2.

We landed and there was half a round of applause. Half a round? A semi-circle of kudos. A crescent of claps.

I stayed in my seat with my sunglasses on and hood pulled down. The hood was a mild source of contention, but I had only promised Emma I wouldn't pack a hoodie. When it came time to pick a traveling outfit that could protect me from sun, rain, and attention, there was only one winner.

The rest of the passengers shuffled along the aisle. I waited to make sure I'd be the last one - fifty percent less chance of getting into a conversation, one hundred percent less chance of holding someone up - and inched along with my tiny, virtually empty travel bag. Emma was ahead of me, wheeling a bulging suitcase and gripping three plastic bags. The case she'd checked into the hold weighed more than she did.

The stairs down to the tarmac were okay, if I didn't try to go too fast and held on to the hand rail, but then we had to get on a little bus that would take us to the arrival hall. All the seats had been taken, so Emma asked a guy if I could sit down. He said yes, of course, but we'd only been on the island for two minutes and Emma had already broken her promise not to talk to anyone, not to ask for help, and not to draw attention to me.

I pulled my hood even further down and sulked.

***

The four-and-a-half hour flight was at least an hour more than I was able to handle, so when we got to the hotel I threw myself on the bed and drifted to sleep. I woke up, showered, and spent the rest of the evening under the sheets. When Emma fell asleep, so did I.

The next morning I was in a much better mood. The worst was over. All the things that had made me anxious - turbulence, mid-air collisions, crying babies, stag weekends, hen weeks, airborne diseases, not being able to manage the toilet, getting sucked out through a porthole, terrorists, 'can anybody land this plane?', exploding engines, passengers breaking the rules, Emma being sat next to some overly handsome Spanish guy or - worst of all - her making friends with some Brits and offering to merge our groups for the holiday. Er... where was I? Oh yeah. None of that happened. Nor was the hotel one giant non-stop rave. Nor were the pillows too big, too small, too itchy. Nor was it unbearably hot, and nor did anyone try to make me eat anything I didn't want.

The forecast was two weeks of sun. Just sun, nothing else. Twenty degrees celsius. 68 Fahrenheit. Acceptable! I went onto our balcony and took in the view. We weren't all that high and there was only one floor above us. In front, vegetation. Weird, alien plants. Rocks everywhere. Kind of a brown tinge to everything. Hell reclaimed by nature.

"You're up!" said Emma, who was wearing a white t-shirt and nothing else.

"Woke up feeling pretty good," I said. "Ready for action."

"Oh?" she said.

"Not that kind of action. Was I a dick yesterday?"

"Yeah. Big time."

"Huh. Well, they say hell is other people. And they're right. Good view, isn't it? But... where's the beach? Where are the other hotels?"

"I got us something a bit further inland. A bit quieter."

I considered that. "I mean, yeah, great. Perfect. Let's do the tour." I'd put myself on a strict low-information diet so I could steer all my effort into my physical recovery. Emma had taken the concept a little further than even I intended, and postponed discussions like 'which club did Henri pick?' until, quote, a more opportune moment. She certainly hadn't involved me in choosing the hotel. It would only have exhausted me - computers and phones were still very fatiguing, and Magnus had urged me to take the chance to do a digital detox. "Show me what you chose."

Emma smiled and led the way back into the room itself, sliding the heavy floor-to-ceiling patio doors closed behind me. "The master bedroom," she said. The bed was huge, and had that premium feeling you get from seeing crisp white bedding with a random brown thing lying across it sideways. I pinched the quilt cover and rubbed. Yeah, premium. Okay, so Emma got a deal. June wasn't peak tourist season, after all. Made sense.

"Bed's comfy," I said.

"Over this way is the shower."

"Yep. Great flow. Love those big square showerheads."

"And round this way... the jacuzzi."

Okay, hold on a second. "Jacuzzi?" I pottered around touching the towels, feeling the bathrobes, sniffing the shower gel. "Is this a spa?"

"It's a spa hotel. Is that no good?"

I looked at myself in the mirror. Nick had absolutely played me. Emma never had any intention of booking a cheap holiday, or if she did, such thoughts had gone out the window after my attack. Well, here I was. In the perfect place to continue my rehab, it seemed. "You have chosen... wisely." I touched my lips; a tiny sign that I was on the mend. Pointless movements were back. "Tiny potter around, then some breakfast. Good?"

"Good. Down in the dining room?"

The dining room? With all those... people? "How about on the balcony?"

"Sure. I'll go down and grab a couple of plates from the buffet."

"Top."

"But first, I got you something. Stand there."

I waited in a corner of the room. Emma came back with a football. She rolled it to me. "Do a tekkers." She meant a kick-up.

"I can't."

"Try."

I looked down at the ball. Really didn't want to kick it, but I didn't want to make a scene. There had been enough of that the day before. I tried to flick it up and couldn't. Couldn't move my feet anywhere near fast enough. So I bent, slowly, picked up the ball, dropped it, and as it bounced up, kicked it from beneath. The ball flew off to the right and hit the patio glass. When I looked up, I realised she was filming me. "What are you doing?"

"Doing a progress video so people can see what hard work can get you. Today, no tekkers. We'll try every day and edit it into a video. See where you are in... a while."

She had been about to say 'a year' but sensed it would annoy me. I didn't want to be in a video documenting my inability to do basic tasks and my achingly slow improvement. And what if Nick had been so warm and chatty because he'd used my murder as an excuse to strip away my playing powers? I felt my face harden. "That's inspirational is it? To who?"

"To me."

I took a slow breath, got the ball, and tried again.

Tekkers: Zero.

***

A few days of the sun soaking into me. A few days of turning my brain off and just letting the time go by. Nice food. Short walks. Using the spa facilities when the other guests weren't around. Reading on our bed, my head on Emma's lap. Emma was devouring Chocolat, by Joanne Harris. I read The Da Vinci Code. But Max, I hear you cry. I thought you'd read all the classics?

During my month of rehab, I'd spent a lot of time with Physio Dean, Livia, and Magnus. They were helping me relearn how to walk, and while they did, I was learning more about them. Trying to get an insight into who they were and what made them tick. Shortly before I was due to leave, I had an idea. They'd each buy me a book to read on my holiday. Dean chose the Dan Brown masterpiece.

As I read it, I wondered why.

We read with Chopin or Bach playing in the room. No Rachmaninoff. I wasn't ready for Rach n' roll.

Then, at breakfast, on our balcony:

"Bebs. Want to be my assistant manager again?"

"What's the pay?"

"Paid in kind."

"Yeah, but when?"

"When I can run."

"Why?"

"You have to run before you can pork."

She didn't laugh. "That makes no sense. That's not even the phrase. How long have you been waiting to use that one?"

"I'll 'use that one' as soon as I can. Believe me."

"Assistant manager. Fine. What do you need?"

I bit into a croissant. "What's the time in England, now?"

"Same as here."

"What time's here?"

"Half eight."

"Can you call MD and ask what he's done with the under 18s?"

She sipped her Lady Grey and considered if I needed to know that or if it could wait. I explained that I understood why MD had given a contract to Trick, but if he was going to do the same with the eighteens and there was time to stop it, I should. She put him on speaker, and he said he had released all the older boys at the end of May. Panic came into his voice. "I thought you said there was no-one good there. Did you want one? I can probably still get him. I'll tell him I misunderstood you."

"No, you did it right," I said. "By the way, where's Henri gone?"

"Bye, Max."

Emma stretched. "Henri's decision is made, Max. No point even thinking about it." She said bye to MD and hung up. That was enough work for the day. "Those poor kids," she said, almost to herself.

The previous group of eighteens had been a talent wasteland. This year, though, a few of last year's sixteens would be in there, lifting the levels. "Vivek's the best player in the eighteens, now. That'll be a mindfuck for him." I yawned. "Right. Swim. Steam. Nap. Sauna. Nap. Dinner. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like a plan."

***

I turned twenty-three. Emma had charmed the hotel's chef into making a special birthday cheesecake, the dessert we shared the day we met. I blew out the tiny little candle and made a wish.

***

A week in, I was noticeably better. Less physically stiff. Able to concentrate for longer. We'd started going to the dining room for breakfast.

"I'm ready to leave the hotel," I said. "Where are we, again?"

"Tenerife."

"Oh, yeah. That volcano thing up there is the highest point in Spain. Let's... let's have that as my target. The day before we leave, we go up there. Ideally I'd run all the way up and jump around like Rocky."

"It's about four thousand metres high."

"Okay I'll run the last... six metres."

She pretended to add a note to her phone's calendar. "Max... run... up... enormous... volcano. Done. I would like to choose what we do today."

"Oh!" I blinked. It struck me that I'd been extremely selfish, always choosing what to do. "Yeah, of course. Have I been a dick?"

"You haven't been enough of a dick. But there's something I want to do and I want to do it before you get too much better."

What could that be? I rubbed my eyebrow. "Is it... something we do in the bedroom?"

"No. I'm not telling you what it is because you'll say no. Put your trainers on." She smiled. "I'm going to enjoy this."

***

Footgolf. The rules of golf but with a football. And obstacles. And three complete strangers. I kept Emma between me and them.

I didn't want to do it, but Emma pointed out that it was the one chance she'd have to beat me at the sport I was such a master of. I complained that playing football defeated the object of the holiday, which was a complete break from the game. She said I'd popped that balloon when I'd started trying to run a football club from a hotel balcony.

I was getting sick of losing every argument.

The owner of the footgolf place explained the rules to us. Our flight was me and Emma, plus a couple from Yorkshire and their ten-year-old boy. He kept staring at me, even though I was in my 'outside disguise' of mirrored sunglasses and pulled-down baseball cap. Emma was wearing John Lennon sunglasses and a big, floppy sun hat, making her look like a Scandinavian pop temptress. When we got to the first 'tee', the little kid needed to know one thing before we started. "Are you famous?" His dad cringed, but the mother wanted to know, too. Disguise plus insanely hot girlfriend slash carer equals compelling mystery.

"I'm Cliff Baps, masseuse to the stars."

"Cliff Daps," said Emma. I grunted. Why had I picked a nom de guerre I couldn't remember? She turned to the family. "He's really called Max. I'm Emma. He's a football player but he's injured so today I'm going to beat him at football and there aren't many people who can say that."

"All three of these will beat me, too," I said.

"What, even the boy?"

"Especially the boy," I said. "Look how neat his shoelaces are."

The boy smiled at the praise and got ready to tee off. The balls were regulation size, but light. The first hole was straightforward - about thirty yards, then a dogleg, then a series of logs crossed the fairway so that you had to kick over or under them. After that were some sand traps, and in front of the green was a concrete tunnel.

"Do we have to kick through the obstacles?" I said.

"No," said the dad.

"So I'm allowed to kick from here to the green?"

"If you're good enough, yeah."

That depressed me. It would have been trivially easy not long ago. I would probably have made every hole in two shots. But now?

The kid kicked the ball too hard and it span off into the rough. The mum did even worse. The dad hit a good shot straight down the middle, but left himself a tricky decision as to what to do about the dogleg.

Emma's turn. She got into position, wobbled back and forth, then did an abysmal toe-poke. Technique 1, passing 1, power 1, elegance 1, cringe 20.

Despite all that, the ball landed fifteen yards away, dead centre of the fairway.

I squeezed my eyes closed. I hadn't cared about losing until that moment. But wow. If she beat me kicking like that...

I stepped onto the tee and scratched my chin. Tricky. Attempt any kind of normal shot and I risked literally toppling. Proper technique involved putting my entire weight on one foot and striking with the other. Not quite ready for that.

I glanced at Emma. If her mad technique was consistent, she could actually outscore me. But she lacked experience. She'd never competed against someone like me.

I felt a familiar tingling. Game on.

I rolled the ball around under my right foot, getting a feel for it. Then I pushed it to the same spot Emma had teed off from, and mimicked her technique: half-kick, half-walk.

The contact went through my foot, up my legs and hips, and vibrated my neck. It was unpleasant, but no more. The ball dashed forwards ten yards, slowed, and gently kissed Emma's, coming to rest behind it. The big spoon to Emma's little one.

Emma laughed. "Great minds dink alike!"

Dink is another way of saying 'chip'. Neither of us had chipped the ball, but I didn't want to ruin her joke. "Who taught you dink?"

"Henri," she said. I frowned. Had Henri and Emma been spending time together? Obviously that would be fine. Totally fine. Nothing to worry about there. Henri is a completely honourable, completely trustworthy... French... man. "He helped coach the boy's teams. He taught Benny about dinking."

"Henri coached the boys?"

"Everyone's been doing everything." She smiled. "People are starting to understand how hard you've been working."

In the second round of shots, Emma lifted my ball away - legally - while she took her next shot. Again, the hideous technique. Again, a decent outcome. She got to the curve, well positioned to get to the green in four shots. If her putting was good, she'd make par.

My turn. Again, I aimed to nestle my ball beside hers. I wasn't so accurate, this time, but the shot was suspiciously similar to hers. She raised an eyebrow.

We did it again, and I got my shot close to hers again.

"Okay, what the hell are you doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you copying me?"

"Who said I'm copying you?"

She looked to the family for help, but they didn't know what she was talking about.

Emma's fourth - and mine - went through the concrete tunnel and onto the green.

She was suspicious. Four shots and I was in her head already. She knew I was up to something, and she didn't like it. "You go first this time."

"I go first on the next hole. The woman said."

"You go first now, Max Best."

I pushed my bottom lip out. Okay. No skin off my nose.

I calculated. There was a dubious patch of grass just in front of the ball, so I booped the ball a fraction off the ground. It rolled towards the hole, but at the last second it hit a bobble and went over. I'd get a bogey at best. Absolute joke.

Emma tried, but hers fell well short. We both sank our next shots. Level.

She glared at me as we got ready for the next hole. I went first, keeping to the same technique. Emma decided she needed to get distance from me so I'd stop copying her, and kicked it pretty hard. It sliced way off to the left, into the rough. She tramped away after it.

The dad had worked it out. "Mental disintegration."

"I would never do that to my hundred percent. No, it's not that. Never. Anyway, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," I said.

He wasn't buying my BS. "Do you play for Tranmere?"

What a weird question. Tranmere was the third biggest club in Merseyside. I knew that about them, and almost nothing else. I'd met one scout from Tranmere. He'd signed a player from Chester's youth system. "Tranmere? No, why?"

"Oh. We saw them go into our hotel."

"Who?"

"Tranmere Rovers. Some of the squad. The vanguard. They said the rest were coming soon. Doing their pre-season training here, I assume. Ah, but your girl asked us not to over tax you. Sorry."

He pottered off, and I was left alone, looking over at Tenerife's big volcano. I suddenly didn't care about running up it. Old Nick had been right about the weather in the Mediterranean - there was heatwave after inhuman heatwave the whole summer - but the weather here, with its incredible consistency and soothing Atlantic breezes, was perfect for my tastes and needs. That said, it was obvious he'd steered me to Tenerife for a greater purpose than just my recovery. Something about Tranmere. But what?

After I won the hole (against Emma - the dad and kid outscored me on every hole I played), I pottered over to my girlfriend. "Can you look up what division Tranmere are in?"

She was mad at me, though she didn't know exactly why, so she thought about refusing. "League Two," she said, shoving her phone away in a way that meant no more questions.

"Ah! Henri went to Tranmere. Is he here, now? On Tenerife?"

She blew air through her cheeks. "If I don't get any stimulation, neither do you. Henri is fine. He's happy. Please let it go. Focus on beating me."

"Babes, I already won. I know your weakness."

"What is it?"

"Oh, I could never tell you," I said. Which, of course, made her second-guess everything she was doing. She switched from kicking too hard to too soft. Sigh. Too easy.

I coped with most of the footgolf obstacles, but on the seventh, par four, the hole could only be accessed by a sort of basketball hoop suspended a metre off the ground. I needed to dink the ball up, or scoop it, and both felt a little too hard. I tapped out, and enjoyed unhurriedly walking around, sitting on boulders and blocks of wood and some benches where older customers could take breaks. As we said goodbye to the family, I asked what hotel they were at.

Emma gave me a very hard look. Strange question from someone who said he didn't want to meet another soul for two weeks.

She punished me for my mind games by filming me trying to do a kick-up.

Tekkers: Zero.

***

Quest accepted. Find Tranmere Rovers and surprise Henri with my detective skills.

I turned my phone on - hundreds of unanswered texts and emails; I was incredibly zen about letting everyone wait - but even with the screen dimmed it was aggravating. No problem. Back to the digital detox, and maybe it would be fun to do things the old-fashioned way. Light bit of social engineering. While Emma did girl things, I slipped into my nicest, summeriest shirt and took the stairs down. That was getting easier every day.

It was a guy at reception, but I tried to flirt with him anyway. I needn't have bothered - he was more than happy to help me with my weird request. He laid out a big map of the island and pointed to the hotel the footgolf players were staying in. "A training complex, you say... in this area... with football pitches. Jes, I think here. Here is a popular facility."

"Amazing," I said, rubbing my lips. "Now. What else is in this area? Something my friend will want to visit."

The guy smiled. He understood my intentions quite well. "Does she like animals?"

Sixty seconds later, I snuck back into the room. The perfect crime.

Emma came out of the bathroom, her hair swaddled in a fluffy towel. "Hey, bebs."

"Hey, bebs. Are you nearly ready? If we leave soon, we might be in time to see some dolphins."

***

The taxi dropped us off near the dolphin tours. Catastrophically, when the guy drove off, I had an attack of fatigue. Oh, no!

"Back that way a little bit," I wheezed, trying not to let my suffering show. "I saw a little cafe thing. The sign said they had Yorkshire Gold."

"Ooh, nice. Wouldn't mind a good cuppa."

So we walked towards the training complex. I mean, towards the little cafe thing. As soon as I saw a football rise into the air and fall out of view, I felt a thrill of accomplishment. I'd tricked my girlfriend. I was a master of deception. I would crush it on The Traitors.

Emma squeezed my hand. "Bebs. I think some people are playing football over there. Do you want to have quick look?"

Wow. She knew. She knew and she'd gone along with it. Let me think I was outwitting her. Had she done that in the footgolf, too? My pulse quickened. Games within games! "If you don't mind..." I said, and found myself walking just a little faster.

***

Two grass pitches, one surrounded by a running track. To the north, outdoor swimming pools. To the east, a few low buildings housing gyms and a hydrodynamic flume. To the west, tennis and volleyball courts. Up a slope, a massive outdoor crossfit area.

This place was fucking top.

A handful of football players were doing some fitness work on one of the pitches. I glanced at Emma; she nodded. Permission to do my thing.

We walked on the running track, down the home straight, around the side curve, and back onto the other straight. I didn't see Henri.

A couple of coaches and a physio were on one side, along with a handful of equipment bags. No sign of the scout I knew. Why would there be? His last big job of the season would have been going to the exit trials, and now he'd be on a well-deserved break.

As was I.

So why was I hovering around Tranmere Rovers? Henri wasn't there, and I didn't have the curse. So what could I expect?

"Max. Promise you won't ask about Henri and Ziggy and the Man United takeover and all that."

I scratched my cheek. A lot of people had run to Mr. Yalley's defence. A lot of people were coming together to make sure the youth teams got training. In lots of small ways, an entire community was taking care of the club that represented it. And one hundred percent of those people wanted me to rest, relax, and recover. There were times it was hard, but this wasn't one of them. "Okay, just... Henri's not here, then?"

"Why would he be here?"

"If this even is Tranmere... League Two club. It's in Merseyside, pretty close to Chester. He could skip two divisions and still hang out with me all the time. Keep an eye on me. If I was him, yeah, Tranmere. Absolutely."

"Oh. Okay. He's not. Do you want to stay?"

I jiggled a nail in the space between two teeth. What did I want? "Can I do some football stuff?"

"As long as you don't tire yourself out."

"Can you look up who Tranmere's manager is?"

Emma frowned. Normally in this situation I'd know the names of everyone in the area. Anything that hinted at memory loss or personality change was cause for alarm. "James O'Rourke."

"Right, yeah. Heard of him." If memory served, O'Rourke had stepped in as caretaker manager a couple of times, and always done better than the permanent bosses he'd replaced. As always happened in that scenario, he'd been given a chance to step into the big shoes. And, if history was any guide, he would crash and burn. Still, it wouldn't hurt to see what he was doing.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I walked towards the guy who was obviously O'Rourke. There was something familiar about the way everyone else orbited the manager. I'd seen it with Dave Cutter. With Ian Evans. Not so much with Jackie...

"What?" said Emma.

"Nothing."

Someone tapped O'Rourke on the shoulder. He turned and looked me up and down. He was in a black top with green sleeves. He was vaguely ginger, with pale blue-green eyes, small ears, a hangdog expression, and there was no hair at the front of his crown, except some strands he had combed over. He should have looked ridiculous, but I thought he was pretty attractive, all things considered. He had a kind of Marlon Brando vibe. Marlon Brando if he didn't know he was Marlon Brando. Marlon Brando if he had more opinions about play-acting than method acting. (Play-acting is pretending to be hurt. It's a good joke. Just go with it.)

So that was his look. Me? I was dressed very much with Emma in mind. Keeping my almost-no-hoodie promise. Nothing practical. Nothing black. The less comfortable I was, the more she cooed over how good I looked. Today I was wearing bright yellow shorts and an almost luminous pink shirt. I pushed my sunglasses up so they nestled into my hair. "Are you Tranmere Rovers?" The boss dude said he was. "I'm Chester," I said.

He looked me up and down again. Some memory clicked. The kid who was attacked. "Oh! Small world. I'm James."

"Max." We shook hands. "Tell me to piss off if you want. I'm just out here recuperating."

Kid who got attacked confirmed. "No, no, you're very welcome. Can we get you anything? Chair? Water? We're doing fitness with a couple of lads today. The rest of the squad's coming in dribs and drabs."

"How long are you here for?"

"Three weeks," he said.

"What's your process?" I said.

"We'll take those chairs," said Emma, with a big smile. A coach and a lanky goalkeeper type rushed to fulfil her request. She pulled me down into a chair, and gave me a little shoulder massage.

I put my right hand on hers. "This is Emma," I announced. "My hundred percent."

***

I spent half an hour talking about pre-season training with James O. Then I started to get fatigued. I apologised. He said to think nothing of it, and ordered one of his minions to take us back to our hotel.

A good nap followed.

I started getting ready for a balcony dinner, but Emma stopped me. "We're eating out."

***

The taxi tipped us out and we fell into some upmarket restaurant. To the left was a bright room with upbeat music. Emma pulled me to the right, and I floated, confused, to a small corner table. It was quiet and dark, as though they'd turned the lights and music down specially for me. Emma was to my right, James O'Rourke to my left. In front, a well-tanned older guy wearing head-to-toe linen, and a dolled-up older woman.

Everyone had drinks, including me and Emma, even though we'd just arrived. The table was a collage of tapas. It all looked and smelled amazing. Expensive.

I frowned.

What was happening?

James O nudged me. "Max. This is Mateo, our chairman. His family is loaded in two countries."

Mateo was a real silver fox. He was wearing a shirt with a jacket, but no tie. He was pretty tanned, pretty rugged. The smoothness of his hair and the cracks in his skin were a good contrast. He looked healthy. The kind of healthy you might get if you could look at your watch and say, hey, let's go for a quick spin in the yacht. "Comfortable in two countries." He reached over to shake my hand. "We've been researching you. No-one can agree which Max Best you are."

"What are the options?" said Emma.

Mateo extended his thumb, and touched it with the index finger of his other hand. "Rapid winger playing non-league who turned down a big-money move to Sheffield Wednesday."

Emma pointed at me.

Mateo added the index finger to the thumb. "Women's team manager who took his players off because a deaf girl was booked, and got the Daily Mail to spearhead a witch hunt against the referee."

Emma pointed at me, and didn't even seem to have any reservations about the guy's language.

Middle finger. "Rugby star?"

Emma pointed, but dismissively.

Mateo's wife spoke next. No-one introduced her, but I later learned she was called Rachel, same as Emma's mum. She had the same exact nose as David Beckham. "The caretaker manager who saved Chester from relegation."

Emma pointed at me.

"And was sent to the emergency room after the decisive game," said Mateo, coming to his little finger.

Emma sagged, and reached her hand across the table. I took it.

"He's here to take it easy," said James O, with a hint of disapprobation.

Mateo nodded. "Of course. My way of saying you've done a lot in a short time. Trying to put together your story is like a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle. Of the sky. Listen, my family has a stake in the training centre here. It's all booked out for Tranmere but please use it as you wish."

"What, really?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Oh, wow. Top. You've got that wave machine thing."

Emma piped up. "I thought you didn't like wave machines."

"This one isn't evil."

Rachel said, "You mean the flume." She explained it to Emma. "You swim against the current. Big health benefits, almost no impact on the joints. It's expensive, but it's worth every penny. Shaves weeks off recovery time."

"Weeks!" said Emma, turning to me all excited.

I frowned. Traitors and faithful. Chickens, roosts. Karma, payback. "What's the catch?"

The cracks around Mateo's mouth spread. "How about you let us win when we play you next?"

"Oh, is that all?" I said. "Sure. I can do that. How about ten-nil? No, too much. Nine. Argh, that's obvious. Make it eight-nil so no-one suspects."

I was glaring at the guy, but the more heated I got, the more of his teeth he showed. It was hard to tell what that meant, but I was sure no-one talked to him like I was doing. To Emma, he said, "Is he always like this?"

"He's normally worse. He just spent three weeks in hozzie and a month in rehab. He can only just walk and he still beat me at football golf." This pronouncement was met with sniggers and mouth-covering. "What? It's annoying. He can barely kick the ball. He did the most basic shot every time. How did he win?"

"Well, Max?" said Rachel. "How did you?"

I leaned back. "I didn't do anything."

Emma pouted. "You did."

"Okay, I sort of..." I cut the air in a straight line, then pushed the line I'd created a few inches to the left, then mimed it turning into a circle. "I sort of guided you into a doom loop."

"A doom loop?" she said.

"Yeah. You were a threat to me so I made you beat yourself. It's easier that way. I learned it from my buddy Sun Tsu. Doom loops are top. Except... that's what happened to Jackie. He's in a doom loop. I tried to drag him out but it didn't work. We have to let him burn out and then we can pick him up and dust him off. The prick."

Emma was aghast, and not because of my theory about JR. "You did something to me and now I can never beat you? Is that what you're saying?"

"Basically, yeah."

"Until this loop burns up?"

"Well," I said, hesitating like I wasn't sure if I should continue. "I programmed you with a trigger word. I can reactivate you whenever I want."

Emma was side-eyeing me, but not from aggression. There was genuine worry behind it. First, worry that I was joking, in which case, why wasn't I smiling? Second, worry that I was telling the truth. She needed to do something with her hands, so she reached for her glass of white wine and took a sip. "Oh, yeah? What's the trigger word?"

I waited until she took another sip. Maybe here's a good moment to mention a weird hobby of mine. I really wanted, with a well-timed joke, to get Emma to spray something she'd just sipped. To make it more challenging and funnier, I'd told her what I was doing, like when I'd told Jackie I was going to nutmeg him. The upshot was that Emma was always wary in formal settings. The interplay between us, the fun of trying to get the timing just right, the right word in the right place, not a word that's too funny, too crude... it had to be pitched absolutely perfectly. A couple of times I'd made her jackknife back on her chair, but I hadn't achieved spray yet.

So she took the sip, and suddenly understood what I'd set up. She was on high alert. I was going to say some unexpected word - no clue why but I'd chosen Mayonnaise - and she was going to try not to react.

But it was so exhausting. So pointless. The complexity of it all gave me a headache. I rubbed my temples and said, "Never mind."

Emma's face fell. "Maybe we should go."

"No," I said. "I'm all right. It's really nice here. I might shut up for a bit, though."

James O filled my glass with still water, and told me I was welcome to pop by to any sessions I wanted. They were training before and after lunch every day, and next week they'd start on ball work and positional drills.

"We're leaving this Sunday," I said. "But I'd love to try that swimming thing."

"You're very welcome," said Mateo. "I was a player, once. I know what it's like being injured. It's a lonely place. My physio always told me, 'Health is other people'. You don't have to do this alone, Max. There's pools, there's tennis, there's weights, but there's also coaches and physios. We can always spare a guy, can't we James? Get yourself healthy. Anything you want. I mean it."

"I mean," I said, then decided not to finish the sentence.

"Go on," insisted Mateo.

"Well, no. It's absurd." He made me spit it out. "It's just... if you're doing a mini game any time this week. Firsts against reserves kind of thing. If I could run the reserves... I know I'll be shit, but better to get back on the wagon a thousand miles away from base, isn't it? So what if I get dicked? When I'm back in Chester... they all think I'm pretty good. If I do stupid things they'll think my head's wrecked."

Something flashed between the owner and the manager. James O put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a two-second massage. "I'm sure that can be arranged, Max. Now, get stuck into these tapas. Try that one. It's ham-on. That's Spanish for ham. Goes great with toast."

***

Next morning, Emma found me on the balcony with a pen and paper. She hugged my neck and tried to work out what I was writing. It didn't help that my fine motor skills were trash. Instead of writing whole words, I stuck to single capital letters.

"What are you doing?"

"Youth system. Everyone who turned eighteen is gone. So I'm thinking about which kids we've got. Up here, this V, that's Vivek. He's in the under eighteens. The next five are eighteens, too. K is for Kian. Did you meet him? I guess you didn't. Vivek's got two years, then he goes up to the firsts, or he's out. I think he'll make it." I pointed at the next section. "The sixteens. We're well stocked there. B is for Benny. T is for Tyson."

"This is like the world's most specific 'learning to read' book."

"Most are new in the sixteens, but we already had a couple of decent fifteen year-olds like Lucas Friend. He was a goalie I made into a left-back. In here's Future, but he's much younger than the rest. In that group, there are thirteen players who are talented." I tapped some of the initials. "Goalie. Left-back. We've got every position covered except right-back. That team is exciting. Next there's the twelves. Seven good 'uns here. Two goalies, Stephen Watson is a DM. The best prospect in the entire system, but he's ten. Tadpole is the best goalie at the club, but he's ten an' all."

"Tadpole's a great name for a goalie."

"Right? You didn't notice I skipped an age group."

She slipped into the chair next to me. "The fourteens?"

"Yeah. If we have these guys with the sixteens and these with the twelves, we could disband the fourteens."

"Would that save money?"

"A little bit. I won't do it. There are still some kids in that group. None with talent. It's just an idle thought. The sixteens will be the most interesting group if I want to practice some weird new tactics or go to a tournament. But they need my help the least. I want to go round all the schools like I said, find some players, beef up the numbers." I bit the pen. "I reckon in August I'll focus on the men's team. Do the matches, fill the holes in the squad. That might be exhausting enough. Transfer window closes on September first. I can scout school kids in September and October."

"Who's going to manage the women's team?"

"Good question." As it stood, I was Chester's Director of Football, first team manager, and women's team manager. When the curse came back, I'd be able to keep an eye on both squads. If I appointed a full-time manager for the women, would I lose that screen? That was something I couldn't remember from before my attack - when, exactly, did the women's team appear in my page? When that memory came back, I'd be better able to make a decision. "Probably Jill as caretaker manager. I'll talk to her and the team. Is Dani okay?"

"Dani is okay." Emma took the paper away, then gave me another head cuddle. "Right. The men are fine. The women are fine. The kids are fine. Let's get physical."

Tekkers: Zero.

***

The next three days had a new pattern. We'd go to where Tranmere were training (there were more players and staff every day) and I'd use the counter-current pool for as long as I could. I'd recover on a sunbed, then do a fast walk. That was hard - it felt like all my bones were slamming into each other, especially around my neck - but one of the Tranmere physios was with me at all times, and they pushed me to do a little more than I felt ready for. On the third day, I felt like breaking into a jog, and I asked for a second opinion.

"I reckon you can do it."

So I sped up. Not exactly the pace 20 I'd shown for Darlington, but to me it felt like the down section of a rollercoaster. I laughed, giddy from the discombobulated, almost forgotten feeling, and suddenly I was being force-cuddled by a weeping Emma.

"What? What?" I said, astonished. All I did was jog five yards.

"That's the first time you've even smiled," she said. A lot of pent-up emotion came bubbling out. Literally bubbling out. Ugh.

It's fair to say Emma was popular with the players and coaches, and a few came over to check on her. "Emma, what's up?" said James O.

She detached from me and gave him the same treatment. "Thank you. Thank you."

He gave her a squeeze. "You're all right. It was nothing." He looked around at the other coaches. He made a face like 'aww'. It was smiles all round. They'd done something nice for a fellow professional, and this was their reward. No good deed goes unpunished? Nah. "It's just a shame you're leaving so soon."

Emma detached from him, eyes wide. She took my hand, got fierce, and jabbed her finger at some invisible enemy. "We're staying! We'll be back tomorrow! If that's okay with you!"

***

Emma pushed our flights back, extended our stay in the hotel. I worried about the cost, but not for long. Another week and maybe I would be able to run up the volcano.

After lunch with a dozen Tranmere guys brave enough to try a vegan joint, Emma and I had our traditional bedroom reading session. Emma was under the covers, already on her third book - Normal People by Sally Rooney - and I finally closed The Da Vinci Code.

"That was terrible," I said, tossing the book aside. "I loved it."

Emma put hers down and gently fussed my hair. "You got faster. You were whizzing through the pages at the end."

"Yeah. I think that's why Dean chose it. At first I was all like, did he look up a list of bestsellers and pick the one at the top? Did he give it three seconds' thought? But no. I'm pretty sure he picked it because the chapters are so short. There's always an excuse to take a break."

"You're starting to like him more."

"We spent time together in St. Cyril's. He's all right. He's got a big chip on his shoulder about something, but once you get to know him, he's really all right." I squirmed so that Emma could fuss with more of my head. She liked to feel around, trying to find my stitches, and she was so gentle it made me feel safe. "We talked it out. I asked what he wanted. He wants to do advanced research into sports injuries. Get funding and do trials and whatnot. I said we'd support him as much as we could, but for now he was the face of our medical team and I couldn't have him stropping around the place being all mardy."

"You said that to him while he was helping you learn to walk again?"

"What better time?"

"Almost any other time."

"Nah."

"He saved your life."

"About eight people saved my life. Anyway, I got three points against Chorley, so we're even. No, it was good. I'd said it all before, I think, but in that setting it was obvious I meant it, and when I said something he had time to think about it before replying, and vice versa. He said what was on his mind, too. We cleared the air."

"You think he'll try to be a bit friendlier?"

"He already was. And you know what was good? One of the rehab people from St. Cyril's was a bit of a dick. Quite abrasive. Didn't like Dean being there. Felt undermined or whatever. And after that sesh I did a big 'confession' about how horrible it was to be so scared and weak and to have people be mean to me. Which was not quite the case and Dean knew that, but he got the point. All right, fun book. Good choice. One relationship point to Dean."

***

Lap of the hotel, breakfast with a nice retired couple from Somerset, counter-current pool, light jog.

Now Tranmere were doing ball work, and James O let me get up close and watch the drills. Emma offered to take notes so I could use these drills in my coaching courses. During breaks, I sat on a ball and doodled ideas for tweaking the drills. That was good practice for my fine motor skills, too.

"What's that you're doing?" said a coach. Welsh guy called Colin.

"Oh. Just brainstorming. You're doing two v two that turns into four v four. It's a good drill. Great for pre-season, isn't it? It's got some ball work, some sprints, defensive awareness, you're building little units. Yeah, I like it. But the players get the hang of it, don't they? I'm thinking of how to challenge their decision-making, too."

"Right. Like what?"

"Make a zone on the sides where one of the players has to stay."

"Ah, I'm with you. Most coaches do that kind of thing in the middle."

"I'm a winger," I said.

"Most coaches don't coach the way they played. Normally it's the opposite. Strikers make the most defensive managers."

"Is that right?" said Emma. "Why's that?"

"One of life's mysteries," laughed the coach. "I was a defender, but I love doing attacking drills." He looked at my sketch. "We could give that a try."

"No, thanks. It's probably gibberish. I'll try it on my youth teams, maybe. With them I can say 'oh that didn't work, ignore the last twenty minutes' and they accept it. If I said that to Sam Topps I'm not sure he'd be very happy."

"I know Sam. Good player."

"If you ever want to buy him, let me know. We're a selling club. I want a counter-current pool."

Another drill I liked started as crossing practice. A guy on the side of the practice area played a long pass to a coach, who stopped the ball. The player sprinted and had the chance to hit a first-time cross. Meanwhile, two defenders and an attacker sprinted from the same starting line as the crosser. If the attacker ran fast, he'd have a chance to get on the end of the cross. If he was slow, he'd have to hope for a header. If he and the defenders were equally fast, he had to decide to dart to the front or far post and hope the crosser could predict which way he'd go.

So far, so basic.

But then, whether the attackers scored or not, the goalie would grab a ball and the defenders were now attackers. They'd dash back up the pitch and the crosser and striker would have to sprint back to try to defend. So two long sprints with decisions to make. Fantastic. Like in a real match.

In the break, Coach Colin came over, slightly out of breath, drinking from a thick plastic bottle. "Got any upgrades on that one?"

"Maybe. Another winger on the other side. Maybe."

That didn't make sense to Colin. "Why? What do you get?"

"More decisions. If you switch the play, you're allowed out of your zone. If you do it early, you get two v two competing for the cross." I bit my nail. "Needs to be a cost. Maybe if you leave your zone, you can't defend the next transition. Yeah. So you can increase your chance of scoring... No, that wouldn't do it. I want it so that if you take a risk, there's a cost. What could the cost be?"

"If you choose to switch, you can leave your zone, but the Goalie can't leave his six-yard box. Easier finish for the other team."

I nodded. He was a good coach. "That might do it."

Emma was on the grass next to me, enjoying the sun. Whenever a conversation started, she popped her earphones out to check I didn't try to get 'unhealthy' information. "But Max, why do you want that? You always want your players to attack."

"Not only. If we can attack, we should attack. If we have to defend, we'll defend. I tried to set my team up so they had a lot of autonomy. Youngster, Sam, and Glenn set the tempo. These kinds of drills are where they can practice that. And look, I'm comfortable if there's only three guys back ready for counter-attacks, but not all the players are so at ease. We will concede goals if we do things my way. I want the players to know it's worth it." I pointed to the pitch. "This is a physical challenge. It rewards positioning, crossing, heading, passing. I want another dimension. Football's a mental challenge, too."

Colin took another squirt of his drink. "You're in the National League North, right?"

"Yeah."

He didn't know what to do with his face. "Fitness. Heading. Tackling. Someone who can cross. A goalscorer. That's all you need."

"What Max Best needs," I said, "and what Max Best wants... are two very different things."

"You wanna win and play good football?"

"Yep. Yeah," I said. "I've got coaches for the basics." My new assistant manager would start in July. He didn't know much about football, but he knew about fitness. He'd train the fuck out of the team. According to Barnesy, if I was a player and he told me to keep running, I'd keep running. "Fitness? Tick. I suspect we'll be one of the fittest teams in the league." Then I had Vimsy for the shuffles and slides. The offside trap. Defensive spacing. Set pieces. "Dinosaur stuff? Tick." Emma and MD, seeing my improvement, had been drip-feeding me bits of news. All very carefully curated. Jude had been taken on as a full-time coach. He'd be a floater, covering gaps in schedules. One day the first team, the next the women, the next the under twelves. Spectrum still had his hands full, but would be available for some first-team sessions if I needed him. Terry was still almost exclusively doing the Chester Knights, but could do a little extra if it was urgent. Family commitments meant it really, really needed to be urgent. "I need an elite coach who is willing to come to the sixth tier. Colin, who've you got?"

"Elite coach?" he laughed. "If I knew one who'd work in the lower leagues, he'd be here at Tranmere, wunnee?"

"Do you know anyone amazing who's unemployed?"

"No."

"Do you know anyone shit who's unemployed?"

"Yes."

"Do you know anyone who's... medium?"

He placed the water bottle down on the short grass, and stretched. He turned his face to the sun and basked. "I'll have a think. And I'll keep my ears to the ground."

"Thanks."

He walked off. "How's your energy?" asked Emma.

I considered the question. "Good. Might do a few laps of the hotel before we read."

"How about we go to the dolphins like you promised?"

"To the dolphinarium!" I cried.

"Yeah in a minute." She held her phone up. "You know what I want."

Tekkers: Zero.

***

I got stuck into Magnus's choice of reading material - the seminal graphic novel, Watchmen.

I didn't have to think hard about why he'd chosen it. When Emma picked it up and flicked through, a card fell out from the back - I would have found it when I got to the end.

'Max. This had your name on it. First, there are lots of pictures in case you get tired of reading. Second, the heroes are villains and the villains are heroes. Third, I thought you would appreciate the audacity. Magnus.'

"What do you think of Magnus?" said Emma.

"Amazing guy. Knows loads about loads. Stuff I've never heard of. Have you seen him recently?"

"Yeah."

"When I met him, he had huge gorilla arms from his weight-lifting. Now he's more balanced. Looks like a footballer. Can't wait to see his profile."

I was lucky that Emma was only half-listening.

***

We almost always went for dinner with the Tranmere guys. The whole squad, plus coaches, physios, data guys, admins, and sometimes Mateo and Rachel. The noise and silliness and banter was draining, but when it got a bit much I'd go out onto the terrace and listen to the Atlantic. It was like my AirPods - ten minutes of recharging gave you an hour of use.

Emma was a hit, obviously, but now that Tranmere Rovers were turbocharging my recovery, she was more charming than ever. I ate tapas and watched her work. She was incredible. It wasn't just that she was funny and smart, she also remembered all kinds of details about people. Trev Northcross wasn't just a CA 60 PA 80 reserve goalie (or whatever the real numbers were). He was a guy with two kids and overnight Emma had come up with an idea for a birthday present for the eldest. Mateo wasn't just a guy who ran a football team. He was a linguist who loved telling stories about language, especially misunderstandings he'd gotten into. For example, in German, half-eight wasn't half-past eight, it was seven thirty! He'd once turned up for a date an hour late. Emma lapped it all up, making people feel good about themselves, giving them permission to keep talking.

While I watched her work, I had time to reflect. When I got back to Chester, I'd be able to ease into my new role. We had a team and we had coaches. I didn't need to do a mad trolley dash throwing people into my basket. I could focus on quality. One amazing defender. One amazing coach. The kids were all right, and the club was financially stable. They wouldn't tell me about Henri, which suggested some decision I wouldn't approve of, but they'd also swore, multiple times, that he was doing great.

So the only thing I wasn't totally relaxed about was the women's team. I knew they'd been placed in tier six, but didn't know the levels of the other teams.

"Max," said James O, ending my reverie. "Our first game of the season's against Barrow. They play 4-5-1. You play 4-5-1 with your lot, don't you?"

"With the women, yeah. We've only got one striker." We only had one striker because the best one I found had a hooligan boyfriend. He was the prime suspect for my murder.

"If you're up to managing a game, like you said, I'd love you to set up a 4-5-1 for me to practice against."

Five seconds later, Emma was enveloping James O. "Do I get a hug every time Max smiles?" he said.

"Yes," she said, kissing his head. "Yes, you do."

***

Two laps of the hotel, breakfast with five Irish sisters so I could listen to their accents, a new personal best in the pool, and a jog the full length of a pitch. One cool shower later and I was in the middle of the thirteen players James O had assigned me. My assistant was taking their names, shirt numbers, and their preferred positions.

When I got the list, I put my baseball cap back on. It wasn't time to soak up the sun, it was time to see if I'd learned anything in the last year. Managing a match without the curse wasn't all that stressful. Losing was expected - I had worse players - and I was at far from full mental capacity. The Tranmere lot were super cool and chill. When it came to football, Tenerife was a consequence-free environment.

I stood and stared at the tactics board. It took me much longer than it should have, but I came up with a plan.

"All right shut the fuck up," I said. "Your gaffer wants to have a go against 4-5-1. So we'll start with that like the good and diligent professionals we are." I stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth. "But I like winning. So we're going to give him a little scare." I pushed all the magnets off the side, then brought them back one by one, naming the players. There were no surprises because I didn't know if they were capable of playing somewhere beyond what they'd told Emma. Chances are, one or two had some untapped skills but without the curse, I would never know. I gave some individual instructions based on what I'd seen of them in training. I told them I wanted four outfielders in the rest defence at all times, but the other six could go nuts. That news smacked a lot of eyes open. Normally they were much more rigid. James O'Rourke was another safety-first manager. "Now," I said. "I reckon we'll do this for twenty minutes. Then we'll slip into 4-1-4-1. Carlos, you'll be the DM. No attacking for you. Total positional discipline, yeah? You'll be the playmaker. Set the tempo, pull the strings. Everyone got that?" They did.

"Max," complained Emma. "That's not 4-5-1. James wants 4-5-1!"

I pushed the DM magnet up two inches. "What's this, babes?"

"That's 4-5-1."

"So you see. It's just a tweak. Tiny tweak. He might not even notice."

She wasn't sure she could trust me, so she turned to Trev, the reserve goalie she got on so well with. "Is he being a dick? I don't want James to think of us as ungrateful." She said the last word very much to me.

"It's fine," said the goalie. "It won't make much difference."

"Oh!" I said. I couldn't help myself. Trev thought of himself as a Tommy Tactics, did he? "Mate. You watch. Soon as we make that switch, we'll fucking slap."

I clapped my hands and retook my seat.

The match kicked off. The intensity was pretty good, and they didn't hold back much in the tackles. Trying to keep track of every move, every failed pass, every header won, was tiring - I didn't have the tactics screens or the match ratings. I had to do everything for myself, like a pleb.

James had set the first team up in a 4-3-3, and in their all-white kit they looked awesome. The whites zipped around, being dynamic, trying to move my guys around with short, quick passes and then moving into space. But they were very central. Moving Carlos to DM would cut out a lot of danger. I had to wait a while, though. Emma was right about the ungrateful thing.

"Bebs," I said, and my assistant perked up. "See our 4 and 6 here? Go and shout at them to pass left." I couldn't do what I was doing and shout at the players. Shouting wasn't quite in my wheelhouse yet, anyway.

"Roger roger."

She did and returned. "Now go round to our 5 and 8 and do the same but for the right."

"By your command."

I let that play out for a bit. The firsts were attacking very centrally, and the reserves were using the width. Both defences had been well-coached, so there were few opportunities. Where could I make a breakthrough? It was hard without being able to see the player profiles and not knowing the players that well. Some things were clear, though. My full-backs were fast. "Bebs, tell the full-backs to attack."

"Absolutely. What are full-backs?"

"The left-back and the right-back."

"Why are there so many names?"

"There aren't. It's like brother, sister, sibling. Left-back, right-back, full-back."

"Oh! Good explanation." She strode away to pass on my instructions.

Our attacks started to look better. More dangerous. We'd often have two v ones on the flanks, forcing central players to come out wide to cover, leaving gaps. "This is fun," I said. "Tell Carlos not to go forward, though."

"Si señor."

In a way, this was easier than having the curse. Sure, it was inefficient having to verbalise my instructions. But I could make bigger changes, like pushing players out of the strict formations they were in. I decided we were stronger on the left, and pushed the left-back and left-mid up one slot.

"So that number 3," said Emma, trying to work out what my changes meant. "Is he still a left-back full-back? He's more on the line where Youngster stands."

"Right. We call that a wing-back. It's a hybrid of defender and midfielder. You can say defensive midfielder left, but I don't think it's very common."

"Why have I never seen wing-backs before?"

"You have. Remember you watched Arsenal versus Tottenham? Tottenham had wing-backs."

"Jesus, Max. I didn't know what the hell I was looking at that day."

"It'll be a while before I use wing-backs. Don't worry about it."

"You're using one right now!"

"Oh, right. Yeah. Good point. Basically, I want to push the whites back. I want to be the protagonist. So I'm making a defensive player less defensive and turning a left-mid into a left-winger."

"And this is risky, is it?"

"Yeah," I said, and pulled my sunglasses back over my eyes. "Risky like a fox."

***

The match was only half an hour, and we lost four-two. The players, glistening with sweat, laughed and joked their way to the showers. Well, some laughed and joked. Some looked thoughtful. Worried.

"Are you all right?" said Emma.

"Yeah. That was really tiring. In a good way, babes. But... It's weird... Look, which team seems happier to you?"

She scanned. "Yours."

"But we lost."

Emma shrugged. "I'm no expert, but I think it's more fun playing for you. And when Carlos went to the Youngster space, the whites didn't get many chances, like you said. You only lost because you were mostly sticking to what James wanted. Right?"

I scratched an itch on my nose. Did what she said make sense? Without the match ratings I couldn't really tell, but I'd tried to come up with a grand tactical plan and then adjusted it to suit what seemed to be the strengths and weaknesses of every player. My team gradually got better through the half as I learned what was working for them and what wasn't. Hadn't James O been doing the same?

The man himself came over and did some light banter, teasing me about still having things to learn, but thanking me for sticking to a no-frills formation. Emma shot a glance at me - James hadn't noticed my tweaks, and that surprised her.

Before we went back to the hotel, she whipped out her phone and demanded a kick-up. I dropped a ball. It bounced up and I kicked it a little higher. As it came down, I kicked it again. The third strike it squirted away.

I blinked with surprise. Emma's jaw dropped open. Coach Colin came over and slapped me on the back.

Tekkers: Two.

***

Another fancy restaurant. Another dinner with the Tranmere lot.

I didn't need to take breaks. I found myself smiling at James O's jokes, Mateo's stories, and especially Rachel's corrected versions of those stories.

Emma was much calmer, working less hard. Letting me pick up some of the conversational slack.

When we'd finished eating and were having a few cheeky wines, Trev Northcross came over from one of the long player's tables and sort of crouched to be more on our eye level.

"Sorry everyone, sorry gaffer. Quick Q. Emma, me and the lads keep wondering why you film Max doing one kick-up. Is it that thing where people pay you to record birthday wishes?"

"I'll take this one, honey." As I hoped, she was happy to let me explain, and she reached for her wine. I needed to time this to perfection. "Emma wants to film my recovery and splice together the clips to make an inspirational video. You know, never give up, that sort of thing. But it isn't going very well. She's actually getting quite frustrated with me." She had been about to take a sip, but she paused, wondering if she should deny it. "Ever since the..." I said, my voice quavering. Emma tipped the glass up and the pale liquid left the glass and went past her lips. It was something to do instead of bursting into tears. "Ever since that day, I haven't been able to keep it up."

I didn't get a wine spray, but it was a close-run thing. She half-stood, eyes bulging, cheeks puffed out, before she threw herself back onto her chair and smothered herself with a napkin.

There was lots of good-natured laughter. Emma's recovery was delayed by lots of little laughs. "Max!" she complained. "Don't do that."

"I'm going to get you," I promised.

Trev went back to his table, and I took a sip of wine and drank Emma in. She was amazing. Gorgeous, kind, funny. She was dabbing herself, drying her chin just in case, but her lips were moist. She felt my eyes on her. "What?"

"I'm ready for Rachmaninoff," I declared. Emma stood, thanked our hosts for a lovely time, grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the restaurant, straight into the nearest taxi.

***

Emma extended the trip again - one advantage of working for your dad was getting as much time off as you needed when your boyfriend had just been murdered.

Time had lost all meaning. From hour to hour I made choices. Walk around the hotel for ten minutes or jog on the treadmill for five? Wind down with a jacuzzi or in the salt therapy room? Big breakfast, small lunch, or vice versa? Tranmere or dolphins?

Every day was twenty-two degrees, cloudless blue skies, gentle winds. Tekkers two became tekkers three.

I ploughed through Livia's book. It was called Please Give Jackie Time and Then Try to Help Him Like in Six Months or Whatevs. Niche publishing was wild, man. Okay, fine, it wasn't that. She'd got me the autobiography of Alex Ferguson, the legendary Man United manager. Maybe she thought it was something like a manual of how to manage a football team. Maybe she thought I'd pick up a few tips. I wasn't sure why she'd chosen it. Unlike the book, Livia was hard to read.

***

My second and final chance to manage Tranmere's reserves came the day before they were going to fly home, two days before our departure.

James O gave me some players and let me put them in whatever formation I wanted. Since I knew he'd play 4-3-3, I did something I wouldn't be able to do when the curse came back.

Ten minutes into the game, Coach Colin strode over from the other side of the pitch. "Max. What the fuck formation is this?"

"3-3-4," I said.

"That's insane," he said. By insane, he meant 'delightfully unconventional'. Having more strikers than defenders is not something that's often taught on coaching courses, sure. "Also, no-one's ever going to do that in a real match."

Emma leapt to my defence. "Max would. Also, it's working."

Colin put his fists on his forehead and dragged them back through his hair. Like anyone on the island who moved a lot, he was sweaty. The temperature had risen to 24. Still very pleasant, but maybe Sunday was a good time to go. "Yeah," he said. He seemed annoyed. "It's working. But why?"

"Find me my dream coach and I'll tell you."

The mini-match ended two-two, and this time my players didn't smile as they left the pitch. They shone. The reserves had ended their trip on a high. I'd done well, all things considered.

Emma rolled a ball to me and jutted her chin up.

Tekkers: Five.

***

We said goodbye to the Tranmere squad - took a taxi to their hotel and everything. We hugged a few guys, fist bumped plenty more. One guy - a left-back - winked at Emma and went, "Remember what I said." Cheeky fuck. Flirting in front of me! Left-backs really shouldn't get in my bad books. But then they laughed and he hugged me. It had been a wind-up. Emma's invention. Payback for footgolf, she said.

They got on the team bus and headed off to the airport, with me and Emma waving at them like schoolkids. They turned out of sight, and I felt a twinge of disappointment.

Mateo had come to see them off, too. He was in his usual kit - open shirt, no tie, jacket, and today he was wearing sunglasses. He finished a phone call and wandered over.

"So," he said. "You're looking much better."

"Thanks," I said.

"I was talking to myself," he said, pointing at a mirrored window behind me.

Emma giggled, saying, "That makes no sense."

He put his hand on my shoulder. "Tell me, though. I heard you played 3-3-4 with the reserves yesterday. I've never heard of 3-3-4. Why did you do it?"

His sunglasses stopped me guessing what his vibe was and why he wanted to know. "It's what I did to Emma in footgolf. Copied her."

No change in expression. "I don't follow."

"She kicked fifteen yards, so did I. She went through the tunnel, so did I. It's annoying. Puts you off. In the match, I man-marked every player. Every player! The strikers are used to it. Couple of the midfielders might have had it in the youth teams. But the defenders? No-one's ever man-marked them. It's annoying. It put them off." I laughed. "I was just having fun. Embracing my inner prickness. And I'll tell any story if it means I can play with four forwards."

He took a few beats, then removed his shades. He folded them up and slid them into his jacket pocket. He reached out his hand. While I shook it, he said, "Let's keep in touch."

***

I looked up at the unfamiliar hotel. It was huge. I knew no-one inside. There was no reason to stay, but where would we go? The island suddenly seemed empty.

Something popped up in my vision. I felt woozy, just for a second. Emma grabbed me, but with no real panic. "Max?"

"I'm okay. I was just overcome by an incredible desire..." Her eyes widened; she bit her lip. Rachmaninoff? Again? "We've only been to, like, four places. Let's rent a Vespa and ride around."

"Aww, canny! I'll ask at the desk. Wait..." Suspicion. "Where do you want to go first?"

I grinned. "Okay. Maybe one of the coaches told me he'd seen a good player. Maybe we could go take a peek. But after that... second star to the left and straight on till morning."

She liked the sound of that, and scooted inside.

I still didn't have the tactics screens or the news feed, but one little part of the curse was back.

I was considered healthy enough... for Playdar.