6.
Chester Check Chorley Charge; Boss Best Boosts Blues
Chester FC got their season up and running with a cool 3-1 win over high-flying Chorley today at the Deva Stadium. After losing their first two matches, the Seals looked more like the team that finished last season in rampant style, particularly in a fast, energetic first half. After the break, Chorley improved and pulled a goal back, but Donny Dorigo scored after a goalmouth scramble to settle nerves and settle the match.
A healthy 2,100 fans turned out to witness good individual performances from Diarmuid Dubhlainn and Raffi Brown, while teenage star James Yalley struggled.
Manager Max Best looked much healthier, continuing his remarkable recovery from life-threatening injuries, and was in his usual belligerent mood in the post-match press conference.
Max, it was a tough second half but you scraped through with a win. How do you feel?
Scraped? Wow. Okay. Yeah, I feel fine. Thanks for taking the time to discuss feelings with another man. If we all did a little more of that, we'd all be a lot happier and healthier. How are you feeling, Gary?
The referee made some questionable decisions.
Questionable decisions? How about we start with your haircut and this French tuck thing you're doing?
Who was your player of the match?
You have to give it to Aff (Dubhlainn) for his two assists but Raffi Brown caught the eye. Chorley have a good midfield so I think that was Raffi's best performance yet.
James Yalley struggled.
No, he didn't.
He barely touched the ball in the first half.
He created two goals with his movement. It's fine you didn't notice, but don't tell me he played bad. That's annoying. He did exactly what I told him to.
You dropped Ben Cavanagh. Is that because he conceded four goals in two matches?
Referees, scapegoats, dropped players. Come on, Gary. I'm not doing this for the next ten months. I'm paying twenty players to be ready to play football matches but I can only use eleven at once. Who plays is based on a superabundance of factors including how much they laugh at my jokes. Using words like dropped is reductive. The modern football fan understands rotation. Why don't you?
Players play poorly sometimes.
Not my lot. They play bad when I ask them to do things they can’t do. That’s on me. My players are sweet as.
Sam Topps hobbled off. How serious is it?
Famously, I have X-ray vision so I already know the answer, but I've sent him for a scan just in case. I doubt I'll use him against Banbury, if that's the question you were trying to ask.
Banbury beat you in the same fixture last season. What are you hoping for this time?
Maybe it's my traumatic brain injury talking, but I seem to remember after that narrow one-nil loss, you declared us 'as good as relegated'. But we finished fourteenth. It's almost as though you don't have the first clue about football. That's weird, isn't it? It's also weird that I have to talk to you or the club will get a fine. That doesn't seem right, does it? Almost un-British. What am I hoping for from the match? I think I'd like a 90-nil win. With all ninety goals being scored by someone you scapegoated or said I dropped.
You’re clearly on the mend. Is there any chance of seeing you in a Chester shirt this season?
I hope to be physically able to do it, yeah, but as the manager I have to be very careful. We've got great team spirit, it's a good group. Introducing a volatile character like Max Best to the playing staff could be incendiary. If he wants a place in the team he needs to work a lot harder on his attitude, that's all I really have to say about that guy.
Good win today.
Thanks.
***
Wednesday 16 August
Training was pretty chill. It was more like an extended warm down, with some chats about what went right and wrong the night before. I stood to the side and kept an eye on the lads while thinking about Sam. His injury was small but left a big hole in our midfield. After thinking about my options, I called Magnus, Jude, and Vimsy over and said I was interested in using Magnus in central midfield on Saturday, so could they please plan the rest of the week with that in mind. They fucked off, discussing it.
"It's good to have someone so flexible," said the Brig.
"Yeah he's ace. I keep waiting for him to hit his ceiling but he's showing no signs of that."
"What makes you think he has a ceiling?"
"Everyone has a ceiling." But unlike Sam, whose PA was 60, or Glenn, who was all-too-close to his PA of 54, Magnus's was minus two. What did it mean? What could it mean? If the best player in the team had CA 100, could Magnus get to 98? The only way to find out was to keep using him, keep pushing him, until he stopped growing. Maybe then I'd find out what minus two meant. "He's hard to read, in terms of talent. But he's reliable and intelligent. If I start him at left-back in 4-4-2, I could switch him to right-mid in a 3-5-2. Amazing. I want to use him as much as poss, but if I keep throwing him all over the place, there's a chance he won't ever learn a position."
"Is that bad?"
"Not too sure, to be honest. When I started playing, I didn't really know the nuances of any role. I played and trained enough at right-mid to do well, there. It wouldn't stop me learning another position, but as we move up the leagues generalists might have less of a role. We'll need specialists… I think. For now, Magnus is a bit of a secret weapon."
"You often mention 3-5-2 but we don't practise that, do we?"
"The lads know it from Jackie Reaper's time." The main reason we didn't practise it was that I hadn't unlocked it, yet. I was a thousand XP short.
XP Balance: 1,348
Debt repaid: 1,791/3000
The 3-5-2 perk was 2,200 XP. That was a pretty essential formation for me to have with the men's team, and would be perfect for the women's team if the Man City newcomers were as good as I hoped. But I had to consider other options.
Morale was 2,000 XP. It would show me a player's state of mind. "Brig, what do you think of the mood, generally?"
He swept his eye across the pitches. "Very good. Everyone has had playing time, except Bochum and the Harrisons, who understand their exclusion. The players believe they will be given chances to show their skills and get playing time. They believe when you say their improvement is your top priority. Between you and me, sir..."
"Go on."
"They like that you substitute Henri when he isn't playing well. And that you use Trick. You have favourites and... anti-favourites, but that doesn't seem to come into your footballing decisions. It's more like a meritocracy than at other clubs."
"They've told you this, have they?"
"I have been trying to get to know the troops, sir."
"Do they talk to you?" I said, surprised.
"I am very personable, sir," he said, with a hint of a rebuke.
"Mint."
If the Brig was going to help monitor morale, me buying the perk could wait a minute. Going down the contracts route (Contracts 1 was 1,000 XP) could supercharge my transfer market activities by telling me what other teams were paying their players and who had how long left on their contracts. Also, as a tiny side bonus, if I unlocked it fast enough, I'd finally be able to solve the mystery of whether Ian Evans had been trying to line his own pockets when he'd suggested we recruit a player and pay half his salary.
Then there was Injuries for 3,000. It seemed absolutely essential, but on the other hand, I had a medical staff. Whereas if I bought Condition for 2,000 XP, I'd start getting fitness data from players, and knowing that could help me prevent injuries from ever developing.
And I needed to keep unlocking attributes! I thought of myself as Judging Player Ability 20 but that wasn’t true, was it? If I only added two attributes per season, it wouldn’t be true for years.
I was starting to get frustrated, but Vimsy ended training and a bunch of players came over to ask me to explain why I'd moved James to right-mid and switched to 4-4-2. They knew my changes had given us two goals, but they couldn't work out why. I was about to explain in the most show-off way possible, but thought about Chad Flintoff telling his new manager how I worked. Did I want more of that? In two seasons, virtually no-one in the current squad would still be at the club. If I spilled the beans, there would be twenty managers who knew about my man-marking trick.
I batted the enquiries away with a knowing smirk, and after showers and whatnot, we went to a bar we'd rented to watch the lunchtime World Cup semi final.
I tried to mingle, to give time to all the little groups, and partly succeeded. But while England dominated and looked comfortable for most of the match, Australia's Sam Kerr appeared out of nowhere and equalised with a thunderbolt. So I retreated to my assigned spot in an area with MD, Henri, the Brig, Vimsy, and Jill.
The entire men's team were there, including Sam, whose injury had come just as I was about to make a sub - he got kicked at a helpful time, what a pro - and all the physios. Wives and girlfriends had turned up in numbers, which was good because they were the only ones drinking. I was astonished to see Steve Alton - it turned out Glenn had invited him. That's why Glenn was the captain. I loved that people were thinking of details like that and not relying on me to do everything.
A fair bunch of the women's team had come. Not Dani - she lived in Crewe and they were away on their summer holidays anyway. But Bonnie, Robyn, Maddie, Pippa, Lucy, and Bea Pea had all cancelled some plans or swapped shifts. We also had Inga, Secretary Joe, Ruth, Bulldog, and Sumo. The last three weren't members of the board any longer. Their terms had ended and they couldn't stand for re-election for another year. I'd have to get to know seven new people.
It was good to see Ruth. First because she was smoking hot and a thing of beauty is a joy forever. But also because I hadn't seen her (except at a distance) since the attack. We needed to have a private chat and talk about the women's team - she'd financed it - and our nascent agency.
The match was too tense to really enjoy. Every time I convinced myself England were in control, Australia had a chance that they probably should have scored. Sam Topps and Tony had bonded with the women's team and from the start were just as into the match as me. The rest of the squad got sucked in through the quality of the play, the narratives, and the tension. After an hour, the vibe was identical to watching the men’s team.
Finally, finally, England scored a second, then a third. Near the beginning of my footballing journey, these women had set the country's imaginations aflame by winning the European Championships, but what if they won the actual World Cup? Holy shit. They'd got to England's first World Cup final since the men won it in 1966. They were ninety minutes from eternal glory.
I annoyed everyone - especially the women - by demanding to see replays of Lauren Hemp's sublime double-spin and reversed pass that led to the third goal. Everyone else wanted to see the celebrations. Celebrations? Who cared? I'd just seen someone do something impudent that both took the piss and led to a goal. And she'd done it in the biggest game of her life. Who cared about people running around taking selfies? Show me the skill. The talent!
While most of the English people sang and danced, MD and I, along with Henri, stood in front of the main TV. I watched Hemp's brilliance one last time, and sighed.
"What are you thinking?" said MD.
"Last night we competed with Chorley. It was an even game. For a while, my tricks allowed Aff to strut his stuff and we got two goals out of it. Second half was one-all. So far this season, we've been relying on those little moments of magic to create opportunities. At the end of last season, we had this... thing. This vibe, that led to chances. It was like..." I closed my eyes, trying to remember. "Like a car assembly plant. Every pass was a little conveyor belt pushing the ball closer to goal, then a tiny Frenchman would drive the car out of the plant and into the world. That's a metaphor for scoring a goal, by the way."
"I am not tiny," whinged Henri.
"You're not? You're good at chess so I assumed you were a tiny dweeb."
"I'm average at chess. You, Max, are tragic."
"As I was saying, MD, we had something, we lost it, I don't know how to get it back. This England team are impressive. They have a way of finding a collective solution."
MD scratched his nose. "I don't think I totally understand what you're saying."
"I'm saying... we need an identity. And we need to keep in touch with the top of the table for the first half of the season. If things go to plan, the second half of the season will be like that." I pointed to the screen. "Our players finding ways to win. Taking my ideas and turning them into actual, real-life moves. We did the boot camp..."
"Which was crazy expensive," whined MD. The army guys had actually done it at cost price as a favour for the Brig.
"I wonder what else we can do? Simple team building shit. Or maybe our improvement will bring its own morale?"
"Max, what the fuck are you talking about?" said Henri. "You are gibbering. The team is fine. It is playing in an identical way to the matches you managed last season."
"No, we're off it."
"You're off your ‘ed."
The Brig checked his watch. The only watch on his left wrist! I was excited to think he’d gone full civilian, but noticed he was wearing one on his right wrist, too. "Sir, are we done here?"
"Er... yes. What? Do you think I should thank everyone for coming or something?"
"Perhaps I might say a few words."
Weird. "Absolutely." I couldn't wait to hear this!
The Brig stood in the centre of the space and tapped on a glass. Someone turned the volume down on the conversations. "It's time," he said.
Something crazy happened - the players from the first team gathered in little groups. It didn't take long for me to realise it was the same groups they'd been put in during boot camp. Glenn grabbed Steve Alton and Bonnie. Defenders unite! Other groups absorbed the women's team and the physios.
The Brig cleared his throat. "Operation D Where's Your Car? will now commence. Remember, if you find it, do not post the number plate to social media. Group captains, you've got your routes. Keep in touch. Group One, initiate."
Glenn led his team out. Their WAGs followed. Sam's team went next, then Raffi's, and so on. Soon the bar was almost deserted. "What the shit?" I said.
"It's a nice day," said the Brig. "We're going to find your car. If we split up, we can cover the entire city centre. I've given each team a route that will cover virtually every street. The rest of us," he said, looking at MD, Ruth, Inga, Joe, Sumo, and Bulldog, "will remain and co-ordinate."
"Wait, why are they doing this?" I said, meaning the players. "Did you volunteer them?"
"No. Didn't have to. They think it's fun."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
"What do the winners get? The dudes who find my car?"
"Immunity from being kidnapped, was Glenn's suggestion."
I laughed. "All right but fuck this. I want to walk around, too."
The Brig looked at Ruth, who glared at him and handed over what looked like ten pounds. "We thought you might say that. I've saved a few streets for you."
"Good. What's the name of the operation again?"
"D Where's Your Car?"
"What does the D stand for?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I can look into it and get back to you."
"Lead the way, then. Let's go find my car."
***
We went slowly, chatting, talking about the England match, or Chester, or all sorts of other things.
Ruth said Bark, the young right-winger from Darlington, was ‘poised’ to sign with our agency later in the season when it was time to start considering his options. Until then, he wanted to focus on his football. Dani was still too young to sign anything. Everything else was on hold until I was fully back, finding players. She asked about the Triplets. I looked around - I’d been keeping everyone in the dark about how good the Harrisons were. “Great for Chester, not for the agency,” I mumbled.
Inga told me she had missed my mad requests when I was gone. I promised a swift return to madness. She put her arm through mine - Emma would be furious!
Bulldog complained about Noah Harrison. He said I needed to get to the sixteens and do to Noah what I'd done to Tyson. When I asked why, Bulldog described a player who was cocky, arrogant, and disruptive. I tried not to smile too hard - he was describing Tyson from a year ago. I assured him the progress of all the kids was constantly monitored and the sixteens were no exception. He said, yeah but Noah’s really a prick. I replied that I'd heard he was fast, direct, always looking to make things happen and if, sometimes, his teammates weren't on the same wavelength as him, he was hardly to blame. Was he? "In fact," I said, thoughtfully, "from what I hear, this Noah kid is the future of Chester Football Club." Bulldog fumed so hard I had to laugh, and when he realised I was winding him up he nearly boiled over. When I moved away to talk to Joe, Bulldog was shaking his head with a rueful grin. I was his kryptonite.
Ruth and MD had a good chat, and a sneaky glance as I pretended to look in a shop window showed that he was just as into her as ever. Ruth, as always, gave him zero encouragement.
Sumo had heard that the Brig was ex-military, so of course he wanted to discuss tactics he could use in his four v four deathmatches, or whatever you did in those multiplayer games. I preferred to go solo.
We'd already bumped into two of the boot camp groups, and when we turned a corner and saw a third, I stopped and pulled the Brig aside. "What are you up to?"
"Sir?"
"You've got our route overlapping all the other routes. You want me to see the lads out and about, on this wild goose chase. But why?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. It's possible I made a mistake with the route plans."
"My arse. You planned this to within an inch of its life."
"As you say, sir."
His face gave nothing away. "Huh," I said, and that was the signal to move on.
Across the road, Glenn's unit was smiling and laughing with some shoppers. Posing for selfies, answering questions, all the stuff footballers did. They usually did it inside or just outside a stadium, though. Sometimes in a hospital or school. I looked around. The vibe in town was awesome. Word had spread that loads of footballers were milling around. People were excited and Bonnie was just as big a hit as Glenn. I still didn’t know what her initial objection to joining us had been, but she was all the way in, now.
This is it, I thought. This is it.
"Is this it?" said Secretary Joe. He showed me a photo on his phone - one of the other teams had spotted a car that mostly fit the description of mine.
"No, but it's close. Mine's in much worse condition. The more rust, the more likely it is to be The Duchess."
"Okay." Joe tapped away on his screen.
"You're enjoying this," I said.
"Oh? Well, yes, I am. It's old-fashioned, isn't it? Like a scavenger hunt, but there's only one egg. It's a nice thing to do for you, and everyone's having a nice time in their groups. Connecting with the community as they go. Helps that the sun's out." He smiled. "I'll admit I thought John Smith's salary was excessive, but we've had one good round of publicity and this will be another."
"Publicity?"
"Fans loved the boot camp stuff. There was a child who did his own boot camp. Slept in his tent. Carried a brick from one side of his garden to the other. And so on. Very cute. MD was happy. The sponsors love that stuff."
"And you think this will turn into something? I didn't have the Brig down as a marketing genius."
"That's the point. It's authentic. If you try to make things like this happen for PR, they tend to fall flat."
"Max! Max!" Ruth dashed over, big smile, many teeth. "Is this your car?"
She pressed into me, showing a photo of Raffi doing a Maxy Two-Thumbs next to a shitty brown Subaru. "Yes! Holy shit! Dude, there's my car!"
We got the location and practically skipped towards it. The other groups headed that way, too.
Ten minutes later, twenty employees of Chester Football Club watched as I confirmed that yes, that was my car. It was a joyous moment. I didn't remember parking it here, had no memory of this particular side street. I would have found it eventually, but how much better was it like this? My team, my team, my actual football team, my mates, my comrades, had banded together to help me out.
It felt like winning a trophy. I couldn't stop smiling. I hugged all sorts of people. Indiscriminately hugging everyone within arm's reach. I'm pretty sure Ruth took a step closer, while MD took a step away. It didn't matter; he got enveloped.
I felt energised and ready to take on the world. Health is other people. Wow. True story.
I’m the king of the world! Whoo!
“Bagsy shotgun!” said Maddie. She was reserving the right to go in the front passenger seat on my triumphant first drive.
I tapped my trouser pocket.
Suddenly I let out a wail. A moan of anguish. All the phones that were being held up to record the moment 'for the socials' were trained on me. "Dude!" I called out to a cold, uncaring universe. "Where's my car keys?"
***
I rested in my flat while the Brig went to the hospital to find out where they'd put my valuables. They claimed to have given everything back, which I thought was bad news. But the Brig's eyes were darting around, calculating. He was fizzing.
"Sir, according to Mr. Yalley, the person who struck you bent before running away. It's possible he picked up your keys. You could have had them in your hands, the faster to open your car door, which in your agitated state of mind you had forgotten was parked elsewhere."
I couldn't remember if I'd taken my keys out or not, but it was very possible. So the guy clubs me over the head, and as Mr. Yalley rushes towards him, he picks up my keyring and scoots off? "He would have got my house keys, too, but that place was in Darlington. And I didn't have anything worth stealing. Just a load of weird post-it notes. The whole idea is crazy."
"People behave strangely under stress. I can't imagine stealing your keys was the main motivation for the attack. But if he did steal them, he might still have them. A trophy."
I scratched the back of my head. It felt absolutely normal. "So... we have our suspects. We ask to check their houses. Try to find my keys. Something like that?"
"A wonderfully novel approach." His lips twitched. "However, on this matter, it might be better if you remain in the dark, so to speak."
"Do you know how to break into a house?"
"Of course not. On an unrelated note, I drove your car to a garage and they are going to change the locks and so on. They have to order the parts. They are, ah... no longer common."
Guy was dissing my car! Not acceptable. "How did you unlock the car, John? How did you start the car, John?"
He put his index finger to his bottom lip. "You know, those are good questions. I find I can't quite remember." He checked one of however many watches he was wearing. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yep."
"What do we expect from the new players?"
"Massive boost in standards. A squad-building shortcut like no other. Guaranteed promotion. We should try to make a good impression."
"Ah. Perhaps not the black hoodie, then."
I put my hands on my hips. "Wow. Emma did a number on you, didn't she? Our relationship doesn't extend to you complaining about my hoodie, which is all the rage in Darlington, by the way, or my car, which is extremely reliable. Are we totes clear on that?"
"Excessively clear, sir. I shall refrain from commenting on the item."
The way he said 'the item' put my teeth on edge. I picked up my kit bag and strode to the door.
***
Training was good. I'd asked Jude to take the session to show us at our best. Dani was away on her summer holiday, but everyone else turned up. Lots of interest in the newcomers.
The three girls were exciting. They were all from Greater Manchester. The first two had Chloe Kelly-style bleached blonde hair in a long ponytail. The third had an awful, boyish, K-pop sort of trim. Really puzzling. She was shy and timid, until she got the ball to feet.
Gail was a twenty-two-year-old striker. CA 29, PA 122. Big talent! She'd fucking crush whatever goalscoring records the sixth tier had.
Mary was a twenty-one-year-old left-back. CA 24, PA 99. A stupendous addition to the team. I could move Lucy to left-sided centre-back, maybe. But as far as I was concerned, Mary was our locked-in starter. She was so good it was tactically problematic - we would have to play four at the back. It would limit the new manager's options in the best possible way.
Charlotte was the shy one. She was twenty-one, central midfielder, CA 23, PA 101.
We did half an hour of Jude's best drills - shamelessly copied from Jackie Reaper - then did a short-sided match at the end.
I joined in, and whether it was the life-affirming wholesomeness of the day or the thrill of seeing three high-quality players drop into my lap, I couldn't tell you. But I found my body was more willing to obey me. In the match, I played DM behind Charlotte, and found she was as good as her profile suggested. I went back to my old standby - one-touch - and any time the ball came near me I deflected it to her.
She was rusty - the three of them had tried to stay in shape but I could imagine their CAs had been on a slow decline ever since they'd left Man City and found themselves training with third or fourth tier outfits. But despite her ring rust, Charlotte was a luxury model. Forget the haircut, the introverted way she held herself. She was a baller.
Gail, the striker, was absolutely lethal - she punished any mistake, made runs, was strong with great technique. Bonnie couldn't deal with her. Meanwhile, the connection between Mary and Gail was one of those telepathic ones like Raffi and I had. Mary would play a seemingly pointless pass, only for the defence to realise Gail had started sprinting to collect it.
By the end of the match I was already thinking about next season. This season was done. Next, though, we’d need a top goalie. Another centre-back. The season after, we’d need to upgrade Bea Pea.
We showered and I hung around waiting to take them to a bar to chat them up and get them to sign. They would raise the standard so dramatically it wasn't even funny. And they'd take the pressure off Dani. Allow her to blossom at her own pace without being the player we looked to every time we needed a bit of magic.
The Brig drove me in his car while the women followed in theirs. The Brig was already a fucking five-star expert in Chester's hospitality scene, and he recommended a place that was both cool enough to showcase Chester's delights to women from the big city while being cosy and friendly enough to promote conversation. And, he added, there were clear lines of sight.
"That was sweet as!" I said, when we were all settled with our drinks. "Gail, your movement is fantastic. Top technical quality, badass attitude. It's obviously not something you can really see but knowing you were coached by Sandra makes sense. You've got that Man City vibe to a tee. You're way better than the strikers I saw her with, though. It was bad enough playing her with a squad that didn't have forwards. I bet your year fucking smashed every competition you were in. Mary, talk about vision! If you can meet short passes and long and treat those imposters just the same. Wow. Natural fitness. A full-back with the heading of a centre-half! Fuck me. And Charlotte. Mate. Man City love to churn out a midfielder and, shit, you're just class. I'm absolutely buzzing."
It was true. I couldn't stop smiling. I took another few seconds to enjoy imagining the final league table. Played 22, won 22, goals for 122, goals against 4. Something like that.
"We'll smash this division. Add another three like you next summer, smash tier five. My problem then will be trying to convince you to stay. We can't get promoted every year, you'll say." I leaned forward. "But we will. There's absolutely nothing to stop us going straight to the WSL." The Women's Super League, the equivalent of the Premier League. "I reckon we'll be able to start having a go at cups in the third tier. It's possible Dani will be unplayable by then." I nodded. "And that's assuming I can't find more superstars. But I don't plan to miss another whole summer." I smiled at my bodyguard. He flicked his eyes towards the women.
I'd been so enchanted by their player profiles and the way they'd played that I hadn't noticed that something had changed. In the car drive, they'd compared notes and they'd... something.
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but shut it. I'd already said more than enough.
After hundreds of tiny 'no, not me, you tell him' type glances, Mary, the left-back, spoke. "Sandra spoke highly of you and we trust her. She was our rock, and when she said we should check you out, we thought: why not? We aren't getting a deal at City, and semi-pro at an ambitious club sounded interesting. But..."
There was an endless pause. Literally endless. Universes died and were reborn, like, eight times before she spoke next.
"I mean, we know you had the accident and all that."
"The murder," I said, striving for maximum accuracy.
"And you used to be good and whatever but it's... We didn't expect to see you in the session."
"Right."
Gail spoke. "It's like, you're not serious about the women's team. You wouldn't do it with the men's team, would you?"
I was a tiny bit confused. "Do what?"
"Gatecrash training."
"I would, actually. But the women are a lot less likely to break my ankles proving how tough they are."
"I just think it's not serious."
I frowned. The Brig wasn’t giving me much help; I was on my own. Not serious? Was I supposed to respond to that? "It was their idea, but okay."
The ice had been broken. Mary had lots to say. "And, like, when we wrote to you, you were the women's team manager. Now you do the men and you're looking for a new manager. We've heard all about how you're a magician - "
"Wizard," murmured Charlotte, who must have read Beth's article.
"And that's exciting. To think we'd be in tier six but still learning the game. Couple of years going sideways to go forwards. We could deal with that. But it's not even going to be you."
"I hope to get someone amazing, but it will be a step down from me. That's true."
"So it's like you've used the women to get a men's job. And now what happens to the women? We all know."
"Seems you know a lot about me."
"It's not just you, either. It's the facilities. They're... basic. To say the least."
I didn't blink. She'd gone from criticising me, which I usually felt was fair comment, to complaining about Chester. "You knew that before you came. We aren't owned by a country. We're owned by our fans." I worried I'd snarled on the word fans, but no-one seemed to react too strongly. I tried to get a grip. Slippery, like that agent who may or may not have tried to kill me.
Gail took over. "Okay, but it's one thing to know it, another thing to see it. D'you know what I mean?"
I turned to the Brig to explain. "See, at Man City, whenever they score a goal, they fill an olympic-size swimming pool with crude oil and set it ablaze."
Mary tutted. "Come on. You don't have a gym. You don't have ice baths. You train on a pitch and there's some pensioners’ team ready to come on. No chance to do an extra few reps."
The bar was full of young people. The Brig had chosen well. Young, optimistic, no time to think about getting old. I'd had plenty of time to think of that in the hospital, especially during my rehab when I tended to be sharing a room with oldsters who'd just had hip replacements or bad falls or whatever. They were tedious conversationalists and wouldn't know a meta joke if it slapped them with a Best 77 shirt, but a few had worn me down with their unremitting optimism and positivity. I'd done a complete one-eighty and now thought the fact we had to get off the pitch to let a bunch of retired dudes on was fucking top.
That was when it struck me. That was when I knew. I’d never sign a player from Man City. Nor from any other big team.
These women were working class. They'd worked hard to get their chance at City, had grafted, had put in the time. Amazing. Showed character. But getting there had ruined them. Every session had eight coaches, every swimming pool was triple olympic size, every presentation was delivered by a not-yet-disgraced TED Talk speaker. Chester, to these three, was like something squishy they'd found stuck to their soles. It would be wrong, probably, to jump to the word 'entitled', but they were talking like an entitled nepo baby.
I used my palm as a head rest and groaned. "Kisi," I said. "No." I needed to get her out of there before it was too late. Unless it was too late already. "Shit."
"What?" said Mary, but I didn't reply. My world was in tatters. If I'd ruined Kisi through my ignorance... Yes, I'd tried to give her a shortcut. A path to rapid CA growth. But what does it profit a girl to gain CA but lose her soul?
Gail said, "The standard isn't as good as we hoped."
I lifted my head all the way up. Stared right at her. "What?"
Gail shrank, but Mary was unbowed. "The standard isn't as good as we hoped."
"What does that mean?"
"The other players. They aren't that good."
I found myself licking my lips. Some kind of precursor to spontaneously combusting from anger. I hadn't been angry for a while, I didn't think. Even in the hospital. Nick had hidden the curse from me in case I got unreasonable, and that was probably a good idea. I'd had some dark moments. But I hadn't lost my shit. Even when my rehab stalled, I'd vented with one enormous scream of rage, apologised, and got on with trying to make my leg go forward two inches.
The Brig was watching me with interest. I guessed he'd been warned about my temper, and since he hadn't seen it yet, he was curious. That thought calmed me just enough.
I spoke to him. "Dude. When you were training a squad and people talked shit about them, how did you react?"
He scoffed. "Oh, in my early years, sometimes violently. People learned not to badmouth my men."
"Yeah," I said. That was how I felt. I wanted to defend my women. They were fucking mint. All of them. An image came to mind of Maddie tagging along with Raffi's group, looking for my car. Instead of getting wasted celebrating England's semi-final win, she was doing team things. For the team.
"See, Max," said the Brig, startling me. He never used my name. He looked right into my soul as he said, "No-one knew like I did how much those boys suffered. How much they sacrificed to get to where they wanted to get. Yes, they fucked up. They fucked up morning, noon, and night, some of them, but no outsider had the right to talk about them with anything other than respect. And I'm proud to say I never let any of them down. I did my level best for each and every one. They didn't all make it, but by God, we tried."
I shot to my feet, causing my chair to fly into some other group, which provoked a chain-reaction of chaos. I didn't track it. I was in an absolute fury. A whirlwind.
I felt hands on my shoulders. I cocked my head and realised it was the Brig, pushing me down onto the chair that he'd recovered.
"But these ladies have travelled to be here, today. You must treat them with dignity, sir."
"Really?"
"Yes, sir."
I couldn't look them in the eye. Maybe the Brig was right, but I didn't have to look at them. I stared at a spot on the table. Some whorl in the wood. "Thanks for coming. You're not interested in playing for Chester, and I'm not interested in signing you. My team is incredible. They're immense and I can get everything I want from them. We can win, win with quality, and keep our togetherness. You're a shortcut. You're me playing this league on easy mode, and that's not what I need or what this club needs. We need to suffer and sacrifice, to leave it all on the pitch for every single point we get. To make our fans proud, and represent a community of people who this country has forgotten. I understand now we can't take players from above. We have to get them from below, and bring them up with us. Find players willing to suffer and sacrifice. There's talent here. Untapped talent. This way's going to be slower. It might take us an extra season. But once we get going, we'll be unstoppable. City have a fucking death star to train in, but no-one there will ever have a day like I had today. I guaran-fucking-tee it. My players are fucking unbelievable and if you can't see that, I don't know what to tell you."
I checked the time. Eight thirty. There would be loads of matches being played.
"Brig, I want to get back into scouting." For security reasons, he'd 'banned' me from randomly traversing the city. As such, I'd barely used Playdar since leaving hospital. What was the point if I couldn’t follow the beams of light? And how could I explain to the Brig what I was doing? Tell him I was getting tips about players every single day of my life? But so fired up was I, let me tell you, that I did not give a single shit. "Like, right now."
That was a rare moment of disorientation for the Brig. "Now?"
"Yes."
"It's not safe."
"I don't give a shit. There's a thousand girls out there playing football right now, pretending to be Millie Bright, Mary Earps, or Ella Toone. They might never kick a ball again. We've got to go right now."
"Sir... it's not safe."
"Then you'll fucking have to deal with it. All right? Let's fucking go."
He blinked, then stood. "Sir."
We strode towards the door, but some stray thought made me go back. "Charlotte. When you half-turn and pass to the right, it's way too slow. You need to fizz that pass. Put some fucking energy into it."
And then I left.
***
I told the Brig to drive for a while, then made him pull over just before a roundabout. He had this paper map that was on the one hand super quaint, on the other, super useful since I could stare at it without getting the blue light tiredness I got from my phone.
I asked him to point out any football pitches or local parks in the area, and since he had Map Reading 20 he was absurdly good at it.
Normally, when I pressed Playdar, I went in a mad rush towards the target. With the Brig, I felt a sense of calm that was soothing beyond belief. When I felt ready, I clicked the icon. In the distance, a giant yellow pillar of light appeared. I pointed to the direction and the Brig scanned the map and said there was only one possible location where outdoor football could be going on.
We drove there, and sure enough it was a small park with some football goals. A few kids - three boys, four girls - were walking away, carrying a football.
"Whoa!" I said. "I'm legendary football scout Cliff Daps. I got a phone call saying someone here was fucking top at football. Can you go back and play for, like, eight more seconds so I can have a look?" They seemed uncertain. "All right, fine. I'm not Cliff Daps. I'm Max Best." Absolutely nothing. The Brig stepped forward and showed them the As It Was video.
Instead of going back to their game like I'd quite reasonably asked, they demanded to see me do some live tekkers.
I waved for the ball and started doing kick ups. "The thing is, I can't really. Some douche tried to totes murder me. I’m waiting for a bionic head." I got a message and pulled my phone out, but immediately put it away. I needed to get these kids back playing their game so I could scan them again with Playdar. "How old are you lot?"
They told me their ages. They ranged from eight to twelve, which is why they were going back home before they got in trouble. Eight to twelve. More players that wouldn't hit the first team for at least six years, probably ten. But talent was talent, and I wanted all of it. I only needed them to get back to playing Headers and Volleys.
"I played for Darlington," I said. "Scored, like, a billion goals in three games. A fascist wrote a viral article about me. Did I mention I'm the manager of Chester Football Club? I'd love to see you do two more minutes of your game. Just so I can see you doing your thang." I realised there was a weird vibe. Weirder than normal. "What?"
"You said you can't do tekkers," said the, like, third littlest kid. He was the one most worried about getting into trouble for going home late.
"Yeah. So?"
The Brig stepped forward - pointed at my foot. "Sir."
I was so stunned I nearly let the ball drop, but I kept going. I'd smashed my post-injury kick-ups record. With a puzzled look on my face, I tapped the ball up, and up, and up, rolled my foot over it, let it hit my standing foot and bounce up. Finally, I kicked the ball high in the air, and without looking, crushed it dead on the half-volley.
"Sir!" said the Brig.
I pointed at the worried boy. “Dude, where’s your da?”
The kid pointed to one of the houses that backed onto the pitch. “My friend’s going to tell him you’ll be home in five minutes. All right? You won’t get in trouble. You’re my team, and I look after my teams. Now let’s play some football.” I grinned, remembering what you said just before you started a game of Headers and Volleys if you didn’t want to be the goalkeeper. I hadn’t said the phrase since before these kids had been born, and now I said it with relish. “Bagsy not in net!”