15.

Tuesday, 19 September

XP balance: 169

Lung capacity: 3.8 litres (+0.5)

No. of girlfriends: 1

Tartlets eaten: 1

Nights since last pine marten satanic ritual: 0

Properties magnetted: 0

I did training from the start through to the end, even though Vimsy had scheduled some shuffling and sliding practice. I shuffled and slid like a good and diligent boy. It didn't really help solve the mystery of whether I'd been given a new set of attributes, but it definitely helped me integrate with the team. We defended in an Ian Evans style, which differed slightly from the David Cutter style I'd learned at Darlington. The main difference was that Evans was more fearful of crosses, either by instinct or because he knew Gerald May wasn't as good in the air as he looked. To combat that, the wide midfielders stayed a little wider when defending (so they could block crosses). In theory, that weakened us in the centre, but teams in our league didn't have a lot of creative midfielders, plus we usually had a DM.

After lunch, some of the guys wanted to go back to do set pieces training. I didn't want to do headers, and didn't have the power and accuracy to take a free kick or corner, so I went home and got stuck into my year-long UEFA B licence. With all the materials I'd gathered from people who'd already done it, I hoped to breeze through until the practical aspects.

Then it was off to the birthplace of the greatest living Englishman.

***

Chorlton! South Manchester, got a tram route through it, interesting mix of deprived and hipster. Hough End playing fields, where I'd started my journey towards being a floating megabrain, was in Chorlton, as was the hideous Nell Lane Estate where I grew up.

In fact, let's do a tiny mental map. First, imagine a hell hole with characterless grey-yellow brick houses. That's the Hell Lane Estate. Clamber across the tram line and you're at the vast Hough End playing fields and the enclosed pitch used by the police. Keep going and there's Princess Parkway, one of the main routes through Manchester. And across the road, if a maniac doesn't run you over, is Moss Side. Go the long way back to Nell Lane and you'll see the vast expanse that is Southern Cemetery, where my mum and I will one day be buried.

Raffi Brown had invited me to join one of his private training sessions not far from where most of the early action in this story happened. Fortunately, it was in a much nicer part of Chorlton, near Nell Lane, but much closer to the 'village' with all its hipster bars and restaurants.

There were a few football pitches, some basketball and tennis courts, and lots of people jogging through. Perfect conditions for a bit of exercise - gentle sun, light breeze, everyone in a good mood.

The coach Raffi had hired was called Cody Chambers. We didn't talk much before the session but his accent was strange - a little from North America, a little from down south (London, not Brazil), and a lot of those verbals tics people get when they spend a lot of time talking to foreigners, such as using the word 'this' instead of 'it'. "I like two-footed players. This is a good attribute."

So, we got our boots on and ready to work. While Cody told us what he had prepared, I pondered his coaching profile.

Cody Chambers Adaptability 10 Coaching Goalkeepers 12 Coaching Outfield Players 19 Determination 11 Judging Player Ability 15 Judging Player Potential 12 Level of Discipline 6 Man Management 8 Motivating 5 Tactical Knowledge 14 Working with Youngsters 9 Coaching Style

Technique-based

Preferred Formation 4-3-3 Preferred Style

Prefers an attractive attacking style of play

Other

Likes his players to close down the opposition

I had questions. This guy was by far the best coach I'd met since unlocking the staff profiles, and I had questions. The first of which was, will you marry me? Or at least, will you come and be a full-time coach? Name your price.

But I decided to keep my mouth shut and get on with the session he'd planned. That was very hard because every five seconds I wanted to say, why are we doing this? Why don't you put another cone there? What's this for? Why do you do it like this and not that? But Raffi was paying and I'd probably learn more if I kept my gob shut.

Three of Raffi's mates were helping slash hindering. One was recording the sesh on his phone, one was ready to be a goalie, and another was helping to gather the balls and stuff. They copied the drills off to the side, getting a bit of free training when we were taking a breather. None of the three looked familiar, but when we started the warm up, I got their player profiles, too, and found I already knew them - they were from Raffi's old five-a-side team. Me ‘remembering’ their names got a lot of brownie points.

The warm up was quite basic - jogging along, rolling a ball as we went, with Cody yelling 'inside outside!' and asking us to keep the ball 'straight' as we pushed it along. Then what he called u-turns - dragging the ball back and feeding it to the other foot - with Cody asking for 'less V more U'. What was interesting, I realised later, was what he didn't include in the warm up. There were no sprints, for example. The only things we did without the ball were a few lunges and crabbing stretches.

After a simple passing drill where we had to manoeuvre left and right behind the mannequin, it was into the meat of the sesh. Cody wanted Raffi to work on his cut-backs. He'd put a mannequin at the edge of the penalty area, and Raffi had to touch it, take a few steps back, control a pass with his right foot, move right, then cut back - basically, turn around really fast - towards the other side of the pitch. After an explosive burst away from an imaginary opponent, Raffi was supposed to flick the ball forward to Cody, run around the mannequin, then take Cody's return pass and hit a low left-footed pass slash shot into either the bottom left or bottom right of the goal.

Raffi did this five times, and each time Cody asked for his movements to be bigger, more dramatic, more dynamic. The more explosive Raffi's movements were, the more praise he got from Cody. At times, they seemed to be talking in code - drills from previous sessions being referenced.

While Raffi rested, I had a go. I did the first couple pretty slowly to get the movements down, then put a bit more effort in, and for the last one tried to add that explosive movement that Cody wanted. "There we go!" he called out in his coaching voice.

To my surprise, we did the whole thing again. Then one more time where we moved to the other side of the mannequin, testing our other feet.

We'd done one tiny drill about one very specific incident that might come up in a match for what felt like fifteen or twenty minutes.

Then we had to touch the mannequin, Cody would throw a ball up, and Raffi would head it away as far as possible, and then do the previous drill again.

It was crazy to me.

I didn't want to do the headers - didn't feel like blending my brain, so Cody adapted it. His throws to me were chest height. I'd control the ball, volley it back to him, then sprint back five yards to begin the cut-back cycle.

What's hard to convey is the fatigue of doing variations of the same drill for an hour. Not the boredom, because it wasn't boring. No, the fatigue in the calves, the way my thighs burned. I could only guess what I looked like, but Cody often shouted things like "Smooth!" and "That's good shape!" But Raffi got very ragged almost immediately. In a set of five, his first would be okay, his second would be flawless, his third sloppy, and his fourth and fifth poor.

We kept at it, kept doing our reps with Cody demanding more technical quality from Raffi and more explosions from me. After three-quarters of an hour, Raffi's CA popped to 43. My eyes narrowed, mate. I made sure I was sucking up all the coaching ideas while pushing myself as hard as my body could handle.

All in all, the session was seventy minutes - I guessed Raffi had paid for an hour and Cody had stayed a bit longer to make sure we both had decent workouts. I was only a sixth-tier manager, but I was a manager. No harm in getting on my good side!

After my last set of reps, I sank to the astroturf and lay on my back for a while. I wasn't sure I'd ever played on this exact pitch before, but this was where I'd learned the game. This was my home. What had Jackie said that time? Sometimes you need to go home. I hoped he was in Liverpool, saying 'la' and going to the shellsuit history museum. Yeah, home felt good sometimes. I closed my eyes, and felt so at peace I could have slept.

Cody and Raffi were chatting about some technical aspect, Raffi's mates were trying to do the drills - the difference between them and Raffi was astonishing; they were terrible. On other pitches around us, there were games going on. I turned my head and saw a PA 18 midfielder. Local lad. Manc. Little bit of talent. Not enough to be paid to play, but he could be trained up. Would he want to be the best player in almost every game he ever played? Course he would. But who would waste resources on a project like that? Me, maybe.

I turned to the other side and scanned Raffi. He'd come a long way since his first masterclass with Jackie Reaper.

Raffi Brown Born 8.8.2001 (Age 22) English Acceleration 9 Handling 1 Stamina 8 Heading 9 Strength 8 Tackling 6 Jumping 9 Teamwork 14 Bravery 6 Technique 10 Pace 11 preferred foot B Passing 14 Dribbling 8 Positioning 7 Finishing 7 CA 43 PA 139

Midfielder (Centre)

All his physical stats had gone up. He was faster, stronger, and had more stamina. His technical scores were all better, too. Dribbling, passing, finishing - he was improving in all respects.

And there was much more to come - almost a hundred points of CA! He caught me smiling at him and smiled back. He walked over and held out a hand - I grabbed his wrist and he pulled me up.

"Good, that?"

"Yeah. Top. Loved it. I need to talk Cody's head off before he fucks off."

"Thought you might."

"One thing. What are you paying him?"

"Three-fifty a sesh. Twice a month."

"Holy shit. Three-fifty?" This Cody dude was earning almost what I got in a week... in an hour. Not for the first time, I realised I was in the wrong racket.

"Investing in myself. That's a good price. He gave me a discount for this season. Someone told him I was up and coming."

Again, I didn't think to ask who. "Cody," I said, as we stood close by, squirting water into our mouths. "Good sesh. Let's cut to the chase. Are you willing to take an enormous pay cut to work for Chester?"

He laughed. "Sorry, Max. I like a cheeky dollar same as the next fella, but it's not that. I love what I do. Travelling the world teaching. Passing on my skills. Working with elite athletes. Elite athletes and you." He laughed again. It was good banter, but made me wonder how much he was joking.

"Did you ever play Champion Manager?"

"Oh, yeah, back in the day. Not for years, though."

"What about you, Raffi?"

"Nah, Max. That's for indoor people." He laughed.

"What's your Soccer Supremo technique score?"

"Eight," he said, instantly. Cody looked down to help hide his smile.

"Cody, what would you say? Eight out of twenty for Raffi?"

"Technique? It's not a bad guess. I think he's a bit better, to be honest. I don't know. Ten." Ooh! Right on the money!

"What about me?"

"You?" he laughed. "I mean, I've seen footage. You're pure twenty."

"Ignore that. What about today?" I realised I was sounding a bit needy. "I want to play on Saturday but I don't know if I'm deluding myself about how fast my recovery's going."

"Right," said Cody, switching into professional mode. "The attack. I can't get my head around this.” He switched from the past to the present. “I mean, I don't think in terms of those Champion Manager numbers, but from what I saw today you'd be fifteen or so."

"Fifteen?" I said, stupefied. "I was in a coma ten minutes ago."

He pointed to the spot we'd done most of our work. "What you do on the fifth rep is almost identical to what you do on the first. This is not common."

I'd thought enough about Soccer Supremo for one season. Time to get to the important stuff. The guys who'd booked the pitch after us started to arrive, so we grabbed our gear and wandered towards the car park. "Why do you do so much repetition? Don't you want to, like, work a few different skills?"

Cody shook his head. "Nah, what we do here is what you can't do in your club training. You can't give such individual attention, really get into the weeds. This is the advantage of what I do. Players hate the repetition, but they love it. Keep coming back. Really work on real-match situations. It's very motivational to work on something you need to get good at. This is my USP."

"Why do you do the final pass into the goal? Why not to another mannequin?"

"Goal's more motivational. This is the point of football, no?"

"Why do you want those big, explosive movements? I prefer to keep the ball near me."

"Raffi's athletic. You back him to travel over a distance better than most. Break the press, break the lines, but he's still protecting the ball. Better to go too big than too small. You might be better keeping the ball close, but Raffi's better the other way. No defender in the world can beat him over those three yards."

I shook my head. I loved this. Jackie, the traitor, should have been giving me this. "So I can't get you as a coach. How about you manage my women's team?"

"Thanks, but no."

"Annoying. What about private sessions for me? I need to learn, like, fundamentals. Throw-ins. Players grappling me."

"Staying onside," said Raffi, who thought that was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.

"I watched some video of you," said Cody. "You are lazy getting back."

"Me?" I said, astonished.

"Yeah, you walk back. Could be more opportunities if you got onside quicker."

I raised my eyebrows. The guy didn't seem to realise that I was using those moments to check match ratings, switch formations, and order substitutions. But who else was going to give me their honest opinion? Even the Brig wouldn't yell at me if I was dogging the running drills. "Check this out. Raffi does six till seven. I do seven till eight. We pay three hundred each. That's savings for us, double the money for the same travel time for you."

Cody liked it. "Done. You want me to come to Chester?"

I shook my head. "Sometimes it's good to get home. Right, Raffi?" He nodded. "Let's do it here unless I'm super, super rammed."

"Which is always," said Raffi.

"No," I said, in a mock-annoyed tone. "Because I'm actually crushing everything and things are only getting easier. My life is moving, rapidly, towards simplicity. All right?"

"All right," said Raffi, smirking. For some reason, he didn't believe me.

***

We had a shower and got changed. I asked what Raffi's plans were - obviously to go and hang out with his five-a-side mates. But he surprised me.

"My cousin's playing for West."

"West?"

"West Didsbury and Chorlton," he said. "Little team here. Then we'll scran up at one of these places."

"Can I come? To the match, I mean."

He looked surprised. "Thought you was gonna meet Emma?"

"She can come here. See where I grew up. It's just down Princess Parkway."

"Huh. Well, come on, then. Hey, Scribe. Go with Max, tell him where to park."

"Aight," said Scribe, who turned out to be a world-class navigator, leading me along Barlow Moor Road and down some side streets. We parked and cut through an alley, coming out into an another, leaf-lined alley, that opened onto fields and grass verges and then the River Mersey. I'd never been there before. Never even knew this place existed.

"This is cool" I said, impressed.

"Yeah. Middle class likes it leafy," said Scribe. "It's a conservation area. Got bats and stuff."

"And hedges," I said, running my palm across the leaves of the nearest one like I was nine years old. "I was at a posh school yesterday that had its own hedge maze."

He shook his head. "Eat the rich."

"Totally," I said. "Until I'm rich. Then let's give trickle-down economics another try."

He chuckled. "You been good for Raffi. We all rooting for him."

"He's got the talent," I said. "But he grafts harder than anyone in the squad."

We came to a football pitch with some floodlights around it. To the right there was a little stand. Across was a row of houses - the big semi-detached ones I always used to look at and dream of owning. "Raffi parks over there. He's a creative player, but off the pitch?" He sucked his teeth. "Conventional."

"Suppose it's better to be a bit boring if you're raising a kid."

"Suppose," he said, then lifted himself over the fence.

"Jesus," I said. I was wearing my best suit, and my nicest shoes. "Why?"

"Quicker. And cheaper." Scribe grinned.

"I get in free anyway, you dick." I looked to where he'd stood, where he'd placed his hands, and tentatively copied him. "Been a while since I did a crime."

Vague attempts to sort of daydream my way across the fence didn't work, so I took a couple of steps back, imagined Cody yelling at me to 'explode!' and 'focus on your technique!' And over I went.

Boom!

Nailed it!

Fence hopping 20.

Not quite the perfect crime, though. A player was in the area, retrieving a stray ball. "Oi," he said. "Get fucked. Go round the front or I'll deck you."

"Man, that's Max Best," said Scribe. "Director of Football at Chester Football Club. Youngest DoF in Europe, man. Don't be yelling at him, now. He's here to scout. Could be scouting you for all you know. Now hush your mouth."

The player wasn't buying it, and if anything had become angrier. Time to defuse the sitch.

"You're Leo Jackson," I said. "You play right mid for Glossop North End. Scored six goals last season."

Well, that fucking floored him. "Yeah, that's me. How the fuck...? But why didn't you come in the front?"

"This prick made me park over there," I said, jabbing my thumb. "Can't be arsed walking all the way round."

"Who are you here to watch?"

"Ah," I said, smiling as I bent to wipe bits of shrubs and grass off my legs. "That's confidential."

The player's morale rose one level and he zipped off to tell his mates. I wondered if I'd just won Glossop the game? I smiled. The morale perk had been well fucking worth the grind.

Scribe and I fell into walking down the side of the pitch. He side-eyed me. "Do you know everyone in this league or...?"

"Just some right mids," I said. "Didn't think I'd be able to play this season, right? So we looked at all kinds of reprobates."

"That guy any good?"

"He's about as good as you."

"Hey!"

"Next time, we go in the front. Conventional. Okay?"

He sucked his teeth again. But Scribe had one thing right - we were much faster than Raffi, and I had a nice little walk around. The vibe was unbelievably friendly. UnbeLIEVably friendly. On my way round the pitch, five different people had a chat with me, and the queue for drinks was basically the happiest place on earth. The kiosk guy heard it was my first time and offered me a can of beer for free. I accepted and bought a water, then gave the beer to Scribe.

"First time I came here, I thought it was a joke," Scribe told me. "It's all ironic chants. It's all about the laughs and being supportive and inclusive. Not proper football, right?" He opened the can, and we both enjoyed the sound of the fizz. "But I was wrong. It's sweet, here. It's like, you invite someone to come they say, who's going? Not, who's playing? See what I mean? It's like a rolling party. It's social."

"So pay to get in, you dick."

"Yeah," he said, hoist by his own petard.

"How much is it?"

"Fiver."

That was like being punched on the side of the head. It sent me spinning. Five pounds entry, cheap beer, friendly vibe, watch your local team. Emma hadn't been to a football stadium since the incident at Tranmere. West Didsbury and Chorlton Football Club would ease her back in, I was sure of it.

I texted her, the Brig, and even Mateo, then sent Bulldog a text asking him to ask Tyson what my Soccer Supremo technique score was. Then I went to get a snack from the healthiest kiosk I'd ever seen at a football match.

***

Emma and the Brig arrived just before the second half started, with Mateo and his driver not far behind. I went to get them, then dragged them to the most amazing place in Manchester.

"No time to explain!" I said, like I was in a movie. "Come quick!"

We rushed into the little metal box - smaller than Ruth's living room - that housed West's most vocal fans. I'd only been there for an hour and I knew everything about them.

I gathered my friends around, paused to check the tactics screens - not that the on-pitch action had any real interest for me - then launched into a giddy explanation of what was going on.

"This is West Didsbury and Chorlton Football Club. Their fans call them West. This is Brookburn Road, the Recreation Ground. Used to be an overgrown mess, disused, an eyesore, but now it’s the base for a proper community club."

"There's Raffi," said Emma, idiosyncratically looking anywhere but the pitch.

"Yeah his cousin's playing."

"Is he good?"

"No. This is tier nine. But it doesn't matter. Everyone's having fun. This is the best place, the actual best. The atmosphere is mint. They've got an openly gay goalkeeper. All the work I've done on culture, there's still no chance one of my male players would come out. This club's miles ahead of us. It's five pound entry, cheap food, the players high five the fans and you're allowed to drink right here by the pitch." I shook my head, unable to believe how cool this place was. "We're in the Ultras stand."

Mateo burst out laughing - it was probably the most unexpected thing he'd heard all year.

"What's funny?" said Emma.

Mateo explained. "Ultras are the real hard-case fans. Violent, criminal adjacent. You go to Italy and the Ultras are like a paramilitary operation. If the team doesn't play hard enough, they'll lock the players in the stadium and there will be SWAT teams sent in and hostage negotiators." He looked left and right. "These guys look like they work in a restaurant that only serves cereal."

"The Ultras name is ironic," said an Ultra who'd been listening. "Our goal is to be the world's first truly post-modern football club." He sighed. "But we also really like kicking the shit out of people."

This line and the deadpan delivery had me in fits. I pushed through to high five the guy.

"They've got mad songs," I said, arm around my new best friend. "My top five favourite chants are all from West, now. Think of a popular song and they've turned it into a chant. It's unreal. You don't normally get this at non-league level. It's... it's all the best parts of Manchester in one tiny metal shed. I love it here."

"We love you here, too," said my bestie.

"Emma, it's all posh round this area. Manchester posh, anyway, and they lean into it. They've got a song. West, West, wherever you may be, we eat hummus and celery! We don't eat meat, we love broccoli, We are Chorlton and West Didsbury." My new friend was basking in my enthusiasm. "They're pro EU, anti-fascist, pro-community, pro-sense of humour, and crowds are going up. My dream club was right next to me my whole life, and I never even knew about it! I fucking love this place!"

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

I gave my friend a shake, then let him get on with his life. The Brig was at the back of the stand, meaning he was about two metres away, chatting with Mateo's driver. They seemed to be friends. Mateo was giving me an amused look. Emma had started out bewildered by my enthusiasm, but now she had something else on her mind. "Max. I haven't seen you in ages. Where are your priorities?"

I was so deep in the fantastic, humorous world of ninth-tier football that I struggled to understand what she was saying. "My priorities?"

She sighed, put her arms around my neck, and pulled me down for a kiss. "Priorities."

"Right." I kissed her again.

Satisfied, she examined the nearest West Ultra. He was wearing a Christmas jumper, had a West bobble hat on, and was holding a can of Krombacher beer. The next guy was in a premium hoodie. The next guy owned Tranmere Rovers. "Why is Mateo here? Mateo, why are you here?"

"Max is coming to a transfer tribunal tomorrow. Helping me out," he added, seeing the confusion on her face. "So I'm putting him up for the night in a nice hotel. The tribunal will be in that hotel, in fact, nice and early. We'll present our case, then later they'll decide our fate." The cracks on his face widened. "He said if I wanted him to show me a good time in Manchester I should get down here. I wasn't expecting - "

Just then, a raucous rendition of No Limits by 2 Unlimited broke out, but instead of repeating the words 'no' and the word 'limit', the West fans had replaced every pair of syllables with the word hummus. It worked perfectly. When they'd crescendoed, they went again but with the phrase keen-wah.

"What's keen-wah?" said Emma, smiling at the absurdity of it all.

"It's what you call quin-oa," I said.

"Wait. Are you saying it's pronounced keen-wah?"

"Who would know better than a football Ultra?" I said, laughing and the nearest Ultra laughed and clinked his beer against my water. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some urgent business to attend to." I turned round, did some little jumps, and sang my heart out.

***

Around the sixtieth minute, West brought a defender on who reminded me of Henk. Henk was one of the players from Chester's under fourteens on my fateful first day in charge of those kids. Henk had caught my eye as a promising young defender, and his mother had caught Henri's eye as a promising young defender's hot momma. She followed Henk all over, home and away, and she knew her football.

Henk had moved to Tranmere and I hadn't thought about him since.

"Mateo, you've got one of our former players in your youth system. Henk. He'll be in your fifteens or sixteens now. Can you let me know when they're playing? I want to check up on him."

Mateo pointed at his driver, who nodded and tapped on his phone.

Then I got back to learning the West songs, while Emma chatted away to her new best friends, the Krombacher Ultras, who were telling her about the coolest off-the-beaten-track shops in the city centre.

***

"Well, that was something," said Mateo, as we settled into our new positions. We'd left early, one of us extremely reluctantly, so we could get a proper meal. Raffi and his mates had stayed, and we'd taken our three cars - environmental disaster - to Green's, the famous vegetarian restaurant in West Didsbury.

"Yes, it was," I agreed, though we'd had totally different experiences. I'd been enchanted, Emma had been cured of footballphobia.

Mateo, though, was more practical, and the club's politics didn't move him. "The football was pretty poor, Max."

I grinned at him. "That's the easiest thing to fix." If I'd known about West when I'd got cursed, I'd probably have started there. Ziggy, Raffi,and Youngster would have been playing in that game. Me, too, maybe. How many goals would I score in that league? Literally as many as I wanted. But I hadn't known about it, so now I was hanging out with club owners, consulting them on transfer tribunals. I sighed. "Did you bring the things I asked for?" I said.

He nodded. "In the car. We're all set."

"All set for what?" said Emma.

"Justice," said Mateo. "Max is going to help us get a fair price for our former player."

"Your former player?"

"Yeah. It's a strange kind of transfer. They take our player then we work out how much they should pay. They tried to pull a fast one, and they'll get away with it unless Max can teach them a lesson." He shook his head. The unfairness of the situation had him stressed and angry.

"Mateo," I said, smiling. I was feeling on top of the world. "I am going to blow the tribunal's socks off. I've got a presentation prepared that will have these fuckers thinking Danny Prince is the second coming of Roberto Carlos."

"You're very confident. I like that. That's reassuring."

"Yeah. It's in the bag. Only..."

"What?"

I shrugged. "I mean, I suppose it depends who's on the tribunal. But the case itself is foolproof."

"Case? Are you going to pretend to be a lawyer?" said Emma.

"Max Best QC," I said, then tried to think of what the Q and the C might stand for. "Max Best. Quite... convincing." Amazing line! I was absolutely smashing all aspects of my life. I felt two feet taller. Morale eight.

"If Max is doing a courtroom scene, I want to be there," said Emma. "Did he tell you he has a track record of winning the argument but losing the case?"

"Point of fact, he did. But it's all right. It can't get worse than what's on the table, if you see what I mean."

"What can I get you?"

A new voice. I looked up. Astonishingly beautiful redhead waitress! I passed several mental resistance checks. "Oh. Hummus. Keen-wa. Celery."

The tiniest fraction of a smile played around her lips, but I'd have to work a lot harder to impress her than pronouncing keen-wa correctly. "To drink?"

"You don't drink hummus?" I smiled at Mateo. "Guess I've been doing it wrong." The redhead's smile was visibly bigger! GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!! "One gallon of Taittinger Blankety-blank Brut 1943, please."

"I'll bring the wine list."

"Max," said Emma. "If you're done being hyper and falling in love with strange football teams you've just met, can we talk about this guy who tricked me into dishing the dirt on you?"

"What?" said the Brig, turning away from his conversation.

I sighed, and tried to cling onto my good mood as the Brig made Emma tell and retell the story, while Mateo and his driver listened in growing horror.

***

The only interesting part, for me, came when Mateo went to the toilet and the Brig leaned close and asked if Emma thought this incident was related to the one in Tranmere.

"Related how?" said Emma.

"Like, they knew about that and tried it again. If the incidents are linked..."

Emma gave him an unblinking stare. "Being ogled and harassed by mediocre men all day? That's called being a woman, John."

He nodded and shrank back into his seat. "I thought I'd check," he said.

Mateo came back to the table. "Check what?"

My phone pinged. "Just Chester stuff," I said. I looked at the message Bulldog had sent me. It was a screenshot of my Soccer Supremo profile. Of course, to my eyes it was all a bubbling tar pit of evil, so I showed it to the Brig and asked him to tell me my technique score.

"Your technique is five," he said. "This is out of twenty, if I understand it correctly?"

"Yeah. They've given me low technique," I said, in an annoyed voice. I was annoyed, because someone was taking liberties. But I was also relieved - if these new numbers meant nothing, then I could get back to being a mystery winger.

Emma had snapped at the Brig and was remorseful. She tried to smile at him for helping me, then lifted her tall glass to her lips and took sips of water.

"Max has bad technique?" pondered Mateo, and with stupendously good timing, he added, "Poor Emma."

Emma sprayed water all over her tofu.

I stood, hands on head, as everyone else burst into fits of laughter. Had I seen the Brig laugh before? I didn't care. All my work, all my preparations getting Emma to this point, and now someone else had put the ball in the back of the net.

I put my phone to my ear, said it was Bob Geldof, and went outside. I fumed for a while, phone in my pocket, pacing up and down. Then I saw the hot waitress. She gave me the go-ahead to flirt with her, but she was on a cigarette break.

Veto.

Fuck!

This all seemed like some kind of lesson, but one that I wouldn't learn until later. Or it was just a whole load of nothing.

One thing was clear to me - I still had some of my football attributes. My technique, my passing, and my sense of what was going to happen on a football pitch. I intended to show all those in Boston, Lincolnshire at the weekend.

And if I still had those, then I still had influence 20. And the poor saps at the transfer tribunal would get a quadruple dose at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.

Because Manchester was my home, and an Englishman's home is his castle, and if this was my castle then I was the king and if you come at the king you best not miss. I gritted my teeth and stared at the future, daring it to defy me.

Also, hummus is dead nice but celery is pretty pointless.

***

Emma stayed with me in the fancy hotel, built in the days when Manchester was one of the richest cities on earth. I'm guessing they didn't have wifi back during the industrial revolution, because the signal in the room was shit. Annoying, because I wanted to research my newest obsession.

I lay in the enormous bed, drawing on Emma's back, tracing vague shapes then rubbing them away and starting again. My thoughts were a few miles away from the city centre. Back where I grew up, in fact. West Didsbury and Chorlton. Operating in the same tier as Tadcaster Albion, who we'd played in the cup. Attendances were going up. That's what you got when you offered something authentic and unrelentingly good-natured. Something that brought people in and made them feel welcome, made them feel part of something bigger.

What about my domain? The pitch. West had lots of players with low CA. One guy was CA 5, but was so experienced he still got in the team. I could find thirty PA 30 players who lived near Chorlton in a week. What would I need to do? Get to Manchester one Saturday when Chester didn't have a match. Hit the five-a-side leagues after doing my training with Cody. Smash Playdar from Princess Parkway. Finding PA 100 players was hard. Finding PA 50 players was not.

"Don't stop," said Emma.

"Oh, you like that?"

"You know I do." I moved my fingertips across her skin, trying to make as little contact as possible. When I got that right, as I did now, there was a moment when she was in ecstasy, followed by a giggle and a complaint about me tickling her. She turned onto her back and I leaned on my left elbow and admired her. "Max. I wish you'd take this situation more seriously."

I nodded. Everyone at the dinner table had agreed Emma's story was bad news. Someone was out to ruin my reputation. Someone serious. It was a serious situation and I needed to be serious. "Okay," I said, inhaling. "Close your eyes." She did. "I'm putting on my serious face."

Her eyelids shot open and she jiggled in annoyance. "Ugh!"

"I don't want to live in the past," I said. "I've been there. Done that. Gave you the t-shirt, which you wore all the way back to Newcastle and never returned."

"I like how it smells."

"Future. That's where I'm going."

She closed her eyes, sighed, and decided to let it go. "Are you going to manage West Didsbury? My dad will be pissed if you move even further down the ladder."

"Oh, will he? Maybe that's another reason to do it, then."

She didn't laugh. "Why are you helping Mateo?"

"Because I get to see a tribunal. That's interesting. I'm going to have hundreds of talented kids coming through the youth system. Some will get poached. If I can dick people in tribunals, they'll be more willing to negotiate with me. This is only happening because Blackburn didn't offer a fair price, and Mateo wants his day in court, so to speak. It's a mess. But I need to know what goes on in there."

"But you're going to help him out?"

"I'm going to say what I think of the player, yeah. Sort of an independent expert."

"How much are you being paid?"

"I'm being paid in kind."

"No fee?"

I frowned. "I'm helping out a mate."

"You should get something."

"It's not about the money. It's the principle. Blackburn are trying to rip him off. They get away with it, he's not going to be excited about funding his youth team. No, I'll fight this fight for free any day of the week." I brightened up. "Anyway, he has already paid. He paid for dinner. Including what he said was the closest thing to the Taittinger 1943."

"What was that all about?"

"James Bond drinks it in one of the books. You want me to dress like Bond, I'm going to drink like him. And he put us up in this swanky hotel. Did you see how big it is? You could do a decent three-a-side in the living room. No head height. No rush goalie. Two touch."

"But Max. You've got value. You shouldn't work for free. Even for Matty."

I ignored her, bounced up, dashed over to the curtains, threw them wide open, and said, "Behold! Is this a perfect specimen of a Manchester?" The bedroom suite had a view of Central Library, a beautiful round building, one of the best pieces of architecture in the north of England. "Everything there is to know about life, you can learn from those bookshelves in there."

"Does it say how to beat Boston United on Saturday, which is your actual job?"

"Yep. That's in Samuel Pepys's diary. 4-1-4-1, slap down the sides. It's what saved him from the Great Fire of London. I think he used 4-3-3 against the bubonic plague, though. He had tactics 15."

She shook her head. "I still can't believe it's called keen-wa."

I stuck my bottom lip out. "You come to my house, you're gonna get schooled."

***

We met Mateo and his driver and went through the old, creaky corridors into a modern but tasteful meeting room. Over on the left, the driver began assembling a projector and a stand he'd brought, and connected it to my laptop. In the middle, there was one long table with rounded edges, suitable for twelve participants. Emma was a surprise to all the old men (I was the youngest by perhaps forty years), but shockingly they allowed her to stay and found an extra chair and whatnot. To the right was a drinks table.

The tribunal, properly called the Professional Football Compensation Committee, was five guys, different for every new case. The chairman for this bunch was a respected lawyer who'd worked in football off and on. He was friendly enough, and we scored billions of brownie points with him when Emma said her father was the Sebastian Weaver of Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver (not sure I've remembered the whole name, there). There was a representative from the Championship - the division Blackburn played in - and one from League Two - where Tranmere played. There was a non-entity from the Professional Footballer's Association (PFA), and someone looking out for the interests of the League Manager's Association (LMA).

Basically, a lot of legal expertise, a lot of bases covered, a lot of years of experience in football.

Oh, maybe I should backtrack just a tiny bit, because when I entered the room, one person's head dropped, and that person went "bloody hell." And that person was the representative from the LMA. His name, drum roll please, was Ian Evans.

So when we sat and the chairman went round introducing everyone and he said Ian Evans, former Barnsley, Swindon, and Cambridge manager, I bumped Emma and said, "Oh, I thought I remembered him." Which got a little scowl from Evans, and a solicitous smile from the chairman, who didn't know our history. He invited the rest of us to introduce ourselves.

There were three from Blackburn Rovers, but only one mattered. That was the Head of Recruitment. Next to him, very much on team Blackburn, was someone from the agency who had convinced Danny Prince to leave Tranmere. Which, incidentally, was one hundred percent about making a fast buck and zero percent about developing the player's career. Which, yeah, made me very very slightly despise the prick with all my being. But only slightly.

Mateo introduced himself, his driver said his name was 'John', which was just a total no-no if he and the Brig were going to be hanging out all the time. You can't have a friend with the same name as you! That's bonkers. Emma actually put her hand on my arm to calm me down. Or so I thought - in fact, it was just the signal that everyone was waiting for me to introduce myself.

I stood. "I am Max Best, Director of Football at Chester Football Club. I'm here as an independent consultant, because in addition to running a football club where I'm famous for my scouting ability, I'm also maybe the best right-winger in the world, and Danny Prince is a left back. I spend a lot of time analysing left backs, and I'm here today to bless this courtroom with my blistering analysis."

The chairman bowed his head, gracious and amused. "I'm sure we're much obliged, Max. It isn't a courtroom, however. Just a friendly hearing." He raised his eyebrows at the last person on the table.

"I'm Emma," said my girlfriend. "I'm just here to make sure Max doesn't run his mouth off."

"Too bloody late," said Ian Evans, gruffly, scoring the first big laugh of the morning.

***

The early stages were all pretty routine.

Mateo explained that Danny Prince had been at Tranmere since he was seven years old. They'd coached him, skipped him ahead when he needed more of a challenge, and identified him as a special talent from an early age. He had photocopies of internal documents showing end-of-year coaching assessments all the way up to the end of last season.

He said that the club had offered Prince a new contract, and when it was clear that another club were trying to poach him, Tranmere increased the offer to what Mateo called a 'desperate' level. He produced documents showing that they'd offered Prince four thousand pounds a week to sign a three-year contract. "He would have been the second highest paid player at the club. Handing out such contracts is unsustainable, but he was the jewel in the crown of our youth system and every coach, physio, every dinner lady, told me I had to keep him."

He then turned to previous cash offers clubs had made. They ranged from 300 to 500 thousand. He showed copies of the written offers. "We rejected them out of hand, of course. That's insulting for a player so talented, who we'd invested so much in."

I was nodding along. Mateo was killing it. He didn't need me, which was probably best all round given my relationship with Ian Evans. But I gave a brief technical analysis. "Every physical aspect you want from a left back, speed, heading, passing and running through the thirds, ability to overlap, sprints per minute, he's got all that. On the ball, he's very comfortable. Passing, technique, he's very, very solid. But I'm much more interested in his mentality, and I've got a couple of clips I can show that will demonstrate how impressive he is. How well-coached he is."

"I look forward to seeing them," said the chairman, and either he really meant it or he was a born diplomat.

Then it was Blackburn's turn. Their job was to downplay how good Prince was so they'd have to pay less money. Understandable, but really fucking weird. He was their player, now! Anyway, they pointed out that Prince had never been anywhere near an England youth team setup, hinting that he was perhaps not the bright talent Tranmere thought he was, and that in their more sophisticated assessment criteria, he was one of many young players who had done okay in a lower league that they were willing to "take a punt on".

They also said that Danny Prince had signed for much less than Tranmere's offer. They didn't say the amount out loud, but handed over a copy of Prince's contract for the five members of the tribunal to check out.

This annoyed me. If I was going to steal a young player, I would give him a shit contract and then after the tribunal had set the fee, immediately give him a new one. Or I'd make his basic salary very low and give him lots of easily-reachable bonuses. Morale had been an amazing purchase, and Injuries had to be next. But after that, it was all about Contracts.

The head of recruitment also reiterated that Tranmere thought of Danny Prince in terms of potential, whereas the tribunal needed to apply weight to evidence.

The chairman didn't like that, and sarcastically thanked Blackburn for telling him how to do his job. The Blackburn guy had something of a point though. Danny Prince hadn't played a lot of games, hadn't scored a lot of goals, hadn't won awards for his personal contributions to matches. Most of his value did come from imagining how he'd play in the future.

But then the Blackburn guy made a critical mistake - he pissed me off.

"Here, we've got a few screengrabs of Danny Prince's positioning in matches." He smiled. "He's a left back, remember. And, yes, he was playing left back in these games." He tossed out three copies of his printout, but pointedly kept them away from our side of the table. Mateo craned his neck to look, but he was too experienced and sophisticated to do anything as gauche as ask to look at the images. "As you can see," sighed the dude, "Danny Prince has a lot to learn."

I stood up, causing anxiety in my little group, but I simply walked over to the drinks table and helped myself to a water. But then, yeah, I didn't go back to my seat. I went behind the empty suit the PFA had sent. "May I?" I said, as I prised the paper from his hands. I walked around, looking at the pictures, sipping on my water. The first one was an overhead shot showing Tranmere, in white, playing 4-4-2 but with their left back way over, almost playing right midfield. At first glance, it was pretty damning. I allowed myself a little chuckle. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I said to the Blackburn guy.

"What?"

I cracked my head left and right. A few steps took me to my laptop. I opened it and turned on the little projector thing. I jiggled it a bit so that it filled the screen John the Driver had set up. "Ian," I said, talking to my former employee. "These pictures are a black mark against Danny Prince, right? You hate this kind of positional indiscipline."

"I don't hate it," he lied. "But it's not a sign the lad's been well trained."

Mateo's head dropped just a fraction. No sooner had I opened my mouth than I'd cost him money. I clicked a couple of times on my laptop, then stood up. "Well, Ian, you know we come at that from a different angle. A guy can be out of position for a good reason. But I think we both hate laziness. And we don't have time for chancers."

"Hey," said the Blackburn dude, but I was just getting warmed up.

I tapped the paper. "Thing is, I know this picture. This is from Danny Prince's Tranmere debut. He must have been buzzing. So excited! Before he met his sleazy new agents, no doubt. An age of innocence, a time - "

The chairman coughed. He didn't mind me putting the Tranmere case across, but he wanted the hearing to be over by eleven so he could get started on his seven-course lunch.

I smiled. "The quick version. Got it. See, I've got that match, here. I've got the files of every professional game Danny's played in. So lazy to think we wouldn't have put the effort in. Pisses me off." I glanced down at the scene, trying to remember exactly when it had happened. "This moment... pretty sure it was first half. Yeah, Tranmere were attacking the left as the camera sees it. So... I think it was nineteen, twenty minutes in." I scrubbed along. "There!"

"Jesus," said the guy from League Two, leaning forward. The image on the projector exactly matched the screengrab.

"So here we go," I said, laughing. "Here's Danny Prince! Left back, but he's way over there. Right-sided central midfielder. Lol! What an idiot!"

"Max," said Emma.

"Let's indulge the silly old professional football player for just a moment, though. Let's rewind. Let's ask why." I scrubbed back about a minute. "Gone too far, but you can see him there at left back. Perfectly conventional. Ian, how's his spacing?"

"Looks good."

"You better believe it looks good. This kid's sick. Sick means outstanding." I scrubbed a bit to the right. "So, here's a Tranmere goal kick. They're set up in 4-4-2 like their old manager wanted." I tried to stop myself, but glanced at Ian Evans. He folded his arms and looked at the ceiling. Last time we’d talked about formations I’d been pitching him on a 2-6-2 concept. "So it's 4-4-2 against 4-4-2, like we've all seen a billion times. And... here. This is where it starts." I paused the footage, and dug a knuckle into my temple. "I think what happens is a double transition."

"Sorry," said the guy from the Championship. "Are these the clips you were planning to show us?"

"No."

"But... do you remember every minute of every game?"

I smiled. "No, but I did watch this match about five times. And, insane as it sounds, I did have a long look at this very sequence that supposedly demonstrates how shit this player is." It was true. Prince had positioning 15, so when I saw him so far from his zone, it blew my mind. "It's super interesting."

The tribunal member was interested, too. They all were. Even Evans. "Please, go ahead."

I pressed play and let the action go on. "So Tranmere play the ball out... ping the ball around... quite nice. Walsall, there, press in midfield, ball's loose, they start to transition. See them all go?" I paused, went back five seconds, and pointed at a defender wearing white. "But this centre back here's going to slide in. Watch very carefully."

I let it go five more seconds, then paused. Lots of blank faces, but Ian Evans exhaled and put his hands on his head.

"What?" said the chairman.

"Let's come back to that," I said, and let the scene go on another few seconds. After the centre back's perfectly-timed tackle, the ball got played to a Tranmere midfielder. He made a poor choice and tried to chip the ball to one of the strikers. "That was shit. Hate that." I paused. "See Danny Prince? He's gone all the way up the pitch. For a proper midfielder, that's an easy long pass out to the left, and then his team's away. Laughing. But, yeah. I wouldn't know what it's like being a superstar player on a team full of hacks." I coughed, significantly. "Right. Prince is the furthest player up the pitch at this point. Apart from the Walsall goalie. Remember, according to Blackburn Rovers, this scene proves that he's shit and worthless. Right?" I pressed play and stopped adding commentary.

What happened next was a quick break from Walsall that got held up for a couple of seconds, before a Walsall player took a shot that the goalie saved.

I went back a little bit. "I'll explain this to Emma, because she doesn't know loads about football." This was an excuse to spell out what to me and Ian Evans was bleeding obvious. I went back and played the move at quarter-speed so I could mention everything I considered relevant. "Prince, remember, is the highest player on the pitch. But he's maxed out on teamwork." That was a white lie. He was teamwork 15. "And so he zooms back. Look at him go! Past the sluggish strikers, overtakes this lazy midfielder. Our left back is haring back to help his mates out. It only takes one little hold up and he's nearly there. Another and he'd have been back in the penalty area. The shot comes in, keeper saves. Prince waits in centre midfield - where he's perfectly comfortable, by the way! The talented little shit. He hangs around there until the next break in play, where he slides back to his position." I looked up, searching for the right words. "So he busts a gut to get back, to help his mates, to affect the game. Does everything you'd ever want in a player. And his own bosses, his own team, take a picture of this, show it out of context, to make him look like he's got no character so they can save a bit of cash." I headed towards the Blackburn lot, jabbing my finger as I went. "Dirty, grubby, cheap."

"Max," said Emma.

I went back to the printout. "Ian, mate. What do you think? Is this kid out of position?"

"No, Best. He ain't." He was folding his arms again, but this time directed at the Blackburn prick.

I was winning. Time to really blow some minds. "Let's talk about what really sets Prince apart. What makes him a shoo-in for the Premier League." I strode to my laptop, closed the match file, and opened a short video. It was a compilation of six clips that showed how Prince used elite cricket psychology to defeat his opponent. I'd added the title 'Nature Plus Nurture: the Danny Prince Story'. "I already said he's a top athlete, a great technician. But this kid, holy fuck, let's talk about his decision making."

Blackburn's Head of Recruitment shot to his feet. "Mateo. Can I speak to you, please?"

I watched, dumbfounded, as Mateo got up and left the room, with his enemy, our enemy, holding the door open for him.

The tension left. The five members of the panel relaxed. I held my arms out. "What the shit?"

The chairman gave me a sad smile. "They will come to an amicable agreement. It's better that way. Better for everyone."

"I've got a killer presentation, here. In twenty minutes you'll all be subscribed to Danny Prince's Instagram and TikTok."

"You're very persuasive," said the chairman. "However, I don't think you could persuade me to join TikTok." He pulled out his old flip phone, and there were some chuckles. That was the vibe, now. Mild humour. Bunch of friends hanging out.

"Best," said Evans. "You did what you came to do. What you were paid to do."

"Paid? I'm not getting paid." It was always fucking money with Ian Evans. Fuck him. I took a couple of steps toward the agent. "I'm here so Tranmere don't close down their entire fucking academy because of short-sighted parasites." I bent down, got in the guy's face. "Now listen to me, you fucking worm - "

The door opened and Mateo and his counterpart came back in. They announced they'd come to an agreement, and it was all handshakes and laughter and bonhomie. I could not believe what I was seeing.

Pissed, I unplugged my laptop, got the power cable, and gestured at Emma that I wanted to leave.

We stepped outside and someone called my name, but I was storming along the corridor. Emma, the traitor, refused to follow. So I came back a few yards, but no more.

It was the guy from Blackburn. He clapped me on the arm. "Max Best, right? You absolutely mullered me in there." He laughed, but saw that I was fuming. "Hey, come on, now. It's just business. You won, I lost. Don't let things fester or you won't last long in this industry."

I calmed very slightly. "You raided the academy of a smaller team. That isn't business. That's theft. Whatever fee you agreed is half what Danny Prince is worth."

He pouted. "Maybe. Maybe not. There are no guarantees." He cheered up again - he could go to his bosses and say he'd saved them millions. "But listen. If you're available for hire, let me know your fee."

"Fee?"

"To do this. To get us a good fee when Liverpool steal one of our academy lads."

"How much?"

"Well. What Tranmere paid you."

"Tranmere got a discount because they helped me to learn to walk again."

"Oh." His eyes shifted around. He didn't know if I was joking. "Er... twenty grand."

"Twenty?"

He misread my shocked expression, thought he'd started too low. "Twenty-five."

Twenty-five thousand pounds? I was no longer mad at the guy. A fuckton of money to get a guy's player profile and get some video that matched what the curse told me about him. Talk about easy money! "Call me when you've got a case. Discount if I get to yell at Liverpool, Newcastle, or Man City."

He was back to smiling, and clapped me on the arm again. "Top lad!"

He fucked off, and I was heading back to the nearest lift. John the Driver hurried along, and said Mateo wanted a quick word. I didn't want to talk to the guy - as far as I was concerned he'd snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. But Emma reached up and took my laptop and charger, and jabbed her head back the way we came.

With a sigh, dragging my feet like a fucking toddler, I went halfway down the corridor, then fell against a wall. The driver thought about pleading with me, but went to get Mateo.

He came out, full of beans. It was by far the most animated I'd ever seen him. "Max! You were amazing in there." He took a step back and looked me up and down. "What's up? Are you sick?"

I caught a retort just as it was leaving my mouth and pinched it out of existence. I breathed in. "I was crushing it in there, Mateo. I know Ian Evans, and he was into it. And he was the only one who totally understood what I was saying. He would have been in charge of their discussions. He's the real football expert in there. Whatever you negotiated, it wasn't enough."

Mateo's mouth turned rigid like he was about to punch me, but it relaxed almost immediately. He slapped his hands together in a strange way. "You've got the scent of blood in your nostrils and I've taken the fox away just before the kill. Ha! I'm sorry, Max. I should have known you would react like this." He touched me on the arm. "You're an assassin. I'm a businessman. Okay, we could have taken a risk and maybe got more than Blackburn offered. But this was never about the money."

"It wasn't?"

"It was about the principle. You don't take young players away from their home, from where they've been trained and educated, and not pay a price. It was the principle, and it was the respect. You made them treat me with respect, and for that I'm in your debt."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. We were all fighting different fights. Maddeningly, the closest thing to a soulmate I had in that room had been Ian Evans. "How much extra did I get you? I need to know how much to charge if I do this as a side hustle."

"Half a million."

So he'd got 1.2 million. Big money. That'd keep the academy going for another few years. I stuck my bottom lip out. "You'd have got at least three. A year from now he'll be going for ten."

He closed his eyes. "You're so stubborn. That won't end well." He sighed. He looked down the corridor at Emma. He knew we'd not really had an anniversary because we'd been scrabbling around doing our day jobs. "I want to give you a gift."

"Yeah?"

"A percentage."

I knew what he meant. "Ten percent? Fifty grand? In used notes?"

He looked almost blank. "Fifty's fine. You want fifty?"

This was surreal. "I told Emma I was doing it for a friend. For justice. For the principle of small clubs having... protection against being used as unpaid player incubators."

"All that can be true and I can pay you for your work. And your time. You watched those matches over and over."

I sighed. "Doesn't feel right." I shook my head. Fifty grand, though. "How about... you buy me a new laptop? Mine was struggling in there."

He laughed. "I heard it. It's almost as old as this hotel."

"I'm taking Emma shopping, and we're going to have lunch in Chinatown. I'll send her back on the train. When she's gone, you can give me a big bag of cash and I won't have lied to her."

He was looking at some point on the wall, eyes blazing. Reliving his triumph. He hadn't been listening. "Pardon me, Max? Say that again."

His high morale brought mine all the way back up. With a smile, I said, "Never mind."

I turned to walk away. I hadn't had much for breakfast, and now I was getting pretty hungry. Maybe a nice brunch instead of a Chinese. I began humming the West Didsbury version of No Limits.

I stopped dead. Turned around. "Mateo. I have an idea. Instead of some cash I never asked for... would you consider giving me a loan?"

***

Emma wanted to stick to the plan, so we shopped, with my stomach complaining non-stop, then went to Chinatown.

While drinking endless green tea from tiny cups, she suddenly frowned. "Max... what was the thing? The thing you pointed out that only Ian Evans noticed? I tried really hard, but couldn't tell what it was."

"Ah. You see, about fifteen seconds before the screenshot was taken, when the ball was bouncing around, Danny Prince was sticking to his zone, doing his job at left back. Then his centre back dives into the tackle, Prince gets on his bike, bombs forward."

"So? Isn't he supposed to?"

"He did it, like, half a second early. Before the tackle had started."

"Oh!" she said, teeth showing. Her smile died. "I don't follow."

"He knew what would happen before it happened. Imagine a striker who had that skill - he'd score five, ten goals a season more than his clone who didn't. It's valuable. It's one of my superpowers. It's rare. Danny Prince has it." I shook my head. "Evans would have added half a mill for that alone. Fuck!"

"You're frustrated."

"Yes and no. I mean, if you're winning, win big. Right? But on a personal level..."

"What?"

"Well, it was amazing being able to talk to Ian Evans about football sort of openly and honestly." No clue why, but saying that made me well up. "And the Blackburn guy didn't like being shown up and he said he'd pay me to be on his side next time. And best of all," I said, but I didn't want to tell her what Mateo and I had agreed. "Best of all, Mateo said he'd buy me a new laptop."

She didn’t notice I’d changed tack. "Boys and their toys," she said, sipping on her tea.

When she said that, I brought my cup to my lips to cover a smile. I had a new toy - the morale perk - and I was going to play with it, hard, on Saturday at three o'clock.

***

Match 10 of 46: Boston United versus Chester FC

This match produced my first ever football-related appearance on talkSPORT. It was on the radio, of course, but they usually took their phone-in segment and put it on YouTube, so you could see the bored and frankly disrespectful faces of their presenters.

Here's the transcript.

Previous Caller: "But I'd just sack him mate. Bin him off, he's awful. Clueless."

Smug Host 1: "Thanks for your call. On line 6 we've got Paul in Lincolnshire."

Paul: "Hi, yeah, I'm a Boston fan."

Smug Host 2 [swinging an imaginary baseball bat]: "Red Sox, yeah! They're due."

Paul: "Boston United."

SH 1 [genuinely incredulous]: "What's that?"

Paul: "It's National League North. One step below what we used to call the Conference. So I've been the Jakemans today and I've seen something I've never seen in all my years of watching football."

SH 1: "A fit bird?" [Sniggers merge into a silence so elongated the emergency signal almost kicks in.]

SH 2 [Giving his mate an okay sign to show approval for the joke]: "Go on, Paul. Tell us about it."

Paul: "Right, well, you probably remember this Max Best lad."

SH 2 [making a 'this guy's crazy' sign by spinning his finger around his temple]: "No."

Paul: "Really? He's the one what was nearly killed after a match. Phenomenal player, but he's managing now. I think he's 24. 25, maybe. His Chester's gone from being one of the worst in the league to the best. He's got them playing top football, like Burnley last year, but at this level it's even more amazing if you ask me. First half today, we're competing. Boston United are, that's my team. Then something funny happens, bit of a strange one, but that's by the by, not why I'm calling. Suffice to say, half time, we're a goal down. This Max Best kid, remember, he's been in a coma, he's been paralysed, he's played ten minutes in a cup qualifier and stank the place out, people are saying he'll never be the same, but he brings himself on at half time. Now, we're not a top team, but we're not bad. You'd watch us and say we were decent and played the right way. But..." [laughter] "This boy, I'm laughing because I can't believe what I've seen, I really can't. He comes on at half time and... there's only one way to put it - all hell breaks loose."

SH 1 [looking up from his phone that he'd be on the whole time]: "John, let me stop you there. We're just hearing that Danny Murphy has Pep Guardiola with him after his side's routine 2-0 win at home to Nottingham Forest. City very much saving their energy for the midweek game coming up. Over to you Danny."