12.

We arrived at Barrow's weird stadium and I spent much of my time before kick off in a weird mood. I wanted to play, but I wasn't allowed to play too well. I wanted to help James O'Rourke, but James O'Rourke didn't seem too interested in helping himself.

He had named his usual 4-3-3 and the only change from the Notts game was to bring Carlos back into the midfield. Carlos was a silky-smooth playmaker, so I had no problems with it in principle. Personally, I wouldn't have thrown a player returning from injury straight back into the starting eleven, but that was me. No, my main problem was that Samuel was in the team. Samuel the four out of ten striker. Sam the Sloth. Fireman Sam - if you want someone to extinguish your own attacks, give him the ball. When James announced the enormous lump was keeping his place, I actually gasped, and the players and physios near me turned to stare.

Such decisions weren't spur of the moment impulses - you had to discuss it with your assistant and sit and write out your team sheet and hand it to the referee. That meant it was the product of some amount of thought. In the marketplace of ideas inside James's head, he'd 'sold' Junior and 'bought' Samuel. He might as well have handed the referee a piece of paper that said, "I'm going to be fired today, lol."

I got changed and warmed up without enthusiasm, even when I noticed that Barrow's badge featured a bee and an arrow (b - arrow) and that one of the stands was named after a former manager called Brian Arrowsmith (b - arrow!). There were two main things dampening my mood.

First, there was EFL branding all over the stadium. It must have been the same at Prenton Park, but I hadn't noticed because I didn't have The Sentinel swinging the Sword of Damocles in my general direction. The EFL had signed a TV deal which meant all its matches (Championship, League One, League Two) were filmed and if not shown live, at least cut up into YouTube clips and TV highlights packages. If I, for example, scored eight goals from the halfway line, a couple of fucking people might fucking notice. I had to think that all publicity was bad publicity.

Second, James was a wonderful person but the curse rated him as dogshit in all aspects of football management. Unless something drastically changed, and I'd only ever seen minimal changes in staff profiles, he didn't have much of a future in the role. The best thing to do would be to go down the Kidderminster route. Their manager had a tactics wizard who he trusted, and he had an assistant manager who was good at scouting. James could be the guy in the middle of some talented specialists. But if I was Mateo, I'd want someone like me surrounded by the same specialists.

The game got underway.

The Barrow manager was a real hothead. He barked non-stop, which was extremely aggravating when I was trying to have deep thoughts. His numbers weren't amazing, but he was better than James in every department. Louder, too.

I sighed and pulled my hoodie tighter around my head. Most teams had rules about all their players wearing the same kit, and those rules were ruthlessly enforced by the captain. If you see a football team at an airport going to a big match, they'll be wearing club suits and club ties. It shows that everyone's equal, no-one's bigger than the club. Tranmere's subs were wearing a black and green bench coat, but I didn't like it and didn't want to wear it, so I didn't. Fortunately, no-one was too interested in telling me how to dress. Maybe they'd heard what I'd done in Darlington. At last, something positive from the scurrilous article!

I watched James for a minute. Like most managers he pointed a lot and shouted. Micromanaging where players should pass and what they should do with their bodies. "Left! Left! Eyes open! Turn! Tracking back! Tracking back! And again!"

Just a stream of pointless instructions the players couldn't possibly take on board. Wasted energy. Being seen to be doing something because he felt the TV cameras on his neck, because Mateo was taking some practice swings with the Sword of Jamocles, because it was all James had ever known in football.

James, man. Saving him would require me to play my absolute best, but that would risk the ire of Nick and the Sentinel. Would I really risk everything to save James O'Rourke? He had a weak squad and no clue what to do with it, meaning even if I helped him out, he would be back in this position soon enough. Maybe it was kinder to let him fail so he could get on with the rest of his life. Dixie Dean bought himself a pub and ran it for almost twenty years. James O'Rourke was a good name for a pub landlord.

The first half was agony. Since my murder, I'd been super careful with my head, but I spent at least half the time banging my skull on the back of the dugout. Dum, dum, dum. It might have killed a few brain cells, but it relieved the frustration wonderfully.

Barrow were playing three at the back, and we had three strikers, so you might have thought 'wow, we'll create lots of chances here'. Nope. For a start, Barrow swarmed the midfield, giving Lee, Carlos, and Doddsy no time and space. Fine, right? Because the defenders could lift long balls to Samuel, who was bigger and stronger than the defenders he was up against. He would cause mayhem and the other two forwards would slap. Nope! Samuel quickly settled into a four out of ten match rating. Yeah but Max, the full backs will get forward and do damage. Soz, weren't you listening? Jack the Lad never attacked! He was like a yapping dog securely attached to his kennel, except his owner had removed the lead and the idiot pup hadn't realised.

No, forget all thoughts of parity, of an equal contest; the first twenty minutes was all Barrow. Then they scored and things changed - they became even more dominant. In the final five minutes before half time there was yet another twist - a twist of the knife. Barrow scored again and had a feeding frenzy around Tranmere's penalty area as they battled for another, their players laughing and joking, their fans munching on pies and teasing us in weird north-of-north accents.

The buzz from our comeback against Notts, the goodwill we got by visiting the Dixie Dean statue - James had set fire to it then poured petrol all over himself and his career. His team had two giant holes that he made no attempt to plug, he never changed his plans, and despite using an attacking formation his team was defensive as fuck. If he ever got a manager's job again, it would be a miracle.

Junior tried to talk to me, as did Coach Colin and the physios. I grumped them away, and with a minute to go in the half, stood up and looked around. I spotted the little cluster of guys with 'ownership' profiles. Mateo was there, of course, looking grim. As soon as an hour from now, he would offer me the position as Tranmere Rovers manager.

My legs felt heavy. The spring in my step had gone and I had no appetite for schemes and plots and secretly saving people. I didn't know what to do, didn't know how to navigate these side quests in the optimal way. In front of me were many literal lines and one metaphorical one. Did I really want to wrest control of a match at half time? The last time had come back to bite me in the arse.

But this whole Tranmere thing was only partly about me. I'd told MD some of the truth, and I'd told Old Nick some of the truth, but I hadn't told anyone all of the truth. And I never would; my motivations were all built on the same foundation - Emma.

Emma hugging James because I'd smiled. Emma hugging James because I'd laughed. Emma hugging me because I'd smiled and laughed.

My heart turned into a fucking flamethrower. I was going to do battle for this football manager, big time. Yes, mate! I love the smell of three points in the morning!

Decision made, I burned with the fury of a thousand suns.

And then I relented and changed my mission statement.

James would get my help, but only if he wanted it. Really wanted it.

I checked where the TV cameras were and cross-referenced them with what I remembered from clips of Barrow. The main camera was up in the middle, somewhere - there! Found it. Okay, so if I stood with my back to it, about there...

I crossed the Rubicon, going into Barrow's technical area. Their sandy-haired manager was your typical 'proper football man' - beyond gobby, screaming gibberish at his players and spitting venom at the referee virtually non-stop. He was certainly making the most of his limited gifts and had turned Barrow into a team with a shot of making the playoffs. "What?" he yelled, turning his face to me - and the camera. If he did anything dumb, it'd be caught. If I did something dumb, there'd always be some doubt about exactly what.

"Can I use your room for two minutes?"

"What you fucking say?" His bench had cleared, and they were all up in my business, ready to throw stings and arrows at me.

"Your manager's office. Can I use that for a private chat?"

"Can you fuck! Get lost!"

I didn't get lost. I stared at him until Junior pulled me away.

"What's going on?" said the referee. He'd rushed over to stop tempers from boiling over. Fat chance with the Barrow boys - they were born simmering.

"There was a boy in my school with the same name as him," I said. "I was only asking if he was that kid and he went bonkers."

"You're twenty years younger than him, Best, and you're not allowed in his technical area. You know that. I should give you a yellow card."

"Oh, ref," I said. "You've got that little room. Can I use it for two minutes? I need to make a private phone call."

He tried to process what I was saying, but couldn't. "What? Just - I'm running a match!" He jogged off.

James finally responded to my antics. "What are you doing?" he growled. He growled like someone who had never met Ian Evans doing an impression of Ian Evans. It didn't move my needle in the slightest.

"We need to have a private talk."

He tried to sneer, but again, rubbish. "Oh, do we?"

"Yes. As soon as that whistle goes."

"You're not in charge around here."

I showed him my phone with its countless unread emails and texts. "I just got a text from Mateo asking me to come up to his box right away." I let the threat hang in the air. The implication was that James would be sacked at half time. It had been known to happen. It could be interesting to categorise the levels of humiliation - sacked the day after a match versus sacked at full time versus sacked at half time. I suppose the worst would be sacked in the warm up. I pressed home my advantage. "I can talk to him, or I can talk to you."

The ref blew the whistle and while James was reeling, I took his arm and led him under the main stand. We went past all the rooms and stopped by some double doors. People kept coming and going, but it was as private as we were going to get.

I grabbed his shoulder. "We don't have much time. Listen up. Are you here?"

He looked at my left hand - the one I cradled my phone in. "What did he say? Am I out?"

I took my hand off his shoulder so I could make tiny but powerful gestures. "We met in Tenerife. You remember, right? Some weirdo kid turned up, said he was manager of Chester. The only reason to believe him was his unfathomably attractive girlfriend. Emma. You remember Emma, right?" I showed him my home screen.

"Emma. Yeah. Emma."

He was a mess. His head was everywhere all at once. "In hozzie, I was all crazy. Got to get fit for the holiday. Got to get on that plane. You'd have been proud of me, mate. Fucking grafted. I had that goal and I put the work in like a pro. I was wobbly on my legs but I made it. So then what? I didn't have a plan for the holiday itself. It was just be there. But I was so full of anger and frustration - James, focus - so angry all the time, so lost. And I didn't have anything to do, so I took it out on the only person who was there, the last person I wanted to snap at."

"Emma."

"Right. I'm not saying I was a monster or anything, but it was frustrating that I'd take out my mess on her. Do you know what I mean? It was getting to be a vicious cycle. I'd think about the attack, what the police did, what Jackie did, all sorts of stuff. It'd bubble up and Emma would say something and I'd just... vent. It was really aggravating me that I couldn't stop myself from doing it. But then I did it again, but more." I shook my head. "Horrible. Dispiriting. And then we bumped into you lot, and that was it. You gave me what I needed - a bit of purpose. Some physios and coaches and the pool and the dinners where you sat outside in the dark for me."

He was present now. Listening to me for the first time since I'd arrived at Tranmere. "I preferred it to being inside with those rowdy idiots."

"The thing is, I owe you. I've tried to tell you a hundred times I'm not here to take your job. I've paid Mateo back."

"The tribunal."

"Yeah. And Junior and Bark. The worst thing that can possibly happen is he sacks you and offers me the job. How do I turn it down and stay friends with him? I've imagined the scene a hundred times and it doesn't end well. We've got to avoid it. I've paid him back and I'm trying to pay you back. But I've got to ask, do you want to keep this job?"

"Course I do. I'm a fighter. I won't quit."

Typical macho gibberish with no substance behind it. But it'd do. "Okay. The tactics aren't negative but the messaging is. You can't fix that in five minutes. Fight by sending your allies in. I'll fly in like, er... Lord Flashheart. Let me fix it."

"What?"

"Let me fix it. Barrow? They're shit. Let me do a Max Best special. Insanely positive. They've never seen anything like what I've got in mind. We'll get back in this game, get a draw, get a point, maybe go for all three. I can't do this one on my own, though. This isn't a superhero story. Flashheart needed Blackadder. I need your team."

"Sounds like you want to be the manager of Tranmere Rovers."

I tutted and looked up at the ceiling. This guy. I brought my phone out of my pocket like the genie's lamp it was. "If I wanted that, you'd have been sacked already." I slipped it away, then mashed my fists into my face. "God, this is frustrating. You need to stop being so negative. Stop thinking the worst. Go back to the sun and the sea and all those big plans you had for the season. Let's get the fuck on with it or go our separate ways. You're in a death spiral and you can't think straight. You need someone on the outside to get you back on course. Come on, there's no time. I have to do the tactics. Let me help you! For me, and for Emma. For Emma, James!"

He thought for a while. "What's the plan? Tell me and I'll tell them."

"No time. Trust me. We go back, clear everyone out, and I'll tell them."

"What?"

"Get everyone out who isn't playing. We're subbing Carlos and Samuel off, by the way."

"I don't follow."

"There will be twelve people in that room, including you and me. If any of this leaks, we'll soon find out who did it. Neither of us wants an audience for this." The fewer people who saw me do a half time 'mutiny' the better. Lesson learned.

"But - "

I shook my head and turned him around. "You've got twenty seconds to save your career. No joke. Come on, now." With a gentle push from me, he started moving his legs. I wasn't sure what the odds were. 80-20 in my favour, I supposed. The home fans had been singing 'you're getting sacked in the morning'. James knew he was on the brink.

He went into the dressing room and the hubbub died down. I stayed outside in the corridor, my back to the wall. If he didn't go for it, I wouldn't play. I'd claim my calf was feeling tight or whatever. If he wasn't willing to grab the rope I'd thrown him, he couldn't blame me when he fell down the well. There were long-term reasons not to play, too. These 'end of an era' matches tended to linger in the memory. The Tranmere fans would remember the team who got James O'Rourke sacked. Being involved in the worst Tranmere performance in living memory would not do much for my brand. Or my ego. Also, if I didn't play, I couldn't catch the eye of a demon.

"Okay, fellas. That was not acceptable." James coughed, then grunted. I felt him looking around, still coming to a decision. "Couple of changes at half time. Carlos, you're off. Samuel, you too. I'm going to ask everyone who isn't playing the second half to leave the dressing room." Weird silence. "Come on, now. Everyone out."

The physios left first, then some coaches, then the other players. Junior went past - I hadn't told James who was coming on - and I reached out to grab him. When the last guys were out, I pushed Junior back in, and closed the door behind me.

Coach Colin hadn't left. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded. He was a good coach and I liked him, but if James was fired, he'd probably take over as caretaker manager. He had an incentive to do James dirty. He wouldn't, but why risk it? And if I needed to hunt down a traitor, why make the Brig's investigation harder?

I went to him and mumbled that he needed to leave, too. He reacted badly. Fuck him. If Tranmere were relegated, dozens of people would lose their jobs. His feelings didn't matter.

"Everyone over here," I said, quietly, when it was just the eleven players and James. I pulled the tactics board away from the wall, to establish dominance over it more than anything else.

"The fuck is going on?" demanded Jack the Lad.

"Shut it," I suggested. "I've been out in the corridor telling James an idea that could get us back into this. Right? My teams use 3-5-2 a lot so I know how to play against it. Here's the plan. We're going to play 4-4-2 low block."

"What?" said Gareth Jones, the captain.

"What?" said James. "What happened to being too negative?"

"Genius, isn't it? To attack, you must first go ultra, ultra-defensive. Sun Tsu. Back four as normal. Jack'll be happy - he gets an excuse not to run forward."

"What is your problem?"

"Dizzy, you're left mid. Dodds, you're right. Shuffle, slide, look after your spacing. Here's the twist. Junior's going to play wide left. I'm going to play wide right. The goal of everyone on this team is to defend for your lives and get the ball to me as fast as poss."

"To you?" said Jack. "What a surprise."

"It's a head scratcher, isn't it? Get the ball to your best player? Hmm. Tommy Tactics rides again. Goalie? Punt the ball at me, low and hard." Punting in this context meant kicking it long. "I might be hiding near one of these guys, but hit this space. Fast, mate. No dicking around. Get the ball, punt it. I can cope with some spin and some height but too much and you'll give them the chance to get back into shape. Defenders? Block, punt. Midfielders, block, punt. If you can get the ball just over the halfway line when they're even slightly out of shape, we're going to slap."

"What do I do?" said Junior.

I laughed. "You score the goals. What do you fucking think? When I'm running onto that ball, you're drifting left, away from danger. When you think I'm about to hit it, you fucking go at goal. Straight for goal from whatever angle you're at. Be calm. If you can first-time the finish, top. If you need to take a touch, great. But that's it. No turning back to pass to runners. There won't be any. Now," I said, touching the tactics board. "This will fuck with their heads, big time. They've never seen anything like this. They'll respond. Probably drop their wide mids back and play 5-3-2. Or they might switch completely. We'll have to see. At that point - I'll tell you when - we go right back into 4-3-3 and it's your usual playbook again, but this time it'll work. Dizzy and Junior up top, with me as the third striker."

"Third striker?" scoffed Jack. "Don't you mean playing anywhere you want?"

"That's right, Jack! But not left mid. You'll notice I leave that space open for you to run into." He thought about stepping to me, which made me laugh. "You useless prat." Was I trying to rile him up so that he'd want to prove me wrong? Nah. Just liked calling people names. The bell rang. "That's it. Oh!" I clicked my fingers. "I'm thinking about winding their manager up. I probably won't - I'm on holiday - but I might. If it happens, let it happen. You don't need to get involved. Jack, that goes double for you. Don't want a tough guy like you wading in."

***

Junior raced onto the pitch, leapt to practise a header, and pumped his knees up to hip level like pistons. I walked behind him, fretting. Losing wasn't the issue; if this plan blew up, James could tell Mateo he'd tried things my way and it had failed miserably. That would be fine with me. James would know I'd tried to help him and Mateo would think twice about offering me the job.

No, the problem was Old Nick. This plan made me the creator and all our attacks would flow through me. Even the tactics screen had me listed as the playmaker. We needed at least two goals. Two assists... against Barrow... in League Two... in front of just three thousand people... surely that was allowed?

Barrow kicked off, having made no changes at half time, and began pushing up the pitch as our guys fell into a shuffle and slide. Junior hung out on the extreme left of the pitch and I did the same on the other side with no-one anywhere near me.

Barrow pressed forward, passing left and right, probing, looking for openings. They were winning two-nil and were in no hurry. They kept the three centre backs on the halfway line, but one by one their midfielders moved further and further forward.

A cross was sent in, and Barrow had plenty of numbers in the box to attack it. The mass of defenders did enough to make the header difficult and the goalie ran out to pluck the ball from the air. In the same movement, he drop-kicked the ball in my direction. I strolled towards it. The important thing here was NOT to do anything flash or eye-catching. I did NOT want to end up on some tekkers highlights reel or whatever. I played for Chester and had to act like it.

He'd kicked it sort of sideways, and it was spinning and dipping pretty wickedly, to my right, perilously close to the right touchline. If I didn't control it first time, it'd go out and the move would have ended before it had begun.

I controlled the ball, still strolling forward, on the inside of my foot. It blooped up in a way that demanded a volley. Nick might have raged at me, but anyone who has ever played football will understand it. I had to volley it. Free will does not exist when the ball pops up just right!

Up it went, about chest high, and I watched with mild interest as it began its descent before thrashing it, much as our goalie had done, diagonally to the left.

Junior had sprinted as soon as I'd controlled the ball and now it was arcing into his path. His eyes widened and his first touch was poor - it squirted almost perfectly square. But he was fast enough to recover, and as the defenders hared backwards, the keeper made the moronic choice to come out. Junior didn't have time to think, so he struck the ball low to the keeper's left.

Two-one, and Junior ran over to the crazily-designed away end, full of Tranmere fans.

I didn't want to be in the celebration highlights, so I walked the opposite way, going past the Barrow dugout. I winked. "Next time, let me use your room."

That annoyed him and he danced around, puffing himself up, generally behaving like he was playing a party game where he had to act as two different animals simultaneously and we had to guess which ones he was doing.

He was a dick but he was no mug; he ordered the left mid to drop deep to cover me, so as Barrow pushed forward again, this time with more urgency, I walked across the pitch and told Junior to swap sides. This time, Barrow's spell of possession was more prolonged and more intense, but we held firm. Still, it was a good while before anyone could get the ball to me.

It was Jack the Lad who did it. He won possession, played the ball back to the goalie, who had no choice but to play it straight back. Jack feinted, cut inside onto his right foot, and chipped it out in my direction. I'd have liked some more pace on the ball but that was okay.

I accelerated - ooh that wind resistance was coming back! - checked where Junior was and found him making a perfect run. I hit a left-footed curler that went behind two of the centre backs and held up with the spin. The goalie came out a few steps, remembered how he'd made it easy for Junior before, and retreated. Junior latched onto the pass and his first touch was heavy. The keeper did go running then, throwing himself at the ball sideways to cover most of the angles, but Junior scooped the ball up about two feet, over the keeper's body. It plopped onto the goal line and rolled a couple more times before coming to a gentle rest. Junior followed it and absolutely smashed it into the back of the net. Just to be sure.

Now the home fans were even more quiet - not a noisy bunch at the best of times - and the Tranmere lot were going tonto. We'd come back from two goals down - again!

Jack ran past me on his way to join the celebrations.

"Well, well, well," I said. "Look who can play."

While the guys wrapped up their party, I kept an eye on the Barrow tactics and the commentary. Sure enough, they made a change. They took off a striker, put on a specialist left back, and changed to 4-5-1. Holy shit! It almost looked like he was clinging on for the point - and he'd dropped his average CA in the process.

I walked to Barrow's half of the centre circle so that they couldn't restart the match and called our guys in for a quick tactics update. "It's James o'clock!" I said. "Got it?

"Yes, Max," called Lee. I liked this side of him. With a clear plan and a vision and some hope of it working, he was serious and disciplined. I could imagine him maturing into a Sam Topps type. Sam with much higher technical qualities. Hmm. I liked the sound of that, but not as much as Lee liked the sound of his own voice. It'd be interesting to know when his contract ran out, just in case.

We lined up and Barrow stormed forward, stung by our recent double whammy. But we weren't in the low block now, so they overcommitted.

Dodd slid into a tackle, Lee poked it wide, and Jack the Lad ran out to collect. He had twenty yards of space in front of him, but he turned and played a sideways pass. I put my hands on my head. What the fuck? A golden chance tossed away.

Barrow realised things had changed and spent a minute reassessing. I was happy for the time out, too. I bent and placed one knee on the turf. We were back to James's tactics. My legs felt fresh and springy. As things stood, a few football hipsters would drool over my passes but Junior would get all the headlines. If we could get him a third goal, he would be all of the story. Especially if the third assist came from somewhere else.

Or maybe... maybe two-all was enough. Another point against a top-six team, James's job safe for a week, and the next three games were against increasingly easy teams. Maybe it'd be more... more Emma if I sort of... asked him for his opinion instead of giving it to him.

I walked over to the dugouts and asked James what he wanted. "Go for the win or keep what you have?"

He looked ten years younger. "You joking? This is a great point. This is an amazing point!"

"All right."

I dropped to DM and we shut up shop. When Barrow got too excited, I dribbled through their lines and sent Dizzy away. The manager got the message and his team didn't commit too many bodies forward after that.

Finally, with one last look up at the TV cameras, I decided not to try to get the manager sent off. Helping James was a risk I thought was worth taking. Acting the maggot to stir up trouble was self-indulgent.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Still, the fact that I couldn't be myself was pretty depressing. There was a good thirty seconds near the end where I couldn't get my legs moving. Then I thought, hang on... Chester will be here in a couple of years. This manager might still be in charge then, and in that game I'll be free to go full Max.

That cheered me up. I sprinted left to help my best buddy Jack the Lad defend an overload, and patrolled the width of the pitch being a proper team player slash untethered puppy until the full-time whistle blew. Two-all, job done, end of the Barrow story, back to Merseyside for chicken and chips.

Yeah. As if it was going to be that simple.

***

Barrow had the strangest away end I'd ever seen; all the seats were squashed into one section and then there was a huge perspex screen and then just loads of dead space. While the real Tranmere players went over to the away end to applaud the fans, I zoomed straight into the dressing room to avoid attention and to get a massage.

The physios were out collecting their gear and chatting to their fellows from Barrow, so I had to wait. I sat on a treatment table, kicking my legs. A fairly cute woman knocked and let herself in. "Are you decent?" she said, pretending to shield her eyes with a clipboard. I wasn't that familiar with the Cumbrian accent - it was a bonkers mix of Yorkshire, Welsh, and just, like, Scandinavian.

I wasn't sure who she was, so I bit back some very flirty responses and went with something pretty mild. "I could be."

"Saw you come in. I'm Emma.” Two Emmas in the world. Who would have thought it? “I'm the Media Manager here at Barrow."

Media Managers - what did they do? Liaise between the journalists and the playing staff? There was one at Tranmere always trying to get me to do interviews. I'd have to talk to him to find out what exactly the position entailed. "We'll need one of you when we get to League Two."

"You're in League Two," she said, before slapping herself on the forehead. "You mean Chester. So you're going back? Yeah, you will need someone. You’re not making the most out of this story and your socials are pretty bleak."

She was about to continue, but I interrupted like a true gentleman. "Emma, help me out. Barrow were a non-league club recently, and now you've moved up and you're doing well. You could go to League One! But I was looking all over the maps for your training ground and I couldn't find anything. Where is it? Do you train in the stadium or what?"

"No, we train in Manchester."

"Wait, hang on. Manchester Manchester? Best chips in the land Manchester? That's two hours away. Barrow AFC, from Cumbria, train in Manchester? You're messing with my tiny mind, here."

She shrugged. "That's where we train. FC Manchester United," she said. She meant FC United of Manchester. Ziggy's team. So a tier 7 team had tier 3 or 4 facilities. That couldn't be right. I needed to investigate that, big time. Also, training two hours away? That was absurd, but if it worked it opened up half the country as locations for our new training centre. Land too expensive in Chester? Buy some in Barnsley! She didn't realise the enormity of what she had said, because she ploughed on all chipper and bubbly. "So's now anyways, there's lots of journos want to have a chinwag with yer."

"No, thanks."

"Sorry, I wasn't clear. There's, like, a record number of journos here to talk to you. They’re spilling out into reception."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something about you've put a woman in charge and done a runner? Something about the first manager to loan himself to another club? Could maybe be connected to the absolute storm you've whipped up."

"Got to be honest, Ems, none of that is cutting through into my day-to-day. I'm pretty focused on my reading. I'm nearly done with the Dan Brown collection. Do you know a good book with short chapters?"

"A good book with short chapters? The Bible. So who do you want to talk to first? There's the BBC, Sky, The Sun, The Athletic…"

"No, thanks."

She winced. I'd just made her life very, very difficult. "There's one. Nice girl, lovely girl, very pretty."

"Nah."

Emma pulled out her secret weapon. "She says you'll do it because you owe her fifty pounds."

I smiled. "Tell her she's used that one. No, Ems, I'm not talking to any media today. I have a hot young guy who does that for me. His name's Lee; I'll send him out when he gets here. He was my Man of the Match."

"We say Player of the Match, now."

"See? Lee knows all the media things. He's perfeck. I'm one of those dinosaurs. I only talk about conspiracy theories. I've gone full gammon."

Emma looked dubiously down at a clipboard and swallowed. How was she supposed to explain my refusal? "Right. Well, there's one other thing. I was told you're big into the disabled football and all that and there's a couple of not-able-bodied TV reporters and they've specifically asked if they can speak to you. They're big fans of Max, they said. I did sort of make a promise to them - I didn’t realise you wouldn’t - "

Our players came in, chipper and loud. They were happy with the point, same as their manager, and were high on the adulation they had just got from the travelling fans. "Lee. Get over here."

"Yes, Max."

"You're doing my media stuff again. Get Junior and go together. Don't mention me."

"Don't mention you?"

"If they ask about me, talk about Doddsy. If they ask about me again, talk about how well we defended. You get the idea. I don't exist. Don't mention me! Emma, can you separate those two journos? So I can talk to them but the fifty quid woman can't see me? If you can do that, I'll do it."

"Yeah, I can, aye." She wanted to ask why, but didn't. She led me, Junior, and Lee along some corridors. "You wait here, Max." Lee and Junior followed her to the main media area, and half a minute later she was back, holding the door open while a short guy pushed a dude in a wheelchair through. As Emma left, her voice floated backwards. "I'll leave yers to it."

"Thanks bebs." When she was gone, I counted to three and slapped my hips. "What the fuck?"

The two disabled TV reporters were, in fact, two of the imps. The one pushing the wheelchair was the tactics imp. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, open to the third button, under a smart jacket. He was wearing all-white trainers. His overall look reminded me of something I couldn't quite put my finger on. The one in the wheelchair was the one I'd caught playing Snake on an old Nokia. He was wearing a cheap black hoodie. He was holding - I'm very sorry to report - one of those big, fuzzy microphones with a box around it, where the box displays the logo of the media company the microphone holder works for. The branding said IMP TV.

Tactics Imp looked depressed, and Snake Imp wasn't much happier. "What's up with you two? Oh, shit. Is it The Sentinel? Did I piss him off?"

"No," said Tactics Imp, not looking at me.

"Can you guys give me a warning if I'm getting into the danger zone?"

"No," he said again, but when I didn't show any sign of saying anything else, he added a single word. "Soz."

"I don't," I started, but then wondered if there was any point. These guys thought they had carte blanche to interfere in my bizniz. "I don't want to be meeting demons and imps every ten minutes. We can't do this. And not in public." Tactics Imp's surly teenager vibe was getting to me. "What's his problem?"

Snake Imp pulled the microphone back to his own mouth, and I realised he'd been pointing it at me, like a real interviewer. "Sulking." He pushed it back.

I scrunched my face up as I peered into the fluorescent lights above us. With a big sigh, I looked down at the imp who had tried to help by directing me to buy the Wibwob perk. As ever, after my initial anger I felt vaguely sorry for the wretched creatures. "What's the problem, dude?"

"Don't understand," he mumbled.

"What don't you understand?" I said, with more patience than I knew I had.

"Low block 4-4-2 against 3-5-2. Why did it work?"

"If I tell you, will you tie Nick's shoelaces together so when he tries to walk he falls flat on his face?"

He kinda grinned. "Can't."

Snake Imp went, "Hurr!"

"Give me your stupid notebook." He did, along with a pen. I squatted to use Snake Imp's lap as a writing desk, using crosses to represent the enemy and circles for me and my team. "Look, it's dead simple. Barrow are doing 3-5-2. We're 4-4-2 low block but the front two are way wide."

"Two midfielders are forwards!" he whined.

"It's fine for twenty minutes. Low block's not about what they do on the ball. You know that phrase right? On the ball is when the ball is at their feet. No, defending is about what they do off the ball. All professional players have done a 4-4-2 low block at some point in their lives. You just need discipline and to be willing to suffer for the team. It's not a problem."

"Oh."

"So we've got eight defenders and a goalie. Barrow aren't going to score with just the two strikers. Bit by bit, they push midfielders forward. It's typical to get wide players involved so they can send crosses in. So the left mid and right mid go forward and when they smash a cross too hard it might go all the way across to the other one and they can keep putting pressure on. One of the three central midfielders gets involved, too. If they're desperate, they'll send another, and move a centre back to DM, and so on and so on."

"But he was winning."

I shrugged. "He? The other manager? It's a league. Goal difference matters, he's at home, and we're rolling over to die. Why shouldn't he tickle our belly?"

"Hurr!" laughed Snake Imp.

"So what happens when I get the ball? This is me on the right."

"The star."

"Is it? No, it's just a wonky circle."

image [https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/b6c12.png]

"Junior's on one side, and he's going to make a run here, behind the defenders. I pass to him, boom, easy. Shot on goal. I thought it might take a few goes to work because his control isn't the best, but he's fast and the defenders were surprised. We got lucky, but the overall principle isn't hard. What I love is that the two central midfielders aren't attacking or defending. It's like I took them off the board. And there are three centre backs but only one is involved - the one nearest me. If I was too slow, he might have blocked the pass or tackled me. Which is why I did it fast. And these other two are pretty useless if the pass is good and Junior's touch is decent. And look how much space I'm in! They can't even kick me."

"Why no Chester do this?"

"Most teams don't attack us. And everyone in the National League North knows what I can do. They'd get sacked if they gave me all this space in the full back areas. Also, I don't really have a Junior comp. Pascal would be closest, I reckon. I suppose it would work with him but I haven't been able to get these passes going since my murder. Not ones this complicated. I feel like I'm Passing 20 again."

"Creativity 20," said Tactics Imp. His mood had flipped completely.

"Oh, am I?" I said.

He got shifty. Turned away, side-eyed me, and in an arch tone said, "Maybe?"

I scoffed. He'd just confirmed it. "So do you get it? The low block was to draw them onto us. Make all these gaps here. They're attacking with five against nine, we're attacking with two against three, but to me it's almost like two against one. It could blow up and we could lose five-nil but all you can do is try to move the percentages in your favour, and in this model, our chances are going to be way better. Way better."

"Max wins," he said, taking the notebook from me and staring at the sketches with great reverence.

I stood up. "Next time bring coloured pens." I suddenly wondered what was going on. They hadn't come for a tactics lesson. "Is that it?"

"Eh?" said Tactics Imp, barely listening.

Snake Imp smacked his colleague with the microphone. "Mission!"

"Don't want to."

"Get on with it. Fookinell."

Tactics Imp gave the other one a dig on the arm. "Gobbymanctwat. You do it."

Were they... swearing? In a Manchester accent? Were they listening in on my every conversation? No - then they would have heard me explain the tactics to the team. "Oi, Tommy Tactics. Tell me."

He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. "It wasn't us."

"What wasn't you?"

"It wasn't us. Mission complete. We go now."

"No no no. Hold it right there. It wasn't you. Okay, something bad has happened. Nick thinks I'll throw a tantrum about it." Tactics Imp was nodding. Suddenly, I felt sick. "Is it my mum?"

Tactics Imp pulled a face. "Max mum old sick. Not us! Not us!"

"All right, don't have a fit." It wasn't mum, then. "You can't tell me. I'm going to find out, am I? Fine. It wasn't you. Why should I believe that?"

Snake Imp wedged the microphone between his leg and the side of the wheelchair. The interview was over. He whipped out what looked like a vintage Nintendo Gameboy. "Not us."

I wasn't going to get anything else out of them. "Last question. If you're Imp TV, where are your cameras?"

Gameboy Imp rolled his eyes as his mate swung him round the way they'd come. He gave me a look of pity as he said, "Imp TV not real. Duh."

***

Back in the dressing room I found I'd lost my place in the massage queue, so I decided to skip it. I didn't like being the last one that everyone was waiting for, so I got showered and dressed. I sat on my part of the bench, wondering what could have happened to make Nick worry about me lashing out. Who should I call? I had no clue.

I got my phone and checked the Chester result - a four-nil smashing of Rushall Olympic with a hat trick from Goliath. I went to the Manchester Evening News website, then Cheshire Live. Nothing jumped out in the way of bad news that might affect me.

Mateo came into the dressing room. Owners weren't really supposed to do that. There was a growing trend of it happening, especially with American business boys who thought it was normal, but most European footballers hated it. They needed a place to vent and rage and complain. A safe space, you might say.

"Max. Can we talk?" I should have realised he was there to deliver the bad news, but I panicked, thinking he was there to offer me the Tranmere job. Surely James had done enough to buy himself one more match? The blood drained from my face. The imps! They had somehow reported my tactical ideas to Mateo, confirming that it had all been me! It didn't matter if the Tranmere players never told anyone what happened at half time if I fucking blabbed not two minutes after the final whistle!

"Yep. Is it something you can't say here?"

Everyone in the dressing room had got quieter and a few inches closer. Mateo pressed his lips flat. "Up to you."

"Hit me," I said.

He took a breath. "Your player, Ryan Jack. He's done his knee. They think it's bad. He's had gas and oxygen. Stretchered off. They're thinking ACL."

I whipped my phone out. The score was now 5-0. The match was ongoing! There had been a huge delay, obviously. I opened the curse screens but they would show the Tranmere Match Overview until I left Barrow's stadium, if the past was anything to go by.

I put my phone away and tried to process the news. "Cruciate ligament! He's 35. Is that him fucked?"

One of the physios nodded, but another shook his head.

Mateo looked at his watch. "We were going to have dinner with the Barrow directors, but I'll drive you back if you want."

I bit my nails for a while. "He'll have loads of people with him now. Tomorrow his family will pile on. I'll go see him on Monday after training."

"You can skip training, Max," said James.

I rubbed my head. "I can't skip training," I muttered. "I'm on holiday."

***

Monday, 8 January

On Friday I'd gone up to Glasgow to watch Queen's Park against Dunfermline in Scotland's second tier. The curse rated that as worth 4 XP per minute, suggesting the Scottish Premier was a 5 per minute league. Saturday was the Barrow match, and Sunday I decided to watch Notts Forest Women in the third tier. With a bit of Sunday League and some five-a-side minutes thrown in, I had blasted past one-fifth of my monthly target.

XP balance: 2,812

January income: 2,150/10,000

I trained cautiously and skipped the extra free kick practice. If Ryan's injury was as bad as the curse feared, I might need to play as a central midfielder. What would that mean? It'd still be disproportionately valuable to be able to turn free kicks into a deadly weapon, but a case could be made that the team would equally benefit from me adding a few more points in jumping, heading, and tackling. Some stamina, too, since I'd have to throw myself into lots of matches in a short space of time towards the end of the season.

The plan was to spend some time with Jack, then go and have a chat with Sandra.

When I went into the hospital room, Sandra was there. Convenient! Also present: Physio Dean and Jackie Reaper.

I went to the patient and tenderly placed his hand in mine. "Ryan. Don't try to open your eyes. It's me, Max Best."

"Me eyes are wide open, bosh."

"Don't go into the light. I've ordered you a cheeky charcoal chicken and chips."

The pain and gloom lifted from his features. The word charcoal followed by the word chicken did something to an Englishman's brain. Created a need that had never been present before. "Charcoal chicken? What's that?"

"Jackie will explain it to you later.” I let go of his hand and checked his morale. It had gone up since I’d entered the room. “How you doing?"

"Not too well, bosh, to be fair."

"Yeah. What was it like?"

"Just went to do a turn. Normal. Thing you'd do a thousand times a week. Heard a pop. Felt like I'd been shot."

The Injury perk had finally proven its worth. On the day itself, when I could finally get into the Chester Squad screen to check Ryan's profile, it simply said 'suspected knee injury'. When I woke up the next day, it said 'cruciate ligament injury - 12 months'. I had to go through the motions, though. "Dean, what do you think? Partial tear, maybe?"

"We might not know till we go in. Could be good news. Absolutely could be. But for your planning, er... Max and Sandra, I'd expect a long layoff."

"I'm finished," said Ryan, wringing his hands. "I know I am. That's me done."

"Come on, Ryan," said Jackie. "Don't be like that."

"For once, Jackie's right. You'll be miserable for a while then we'll find you a sexy nurse to take care of you. You'll fall in love with each other and eventually, she'll ask you out."

"Fucking hell," mumbled Jackie.

I pretended I hadn't heard my subordinate. "I've not been idle, Ryan mate, since I got the news. Based on my research and following a template I found in Cosmopolitan magazine, I've got a questionnaire for you that will really kickstart the healing process."

"Er, Max," said Dean, but I knew I was on solid ground.

"Dean, I got a B in Biology. We didn't do knees but we did whatsit. Water going round in a circle. You know, clouds." I settled onto the chair and coughed. "Okay, question one. You have messed up your knee. Do you A, resent watching your teammates play? B, blame yourself for not listening to your body? C, find hope in the ponytail baseball cap combo of a ravishing medical professional?"

Dean got up and pulled me away from Ryan. "Okay, Max, thank you very much. I'll take over the rehab, I think. You go back to your holiday."

"What the shit is this?" I said, pointing to a newspaper on Ryan's side table. It was the same rag with the He's Done WHAT?! headline. But today's edition said, CALAMITY LANE. "What's that? Is that a pun?"

No-one wanted to explain it. Jackie bit the bullet. "It's from Calamity Jane. Someone from the Wild West. Don't know the story."

"Calamity Lane. Are they... are they fucking blaming Sandra for this? And Joe Anka? It was fucking random." I was seething. Boiling to the point my vision turned into a snowstorm.

"Not now, Max," said Sandra. "Today's about Ryan. We're happy to see you. That's good. We're positive. And you're a bit of an inspiration, aren't you?"

She'd reached through the wild, birth of the universe static and switched me to a better channel. My eyes went back to normal. "What?"

"You and your tekkers video. If anyone knows what it's like coming back from a bad injury, it's you. Tell Ryan what it's like."

I looked at my midfielder. "You've never had a bad injury before?"

"Oh, loads. This is the big one, though, isn't it?" He eyed Jackie and the hand wringing started again. He was more likely to end up like his mate than me, so he thought. Well, fuck that. I pulled Dean away and took the seat next to Ryan again.

"Mate, it's horrible. It's awful. It's weeks of suffering and loneliness. You want some human contact but when it comes it drives you mad. Everything's aggravating and the worst part is you don't know if you should bother doing the rehab because you don't know how broken you are." I took his hand again, but this time there was no irony in it. "That was me, though. Head injuries are wild. Your knee is fucked, mate, and you'll be out for a year. But it's mechanical and the surgeons fix more knees than I score no-look backheel nutmegs. You're not going to suffer and be lonely, not for very long, anyway. I'll keep you busy. I've got fucking tasks for you, mate. If you want to quit playing, that's all right, we’ll look after you. But you shouldn't. You'll be out, then you'll be back. We're going to be in the National League. You'll come back in the side just as we're getting good. Making a drive for the playoffs or something. And you'll come back better. We'll have better players around you, better facilities, more physios. And then we'll get promoted to League Two and then we'll bin you off because you'll be like 37 by then and I mean, come on."

He smiled at the last bit.

Dean sighed. "We need to work on your bedside manner, Max." I think that was a callback to something I'd said to him, once.

"I'm actually smashing this," I told him. "Now, I'm all into personal choice these days. So Ryan, I can finish by giving you a tender kiss on the forehead, or I can start looking for hot single nurses in your area."

Sandra snorted. "It's my job to end this conversation, I reckon. Come on, Max. Let's go do some planning. Ryan, I'll be back in a bit. All right?"

The patient relaxed back onto his pillow. "All right, Miss."

Jackie and Dean laughed.

"What?" I said.

"D-Day is running a book on who'll be the first to say mum instead of Miss."

I smiled. In school, there was always one boy who did that. It normally took a few months into the new school year, if I remembered right. "Has anyone done it?"

"We think Youngster came close because he suddenly stopped mid-sentence and blushed."

"Huh." It wouldn't be Henri or Pascal, unless they had the exact same verbal setup in school, which I doubted. They probably addressed teachers by their full titles including qualifications. Nah, it would be someone British and someone young. "Get your money on Bark."

As I left I turned round and saw Jackie take my seat. He and Ryan had big smiles and were shaking their heads at my antics. A mad story to tell each other as they aged. Remember when Max came to see you in hozzie?

Sandra and I went to the hospital canteen and caught up. Our 4-4-1-Goliath was smashing through the low blocks. Henri had started out grumpy at all the attention Goliath was getting, but after Goliath's first goal he'd pointed at Henri, whose selfless running had created the chance, and bear hugged him. Goliath gave all the credit to his goals to whoever set them up, which was often Henri, and with such a reliable supply of attention and affection, Henri was in dreamland. The two were now thick as thieves, and their post-match interviews were one big love-in. Eddie Moore had been a bit shaky, feeling the pressure of coming into a successful team, but the lads were being patient with him. Bark was getting on better with Tyson and the other young players than with the older guys. He had minor imposter syndrome, Sandra thought, but he was obviously talented. She was on it, she promised me.

Yeah, things were great, except for the injuries. Two bad ones in two games.

"How do you feel about this Calamity Lane shit?"

She sipped her drink and leaned back. "I was told when I took this job that there was only one opinion that mattered. So the question isn't, what does some clickbait-chasing hack think. It's, what do you think?"

"I think you're crushing it. No notes. How are the rest of the media treating you?"

She thought about it. "Good. It's a good story. I think they'd have preferred if I lost my first, like, ten matches."

I tutted because she was right. "Fucking ghouls."

"MD wants us to do a documentary like Wrexham. Says we're doing mad stories all the time and we should monetise them."

"Tell him to boil his fucking head."

"Will do."

"Okay, let's talk central midfield. Looking a bit bare, suddenly. Bit lacking in passing range and craft. Do I need to go to MD to beg for cash?"

She drummed the side of her paper cup. "We've got Sam and Raffi as first choice. We have a better left back now so we can play with two CMs for the rest of the season. No more 3-5-2. We've had more bids for Raffi. Did you know?"

I smiled. "I did."

She leaned forward. "How much?"

"The last one was three hundred."

"Are you serious? That's... we should sell."

"Ooh," I said, wincing. "You just lost some crushing points. What's a level below crushing? You're no longer crushing the job. You're gripping it firmly."

"Why, though?"

"Because Chester’s record sale was three hundred thousand. Ian Rush back in the old days. I want to beat that. And because Raffi's a fifteen million pound player," I said.

She paused. "You'll... take less than that, though?" She was wondering if I was as crazy as all the fans seemed to think.

I scoffed. "At four hundred I'll start to be tempted. Start, mind you. I really don't see the point of letting him go for less than eight. Okay, realistically, six hundred is a done deal. Between five and six is a grey area."

"What about four with a sell-on? Fifteen percent of his next fee."

"That sort of thing might come into play a few years down the line, but if I sell now I want the cash now. A mill in the hand is worth two mill in the bush."

She thought things through for a while, then decided Raffi's eventual fee wasn't relevant to the next few weeks of her life. "Sam, Raffi. We're sticking to 4-4-2, right?"

"Unless you want to rest Chris. He doesn't seem the sort to need it, though. He never sprints, does he?"

"This weekend is Solihull in the FA Trophy. He can't play in that; he’s cup-tied. 4-1-4-1?"

"Hmm." I looked around, checking we couldn't be overheard. "With Ryan, we'd have half a chance. Without Ryan... we're struggling. Solihull are going great guns in the National League and we've got three matches in seven days. The worst thing would be an injury to a key player in a losing cause. If you want to weaken the team, put Tony up front, that sort of thing... I'm okay with it. It's your call."

She inhaled and let it out over five long seconds. I'd given her permission to drop out of the FA Trophy in the fourth round, at the first sign of a stronger team. Permission to start conserving our dwindling resources. It wasn't like Max Best to be pragmatic. "If you were playing, would you weaken the team?"

"Depends. Our scout said they play 3-5-2. I find I like playing against 3-5-2s. A weak team with me and Pascal... maybe Bark and D-Day... We could get creative. On the other hand, that competition has served its purpose. What's that, three matches that got postponed? Top. But now we need to make sure we have bodies in the last months."

"Can Youngster play CM?"

"Yeah. Not as well as DM, but he'll have to learn. It'll be good for him, anyway. Teams won't always have DM slots for him."

"Sam, Raffi, Youngster, Magnus. Four for two slots. As you say, not much craft in that list. Then it's a bit desperate. Pascal, Donny, Bark. Not very natural. Oh, Andrew Harrison, but he's undercooked."

I nodded. "Push him harder. Make him do extra sessions."

"Not very Snowflake FC."

She took a sip as I said, "I'm not paying him to suck." It was pretty close to a spit take, which pleased me. "When I'm back, I can fill in at CM sometimes. I wanted to ask if you thought I should spend my extra coaching time getting my free kicks back up to scratch, or turn myself into a Ryan Jack comp."

"Free kicks."

"That simple?"

"That simple. You can already do most of what he was doing. You need some experience in there, but you can do it. And I've seen your old free kicks up close. Remember you gave Patricio a little slap? If we can get those back..."

I nodded and thought about if there was anything else that couldn't wait. I decided almost everything could be done by text. "Are you having fun?"

"Having the time of my life."

"Do you want me to come back?"

She sipped her drink and stared into it for quite a long time. Finally, she said, "Yeah." She grinned and looked down again. "Million percent."

***

That evening I went to south Wales to watch the FA Cup third round match between Swansea City and Leeds United. That was a mad, hectic match which earned me 6 XP per minute.

But on Tuesday I cancelled my plans, and took Jackie and Raffi to meet Ziggy for a tour of FC United's training facilities. If they were good enough for Barrow, a club potentially heading to tier three, they'd be good enough for me. For a while.

I said something of the sort to Jackie. "Hold up. You want to rent this? Barrow get the pitch from nine to ten, we come ten to eleven. Is that your idea?"

I sighed. "Come on. I want to build something like this in Chester, or near it. Stop blabbing and show me the rest."

"That was it."

"Oh."

Broadhurst Park was a cosy five thousand seater stadium. Jackie and Ziggy had shown me some of the facilities that were not immediately obvious from the outside, such as classrooms for the academy kids to study in, and a well-equipped kitchen.

Outside, across a road, were two grass pitches and an all-weather 3G one.

And that was it. I'd done some homework and found the entire thing had cost 6.3 million. But Ziggy had a useful data point - half the funding had come from grants. There was loads of money sloshing around for well-designed sports programmes, he said, especially if the local community could use the facilities, too.

"Okay, but hang on," I said, turning this way and that. "This has one all-weather pitch. We've got two. We've got more pitches than FC United. Are our facilities better?"

"No," said Jackie. "This is better."

"Why?"

"This is football-only. Our men's team park next to someone from BoshCard."

"So?"

He shrugged. "It’s amateur. Makes a difference to how you feel. Maybe it shouldn't but it does. And we don't own anything. The women get kicked off the pitch by pensioners and walking football and an under fourteens team who are the biggest bunch of gobshites in Cheshire."

"You're saying if we bought the credit card building, our players would improve faster?"

He frowned. "I don't think of it that way, but yes."

Raffi was listening quietly, as he always did. Now, he spoke. "If you owned it, you'd change things. You'd put a massive Chester badge on the front and we'd drive there and be proud to go. You'd knock through the downstairs offices and make one big gym and a proper medical room." He tsked. "Even the handles on the doors. They're a pain when you've got your boots in one hand and a ball in the other. They're fiddly, them handles. You owned that building, you'd change that in no time."

"All right, so we buy some land, put up some pitches, some changing rooms. There's a million gone and we're no better off. I want facilities so good a League One team would call to ask if they could train there. What's next?"

"Kitchens," said Jackie, pointing to the stadium. "You get a nutritionist and your own chefs, the players eat better, train better, play better."

I nodded. "The shared meals at Tranmere are cool. I'm socialising with the team and saving money on food, too. Okay, that can be a priority, I think. Could we get a mobile kitchen for now? Someone in a caravan thing who comes to training and dishes out kebabs?" I thought of Emre, my old mate from Platt Fields. He could do it in the morning and drive back to Manchester for the evening rush. "Is that dumb? Your faces say yes. Okay, proper kitchen. I've seen home renovation shows. Kitchen's, what, twenty grand?" The others scoffed. "Call it forty. Fifty? And wages for two chefs and someone to tell us not to eat Mars bars."

Ziggy tutted. "They do tailored plans for every player and teach the kids about food. Don't be a dick."

What next? I scrunched my face up to help me think. "Gym. Swimming pool? Place to relax and hang out. How much is a bean bag? I don't need to fill the space yet, do I? I need to build a big room for all sorts of stuff. Or design it to be modular where we add one building for one function and then another when we have the money. Year one, gym. Year two, wellness area. Year three, infinity pool with views of Dubai."

Raffi spoke next, and everything he said increased the total cost by another few million. "Video feedback rooms, meeting rooms, space for the data analysts, space for the performance analysts and psychologists, brain training, ice baths, space for dads to chill while their kids are training, press conference room, somewhere for sponsors to come and do photoshoots and all that. Pascal told me about a German team that has this massive cube and you stand in the middle and it fires footballs at you and tells you where to kick it. Dead hard. You'd love it, Max. Oh, and some dartboards." He gave me his best lopsided grin when he saw my reaction to his shopping list. “My dad’s been checking out what’s on offer for when I move.”

“Are you off?” said Ziggy.

“Max won’t let me,” joked Raffi. “And Ryan’s out, so the team needs me. The summer though.”

“Where will you go?”

Raffi and I spoke at the same time. “Somewhere warm.”

Jackie had thoughts. "Max, you don't need to do this. When it's time to do it, you hire people. Experts. They do all the grafting, find a site, sketch up proposals. You sit and listen and have a think. For you, the whole thing is a one-hour meeting, do you know what I mean?"

I was realising that the capital costs of what I wanted to achieve were mind-boggling. Raffi would buy me one all-weather pitch. Two if I sold him for what I wanted. Even turning a consistent profit in the transfer market, it'd take twenty years to upgrade everything to the standards I wanted. At least twenty. "When it's time to do this, it'll already be time to do the next thing. We need to get ahead of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. You're right. I should get a consultant or whatnot."

Jackie kicked a pebble. "The facilities are fine, Max. The men's team are pulling in two thousand a match. The fan base doesn't justify a big expansion."

That stung. He was right. But my hope was to do it without the fans. "If we increase the standards I can make more money on transfers."

"If you want to raise the standards quickly, get the youth teams playing in harder tournaments. The Cheshire stuff is okay but the twelves won that Liverpool tournament, didn't they? If they're ready to step up, put them in Merseyside and Greater Manchester leagues."

"Can I do that?"

"Course. It's easy. You need to show you're competitive enough, which winning tournaments will do. And then it needs to be organised. Can Inga take on more work? You might need a part-time youth coordinator. And it's more travel so it's more expensive. But if you want a quick upgrade, that's one."

I nodded and bit my nail. Lots of food for thought, but I'd seen what I needed to see. "Oh, look at the time," I said. "If we left now, we could make the start of the West Didsbury and Chorlton match. Check on Vivek and Michael." Silence. "Not interested?"

Raffi snorted. "We knew you'd do this. My mates are already on their way there." I opened my mouth but he knew what was coming. "Paying to get in, Max! Paying to get in." He laughed.

"They'd better," I growled, shaking my fist. "Good. We'll watch some proper football, then dinner's on me."

***

I fell into a groove that would serve me well for the rest of January. I'd train in the morning and either walk around Merseyside - the beaches were pretty good! - or look for Playdar opportunities. Then a pro match for the experience points in the evening, or five-a-sides, or a night off, reading.

James O'Rourke, now a lot more like the version I'd met in Tenerife, whistled to end Friday morning's training and called me over.

"Max, well done. You're improving at a rate of knots - the coaches are pretty astonished, I've got to say."

"Is Colin still mad at me?"

"Well... yeah. But he'll get over it when he realises you kept him in a job. No, he will. So tomorrow it’s home to MK Dons, another 3-5-2 team. I want you on the pitch from the start."

I blinked. "I'm starting?"

"Yep."

"Samuel?"

He shook his head. "On the bench. You'll only fucking mither me if I make you play together."

"Any special tactical instructions for me?"

"If I gave you some, would you listen?"

I shrugged. "I'd listen."

"You cheeky sod!” He looked around at his domain. It was better than Chester’s setup in lots of small, expensive ways. “Look, I think I should apologise. I haven't reacted very well to you coming here with your media circus but... that's in the past. I'm excited, now. MK Dons are a nightmare. Very aggressive, very snide, there's always trouble. Having someone on the pitch who'll get them running back to their own goal, put pressure on them, get in their faces, yeah, I'm excited about it! Okay, but look. Everyone gets that you're in the group but not really in it, if you see what I mean. So we haven't been too bothered about you wearing your own gear around the place. But for tomorrow - just tomorrow - could you please wear the proper clobber?"

I pulled a face. "The black and green thing is vile. How about you just don't sub me off? Then I won't have to wear it."

"Come on, that won a competition, that did. It's quality." He smiled. "Let's ask Emma what she thinks of it. Is she coming to watch?"

"Emma? No." She'd had a bad experience at Tranmere last time she'd been there, but we hadn't told anyone. "She's swamped at work. Fine, I'll conform. For the team. But why tomorrow? What's the haps?"

He'd got what he wanted and he was distracted, now. He was looking at his phone. "Oh? Er... it's live."

"We're the live match?"

"Yeah, yeah. Early kickoff. Big media interest for this one. Loads of applications for accreditation. More than against Wrexham, even. You'll want to show your skills, yeah? Maybe blast one of those free kicks into the top corner. Our goalies are getting pretty sick of seeing it, eh? Yeah, unleashing prime Max Best against MK bastard Dons. I'll sleep well tonight." He went off, laughing.

I rubbed my forehead. A must-win match that I was starting... live on TV... against a team of wind-up merchants... cameras everywhere... media circus... and worst of all, I had to dress like shit.