i.

On the first day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a perk to drive me crazy.

Sunday, December 3

Match 6 of 22: Chester Women vs Litherland Remyca Women

I took a break from scouting bigger teams and went to check in on our women. Jackie had set them up in his favoured 3-5-2, no surprises there, and no surprises that the ladies had surged ahead in CA. Charlotte, for example, was loving being our star midfielder and loving Jackie's sessions. She'd exploded to a CA of 35, far ahead of everyone else. Dani had improved to 28, which was pleasing. But six of our core squad had hit their limits. I planned to address that in January with a few well-chosen transfers.

Since taking over, Jackie had been doing well, except for a 5-0 loss to Leeds in the FA Cup, which no-one could blame him for. I was sure I'd have lost by more. Other results had gone well and I was sure we were already the second best team in the league. The only matches of interest would be those against league leaders Altrincham - they'd won all their games - and our return against Wythenshawe.

I went to stand near Sandra, who had come as a fan of Charlotte and Kisi (CA 19, substitute). Henri spotted me from behind what looked like three scarves and made a beeline. He pulled one of the scarves down. "Max. I have been thinking of some ways I might help the team."

"Oh, have you?"

"Yes. I would like to discuss certain drills that Sandra might want to include in our sessions."

"No. It's her day off. Try tomorrow."

Sandra smiled. "It's okay, Max. I'm always happy to talk to our support striker."

Henri poked his tongue into his cheek, then realised he was being teased. "You refer to Max's plan to sign," he sighed, "a player he berated us for even mentioning. He threw such a tantrum as to make me shudder to even think the name Goliath. Did you hear about the balloon?"

"No," I said. "And she won't."

Sandra raised her eyebrows and led Henri away by the elbow. "Let's go over there so he doesn't try to paint over the truth."

I shook my head. The story of how I'd downplayed Goliath's abilities by using a helium balloon to mimic him could go down badly. I'd need to get ahead of it and tell him the truth - that it was intended to get my players to concentrate on their own jobs.

I turned to my latest dilemma - the monthly perk.

December Special Offer

New perk available for the month of December: The Panopticon

Cost: 2,000 XP

Effects: Permanently adds perks to the perk shop. Purchasing these supplementary perks will add tranches of squad data to the manager screen, ultimately allowing a manager to oversee all players registered with the club. Each squad (e.g. various age groups) must be purchased separately. New perks will appear in the system store when new age groups or club-linked squads are created. For example, one perk will add a squad page for the men's reserves (if applicable), another will add a squad page for the women's under eighteens (if applicable), another will add a page for any newly-created disability teams.

For once the curse was trying to explain itself, but I struggled to get it clear in my mind. When the light bulb moment finally arrived, I realised I had no choice but to buy it. I'd be able to add all the age groups to my screens, and thus track every player in the Chester system. Currently, I had the men's and women's first team and nothing else. If I bought this perk, then bought the men's under eighteens, I'd be able to track Vivek and Kian just like I could track Henri and Raffi. In Vivek's case, that would mean not having to drive to Manchester to see how he was getting on.

As I added youth teams for the women, and more age groups for the boys, I'd be able to get them in my screens, too.

I quickly checked what a 'panopticon' was, and wished I hadn't. It was a very sinister (to me) concept for a prison where inmates can be viewed but can't view the jailor. A prison of the mind. Lots of the monthly perks had been copy pasted from my own brain, but this one had Old Nick's fingerprints all over it. The name was diabolically perfect. It made me feel queasy about buying it, but not to the point that I would let the chance slip.

Attractive as the perk was, it was really time to get stuck in to the Contracts section of the player profiles. Knowing how much other teams were paying their players would be incredibly useful, and I needed it as soon as poss because I'd have to rescout everyone I was interested in, ideally before the January window closed.

So, yeah. Nick wanted me to grind, and he'd got his wish. I mentally cancelled a couple of nights out with Henri and Emma, and replaced them with trips to watch games.

I bought the Panopticon perk, mentally sighed as the perk shop filled up with 2,000 XP purchases for the various age groups and the Chester Knights, and looked around for something to cheer me up.

On the pitch, Dani - wearing gloves, outrageous - shaped to do a one-two, but simply drifted past the defender without passing.

I smiled.

That was one of mine.

ii.

On the second day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a call-up to England C.

Monday, December 4

Secretary Joe never interrupted training, or one of our meetings, or a team talk. He thought of himself - wrongly, in my opinion - as less important than the players, and the idea of entering the inner sanctum of the dressing room would never even occur to him.

So when he ran-walked to me while we were doing one of Sandra's complicated passing drills, nearly being bundled over by retreating defenders, nearly being hit by multiple balls, I knew it had to be something big.

I waved at Sandra and she blew her whistle. Everyone stopped, many guys with heads in their hands. She was pushing us, all right.

Joe told me the headline.

"Everyone in," I said, and Vimsy shouted it out. Soon I was stood with my arm around Joe facing a semi-circle of inquisitive faces. "Got some news."

I gave Joe a little shake. "Oh. Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Um." He held up a little piece of paper like he was Neville Chamberlain. "We got an international call-up!"

"You're joking," said Joe Anka. Everyone was looking round, wondering who was good enough to have been chosen to represent their country. "Is it Pascal? Germany have a shit team these days."

"Not that shit," said Raffi, who immediately hugged his mate to show it was a joke.

"Magnus, where are you from?" said Steve Alton.

"I am eligible to represent nations from three continents," he said.

Secretary Joe pointed. "It's Raffi."

There was a fairly lengthy silence. "But he's English," said Sam. "Or is it for Jamaica? Your dad's from there, right?"

Raffi was utterly bemused. "I suppose I could play for both. But... not from the National League North. What's going on, Joe? This a prank?"

"No!" said the Secretary. "It's England C."

Lots of the players went, oh!, but there were plenty who were even more confused.

"I've heard of England," said Pascal. "I've even heard of England B. In the past the B team was used as a sort of reserve for the main England team. But I have never heard of England C."

"Me neither," I confessed.

Secretary Joe blinked. What kind of football genius had never heard of England C? "It represents England at non-league level. It's the best players from non-league, Max. I'm surprised you never got a call-up, though it only plays once or twice a year."

I frowned, wondering about the timing. I'd played a few games for my former club and then been prevented from playing for months. I shook my head - this wasn't about me. "So... all these scouts. Some were from England.” That wasn’t right though - the scout profiles I’d seen at games had never said anything of the sort. “But... they were all from clubs."

Joe nodded. "The England C manager has a network of mates who work for clubs. They tell him who's good, who to look at, parallel to doing their own jobs. Raffi might be the only player from this league. I'm sure the rest will be from the National League."

"Fuck me." I scratched my eyebrow. This was mental. "Let's just roll with it! Round of applause for the England international!"

Raffi looked embarrassed and when the applause got a bit quieter, said, "Maaax... let's train."

"Yeah, good call, good call." I rubbed my chin and pretended to get serious before launching into a version of It's Coming Home. "Maybe we could tweak the drill to - THREE lions on his shirt! Serina Brown not screaming!"

Raffi had to stand there while we all - including Henri and Pascal - sang England songs at him. He finally burst out laughing and accepted a big, big hug from me, then from Glenn, and then everyone wanted a go.

While the man of the moment wasn't looking, I asked the Brig to whizz off and buy an England shirt with Brown and the number 8 on the back. We'd make him wear it in training.

"Joe, when's the match?"

He looked at his paper. "Nineteenth of December. It's a Tuesday."

"At Wembley?"

"Moss Lane."

"Where's that?"

Again the look. How did I know super advanced things but not the basics? "That's Altrincham, Max."

"Right, I've been there!" I got the attention of the group again. "Lads! Hands up who wants to go to... wait for it... Manchester! To watch our mate play for his country? Yeah, that's what I thought. Joe - get us a hundred tickets and three coaches. Glenn - can you get stuck into this? Help with the planning? Sandra, are you coming?"

"Any excuse to go back to Manchester."

I tilted my head. "Have you had girls called up to England?"

Her eyes flickered towards the big group that was around Raffi. They were listening intently. "Might not be a good time to talk about it."

"Go on."

"Loads, Max. Like, half the girls you met got international call-ups."

I nodded. I understood why she didn't want to discuss it there - it could make Raffi's achievement seem small. But I didn't agree. "Well, Raffi's my first." I closed my eyes and imagined what it'd be like. Running out wearing full England kit, in Manchester, his home city, in a stadium that shared its name with his dad. "And you never forget your first."

iii.

On the third day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a seasonal gift from Bonnie.

Wednesday, December 6

I'd planned to go to watch Sheffield United versus Liverpool in the evening to get some red hot Premier League XP, but instead, well...

It started in the morning. At exactly quarter past eleven, Jackie called me.

"Max. Can we meet quickly over lunch?"

"Maybe. Just tell me something, first. You woke up to watch Bargain Hunt and you found an urgent email so you called me right away. Right? Right?"

He seemed confused. "I've been up since eight."

"Hmm." That didn't fit my theory. Which meant... which meant he was lying. "Hmm."

"I'll be in your office at twelve."

He hung up.

Hmm.

***

Jackie seemed pretty fresh-faced and alert. Maybe he had been up since eight, as he claimed. I looked around my office, which was still festooned with pictures of Jackie Reaper the player. I didn't have much ego when it came to decorations, but perhaps I'd hang up a Raffi Brown England shirt. That'd always bring a smile to my face.

"Er... what are we doing?" I had suddenly realised I didn't know why I was there. In my head it was to solve the mystery of whether Jackie woke up after eleven. Not that I cared if he did - I just wanted to prove my theory.

"Waiting for Bonnie."

"Bonnie?" I said, astonished. "What about?"

"No clue. But she's been building up to this for ages, I could tell. She's been almost talking to me since about a week after I came back. Almost. But for whatever reason, today's the day."

"She wants to leave. She wants me to sack you. She wants to play striker. She... what could it be?"

There was no point guessing. I never would have got there in a million years.

She came in and we sat around the chess board where it was a lot more casual. After some chit chat, she embarked on her narrative journey, not making eye contact with me except for the occasional glance to see if she could tell what I was thinking.

"We're from Carlisle. You know, up by Scotland."

"I know Carlisle," I said. Mum had said I often played as Carlisle United when I played Champion Manager. "It's the same latitude as Mexico City."

Her eyes popped open. "Is it?"

"No, I made that up to sound smart."

Her face crumpled into an annoyed laugh. "Please, Max. This is hard for me."

"Oh. Soz."

She nodded and regathered herself. She took a breath. "We had to move. Ended up in Blackpool. That was all right for six months or so, but we had to move again. Chester. We keep moving south."

"We?" said Jackie.

"My family. My mum." She inhaled. "And my sisters."

"They're all kleptomaniacs," I said. "That's why you have to keep moving."

Bonnie laughed far more than the joke deserved and that's when I realised just how nervous she was. "No, it's... It's football."

"What?" I said, laughing from amazement.

"Sorry, can we get a cup of tea?"

I pulled a face at Jackie. "Get her a tea, you dick!"

"We could go to a coffee shop," he suggested. "Max's treat."

"No, let's stay here. Private is good. There's that little kitchen thing, right? For the credit card people."

"Fuck that," I said. "Whatever this is, it's a VIP situation. What do you think, Jackie?"

"I reckon so."

"Let's go get a proper brew. Yeah?"

I led them upstairs and got buzzed into the top floor of the credit card place. I'd been in a couple of times to talk to my new superfriend and next season's main sponsor, Agatha. Her gorgeous PA had better things to do than make me and two randos tea and coffee, but she did it anyway, and even offered to let us use a meeting room.

"Oh, no, they're much too fancy. I wouldn't feel comfortable in there," said Bonnie, and that melted the PA's heart in a big way.

"You get yourself in there and you let me know when you want a refill. Maybe you could pose for some selfies one day. Loads of us in here are big fans of yours."

Bonnie was taken aback that the woman knew who she was, but Bonnie was the captain of the women’s team and with her large frame was extremely distinctive.

So we settled into the plush seats and admired the view. Cheshire in winter, with a light drizzle and glowing grey clouds. Idyllic.

"Max," said Jackie, looking back at the PA's desk. "I'll give you one thing. You have a way with beautiful women. The more perfect they look, the smoother you are."

"I'm not smooth. I'm normal. They're just people. It'd be a crying shame to deny them my jokes just because they have good jawbones." I scoffed and added, "Anyway, you do all right, too, mate. How many times have I seen a coach come to our dugout to scream abuse at us, only to see Livia and back away, struck dumb?" I took a sip of my tea. "The way to a man's heart is by making a cuppa just how he likes it. Fortunately, Emma is a sorceress. She even makes Typhoo taste good." I stood and looked down - the view of the pitches was amazing. "Have you ever been to the Nou Camp or the Bernabeu?"

"Both."

"I bet the views are like this. You pay a hundred Euros and the players look like ants." When I went, would I be so far from the pitch the player profiles wouldn't even kick in? Surely I'd see them from anywhere inside a stadium? Surely?

Jackie went to the window. "Ah, Max. This is nothing. This is like the middle section. Now imagine another one up there." He pointed. "Another thirty thousand people. You thinking of playing in Spain? Managing? Real Madrid?"

I scoffed again. "Where's the challenge in that?" I remembered we were supposed to be listening to Bonnie and retook my seat. She was giving me a very curious look. "How's your coffee?"

"It's amazing. I think... I think it's the best coffee I've ever had."

I nodded towards the PA. "She's a genius working with top-of-the-line materials. Like me managing Real Madrid."

Another unreadable expression crossed Bonnie's face. She put her cup down and covered herself with both hands. I frowned at Jackie and he frowned back. Bonnie recovered. "I'm 25. My next sister is 23. Then there's a 21-year-old. Dad's out of the picture, permanently. He left after the youngest was born and you can imagine mum thought that was that."

"Right," I said, confused about where this could go.

"Then a few years later, mum's preggers again."

"Different dad?" said Jackie.

"Oh, hell yeah!" said Bonnie. "She never said who it was. We never met him. One-night stand, I think. Oh, God. Can't believe I'm telling you this."

"You don't have to," I said, mixing elements of sympathy and annoyance.

"So, you've probably guessed the rest."

I laughed. "I have not. I don't have the first fucking clue what's going on. But I'm enjoying your company."

Bonnie cleared her throat. "It's, er... It's my youngest sister. Angel. She’s fifteen, now."

Time felt like it stopped. She'd been blabbing about Angel when I wanted her to sign a contract. "Angel is a person?"

"What else?"

"Could be an angel," I said, and I got two weird looks that time.

Bonnie bit her bottom lip. It almost seemed like she was close to tears. "What happens is, Angel joins a football team. Six months later, we have to leave. I don't want to leave Chester, but I can't keep her away any more. If it doesn't work now, this time, then... then she might accept it’s never going to happen. But... She saw your Harry Styles video and lost her mind. She saw you coaching Dani. She believes you gave me a contract for me and not as a way to get to her."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

That pissed me off. "And you don't?"

"No, Max, I do. I do. But I have to protect her. That's my job. Isn't it, Jackie?"

"Course it is," he said, even though he knew as much about the situation as me - almost nothing.

"I don't want to have more conversations about why I do things," I said. "That's all I fucking get."

Jackie tutted, but Bonnie reached out to touch my hand. "I know. I know. We all know. I'm here because you’re a good person." She sighed. "And because I can't hold Angel back any more. Not since you appointed Sandra. That was... You didn't know it, but that was dynamite."

I kept my mouth shut, so as not to get worked up into a self-righteous, self-pitying state.

Bonnie continued. "Let me just... Right, so... So Angel is a striker."

"How old is she, exactly?" said Jackie.

"She's fifteen. Nearly sixteen. February fourteenth. Obviously." I checked with Jackie - he didn't know what was so obvious about that date and Bonnie never explained it. To me, angels collocated more with Christmas than Valentine's Day. "She's a striker, and a good one. Very good. Too good."

"Too good?" said Jackie. He was taking up the slack left by my dip in mood.

"Like scoring a hundred goals in one season."

"A hundred?"

"She got to ninety-nine in the third from last game, decided it was a cool amount, and refused to play the next game. She changed her mind and played the first minute of the last match."

"Where she scored right away."

"Exactly."

Jackie was smiling. "Are you telling me there's a hundred-goal-a-season striker in your family, and you're only just now thinking to tell me about it?"

Bonnie rubbed her hands, one over the other in an endless circle. "Yes. But it's not that simple."

He considered that. "The reason you have to keep moving. That one night stand guy. He's bad news."

"No. It's not that. I mean, he might be. Mum's not the best judge of character, right? No, it's…" Bonnie took a big inhalation of breath and let some of it out. "I know it's hard to believe about my sister, but... She's beautiful. Absolutely stunning."

I waited for the next part. It didn't come. "So?"

Bonnie turned to me. "So men lose their minds over her! Especially when she plays football. Stalkers, creeps, maniacs, madmen. She attracts every stark raving lunatic for miles around! Three months in, we've got three restraining orders. Four months, we're staying with friends. Five months, the road outside is full of plain clothes police. Six months, we've had enough and leg it."

I finished my tea and stared at Bonnie. She was in earnest. I tried not to smile. "You're telling us... you've been reluctant to let us take a look at your sister because she scores so many goals we'd want to sign her, and she's so irresistible that every man who lays eyes on her will instantly turn into a stalker?"

"Max," complained Jackie.

"I just want to know what the conversation is," I snapped.

"That's the long and the short of it, I suppose," said Bonnie.

Confusing. She was serious but she couldn't be serious. "So what do you want? You want us to not sign her? We've been not signing her every day since you joined the club. We're doing great at that."

She gave me another exasperated smile. "You should sign her. But no media. Don't put her on posters. Sign her as a player and don't do the rest. Dani signed with Ruth's agency. Angel can sign with her, too. Ruth will understand. Maybe a few sponsors who understand Angel won't be available like a normal player. One photoshoot, boom, that's it. It's really hard, Max. She knows she needs to be protected but she loves the attention. She can’t get enough of it. And we understand she could make a lot of money, but it's not worth it if she winds up dead in a ditch. But you and Jackie, you're as good as it's going to get. And Ruth and the Brig. It's all, like," she stopped. "It's her only chance to do what she loves most."

Her words hung in the air.

"Bonnie," I said. "I like you. I think you're amazing. I'm glad you told us this and it's obvious that it's been hard for you. So if what I say next is, like, accidentally offensive, I'm truly sorry. But your team is going all the way to the top. I'm looking for players who can cut it in the Championship and the WSL. Scoring a few goals in primary school doesn't impress me much. There's no way she's as good as you think. And I believe you when you say she's good-looking and you've had bad luck with crazies, but there's loads of good-looking people." I thought about her story. "Maybe not in Carlisle..."

Bonnie did that thing where your eyes and cheeks go big and then deflate. "If I bring her to training tonight, will you be there?"

***

Jackie was out on the pitch setting up little cones, being assisted by Jude and Jill. I was vaguely surprised to see Jude there, but it turned out he wanted to learn at the feet of the master and tried to join Jackie's sessions as often as he could.

On a little row of cheap but amazingly comfortable camping chairs - they looked like super soft versions of the famous Hollywood director's chair - sat me, the Brig, Ruth, and Bonnie. The latter was too nervous to join the session. Ruth was intrigued. If Bonnie was right, she would get a new client, a superstar, and doing a good job would mean making the... least? amount of money from her.

I was beyond relaxed, for two reasons. First, there was no chance that in football terms this Angel was worth any level of hassle. And second, women always massively overrated the objective attractiveness of their friends and family. Which was sweet and heart-warming, but I'd learned to totally discount their opinions. I'd also learned the hard way not to trust any photos, ever. Nah, this would all take ten seconds and then I planned to whip Ruth, the Brig, and maybe even Bonnie and her plain, talentless sister out to dinner. Nando's, maybe?

The women emerged from the dressing room in dribs and drabs. Dani, Maddy, and Kisi in one little chicken wing. Charlotte, Pippa, and Julie McKay in a squirt of piri piri sauce.

"Was that your stomach?" said Ruth.

"I think there are moles here," I said, raising a foot as though looking for a hole in the soil. The noise happened again. "Fine. I forgot to have lunch. Got distracted, didn't I, Bonnie?"

"Sorry, Max."

"No, I'm sorry if I sounded dismissive. Of course it's awful to have to keep moving around. It's just the main thing is the security fears, right? And we've got the Brig to help us. Help you. See, now that he's around I've kind of gone from worrying all the time to thinking oh holy shit." I was up on my feet before I had time to think what a bad look it was.

A girl in a beanie and gloves had jogged out onto the pitch, after Mo but before Robyn. Her player profile told me her name. Angel.

Angel Born 14.2.08 (Age 15) English Acceleration 12 Handling 1 Stamina 5 Heading 9 Strength 4 Tackling 4 Jumping 5 Teamwork 5 Bravery 5 Technique 5 Pace 10 preferred foot R Passing 4 Dribbling 5 Positioning 2 Finishing 20 CA 5 PA 155 Striker

Even from a distance it was obvious she was attractive, but that wasn't what I was responding to. Along with a lot of mediocre numbers - CA 5, teamwork 5, tackling 4 - there were two extraordinary ones.

Angel had PA of one hundred and fifty-five. And her finishing was twenty. A hundred goals a season? No wonder!

"What is it?" said Ruth.

Oh. Problem. How did I explain my reaction? I hadn't even seen her kick a ball yet. The first thing that came to mind was to make a joke of it. Pretend like she was SO beautiful I had lost my mind. That was patently dumb, but what else could I do?

The solution I chose was to flee the scene.

I jogged to Jackie and asked to borrow his whistle. He had the Dani whistle, and gave it to me.

"New plan," I said, calling out to the group. "Finishing drills."

"Fucking hell, Max," he said, pointing to his meticulously-placed cones. "We need to get this right for the Alty game. We were sloppy against Litherland."

"We won well enough. Ah, yeah, fine," I said. We needed to get promoted. "Fine, fine. You do that. Angel, Robyn, with me."

I walked towards the goal to my right, realised I wouldn't need the whistle, and threw it back. Robyn grabbed a few balls and Angel looked from the group of women to me.

As she came closer, her appearance crystallised. She was tall and moved with the graceful power of a tennis champion. She was gorgeous in a kind of innocent-yet-bratty way, and I felt uncomfortably aware of why her looks would trigger some men to go tonto.

"Will you take some shots, please?"

She looked back at the main group, then hit me full beam with a pair of vivid blue eyes. "Don't you want me to warm up with the others, first?"

I found myself frowning. I'd been this close to doing as she wanted. I had the strangest feeling I'd just passed some sort of test. "No."

Robyn rolled a ball towards her.

I took a couple of steps back and watched as Angel played a simple side-footed pass back into the goalie's arms. Her striking movement was very fluid. I felt I could already mentally sketch out how she'd make various kicks. There was an elegance and economy of effort that was incredibly suitable for a striker. Her height was the icing on the goalscoring cake. Her jumping was low but her heading was fine. I imagined it could be trained and she'd be a threat from crosses.

She hit a couple more side-footers, and then hit one with her instep, medium strength. She wasn't going to overextend until she'd warmed up, which was absolutely correct.

"Come here, please. Robyn come out about five yards. Angel, low square pass to here." I tapped a spot as though flattening a mole hill. She played the pass I wanted, parallel with the goal line, and I did the spinning, dipping chip I'd done against my former club. Robyn watched helplessly as it sailed over her head and into the goal behind. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," said Angel.

I waved my finger in a circle to say we should switch places, and then I hit the appropriate pass to her. She met it sweetly and did a decent approximation of what I'd done. "Needs more spin," I said.

"No, it doesn't," she said. "That was perfect."

"Robyn, you can join the others. Thanks."

"Yes, Max."

I pushed at my eyebrows. This Angel situation was way out of control already. She had the potential to be one of the best strikers in the country, and easily the most marketable. She could make millions from her sporting career, and her agent could cash in, too. That could be me - via Ruth. Millions of pounds. Her own perfume, her own makeup line. Documentaries, reality shows, announcing her next club live on Instagram to an audience of fifty million. There were less talented women who'd turned minor fame into a billion-dollar industry.

But Bonnie didn't want that for her sister. And I didn't want another striker with low teamwork. "What do you want?"

"What?"

"You're a decent striker. Your sister wants to keep you out of the limelight. What do you want?"

"I want to go join the session. And by the way, I'm an amazing striker. I'm the best you've ever seen."

I smiled. "I've seen a mirror, mate. I'm the best player there has ever been in every position there has ever been. I choose not to play striker because it's boring. There's no challenge. All right. Finish the session if you want and I'll talk to Bonnie about other clubs you might want to join. I've got mates at Tranmere."

Her bravado turned to dust. "What? You've seen enough? After three shots?"

"I've heard enough."

Her eyes darted left and right as she replayed our conversation. "But... you like cocky players. You like Henri Lyons."

"Confidence is good. Intelligence is better. When I tell Henri his shot wasn't good enough, he's intelligent enough to know I'm probably right. He'd think, like you, that his shot had been perfect. But he'd ask how it could be better. Because he has a brain."

That hit the spot. "I have a brain."

I extended my arms and turned ninety degrees in either direction. "When it comes to football, this is my city. Football will be played here the way I want it to be played."

She tried to turn me to ash with her laser vision, but she hadn't unlocked that perk yet. After smouldering for a bit, her jaw moved left and right. "What was wrong with the shot?"

I moved to the edge of the penalty box and got her to do the same. I pointed at the goal. "Block this. When I say go, go." I did a couple of kick ups. "Go."

My volley was flat and straight, and she intercepted and blocked it easily.

"Again," I said. She came back to her starting position, and this time, I put lots of spin on my kick ups, as though I was spinning a basketball on my fingers. "Go," I said, and she hared back towards the goal, but as she stuck her leg out to block the ball, my shot spat up like a leg cutter in cricket, up and over her knee.

"Again," I said. She came back slower, this time, and stared unhappily as I spun the ball. "Go," I commanded, and she started to run. But she stopped when she saw I'd kicked the ball much too far to the right - a full yard wide of the post.

Of course, it spun back inside the post, crossed the goal line, and almost seemed like it would keep going round in a spiral. I probably could have done more to keep the smugness off my face.

I waited, hands behind my back, to see how she'd react.

Her expression was unreadable, and she was almost inaudible when she spoke next. "I can do that."

Bad answer. "I know you can. That's not the problem. The problem is the hunger for improvement. The problem is you remind me of another player. Good striker. Didn't listen to the coaches. Didn't listen to me. Thought he knew better. Thought he was already good enough. Didn't want to add strings to his bow. Thought he was so good a rubbish shot from him was better than an open goal from a teammate. He was an absolute idiot. It took me a year to get through to him, and I don't have a year to spend on any one person. It's no good having all the talent in the world if you're too stubborn to let us coach you and if you think you've already got all the skills." I paused and thought about Tyson. "We coach teams here. Most games we need you to play the percentages. Some games we won't get any shots and we'll need you to suffer and sacrifice. You need to be willing to learn to pass, learn to press, learn to shuffle and slide, learn to leave your ego in the dressing room."

"Like you."

I nodded. "Yeah. Like me." I looked up at the floodlights. "The games I'm most proud of aren't the ones I scored no-look backheel nutmegs, or outrageous free kicks, or direct from a corner, or dribbled the length of the pitch to score, or - "

"All right," she said, annoyed, and after a tiny glare, we both smiled and looked away.

"The games I'm most proud of are the ones where I suffered. It's absolutely mad when I think about it, but that's how it is. Kidderminster. I did everything I could. I was so frustrated I had nothing else to give I was almost in tears. Kettering. Two-nil down with nine men but they had to peel me off the pitch. Salford. Forty-five minutes, most of which was spent being absolutely rubbish and feeling like a piece of shit but at the end of the match I knew I'd done all I could to help the team get over the line. Bonnie's one of my favourite players because she plays like that every match. I'm really not interested in selfish players. If I ever think you're putting yourself before the team, you're out. I don't care if you score five goals against us every time you play for your new club. Long term, teams win."

"I'm a team player."

"Team players don't score a hundred goals in a season. That's a shot every time you got the ball. How many assists did you get that year?"

She shrugged. "Loads."

"I bet it was three. A hundred goals, three assists." I shook my head, smiling slightly, then got serious. Bonnie wanted us to not use her in promotions, to not put her on posters. We'd have sponsors offering double the money if they could make Angel the face of their campaigns. We'd get hundreds of calls a day from media pricks. I pinched my nose. It sounded like a fucking nightmare. I'd need to hire someone to take all those calls. I'd have to get extra security. "You know what? Enough talk. Let's see if you can hack it in my world."

"What does that mean?"

I nodded in the direction of Jackie and we walked to him. "Jackie. You doing a little match later?"

"Quick one, yeah. Ten minutes."

"Make it twenty. I want to see how Angel does with one slight restriction."

Jackie half-closed his eyes. "Restriction?" He looked at the girl he knew was a striker, and in a moment of remarkable perception guessed what I was planning. "No, Max. Don't. We haven't even seen her play!" But his pleas fell on stony ground. I didn't so much as twitch.

"What?" said Angel.

Jackie put his hands on his hips and looked up at the few stars that were visible. "You can play. But you can't shoot."

iv.

On the fourth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a chat with the constabulary.

Friday, December 8

For once at training, there was absolutely no friction between my two assistant managers, and that was because the Brig spent almost thirty minutes on his phone. Finally, he murmured something to Sandra, and she blew her whistle.

"Max, the Brig wants you."

I left the session, not quite willingly, since dicking about with footballs all morning was better than most jobs, but not very reluctantly either, since I knew I wasn't improving. "Sup dude?"

"Would you please take a shower and get dressed? I need to take you... somewhere." His tone was sombre but not urgent, so I strolled, deep in thought, to the showers. Inside, I considered Sandra's first full week of training. It was hard to tell with such a small sample size, but we'd had a full week - no Tuesday night match - and it had gone well. The canary in the coal mine, I had decided, was Ryan Jack. He was a super talented guy who would respond to good coaching. It was hard with him because he was so very old - 35 - and at some point I knew his CA would fall off a cliff. But for now, him dropping below CA 60 was a disaster, keeping him at that level was fine, 61 was good, and 62 would be amazing. That's what I told myself, anyway.

After a week of being top dog, Sandra had added a point to his CA, taking him back up to 61.

And the guys had been quietly impressed with her sessions. I didn't get the sense of delirious happiness like when Jackie had been the manager, but a general feeling of, yeah, that was really good.

I zipped my hoodie up, grabbed my kit bag, and followed the Brig to his car. Not long after, we pulled up in the car park of the local police station, and he handed me a note to give to the officer on duty. The note said, MAX BEST, which was really fucking weird.

"I can't go in with you, sir."

"What's going on?"

"It's better if I don't say anything."

"Am I going to be arrested?"

"No. If I had received information that was about to happen, we'd be on a speedboat right now, heading out to the Isle of Man where we'd take a helicopter to Dublin. Quick trip down to Cork, onto a cargo ship where we'd pose as deckhands, a role where I would excel and you would flounder, for several weeks until we landed in the new world. At which point I'd hand you your new passport and spend three weeks drilling your new identity into you."

"Cliff Daps?"

"It would be a name I thought you could remember, sir."

I looked down at the paper he'd given me. This was absolutely mental. I walked away from the car, up some steps, pressed a buzzer, looked into a camera, approached the desk, and handed the dude a piece of paper with my name on it.

He nodded and turned away, picking up his landline. Thirty seconds later, a woman I'd met precisely once emerged through a door.

It was the partner of D.I. Barton, the stupid fuck who had tried to frame Mr. Yalley instead of going after my actual murderer. This woman was his girlfriend and according to Old Nick, she was just as culpable as Barton. I'm sorry to say that as soon as I saw her, my face went hard and I very nearly stepped out. And I'm even more sorry to say that the only reason I stayed was that the Brig had spent three thousand of my pounds already, and I was on the hook for an unspecified future amount. There were nights where I woke up, heart pounding, wondering how I would find fifteen to twenty thousand grand in a hurry.

"Mr. Best," she said, not attempting to smile. "Would you come this way, please?"

She led the way to a small interrogation room. Next to her sat a beefy boy who at first I assumed was there to protect her from me, but later I realised was her new partner.

She told me her name, but I wasn't listening for the first minute or so - I was trying to control my fear and fury at being put in this tiny room with this woman I despised. It was only when the beefy boy offered to get me a tea and left the room that I started to relax.

"What was your name?" I said.

"Milligan."

"D.I. Milligan."

"Just inspector. But, fingers crossed, I'll get a promotion soon."

"Yay," I said, with minus a hundred percent enthusiasm.

The tea arrived, and Milligan explained what the eff was happening.

"Mr. Best, this is a courtesy call, so to speak, to inform you of developments relating to your case."

"My murder?"

"We class it as attempted murder, since it didn't technically succeed. I am happy to inform you that this morning, we made an arrest."

"Oh."

She waited for me to say something, but the word 'arrest' had fried my brain. I suppose I'd completely abandoned all hope of justice ever being done. "We just wanted to let you know before we informed the media."

"Where's D.I. Candyflip?"

"He's no longer on the case. I'm the senior officer, now."

I closed my eyes. There was very little going on upstairs, just when I needed it. "So... you're in charge, now it's all solved. Sorry, what?"

She glanced at her beefy boy. "New information came to light."

I tapped the desk, an unconscious expression of my bewilderment. "So, where was he?"

"Who?" Milligan seemed confused.

"Welly. Welly. My hooligan murderer. The world's biggest twat. Welly."

She stared at the one-way slash two-way mirror that made up one half of one wall. Who was behind there? Something told me it was the Brig. "It wasn't Welly."

That woke me all the way up. She'd made a fucking horrendous mistake. "Of course it was. He threatened me, he was at the match, he's a violent prick. What's happening?"

"Mr. Best, please. It wasn't him." She cleared her throat. "Er... you reported that your car keys were missing, right? And you - correctly - surmised that whoever attacked you took those keys and held onto them. Something like a trophy. I'm not a psychologist, but I think they were taken in a panic, an option for an escape vehicle, perhaps. Later, they turned into a trophy - he buried them in his garden like treasure - but as we closed in on him, they became a noose around his neck. This individual dug up his entire garden looking for them. It was pure chance we found them after a tip-off. He must have shovelled the keys into a pile of earth as he was digging, not noticed, and reburied them, again without noticing. One in a million, but panic will do that to a person."

I leant forward, neck long. "What are you saying? What are you talking about? It's all gibberish. Go to the start. Who are you talking about?"

She inhaled. "Mr. Sullivan. Father of Chris Sullivan. Football name Sully. You cut him from the youth team."

"No. It was Welly."

"Then why were your car keys buried in Mr. Sullivan's back garden?"

I couldn't get my head around any of it. "What?"

She sighed. "We just wanted to let you know that we got him. We got him, Mr. Best. It took some time and I would privately admit we made some mistakes, but we got him."

"You got... Sully's dad?" I'd convinced myself it was Welly. Welly made sense. Just the name Welly was enough to convince me. "But, er... how?"

"I re-interviewed Mr. Yalley and your physio. They had been interviewed before, of course, but I had a new angle - Sullivan. The assailant had known you would be in the Blues Bar - because you told everyone - and everyone saw Mr. Sullivan there. So why was he seen by your physio coming towards the Blues Bar, outside in the pouring rain with no umbrella, when just moments before he had been indoors?"

"But he was with Sully. His son."

"He sent him to get some cash from the cash machine on the far side of the stadium. I'm sorry, Mr. Best, but it was definitely him."

"Oh," I said, again. It was such a mind fuck. But the confusion didn't last all that long. I'd check all this with the Brig, of course, but it was certain that my assistant had been the real driving force behind this investigation. There was something very strange about Milligan's tale of the keys. Maybe the Brig would explain it, maybe he wouldn’t. "Huh," I said. Sullivan. What had he said to me? That I wouldn’t survive the season, something like that. That prick! He’d get what was coming to him. I tried to get my face as neutral as possible. As robotic a face as I could achieve. I imagined I ran a social media company and didn't actually experience human emotions. "Where is he now?"

Milligan, despite being an absolute idiot and probably a racist, had enough emotional intelligence to see that I was seething. She backed away a half an inch. "He's in custody. You don't need to worry about him."

"Worry," I said, trying to smile. "I just want to talk to him. Ask him why he did it."

"That won't be possible."

"Quick chat," I said, trying to be flirty. It died a death.

"That won't be possible."

In seconds, I was on my feet, smashing my chair into the floor. It didn't break. I'm not sure it even dented. "I'll kill him! I'll fucking murder the twat!" I kicked the chair away, noting in the non-insane part of my brain that the beefy boy was, while scared, standing in front of Milligan, protecting her from me. I allowed myself one last surge of anger, then I showed him my palms and backed into the far corner. It wasn't far enough to really make a difference. "I'm sorry. I'm calm." I took a breath, and Milligan pushed the guy's arm down. That was the moment I stopped despising her. I formed my hand into a fist and lightly punched the wall a few times. "He ruined his son. I tried to undo it, but what chance did I have?" I grimaced, thinking of Sully playing safe passes so his dad wouldn't shout at him. "Did he hit his kid?" Past tense. He would never do it again.

"I can't answer that."

"How long will he get?"

The beefy boy answered. "The problem, Max, is that he didn't use a gun or a knife and has no priors. The weapon he used was lying around. So it's hard to say it was premeditated. There was no financial gain, racial or religious motive, and your full recovery counts against us in terms of sentencing."

"Say a number."

"It's almost a wild guess at this point, but I'd say seven years."

"Seven years?" I cried.

"Seven to fifteen. If he shows remorse..."

Seven years and I'd need eyes in the back of my head again. I'd live in fear again. Dark mode was looking more attractive by the second. I bit my thumb. "What if... what if I forgive him? Forgive him in court? When could he get out?"

The police looked at each other. "Why would you do that?"

They were onto me. Better to keep my mouth shut. "No reason. I wouldn't. Course I wouldn't."

***

The Brig was by the car. He put his fingers to his lips, drove to a wood, and we walked a hundred paces from the car. Then he told me a few things.

The clue had indeed been in Dean's email draft from after the attack. Sullivan jogging towards the scene of the crime - but from totally the wrong direction. Dean recognised him from times he'd been the physio on duty at youth team matches, but hadn’t known Sullivan had been in the Blues Bar mere minutes earlier.

And then the smoking gun - my car keys. The Brig had snuck in when Sullivan was away. Used a metal detector. Dug the keys up. Then a lot of surveillance by the Brig and his old army buddies, trying to catch Sullivan going to places I frequented. But he kept his nose clean. So the Brig let it be known - he wouldn't say how - that the police were closing in on Sullivan. This was true - thanks to the Brig. He'd made a deal with the Chief - Barton had to go, Milligan would take over, the Brig would hand them the culprit on a plate. Case closed, and Max Best would say nice things about them.

That pissed me off, but I understood it. Honey to catch the fly or whatever.

So then what must have been a hilarious scene for those watching on various hidden cameras - Sullivan digging up every inch of his garden for three days. Then him watching in horror as a police technician found the keys in thirty seconds - exactly where the Brig had replanted them.

I could see it vividly. The good-looking murderer in his puffy jacket, being turned around while handcuffs were put on. His wife and son looking out of the kitchen window, bewildered. "You have the right to remain silent." “What’s happening?” “Your dad tried to kill Max Best.”

A car came past and we watched it. It struck me then how quiet the wood was. Where was all the life? The noise?

"So that's it," I said, and we stood there for ages. I should have seen some beetles. Some spiders. Surely? "I don't feel good."

"No."

"What about his kid?"

"I don't think that's something for you to worry about, sir."

I picked up a club-like branch that had fallen off a tree in a recent storm. You could use it for sport - hit a stone with it and you've invented golf. Cover it with dog wee, call it 'The Patriarchy' and you've invented modern art. Or you could swing it at someone's head so that they wouldn't be alive any more.

I gulped, tears in my eyes.

"What are you doing?" said a man who called himself John Smith.

"Little insects love logs and stuff," I said, as I went away from the road to find a suitable spot. I placed the branch down under a shrub, then grabbed some twigs and made a sort of tent of twigs. A twig-wam. "Little shelter for them. First it's shelter, then it's food. Then it's a coffin. Circle of life." I watched for a minute, waiting for the first little beetle to scurry into his new home. Nothing came.

"Perhaps you might want to tell your friends the good news, sir."

"Good news?" At first I literally couldn't think what he was talking about. As I wiped away the tears, I understood. But no. “A man tried to kill me for absolutely no reason, and now he won't see his son for seven years or more. The son’s going to blame me. And at some point, the dad’ll be back on the streets. What’s good about that?”

The Brig pulled a face. Twisted his mouth in a rare show of uncertainty. "I know, sir. I know. But while your feelings may be complicated... Emma's will be quite simple. In fact..." He checked his watch and thought.

"What?"

"We could drive up and tell her in person. And then you'll see what it means to the people who care about you."

"What does it mean?"

"Finality. Think of it as an early Christmas present."

I’d had enough of this wood and started making my way back to the car. “That makes you Santa Claus, I guess.”

His upper lip quivered. “Call me jolly old Nick.” I stopped dead and must have looked at him with something like horror, because he explained himself. “Like the song.”

“Song?”

“Jolly Old Saint Nick,” he said. “It’s a Christmas classic. Saint Nicholas performed miracles.” His philtrum twitched again. “Like me.”