots. Mental disintegration. But I'm not very good at it, because I've accidentally disintegrated my own team." I slapped myself on the cheeks. "Just relax, okay? If our relationship is going to change, I'll tell you to your face, not via fucking... oblique references on TikTok. Right. Don't tell anyone any of this or it's a world of shit for nothing. Maybe you should act worried that I might actually leave. Yeah. Let's go with that for now. Drop hints that team morale is shot and you're winning despite me."

"I don't get it," said Bea Pea. "What's it supposed to do?"

I spread my arms wide. "Look at the fucking chaos in here today because you read some out-of-context quotes in your shitty Facebook groups! It was absolute bedlam. And we nearly lost because of it." I bit my lip. "Now imagine what it's like in Darlington's dressing room." I laughed. "Actually, fuck that. Darlington's not your story. You focus on your own progress. You made a little bit of FA Cup history today. Be proud of that. Maybe I'll put together a little video of some of my favourite FA Cup stories and we can talk about them after training. Before the next Cup match. Anyone up for that?"

Most hands went up.

"Top. Erin, back on the chat? Thanks. Listen. You've won your first real match. Achievement unlocked. You're in the next round of the cup. Can you feel it? You're one step closer to Wembley. And you know what that means?" They didn't. "It means you get a song."

I took the phone from Erin and typed out a chant. I only did the first half, so it didn't take long, but it took long enough that a bit of tension came back into the room. What's he doing now?

I finished typing, but didn't press send. I looked around at these women I'd found, and trained, and who'd repaid me with one of my best moments as a manager.

I threw my arms wide, sucking in breath, and bellowed:

"Wem-ber-ley!

"Wem-ber-ley!

"We're the famous Chester Women and we're off to Wem-ber-ley!"

***

I thought the backlash was over, but there was more to come. The Brig drove Ruth and I back to Chester, which I didn't think was weird until things started blowing up and I wondered how the situation had come about.

At first, the car was pretty quiet. The Brig said, "Well done, sir." I mumbled something back. Ruth should have been buzzing - her team was up and flying, but she wasn't. I didn't think twice about it - she wasn't a mega football fan, after all - so I took the opportunity to decompress and look at some of my stats. This thing called 'Manager Points' had been quietly updating in the background after matches, and was one of the most stupid and baffling parts of the curse, which was saying something.

I simply couldn't work out the system. I got 4 points for a win. Then 4 points for the next win. Then 27 points. Then 60 points. Then 5 for a draw. So frustrating. The win today gave me an entry in the Women's Team Managers section - reputation unknown, Manager Points four. I couldn't spend Manager Points, and the ones I got last season had vanished when the mid-season update had happened. So what was it all for?

Sighing, I turned to my achievements. I got a new one called 'Tragic of the Cup', which was for knocking a lower-ranked side out of the competition. One XP. I also got 'Red Red Whine' which was awarded because I'd complained about the red card. Which, by the way, I didn't. It was a nailed-on red, and I blamed myself for winding my players up too much and not spotting the warning signs that my player had gone tonto. No XP. So why bother?

Shaking my head, I thought in general terms about the team. We really needed some more quality, either on the first team or on the bench. I was pretty sure we'd have an amazing week of training, but we'd just played a match where we had the same average CA as a tier 7 team. Rapid growth was needed so we could win the league this season, and I needed bench options so that managing the matches would be rewarding for me, personally.

"John," I said, after a while. "What's the latest with Welly?"

"He's still prime suspect. Hasn't been seen since that day. Which doesn't prove anything, but..."

"Yep. He had this girlfriend that triggered the whole thing. Julie. Really good striker. I didn't want to deal with the drama, but I've dealt with the drama. So... can you find her?"

He squirmed. "I know where she lives, where she goes. Are you sure she's a good idea?"

"No. But she's local, she's talented. We'll talk to her. If she's got her head screwed on, we'll give her a chance. And if it drives Welly insane..."

"Yes, sir?"

"You'll be there."

He sighed. "Unless I'm not."

"I order you to be there," I said. "And if you're not, it was nice knowing you. Avenge me."

"Very well, sir."

I tapped the base of the window a few times. Giving Julie a chance felt right. I'd be careful before and after matches, and maybe I'd be able to hire another Brig type next season to get even more bodyguard coverage. The next one could be disguised as a physio, maybe. Or maybe be an actual physio.

What about other positions? I needed some defenders. Ideally some with at least CA 20. Ruth's investment wouldn't stretch to transfer fees. I closed my eyes. I needed to be able to spy on training sessions. Maybe then I could -

"So you're going to bring a disruptive player in, and then fuck off to the north-east?"

"Excuse me?"

I turned - I almost always sat in the front, even though I would have preferred to have a better view of Ruth. Henri had shown the Brig how to calibrate the passenger seat so it would put less strain on my hamstrings, and the Brig insisted I sit in the front. For the first time, I saw that Ruth was unhappy. Deeply unhappy. "This Julie girl. You ruled her out once before. Now that you're planning to leave, she's suddenly okay to sign?"

"Who's planning to leave?"

"Always believe it's Darlo," she hissed.

It hit me. Another one who put two and two together to make 666! "No! Not you as well. Come on."

"So you're not going? Not interested in moving closer to Newcastle? So, what? You're kicking up a storm so we offer you a pay rise?"

"Pay rise?" I said, impressed. "Oh. That's a good tactic. Talk about leaving, get a raise. Love it. That's properly Maxiavellian."

She punched or kicked the seat. "Don't be a dick. We've looked after you!"

"I know," I said, softly. Then, progressively less softly: "But don't yell at me when I haven't done anything. Whatever you're mad at, it's all in your head. All right?"

"It's not all right. John, tell him."

It took me a second to wonder who she meant; I was quite tired. The Brig bent his head slightly. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Perhaps it would be better to tell Miss Ruth what you are plotting."

"The players need to know. I see that, now. The coaches, the staff. Parents of star players. MD, probably. But everyone else? It might work well for me to keep them guessing."

"Miss Ruth should know, sir."

"Oh, should she? Why's that?"

"For reasons that will become clear, sir. After you have told her."

I stared at him for a while, trying to work out what he could possibly mean. Then I shrugged and decided to trust him. So I turned and told Ruth everything, starting with my assessment of the men's team and their chances of winning the league.

***

"So while I can only promise," I said, wrapping up my little speech, "to do what I want to do whenever I want to do it, I can almost totally rule out a return to Darlington. The drama might make me seem to some people like a whiny, ungrateful brat, but the last match of the season, I plan to be walking around the Deva stadium carrying more silver than you've got in your posh cutlery drawer. All right? Now stop getting mad at me. Even if I'm not angling for a rise, I am underpaid, even considering I'm not paying rent."

The Brig cleared his throat. "Excellent timing, sir."

"What?"

"Do you know where we are?"

I looked around. "No. Wait. Near Ruth's mansion, isn't it?"

Ruth was most of the way back to normal. She didn't like my idea, but she accepted I was doing something I thought was good for the club. "I don't have a mansion, Max. I have a small house with a moderate stable attached."

We turned onto the road that led to Ruth's house, then onto the smaller road that only led to Ruth's house, but then we went a little further and turned right instead of left.

We got out - the Brig opened the back door for Ruth with typical class; it hadn't even occurred to me - and stood in front of a building. I say building, it was more like some rotten wood that had fallen onto some crumbling stone in the vague shape of a house. I'd seen cosier dwellings in Minecraft.

Ruth came next to me, her high heels sinking into some newly-flattened mud. She didn't seem to care. "Promise you'll stay at Chester," she said.

"No."

"Promise you'll stay for the whole season."

"No."

She tutted and held her hand out. I put mine under hers and she dropped a key into it. I raised one eyebrow. I took a few squelchy steps forward, put the key into the door, turned it, and walked inside.

Ruth's home looked like something you'd see in Country Life magazine. This... this place you'd see featured in the pages of Shithole Quarterly.

I rummaged for a light switch and couldn't find one. Ruth flicked a sticky-outy-lever that was about a foot lower than switches were supposed to be. I let my eyes sweep the place. There were two main colours - dark wood and darker wood. "I live here, now, do I?"

"Yes, sir," said the Brig.

I pulled a face that was a genuine attempt to not be an ungrateful dick. "Before you go off on one," said Ruth, spreading mud all over the hardwood floor. She walked around the space that I guessed was the living room. "This was my grandfather's house. My father grew up here. He loved it. But when he married, his wife said she wouldn't want to raise kids here. So they built," she waved towards her mansion. "And that's where I grew up. But I spent lots of happy time in here, Max. Dad would take me to Chester City matches, then after we'd come in here and tell granddad all about it and eat Jammie Dodgers. That was my favourite part - the talking, though the biscuits helped. Grandad loved the stories. My dad complaining about referees, describing the goals, saying what he'd have done instead of what the manager did. Which players he'd get shot of."

I kept still. So did the Brig. It felt like a private moment that we were trespassing on.

Ruth swept her hand along a stretch of wood. "They loved the FA Cup, same as you. They were crazy for it. Grandad used to try to get tickets, whoever was playing. Bolton. Wimbledon. Crystal Palace. Didn't matter, did it? The FA Cup Final. That was the highlight of his year. There's a box, somewhere, of his old Cup Final programmes." She stopped. She was far too still.

"Sounds like I would have liked him," I said, daring to speak. Bravery 20, mate.

"Oh, and he would have loved you. You cocky little shit." She turned away and wiped her eyes. "Every time you pull some fucking dumb stunt, Max Best, I think about what my dad would have thought. What he'd have said to my granddad. Those times I spent in here were magical. You've put some magic back into my life. I know it's just an illusion, but..." She wiped away more tears. "You can stay here as long as you want. Don't take the piss on electric. I've got someone coming to get the wi-fi good." She took in one last, sentimental breath. Talking about wi-fi speed is a good way to bring yourself down from an emotional high. "But if you go to Darlington I'll dump all your shit on the side of the road and have the locks changed before you've even finished sending out the tweet."

With that, she strode to the door, pausing with her fingers around the ancient handle.

She looked at the Brig. "When you find that Julie girl, let me talk to her first."

"Yes, miss."

"Wait, wait, wait!" I said. "I give the orders around here." There was a bit of a pause. The time after an axe leaves the magician's hand, but before it slams into the Wheel of Death. "Johnnnn," I whined. "Who's in charge, here?"

"Most definitely you, sir."

They two oldsters looked at each other. The Brig was not smiling, in a way that made me think he was smiling inside. Ruth did something similar, then she flounced out. Ten out of ten exit.

"See what I have to put up with?" I said.

"Time to go, sir," he said, looking at his solitary watch.

"What?"

"Forgive me, sir. I thought you might like to spend the night in a space that contained an actual bed."

"If my bed's not here, why are we here?"

"Miss Ruth wanted to impress upon you, sir, her desire for you to stay in Chester. A property like this could be rented for thousands. She has spent a considerable amount restoring it. There's more to do, of course, but it is a tremendous show of faith."

"What do you think I should do? Stay here forever, earning peanuts?"

"It is not my place to say, sir. But your recent moves have provoked no small amount of consternation. From what I've seen, you could achieve your goals with a lot less... ambiguity."

"Yeah?" I said, walking around the living room. I poked my head through a door into a small kitchen. I paused on my way up the stairs. "What would be the fun in that?" I raced up, nearly falling over because the stairs weren't the right distance from each other. I laughed as I took a painful whack to the shin. "Fuck! That'll take some getting used to." I had a quick peek into the two bedrooms, and the bathroom. I went down the stairs much more slowly.

All right, I thought. It's not my dream house. But it's quiet. It's safe. There's a hot blonde next door and I can learn about horses. And it's free.

I tried to think about fundamental things, basic things, like which room would I take as my bedroom, could I fit a home gym in here somewhere, stuff like that. But my thoughts kept drifting to one of the other challenges the day had brought up.

How could I convince my players I wanted them to go fucking hard at the cups?

***

Saturday, September 16

FA Cup Qualifying, Second Round

Tadcaster Albion versus Chester FC

"All right, listen up, you worms." I jiggled the whiteboard into place and started shuffling magnets around. As I feared, the men's CA improvements had massively slowed. Only a handful of guys had gained a point. Raffi, who seemed to improve every week, was now CA 42. Youngster (37) and Steve Alton (34) were the only other guys to get an increase.

All conversation ceased. I'd told the players privately who was in the team and who wasn't, but there was always a chance I'd changed my mind at the last minute based on 'new information' I'd gleaned, i.e. me seeing the other team's profiles.

Tadcaster Albion was in Tadcaster, obvs, halfway between Leeds and York. Probably a nice place, most of Yorkshire was, but I couldn't give a shit. I was there to knock them out of the FA Cup and get level 2 in my Tragic of the Cup achievement. And that was almost inevitable - Albion were a tier nine team. Nine! When I saw a few of their players wandering around, I realised their average CA would be around nine, too.

This was a big day for the Albion, and potentially an even bigger day in the history of Chester FC. Most of our guys had changed on the team bus, and we were now stuffed into this tiny dressing room like handkerchiefs in a performer's jacket pocket.

"Robbo's in goal," I said, sliding his magnet across. He was squad number one. No drama there - these numbers were ancient history. "Trick the trainer!" I announced. Williams was on CA 30 out of his possible 31. I'd keep praising his improvement until he peaked, then I had other plans for him. "Magnus the right back holy shit this kid can play everywhere! Gerald and Steve oh my God does that mean he's giving Glenn a rest yes it does even though Glenn is fucking pissed about it."

There were a lot of laughs about that, and Glenn stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth. He hated being left out of the line up, but it just proved I didn't have favourites. Which was strange, because I did have favourites.

"Ryan Jack, FA Cup legend! He was riding that famous white horse, I believe. Raffi Brown! That's the entire midfield. What!"

I moved the next two magnets to the wings. We were playing an ambitious 4-2-4, hoping to absolutely blitz Tadcaster in the first half.

"Bad Boy left wing! Donny the redeemed right wing! Henri and Tony the strikers! What a team!" I said, standing back to enjoy my work. It only had an average CA of 40.3, but come on. I couldn't remember being part of a bigger mismatch.

"Subs! Ben!" Cheer. "Carl!" Cheer. "Topps! Aff!" Double cheer. The noise died down, and I moved away from the whiteboard. All done. Presentation over. Nailed it.

"Max," called out Henri.

"What?"

"That's only four subs."

"Is it?" I said, confused, picking up my notes. I'd already handed in the team sheet, but I'd scribbled the team on the back of a massive Nando's receipt, which got another chuckle from my easily-amused players. "Right, one more sub. Who is it? Let me see. Huh." I walked around, looking confused, then leant down to peer at Youngster. He blinked at me, which made his eyes bulge. What was I doing? I got closer, then reached behind his ear and came up with a magnet. "Don't do that, mate. These were expensive."

"Mr. Best," he complained, exhaling in a happy way.

I went back to the whiteboard, and took one last look at the magnet before I stuck it on the right of the pitch, under the other subs, but with my hand covering the number. The set of magnets I'd bought only went up to number 50, so I'd had to make my own with correction fluid. It said, in very shit, shaky handwriting: seventy-seven.

"Ah, yeah. The last sub... The last sub is me."