5.

"Football is like chess, only without the dice." Lukas Podolski, 49 goals in 130 games for the German national team and owner of the world's most famous kebab shop.

***

Monday, 14 August

Transfer Window: 18 Days Remaining

The day before a match, training is normally a bit less intense. It's certainly shorter. But normal wasn't a word that I heard much in relation to Chester Football Club, unless it was preceded by 'ab'.

Why were we doing a full-length session? Because I was testing my new staff profile knowledge; I'd put Jude in charge of first team training. The curse said he was my best coach of outfield players, so instead of having him float around filling in gaps in schedules, he was my new main man. Boom. Take a pawn, promote him to a golden pawn. That's how chess works, right?

Vimsy was still the most senior, most visible coach. My bishop. He'd be the one helping me on the touchline, the one who'd yell at players when they were late, and all that kind of thing. I'm sure his demotion from the guy leading the training sessions would have been slightly awkward under normal circumstances - that word again - but when Jackie left I'd used all my coaching resources in a mad whirlwind of drills and mini drills. Asking more from Jude, if anything, was a return to my kind of normality.

The players responded - we had a few bits of green, a couple of bumps in CA. Jude!

Maybe Jude and one new guy could replace Jackie. How could I do tests that would provide concrete answers? I could use the Triplets, maybe. The older brothers were pretty similar in terms of their profiles and starting points. I could give Andrew one coach, and Michael two coaches, and see who'd improved most after a month. Was that science? Maybe. It seemed pretty weird, though. They were human beings, not chess pieces, and I needed them both to improve as fast as poss. I'd have to guess for now and hope to find definitive answers eventually.

As I strolled around, Jude was running a transition and pressing drill. We didn't press much as a team, certainly not in the coordinated, precise way elite teams did. But it was a drill that was also good for passing, technique, and stamina, and engaged players' brains more than most. Jude blew his whistle, and that was the end of the session. The players looked tired, but happy.

I blew my own whistle, but not so loud it would hurt my delicate ears. The players rushed over to form a semi-circle around me. I wasn't sure if that haste was because they didn't want to keep me waiting or if it was because the Brig was wearing his blankest expression - his scariest.

"Good sesh. Thanks, Jude. Lads, I want to have chats with you all this week. Give you some goals and talk about your hopes and dreams and all that. Today I need to see Youngster, the goalies, Raffi, and Henri. Henri's going to take his usual hour-long shower, so by all means hang around and come talk to me until then. It won't take too long. All right? James, let's walk."

I chatted to him on the way to my little office. The Brig followed, not to keep me safe, but to learn about football.

Once in my office - my office! Jackie's stuff was still on the walls - the first couple of minutes was me asking about his dad. Was he okay? Had he been very stressed? Is there anything he needed? James asked me to stop worrying.

"It's pretty hard, mate. Your dad saved my life."

"Saving people is what we long to do," said James, smiling into his lap.

"Sir," said the Brig. "I've been to see Mr. Yalley. I'd say he's in rude health."

"Indeed he is!" said James.

"When have you seen him?"

"Visiting him was the second thing I did as part of my investigation."

"You know I'm going to ask what the first was. Don't make me waste energy."

The Brig nodded. "The CCTV footage. I didn't find anything useful, but I ensured there were copies. A lot of places overwrite the drives. Or, in the case of the Deva Stadium, the tapes. I also sourced footage from nearby shops, the car showroom, and so on. Sometimes when I have a spare twenty minutes, I look through them."

I thought about making some joke, but the guy was my only real hope of finding out who attacked me. If he was being diligent about it, great. "Thanks." James had been very still during that little chat. I remembered why he was here. "Bro. First of all, you were right about Moisés Caicedo." He looked panicked. "You don't remember? In the World Cup. We watched Ecuador against..."

"Qatar."

"Of course! And I had that question about the player with the highest transfer value. And today he's going to sign for Chelsea for a British record fee. £115m! You weren't just right, you were really right!"

James beamed. "You should write to the organisers and request a bonus point."

"That's not the worst idea. Hey, I've just had a brainwave. Find some time to sit with the Brig and explain to him what factors are involved in transfer fees."

The idea of spending time alone with the Brig horrified James, and he struggled to keep his emotions contained. "Of course."

"Oh! And since you've shown some potential in player assessment, I'd like to sign you up to a scouting course."

"A scouting course?"

"Yeah. Quick intro into how to be a scout. Maybe I can send you to watch a certain player for me. The club will pay the costs of the course and any travel we make you do." This was a genius idea. I had loads of players - male and female - and the chances were high that two or three of them would have great coaching or scouting stats. Normally people started looking into post-playing roles late in their career. But if Youngster did this course, the curse would have to give him a scouting profile, right? And I'd see, fifteen years ahead of schedule, if he had any talent.

"Is this voluntary?"

"Of course. It's completely voluntary as long as you agree to do it. If you refuse, it will stop being voluntary."

"I understand."

"Top." And if he was a shit scout, I'd send him on a coaching course! "Now, then. You've been more than generous in playing for basically free. It's time to sign you up to a proper contract. It's obviously pretty weird that I'm your agent and your manager, but I've got a solution to that."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. The solution is that I don't give a shit what anyone thinks. You need a good wage, but I need to keep some budget so I can sign more players."

My new weekly budget for player and staff salaries was sixteen thousand pounds. (The women's team had their own funding.) Including the 95 a week Youngster was getting, the combined 850 the elder Harrison Triplets were on, and the 800 a week we were (under)paying Henri, I'd used 13,320. Giving James 500 a week or so would leave me with just over two grand. Four average players. Two good players and a good coach. One Henri.

"Okay. Of course I will do as you say."

"Wait wait wait. I'm being flippant but this is a serious thing. This is your life. Your future."

"I have faith that you will not guide me wrong."

"Look, just choose a number between four hundred and six hundred."

He grinned. "Six hundred."

"Top," I said, writing that down. "You get six hundred chances to say the number that's in my head."

He tutted and looked at the ceiling. "Five hundred."

"Deal!" I said, with a slight smile. "Here's the thing. We're a small team. The facilities are... what they are. You've been to Man City. You've seen where Kisi is learning. We can train you to a certain level. And next season we'll be playing against better teams so you'll be able to improve a bit more. The thing is, even if we get promoted every year all the way to the Prem, very soon we'll be holding you back. I'm not sure when the best time for the club to sell you is. One year, two years. I'm not sure, yet. But no more. I know you'll make friends and you'll want to stay, but it's not your destiny. I'm serious, now. We can't have a thing where I'm expecting to sell you in a year or two and you turn round and say God told you to stay. We've done that bit, and it worked out great for me. The best thing for you, me, and the club, is that you let me move you on at the right time."

He fussed with something on his training top. "It will be hard, Mr. Best."

Leaving and starting somewhere new wasn't emotionally challenging for me, but it was for most people. "I know." I sighed. "I know. But it has to be this way. We'll give you a three-year contract. 500 a week, and if you keep improving I'll give you a raise next summer. All right? Any questions?"

"Can I have a goal bonus?"

"No. I don't want you shooting. You're terrible." His finishing had climbed to seven, but I suspected there was an attribute called Long Shots. From his DM position, Youngster wasn't normally close to the goal, and sometimes he'd get carried away and shoot from thirty yards out. He was definitely Long Shots 1. If I could get him to never shoot again, that alone would add five million to his eventual transfer value. It was unlike him to ask for more, though. Greed was a sin. "Is 500 not enough?"

"With all the travelling..."

"What? Are you still in Manchester? You need to move here. I moved here when I was in a coma. It's easy."

"Is that another voluntary order?"

"No, mate. It's common sense." Common sense would have told me that he could hardly move out of his parent's home when he was on minimum wage. "Ugh. What am I talking about? Okay, scratch that. But start looking now, yeah? You work in Chester. Start looking at options, okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Best."

***

The goalies came in next, along with their coach, Angles.

"Ben, two games under your belt. Nice. But I want Robbo to get one soon. Get his season started. Get match fit, ready to come in at a moment's notice and all that. So Robbo, we've got Chorley tomorrow night and Banbury on Saturday. You can choose which one you play."

"Oh!" said Robbo. His new boss was being weird again. Ab, meet normal. "Okay. When do you need to know by?"

"Now. Choose now. What the fuck."

"Oh. Are you serious?"

I let my face do my talking.

Robbo looked at his hands. "So... Chorley."

"Why? Because we beat them last time?"

"It's home. Bigger crowds. I like a big crowd."

"That's it, then. Job done. Ben, you're Banbury. Any questions?"

"What about next week?" said Angles.

"What am I, some kind of floating chess brain who can think three moves ahead?"

"Yes," said Angles.

"Okay, fine, you got me. But I've just upgraded from thinking one match at a time to one week at a time. I trust both these pricks. That's all for now."

They left.

"That was clever," said the Brig.

"Was it?"

"I would have expected you to pick which match suited which goalkeeper. But letting Robbo choose shows you meant it when you said he'd play matches this season and doesn’t feel like you’re dropping Ben."

I nodded. I felt good about it. "Yeah. I'm not quite thinking three moves ahead, yet. But I'm starting to see some very obviously good ones, if you know what I mean. Open goals. Tap ins. Easy wins. I'll see Raffi, next."

***

Raffi and I had a quick, easy chat. Catching up. Checking in. He had a good contract, negotiated by yours truly, and was now on 750 pounds a week. Decent money. That wasn’t what I wanted to talk to him about.

"Bro, I notice you've come back fitter and sharper than ever."

"I trained the best I could over the summer. Tried to get some mates to do drills with me, that sort of thing. My first season nearly ended in relegation. When it was sure we were staying up, that I was going to get another season for sure, I was like, I can't let this slip. I've got to be on it from minute one next season."

I spun a pen around my fingers - fine motor skills training. "Well, I noticed it. I feel a breakout season on the horizon. It's my job to make sure you get top coaching, top players to play with, and minutes in the team. But to really leave no stone unturned, I'd like you to do a coaching course."

He bowed his head. "You sure?"

He'd had a quick go on a youth team and in his mind, it had ended in disaster. "When you did that match - was it the under twelves? - I noticed you the next week. You were more thoughtful. You weren't just doing the drills, you were wondering why we were doing them. Starting to think like a coach. I want that from my players even if you don't do any coaching. Believe me, if you're shit, you're not taking any sessions at this club. Don't worry about me asking you to do things you're not good at. But that mentality, that way of thinking about the game. That's worth the course fee, and that's worth a bit of your time." I paused. "Do you need to think about it?"

"No, Max. I'll do it."

"Top bins."

He stood, and turned a fraction towards the door. "Are you really all right?"

"I am now," I said, giving him the biggest smile I could manage.

He left. The Brig gave me a nod. I was on fire!

***

Henri came in, leaving a wispy trail of floating mandarin and white musk. He swished a light scarf around his neck, spreading the scent even more.

"Is that Old Spice?"

"No, Max. It is not Old Spice."

I invited him to sit down, but not in front of my desk. At the back of the room, I'd got two short chairs and a small table that almost matched the height. On it was a chess board. It was one of those ghastly cheap plastic monstrosities, but it was the best the Brig could do at short notice. He suggested that if I wanted better quality, I should choose my theme for the week with a bit more alacrity.

I sat in front of the white pieces.

"I see," said Henri. "Your injury has improved to the point where you are able to imagine yourself capable of beating me at chess."

"Not only will I beat you, but I will tell you how I'm going to beat you and in how many moves."

"Indeed? Then let us decide who plays as white." He picked up a white pawn and a black pawn. Chess people hide them in their fists and you choose one and the one you get is the colour you play.

"No, I have to be white. I only know the rules for white."

"The rules are the same."

"Look, I don't have a chess tutorial butt plug, all right? I only know how to play white. I'm white." I moved my king's pawn two spaces forward. "How was training?"

He moved a pawn one space forward. Jesus. He was one of those guys. "It was good. I like Jude's sessions."

I moved a bishop. Very big, sweeping gesture. Top wing play. "Let's talk about why you're still here."

He pushed a pawn to block the most likely line of attack from my bishop. "I have a scheme. One that suits all our needs."

I moved a knight out into the world. "Pray tell."

He moved another pawn. His defence already looked impenetrable. "Short-term, you need a goalscorer. Long-term, you need transfer funds. I will sign a contract here. You can sell me in January."

I moved the other knight. "Go on."

He moved another fucking pawn. "I could earn a higher wage at another club. But I want to stay here. I want to win games for you on Saturdays and thrash you at chess on Sundays."

I tried moving a pawn. It seemed to be a good thing. "You'll play here for a low salary? Is that what you're saying? I can't have that. You already lost thousands letting me stay in your house."

"One cannot lose what one never had." He moved a bishop, like, three spaces. What's the point?

"So you want to stay here for eight hundred pound a week? No way. I won't do it."

"You're not my agent any more, Max."

"I'm a football fan. I want to see you at the highest level you can play at."

He shrugged as he took one of my pawns. "If I score, say, fifteen goals before January. How much could you sell me for?"

I made some random move. I couldn't see through the layers of pawns and bishops he'd created. "I don't know. Let's say fifty thousand."

"That seems low."

"If you've got six months left on your contract why would someone pay more?"

"I could sign a three-year contract. Could you get a hundred thousand?" He took one of my knights, somehow.

"If I get the right coach in to lift you up to your old level. If we go on a cup run and you boss it against some bigger teams. If you cut out the wrestling. Sure."

The number of ifs didn't bother him. He moved a piece backwards. I finally had him on the ropes! "So we split the money. The club gets half, I get half."

I frowned. "That's weird. Is that a thing?"

"I doubt it. If the club owns the player's registration, why would they give up half? If the player is out of contract, why would he give up half? But if we work together, we can increase the pot. It solves many problems. I get to stay and play vivid football, you get money to improve the team, I get compensated."

I looked away from the board and considered the idea from different angles. "It seems to be absolutely bonkers. I love it. What's the catch? What am I missing?"

His lips twitched. "When you see how vital I am to your title charge, you may reconsider selling me. I will be a prisoner here."

"I can live with that," I joked.

"Yes," he said, and with a start I realised he was attacking my king from multiple vectors. "Yes, perhaps I could, too. That image you suggested of us holding the trophy surrounded by our friends, the opposite of how the last story ended. It is compelling. Why don't I stay for the rest of the season? You can sell me in the summer as easily as in January. Perhaps for an even higher fee."

I picked up a pawn and looked at it for a minute. Trying to calculate. Failing. For some reason my thoughts kept drifting to the possibility of using God Save the King to improve Henri's finishing attribute. It would help with this season and any coming transfer, but it was dumb when considered over a ten-year horizon. I needed to be very careful not to make short-term moves simply because I could only think one move ahead. I put the pawn down and slid it one space forward. "Checkmate in seven moves," I announced.

"No, Max."

"Pardon me?"

"I already checkmated you four moves ago. I give you the benefit of the doubt for obvious reasons, but... I do not think you were ever very good at chess. What made you think you could beat me this morning?"

I shrugged. "I just assumed I'd be good at it. Huh. Lesson learned."

He chuckled. "Oh, Max. You are incorrigible."

"You encourage me, too, mate. Thanks." I stretched. "Have you rented out your place in Darlo?"

"I sold it."

"Oh." That hit hard. "What about the crabapple tree? I wanted to see it alive."

"You saw it alive, my friend. But I know what you mean. We can go on a pilgrimage, if you wish. But I will buy a new house. When my future is decided. And we can choose a tree together, and plant it there."

I was getting a bit tired. I was on the verge of talking absolute shit. "You should buy a place in Chester and rent a room to Youngster. Oh, and Pascal."

"I should become the unofficial digs? Ho. What a thought."

"There's going to be more and more super talents. Someone could make a killing renting to them. I'd do it if I had a few hundo." Time to wrap this up. I got up and went to my desk, found my pen. I spun it around my fingers and tried to summarise the discussion. "So I can plan around you being here until January. For eight hundred a week. And we'll sell you, or not, and either way is great."

"Succinct." He offered me a handshake. I accepted. "Perhaps one day I'll teach you how to play chess."

"Sure," I said.

He looked back at the far side of the room. "Perhaps it will take more than one day."

The Brig suppressed a laugh and Henri strode to the door - it was a fucking amazing exit line. I hated that I had to ruin it. "Wait," I cried. "Soz. It's just that I need you to take a coaching course."

"I will do as you ask," he said, swept his scarf around him, and left.

And I was even more astonished. He'd topped his own line! "John," I said, forgetting the cool nickname I'd invented. "Is it just me or was that cool?"

"It was the coolest thing I've seen today."

"Tough crowd. Okay, no more brain work for a bit. I'll do a jog, lunch, nap, then this evening I have a surprise for a lot of women."

***

The women's team was gathered around, full of pent-up energy, ready to work off the stresses and frustrations of the weekend. But first, they had to listen to me. To be fair, they didn't mind. I hadn't spent much time with them recently.

"Ladies and ladies," I said, in my speech voice. "The grandmaster is back, and this time my positional play is better than ever." I paused. Hadn't I been dreaming of a way to evolve past rigid formations and prescribed solutions? Did I really want football to be played like chess? Short term, I had no other choice. I pressed on. "This is my assistant manager, John. I make the men's team call him Brigadier because he was in the army and in my opinion, Brigadier sounds cool and no-one knows what level it actually is."

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"I know what level it is," said the Brig.

"You don't count."

"Very good, sir."

"First item of bizniz. I'm sure you've been told but just in case, the men's team and the back office staff are going to watch the Women's World Cup semi-final on Wednesday lunchtime. England's Lionesses against the Matildas. How awesome are those names, by the way? It's not too late to rebrand you. Something mighty: Chester Warrior Queens. Or something sure to get us a juicy sponsorship: Chester Coke Fiends. I'm just saying. So, the semi-final. Any of you who can make it, you're more than welcome, and your partners or a friend. Unless they're Australian. Sicilian defenders are most welcome, and there will be food. Pawn cocktail sandwiches. Gambit and eggs on toast. Fianchettoed beef. And, of course, there will be plenty of forks."

Pleasantries done, I looked at my former team, who were still technically my current team, but not really. They'd have a new manager soon enough.

In terms of talent, most were pawns, and always would be. There were three players tied on CA 14 as the current best in class, and there were six who were talented enough to come with us to the next level after we got promoted. Bonnie, Lucy, and Bea Pea were knights. Pippa and Maddy had enough talent to be bishops. What's a female bishop? Not a bishopric. Ah! High Priestess. And, of course, there was one grandmaster. Wait, I was the grandmaster; Dani was the queen. Ugh. Anyway, whether they were pawns or queens, they'd all, every single one, worked their arses off, and they'd all kept my promise to Dani that we'd have a proper team.

"So it's got all weird and awkward because of all the mad stuff that happened. I didn't want to wait too long to come and tell you that you are still my special little chess pieces and I promise never to sacrifice you to take a rook."

Bonnie, the powerful centre-back with great leadership qualities, said, "Max, you're accidentally talking shit again. Is it true you made the men go on an SAS boot camp?"

I looked to the Brig. He replied, "The men's team took part in a two-and-a-half day corporate team building event. SAS selection involves a sixteen-mile trek across the Brecon Beacons carrying four stones of weight in a rucksack. The course must be completed in eight hours forty-five minutes. If you believe the processes to be comparable, I should like to hear more of your fresh and unique perspectives on life."

"Stop being sexy and intense, please. Thanks. That's my job." I looked up at the floodlights. "Right. Season starts in September. It's weird, isn't it, the schedule? One match every two weeks. Sundays instead of Fridays. Since you're playing semi-pro football, some of you are going to be offered semi-pro contracts." There was a little buzz of excitement. "That's going to be fun for me. I like the idea of rewarding you for your hard work and talent. But look, let's be real. Most of you will carry on the same as last season, with a bit of a pay bump. It's really not a fair reflection on how hard you worked and how fucking badass you were last year. But that's football. It's my job to be cruel. So... soz. I mean... Sorry." I blew air out of my cheeks so I wouldn't start tearing up. I rubbed my lips hard. "The good news is I exploit the men even worse, so for this season at least, the pay gap won't be that bad."

I looked around. Dani, reading the text as it appeared on her phone. Pippa, looking tanned. Maddy, with a new punk-inspired trim.

"I'll talk to you all individually over the next few weeks but until then, I want you to know that I'll be checking on you this season. Watching you closely. Making sure everything's laid on that you need. To that end, I'm in the market for a really, really good coach slash manager. Sort of a Max Best replacement with more focus on coaching and less emphasis on, you know, soap opera. Basically, someone to make sure you improve as much as poss this year. Watch this space. If I'm a bit slow on that, no probs. We've got Jill, and you all know how to play. I reckon you lot would do a good job with the league this year. You'd have a good stab at it. But there's no doubt you need reinforcements. A bit of competition all over the pitch." I tried to repress a smirk. "So I've got a surprise for you. In chess, you get your pieces and that's it. But in footy, you can just go and recruit a load of new cannon fodder. I mean, players. It took a while because I've been slow replying to all my messages, but one email I found recently was from a trio of former Man City players. They'll be coming to training on Wednesday. I don't want to hype them up or anything but..."

I smiled. My silence did the hyping for me.

"I'll see you on Wednesday!"

***

"That was interesting," said the Brig, as we jogged around a spare pitch. I was finding it possible to do multiple training sessions a day, now. "Do you think they'll train harder today because of the way you made them fear for their place in the hierarchy?"

"I'm sure they will," I said. "But plus ten percent effort for one session is meaningless. No, I was uncomfortable announcing that there would be a split..." I waited to catch my breath. Jogging and talking was hard. "A split between the amateurs and the semi-pros. Bringing in some talents from City explodes that whole debate. The squad... the squad will see there's a whole different level. Three-quarter pro. I'm hoping the City ladies will seriously raise the bar. Dani will strive to catch up. Pippa and Maddy, too. And the rest won't feel so bad... about not being paid the same."

"If the new players are so much better, then yes."

"Well, quite. We'll see."

"You're uncomfortable with the contract discussions."

"Partly. Almost everyone works hard. Sacrifices. So I'm basing how much they get paid on how afraid I am of losing them." I was starting to pant. The Brig stopped jogging so I could catch my breath. I already knew him quite well - he'd let me finish, let me recover, and then we'd continue in silence. "So it's based on my personal assessment of their talent. Which is unfair. If I were one of the unlucky ones, I'd resent it."

"I understand. I will monitor for unhappy campers."

"Bit more jog, then I'm done for the day. Do you think we can drive around and look for my car?"

He checked one of his watches. He was down to two, now. "Yes. But I won't say what you want me to say."

"Come on, it's easy. And fun. I say, Dude, where's my car? Now you say..."

"I don't say the D-word. I'm too old."

"How old are you?"

"That's a state secret."

I knew how old he was, thanks to the curse. But telling this particular man I knew secret things about him would be absolutely insane. I didn't need to think three moves ahead to imagine where I would end up, or what would be tied around my ankles.

"How are you enjoying the job so far? Good, innit? Are you having fun?"

"I've had more fun."

"When?"

He smiled. Pretty rare. I knew what he was going to say, so I helped him say it. "That's a state secret."

***

I got a text.

MD: Do you still want Steve Alton? Hereford have come back with a lower price.

Me: Yes. Five thousand pounds is our limit. Absolute limit. Any more is a joke. A sick joke. But our real limit is eight. Talking of transfer fees, we need to discuss a mad, crazy, insane idea. It isn't one of mine.

I pressed send and felt a presence at my side. I got a mild shock of fear, but it came and went. The Brig was much more aware of our surroundings than I was. The terrifying newcomer was... Dani. She had her phone.

Dani: If you're training here, why don't you train with us?

Me: Because I'm shit.

Dani: So's Maddy. Come on.

She dashed back to the sesh, where Jill was putting them through their paces. Unlike the men, almost all the women had improved over the summer. From a lower starting point, obviously, but it hinted at a lot of excitement about the season ahead.

I showed the text to the Brig. "Health is other people," he said. So Emma had gotten to him. They were in cahoots! Training with others was tempting. The only real downside was letting everyone see how poor my movement was, how quickly I got tired.

While I was biting my thumb nail, I glanced at the Brig. "Aren't you going to shove me over there or something like that?"

"We don't have that kind of relationship, sir."

"If I was Sam Topps what would you do?"

"I'd make you quit football and join the army. Plan B, take up rugby. But if you're asking my opinion, I think you joining in is a good idea."

"They'll lose respect for me."

"Are you sure?"

Just then, Jill whistled to start the first rondo. Three players in a small triangle trying to keep the ball away from two defenders. It was one of Jackie's favourites. I locked on to the nearest ball, followed it as it zipped around, and like a dog tracking the path of a plate of meat from the oven to the dining room table, I found I was very, very hungry.

***

Thirty seconds later, I was on the outside of a triangle, along with Maddy and Pippa. Dani and Erin were the defenders.

I lost the ball as soon as it got to me. "Guys," I said. "Can we slow down a bit? Just while I remember how to do this." I tried to sign this to Dani, but the Brig stepped forward and held his phone in front of her. She gave me a thumbs up.

Maddy and Pippa passed the ball to me and I practised the two main types of passes needed for this. First, the instant return, which I could do no problem, there was almost literally nothing to it. Second, the half-turn and pass. That was hard. It involved a precise first touch, a good decision about who to pass to, and the need to maintain technique under intense pressure. In the past I had solutions for every obstacle - feints, disguises, annoying little hops, first-time passes disguised as instant returns, no-look chops, even dinks and lobs. In this mini-game, I'd gone from being a queen, able to move rapidly in any direction, to being a pawn, shuffling straight ahead, fearful, as the important pieces smashed into each other around me.

I did a thumbs up. Ready.

Maddy passed and I instantly touched it back. I'd survived the first two seconds!

She passed to Pippa, who dinked a spinning ball between the defenders. Towards me. Oh, shit! I reached out a foot and was amazed to find I controlled it perfectly. I smiled at the ball - must have looked pretty goofy - as Erin pounced and took it off me. I didn't care. That felt so good.

Into the middle I went. I was supposed to run around putting pressure on the three ball players. I did what I could, but to zero effect. I couldn't compete on physical gifts; I needed to think ahead. If Pippa passed to Erin, she'd hit a wall pass to Pippa, who would spin one of those dinked passes to Maddy.

I realised everyone had stopped. Had Jill ended the drill? No, the other groups were still darting around, laughing, grunting with frustration.

"What?"

"Are you okay?" said Pippa.

"Get on with the game!" I commanded. "Jesus Christ."

I had to run around for ten seconds, to let everyone relax back into their grooves. Then I stood next to Maddy so that Pippa would pass to Erin. Erin's shaped to play the wall pass, so I went back to where Maddy was. On autopilot, Pippa played the pass I'd expected, and I intercepted the ball. Not quite the silky smooth touch as a second ago, but my overall scheme worked.

I went to the edge, and Pippa into the middle. Dani slammed her fist into her palm. I guess it meant she wasn't going to take it easy on me. I mimed playing my bottom lip like a piano keyboard. Oh, I'm so scared.

Her face hardened.

The ball zipped around. I did a one-touch pass back the way it came. Then I deflected Erin's pass on an angle to Maddy. That was satisfying.

Then another pass from Maddy that I wanted to return. But Pippa could play rondo chess, too. She launched herself in the path of that option. So I opened my body and pointed to Dani's right. Erin, I'm passing that way! Dani stretched out a leg to intercept... and I nutmegged her.

Our rondo stopped. Everyone apart from Dani came to celebrate with me. I raised my fists and looked up at the heavens. My first nutmeg since the attack!

Dani stood and fumed at the scene, which made it way too funny to stop. We celebrated harder. Finally, she cracked. With an annoyed smile, she signed: done good job. And then something like 'let's get on with the training'.

I was pretty terrible for the rest of the session. There were some parts where I was able to use my brain, my anticipation, or even my tactical knowledge to slightly close the gap between me and the women. But generally, I was shit. I felt like a normo - one good moment in an hour was enough to keep me motivated.

When Jill had finished her post-sesh talk, I put my hand up.

"Can I do this again?"

***

Match 3 of 46: Chester FC versus Chorley

Kick off for Tuesday evening matches was 7:45 p.m. and the under twelves trained from five till six. My new plan was to gatecrash as many training sessions as my body could handle. Starting with the women, who wouldn't kick me simply to prove how tough they were, and the under twelves, who were one-tenth my size. When I started to feel comfortable, I'd work my way up to the fourteens. Top plan!

Spectrum was moderately appalled that I was joining in. I think he was worried I'd find the sesh too basic, but it was just what I needed. We started with a very simple passing drill. Three lines of players, the first one playing a ten-yard pass then running to the back of the next line. Even from that drill, it was shocking to see how much better Stephen Watson looked than the others. He was the PA 146 defensive midfielder I'd found while waiting for Jackie in Liverpool. He just oozed class. In the break before the next drill, I went over to rave to his dad about how good his kid was. Like all the parents, he found it weird that I was training with their sons, but I needed to train, and my enthusiasm smoothed a lot of potential bumps.

After a tiny break, me and my fellow children did the same routine but with our left foot, then with a one-two before the 'long' pass, then with really long one-twos. Then Spectrum said, "Double triangle!" and the kids ran around moving the little cones. The drill was perplexing. Spectrum tried to explain it to me. I didn't get it. I wondered if I'd pushed myself too far, but the Brig suggested I'd pick it up faster from the inside. So I joined in, and made such a mess that the kids laughed at me.

Then: click. "Oh!" I said. "Only the outside triangle changes."

"That's what I said," complained Spectrum.

"You didn't."

"He did," said the Brig, the traitor.

Another good workout under my belt, a nice, warm shower, then a quick drive to the stadium. I wanted to walk but the Brig wouldn't have it.

***

I was feeling good. Not one hundred percent, but I felt I could see one hundred percent way off in the distance. The best thing, I thought to myself, had been intercepting Pippa's pass. That meant I still had my superhuman anticipation. I used to be pretty good at making those sorts of predictions in the old days, the pre-curse days, but the ease with which I put myself in the right place suggested I was still maxed on my mental attributes. The patch hadn't reset me, the player. In other words, every little step in my physical recovery would add to my CA.

The stadium was starting to fill. Fans loved a late home game. Many locals could walk to the stadium, have some beers, and walk home. Even more were in range of a single bus ride. What better way to spend a warm, summery evening than boozily singing on a bus after a victory?

I walked up to the Director's Box. MD was there with Steve Alton. He'd come to check out the vibe. Check me out. See if he was even interested in a transfer to this crackpot club.

Steve Alton was twenty-five. Born in Warrington, near Chester, he'd scrambled around non-league hoping for a big break which had never come. His time at Hereford had been a disaster - he'd barely played, and when he asked to leave, the manager froze him out. I could get him for free at the end of the season, but there was no way I'd be signing someone with his limitations in the future. He had one shot to become one of my pawns. If he agreed, I'd push him to the far side of the board and turn him into a pawn in a bishop's hat. Turn him into Glenn Ryder. Maxing his PA would make him as good as my current best defender, which was great.

I gave him the quick spiel. Hi, I'm Max. I'd love to sign you if we can make it work. We're a community club, fan-owned, but we're ambitious. Aren't we, MD? We're ambitious and I want to win the league this year. We don't do pranks and bullying. We like players who help out with the youth teams and so on. To that end, we'll support you if you take a coaching badge. That's good for you as a player, too, because I like people who can think on the pitch. You won't come as a starter, but if you kick on like I know you will, there are spots in the lineup that are up for grabs.

He was cautious. The fact that we'd been dicked in our first two matches worked against me. As did the fact that I was a brash twenty-three year old. He had one main question. "What makes you think I can improve like you say?"

"Data analysis plus the eye test. Data analysis - we've got one of those AI computers. It says you've got good positioning. The eye test - you've seen me play? I know a good defender when I see one. We've done some poking around and what we hear is that you're very professional, very determined. You need coaching and game time, and you'll get that here. Oh," I said, standing up. "You'll also get a league winner's medal."

I laughed, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and went to the manager's room to prepare for battle with Chorley.

***

"I want to personalise this," I said, looking at the bare walls. This was the innermost of the inner sanctums. And it was mine. "Photos of me everywhere. That kind of thing."

The Brig took his seat. He had a newspaper under one arm and a notebook and coffee in his hands. He laid everything out.

I held up my hands. "Mate. Is that the Daily Mail?"

"Yes. I like to stay up to date with events. You never know when a job opportunity might arise in one of the world's many trouble spots."

"We don't like that particular title in this stadium."

"Oh? A lot of people told me you worked with the Mail."

I sighed. "Look, read what you want. Just don't let me see any headlines about 'brown people'."

"Very good, sir." He opened the paper, carefully put finger and thumb together, removed two sheets, and threw the rest into the bin. I grinned. The Brig had a sense of humour! He saw that I'd enjoyed his joke and opened his notepad. "Can you guide me through your thought process at this point?"

"About Steve Alton?"

"No, I understand that. You need an experienced player who can come into the team, first as strategic reserve, then as vanguard. I meant the starting lineup."

"Oh!" I said, leaning forward, pulse jumping. He'd given me full licence to show off. "Right. Well, you'd think this time would be really intense, all smoke-and-mirrors, feints and counter-feints stuff where me and the other manager tried to disguise our intentions from each other. Lying about which players were injured in the media. Arranging to be papped by journalists testing out a custom 4-3-3 you have no intention of using. But it's not like that."

"You seem disappointed."

"I want to win the league and it's good if the other managers are lazy and unimaginative. But yeah... I do respond to a challenge. So Chorley. Pretty typical opponents in this league. We played them in my second match as caretaker manager. They went 4-4-2, on paper a slightly stronger squad than us, good goalie, two good CMs, a good striker, and a fast left-back. They had a slow and old right-back. They've upgraded the right-back, but lost one of the two central midfielders. And in the last match, their fast left-back didn't attack much because we took a grip on the game after eight minutes." Chorley's average CA from last season had been 43, now it was 42. We'd started the previous encounter with a CA of 40.8. Today's lineup would be 40.2.

"Robbo's in goal - as you know, I want him to get a run-out. Get his season up and running. I think it'll help him train. If he out-trains Ben, he'll get his place back.

"Today's defence isn't the strongest I could field. Trick's still working off his summer boozing, the prick. Gerald and Glenn are a bit off the pace, too. Carl's actually improving, which I despaired of ever happening. I've got Magnus on the bench - he can cover all those positions. Oh, Trick's in because he's left-footed. When we get our attacks going, it's ideal to have a left-footed player in that role. But he's by far the worst player in the team. I'm tempted to switch to 3-5-2 soon so that I don't have to even look at him.

"But it's 4-1-4-1, and that means Youngster's in as the DM. My aim is to play him in half the games this season. Other matches we'll use Magnus as DM - which is why we need another defender. Or we'll use a different formation. 4-1-4-1 gives us a lot of control and lets us attack down the wings. And if we've only got one striker, players don't kick the ball long hoping the strikers can do something with it; he’s outnumbered four to one. It sort of forces us to play the way I want us to play. So that's our default, but it does mean we rely on James and Magnus being fit.

"Then Aff and D-Day on the wings. D-Day's annoying, but he's flexible. If I want to switch formation mid-game, he lets me do it. Chorley are a load of wind-up merchants, and when teams are trying to distract me and cause a bit of chaos, I like to switch our formation. We can easily shift to 4-4-2 but no-one on their bench will notice when they're doing their antics."

"This is the chess part."

"It's chess if one player knew the exact value of every piece and could make five moves to every one from his opponent, who also didn't even know that he had a left-castle playing at right-pawn. All my players are in the right positions, by the way. Sounds simple, but you'd be surprised.

"Sam and Raffi are the midfield. Sam will compete and do a lot of invisible dirty work. Then Raffi will get on the ball and look good. He's really blossoming, now. He's starting to play eleven-a-side the way I saw him play five-a-side in Manchester. It's exciting. We play great together. When I'm fit, we'll annihilate this league. Me, him, and Henri.

"Henri's on his own up top. When we give him a lot of chances, he doesn't dick about trying to start fights. When we don't involve him in play - which is a big risk with this formation - he can get angsty. Referees at this level don't normally go straight for the red card, but his temper does make me anxious.

"So that's the basics. I'm also trying to balance winning this match with giving players like Joe Anka game time. It’s a long season and I need to use all my pieces. Apart from Robbo, the only player who hasn't had any minutes so far is Pascal."

"Does that mean he will definitely come off the bench today?"

"I'm leaning towards not using him. He was shocking against these guys last time. I'm not sure of his psychology. He'd probably overcompensate. He's my fastest player, my best presser, but he's still not connecting well with the other guys, which is weird given how much Raffi loves him. Pascal's too smart for most, and the pitches are too shit for the intricate passing moves he initiates. I'll be handling his career very carefully. When I'm fit, that'll be good for him. He'll be a key player when I'm around." And by the time I was naming myself in the team, Pascal's CA should have risen from 30 closer to the 40 that was really the baseline for a Chester player. A thought that irritated me, since six of our starting eleven were under 40. "Don't worry about him. I'm on it. What else do you want to know?"

"There's no place for the Harrisons?"

"Not for months, no. Think of them as ornate chess pieces you ordered and they're in the post. From... where's the place in the world it takes the longest for post to come from?"

"Belfast." He looked at his notes. "You say Chorley like to cause chaos. Wind-up merchants. How would you like me to behave?"

"Can you do a one-inch punch?"

"Everyone can do a one-inch punch."

"Can you punch someone, from an inch away, and send them flying across a stadium?"

He wrestled with his answer. Finally, he said, "No."

"All right. So just keep our guys calm. If they get angsty, make them stay on the bench. If they're reacting to something on the pitch, let them vent. Like a bad tackle or whatever. You can't stop someone getting worked up about that. It's actually bad if they don't. But if they're being worked up by what the other manager is doing, calm them down or fuck them off."

"That would be falling into the enemy trap."

"Right. If I ever need a spontaneous reaction to something, I'll tell you in advance so we can plan it."

"Understood. By the way, is Neymar a player of particular renown?"

"Yes. On talent alone, probably the third best in the world. Top five, anyway. Paris bought him for a world record fee. That was a real statement of intent from them."

"Since I took this position, my friends and family have been trying to engage me in football-related banter. Today my nephew wrote to suggest Chester, ahem, place a cheeky bid for Neymar."

"Is there some Neymar news that I've missed?"

"He is joining the Saudi Pro League for one hundred million Euros. Rather a lot of Steve Altons."

Neymar to the SPL? Mind. Blown. I tried to work out the ramifications. More attention and hype for the SPL. Less for the French league. If Henri was around, I would have said 'even less attention for the French league'. What did it mean for Chester? For me? What would happen next? I couldn't get my head around it. My chess skills weren't up to the task of understanding how the Saudi Pro League would reshape my sport.

***

The tactics board still had Chorley at 4-4-2. I wandered along the side of the pitch, wearing my baseball cap but no sunglasses. The AirPods were in my pocket for if I needed a break from all the stimulation. I listened to the crowd, waved at a few kids, and wandered back to the dugout.

"Max," said someone.

I blinked. "Chad!"

Chad Flintoff. I'd named him in my very first lineup as a professional football manager. He’d given me the option to switch from 4-4-2 to 4-3-3, but his low CA meant he wasn't someone I'd have used very often this season. Fortunately, when I'd been in hospital, he'd left Chester. I hadn't thought about him since classifying him as a 'traitor' in my Nick-induced state of paranoia. Now, here he was, standing awkwardly next to me.

I held out my hand; he shook it with relief.

"Oh, Max, I felt like shit leaving like that. But what could I do?"

"Don't sweat it. It's natural. You were right to."

"It's just... you never replied to my text so I thought maybe..."

I whipped out my phone, showed him the hundred plus unread messages. "Blue light still fucks me up. I'm answering a few a day. Getting better. I'll get to yours soon enough!"

"Oh," he said, scratching his cheek. "Sorry, I didn't realise... I shouldn't have..."

"Mate, relax. So you're at Chorley, now? That's crazy. You're not on the bench, though."

"Got a little ankle thing. But... Look. I don't want you thinking I'm a Judas or anything. But I told the gaffer a few things. He was dead interested. I... didn't think anything of it till later. Thought maybe I shouldn't of."

I did a quizzical grin. "What did you tell him?"

"Like, just how you know what formations teams are going to play and stuff. How you look at a bench and guess what changes they'll make. You know... Max stuff."

I still couldn't quite work out what he was saying. It was like someone had moved a chess piece off the left of the board and it had reappeared on the right. But I had just enough about me to open Chorley's tactics screen. And they'd changed formation!

I gasped. I sucked in air so dramatically the Brig shot to my side, ready to catch me if I fell. "Sir?"

"I'm all right," I said, as my lips pulled themselves out and up. I might have some work to do after all! "Seems like Chad here taught his boss how to play chess." I gave him a high ten, and jogged to my technical area, impatient for the match to start.

***

Chorley's manager - I'll call him Charlie - had obviously had a big old think about what I'd done to him, and had come up with a 4-1-4-1 smasher. A blockbusting tactic to negate my advantages!

I have to say, I was impressed.

The problem of having a single defensive midfielder - a single pivot - is that he could be closed down. And if you lock down the pivot, you stop the team from turning.

You guessed it - he was going to man-mark Youngster!

Charlie had gone for a 4-4-1-1 formation. It was basically the standard 4-4-2, but with one of the strikers dropping one zone to be more like a CAM. But the player chosen for the role wasn't attacking by nature - he was a midfielder with good stamina and tackling.

There was so much fun I could have had with this if I had complete freedom to move my players anywhere, but I didn't. Still, I -

I paused, turned, and checked to see if the imps were in the same seats as last time. They weren't. Why was I thinking about imps? Wibwob. The tactics imp wanted me to buy wibwob. Something about tactics. Maybe wibwob was the key to complete tactical flexibility.

Anyway, limitations could be liberating, as a famous French chess player once said. I needed to learn formations, step by step, even if it cost me a bit of time and effort.

I switched my team to 4-4-2, with D-Day joining Henri up front, and Youngster playing right-mid. Youngster in the Max Best role! He was deeply unsuited to it.

[https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/PNG-image-43C5E39D83A4-1.png]

But if I understood the 'marking' instruction, Chorley's CAM would follow Youngster over to his new position. The CAM would get in the way of his own left-midfielder. It was a trick I'd tried a couple of times before; the other team's manager normally ended their man-marking experiment within minutes.

I bit my nail - I didn't want this mistake to be corrected. I wanted the CAM to play double left-mid for as long as possible.

So I mix-and-matched two of my oldest tactical innovations. I reset the team to 4-1-4-1. I would disguise what I was doing. At every break, I'd get Youngster to drift back to his DM slot, and once the match had restarted, he'd wander off to the right of the pitch, taking his marker with him.

I set Aff as playmaker, and instructed everyone to pass left.

My full-backs wouldn't have much defensive work to do, so I set them to 'make forward runs'.

The match kicked off. I wandered up and down my technical area, trying not to give the game away by grinning too hard. "Brig," I said. "Can you stand next to me and look worried?"

"Here?"

"No, the other side. I don't want them to see me laughing."

"Very good, sir."

The match quickly fell into an absurd shape. Exactly as I wanted. It was so abnormal that even my rugby-loving assistant could see it. "Sir... this isn't what we practised."

"No, mate. This is what chess would look like if you could stack three pieces on one square. Fuck, I'm about to cackle. Cover me." Saying 'cover me' to the army guy made me nearly lose my shit, so I went back to the dugout. I peeked out from the side to see what Charlie was doing. He was going absolutely ballistic. And quite right, too.

Trick receives the ball. He pushes forward.

Raffi takes control. He nudges the ball to Aff.

Aff shapes to dribble, but plays a pass out to Trick.

Raffi takes a square pass. He has two options to his left.

He chooses Aff.

Trick takes a defender away with a lung-bursting run.

Aff swings it in.

GOOOAAALLL!!!!

Henri powered through two defenders to head home!

Chester are playing like they have an extra man.

My players celebrated - our first goal of the season! The Brig's job on goals was to stand in front of me and make sure no players came anywhere near me. Footballers are always breaking their necks doing somersault celebrations. Or take the case of Steve Morrow - he scored the winning goal in the 1993 League Cup final, and during the celebrations he was dropped to the floor and broke his arm. He watched the rest of the party from hospital.

Yeah, go over there and celebrate with the fans, you idiots.

When the stupidity had subsided, I switched back to 4-1-4-1, but this time I let that stick for five minutes. When I felt that Charlie had relaxed, I switched it all back again, and the fun continued.

We dominated down the left to amusing proportions, got into prime slapping position, and a defender fouled Aff. Yellow card, free kick in a dangerous position, and Max Best used that famous chess move called 'mashing the Free Hit button'.

I didn't really have a direct free kick specialist, apart from me, obviously, so we generally treated free kicks in shooting positions like angled corners. This time, Aff hit his cross a bit softer, which I wasn't a big fan of because it meant the guy on the other end had to generate more power with his neck muscles to beat the keeper.

Aff with the free kick.

He approaches the ball.

Sent into the corridor of uncertainty...

It's onto the head of Gerald May...

GOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

A magnificent header.

More celebrations - even wilder. May didn't score too many, even though he was tall. The curse told me his heading wasn't as good as the naked eye said.

We were two-nil up and our key player, our pivot, was on four out of ten.

I peeked and saw Charlie gesticulating at the CAM who'd been set to mark Youngster. I was pretty sure that experiment would soon be over, until half-time anyway. Maybe Charlie had another trick up his sleeve. Maybe he'd even be stupid enough to try it out.

I reset my team. 4-1-4-1, normal instructions, no extra help from me or the curse. Youngster would set the tempo, we’d try to slap down the sides of the penalty box.

Next to me was the most powerful piece - the Brig. To the side, Vimsy, Dean, Livia. Jude was in the Executive Box making notes. Tips on how to improve in the second half.

On and off the pitch, the team was following my plan.

A chant echoed around the stadium, followed by a round of applause as Robbo sprinted out to clear a long pass. The fans were enjoying it. Up in the box, MD would be mumbling to members of the board that he needed to put eight grand on the company credit card.

Yeah. I’d done well.

I put my AirPods in, pressed play on some Chopin, leaned back so I could almost fall asleep, and let my pawns do battle for me. Sometimes it felt good to be the king.