v.

On the fifth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... FIVE YELLOW CARDS.

Saturday, December 9

FA Trophy Third Round: Chester versus Swindon Supermarine

Swindon Supermarine. Amazing name, amazing logo. The badge looked like a World War 2 fighter plane with a letter S snaked round it. They played in the Southern League Premier South, yet another competition I'd never heard of. How many leagues did we have in this country? There were more leagues than disgraced former Prime Ministers, and more teams than disgraced former cabinet members, and that was saying something.

As it happened, Swindon were second bottom of their distant, little-known league, and I knew before even seeing them warm up that they would need a Christmas miracle to beat us. I very nearly put Sandra in charge of the game, but it was too soon to be handing out presents.

I was in a bleak mood. There had been something comforting about the thought that it had been Welly who tried to kill me. He was a nobody, a hoodlum, a hooligan. He lived a life of violence and couldn't conceive of anything else. Sullivan was a normal, middle-class dude. A dad. A dad dude. He wore smart clothes and had a good haircut. If people like him were going around murdering wonderful people like me, then how could we even survive as a society?

The Brig had been right about Emma, though. Yesterday, when we'd driven to Newcastle and gathered the Weavers around their kitchen counter to tell them the police had arrested my killer, Emma had been ecstatic - shocked, yes, but so utterly happy to get closure on a horrible part of her life that I had to pretend to be equally happy. Maybe that had been the Brig's plan. To stop me scrabbling around in the mud looking for dung beetles.

Her dad had listened in silence, and left the area without a word. He came back a minute later and showed me a bottle of wine. "Château Lafite," he said. "1983. Was a gift for winning a big case. Chap said to save it for a special occasion."

"We could have it with Christmas dinner," I said, before pretending to get shy. "If I'm invited, of course. I don't plan to play in the Boxing Day match. I can have a few sips."

"Perfect," said Sebastian, pulling the bottle away.

The Brig made the tiniest little noise. I glanced at him. "Actually, let's have it now. Truth be told, it was John who solved the case. He deserves a taste. Only a taste, though, since he's driving."

"We've got a spare room for the hero of the hour," said Rachel. "Why don't you stay, John? Tell us all about it."

"Oh, yes please," said Emma.

The Brig seemed stuck - he wanted to accept the offer, but didn't think it was his place or had a date back in Chester or whatever. I helped him out by opening the fridge and making a show of thinking about dinner. "Great, sorted. Start with the celebration wine, then onto the Aldi plonk until John gets delightfully sozzled. I'll make us some frozen pizzas." I slapped my hands together - job done.

Rachel pushed me away from her fridge. "Tempting, Max, but I think I can rustle up something a little more serious."

Sebastian had uncorked his antique wine and was gathering big glasses from a high shelf. As he was ready to pour, he said, "So, John. Tell us the story."

The Brig hesitated. "I really can't."

"Oh, you bloody can," said Sebastian, pulling the bottle away just as the first drip was about to fall.

I intervened. "You'll get the outline, not the sketch, and no follow-up questions." Sebastian nodded. "You can tell them what will be said in court, right?"

"I... yes." John seemed satisfied with that compromise. Those details would soon be a matter of public record. "Sebastian and Rachel are masters of discretion."

"What about me?" said Emma.

"Sebastian and Rachel are masters of discretion."

Emma folded her arms. "You cheeky sod!" But she had to laugh.

That had been an evening of celebration, of free-flowing wine, and, once we got past the stuff the Brig couldn't really talk about, an evening of free-flowing conversation.

But now I was in the Deva stadium, my first time since learning the identity of whodunnit. Sullivan. Godactualdammit. And I could feel the wine in my legs. I tried to focus on the good things. Our cup runs. Our improving team. My growth in skills. And my Emma.

Emma was here, in Chester, up in the VIP box, smiling easily, talking to Crackers and Sumo and the new board. She wanted to spend some time with me, but she was also hoping to get a glimpse of Angel, our agency's new client. She wanted to see the fantastical creature Ruth and I had described. For some reason, she had been expecting Gemma to be in Chester but it hadn’t happened. I left her with MD and went to do football manager things.

In the manager's room, I couldn't concentrate. Kept getting flashbacks to the police room, to being told who had tried to kill me. I told Sandra what I expected from Supermarine - 4-4-2, whole-hearted but limited - and invited her to propose one of our seven formations and pick a team to fit. I pitched it as a sort of fun test of how well she'd absorbed my principles, but let's be honest, there was no mystery to what I did. She pitched a 4-2-4 with attacking roles for Trick, Pascal, and D-Day, and a rest for all our important players. She suggested I might want to play right back, since I'd made Andrew Harrison do it.

"If you play there, you'll learn how hard it is and you'll think twice about dropping guys into that position."

I shrugged. "Fine. I can play right back."

She frowned. "I was joking."

"No, let's do that. We can rest Carl. I feel like kicking someone, anyway."

She laughed, but stopped when she saw my face. "Max, Magnus can play right back."

But I'd already started filling in the team sheet.

***

From Cheshire Live

Chester 5 Swindon Supermarine 0: Back to His Best?

Max Best led Chester to a thumping win over Swindon Spacemarine in the FA Trophy today, playing in an unfamiliar right back role. From there, wearing the captain's armband, he shut down Swindon's dangerous left-winger, linked beautifully with Pascal Bochum, and sent in a series of inch-perfect crosses which Henri Lyons and Tony Hetherington feasted upon. Best scored a hat trick of assists, and his first stray pass came in the seventieth minute when he was obviously bored to death. After that mistake, he switched from a contained, masterful examination of the narrow confines of his role, to spraying increasingly dramatic passes all around the pitch.

These passes drew gasps of admiration from the small crowd, but also drew the ire of Chester's new assistant manager, Sandra Lane, who subbed Best off and gave him a dressing down, much to the amusement of the rest of the Chester squad.

***

At the final whistle, I raced to be first to the shower, leaving Sandra to do all the boring stuff. I got dressed and went up to find Emma to see if she wanted to go out for dinner or visit Henri's House of Hams or go to the Christmas market in Chester, or what.

She wanted none of those things - at least, not yet.

"You've got a special guest," she said, and I felt someone come up behind me.

"If it's the Ghost of Christmas Past, tell him to fuck off. I signed up to his newsletter and the unsubscribe button is fake."

"Max," said an unfamiliar voice. It was possible I'd never heard it before in my life, which was bonkers.

I turned and saw Chris Beaumont, often known as Goliath. He was a gigantic man, six foot five, four foot wide. His goalscoring record wasn't impressive - he averaged less than one goal every four games, but I'd been pursuing him relentlessly for weeks, making increasingly demented offers to his club, Banbury. I'd finally hit on a deal that they couldn't refuse.

"Chris! Why are you here? You shouldn't be here. Do Banbury know?"

He smiled. "They know. It's all right. This is Rob. My agent. And my mate."

I shook hands with the guy - I'd seen him in the last twenty minutes when I was on the touchline. The Parasight perk had kicked in and was telling me that a handful of agents were visiting our matches. This Rob guy represented talent worth three hundred thousand pounds. I was guessing that meant six or seven decent clients. He was probably scraping a living. He seemed cool, though. We'd had a couple of quick chats on the phone - mostly him checking if I was serious about this move or not. "Your girlfriend has been making us feel at home," said Rob. "She's a much better salesman than you."

I squeezed Emma sideways. "No doubt. But you didn't say why you were here. I mean... you're not scouting Swindon Supermarine, are you?"

Chris laughed. "I've been getting loads of messages about how you're the best penalty taker in non-league. I wanted to see the competition."

I explained it to Emma. "Chris is a bit of a penalty specialist."

Rob said, "That left winger of theirs is highly rated. Banbury were looking at him to get crosses in for Chris. But you made mincemeat out of him."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I lied, smugly. "Oh, hey! How did Kidderminster get on?" They had already been knocked out of the FA Trophy and had played their scheduled league match.

"They won," said Emma.

"Oh. There goes Christmas number one."

"MD was keeping an eye on it. He said Christian Fierce got his fifth yellow, so he'll miss their game against your former team. And one of their strikers hobbled off."

"Oh, no," I smiled.

"You were hoping to be top of the table for Christmas?" said Rob, looking at his phone. "They're six ahead, now, and there's two matches before the 25th. You could..." He trailed off. He didn't believe what he was about to say.

"It was a long shot but it would have been nice for my holiday. We told you about that, right, Chris?"

He nodded. "Manager taking a two-week break in the middle of the season. Anyone else, I'd think it was batty. But you deserve it. I just... The timing? With the transfer window?"

I shrugged. I wasn't sure where he'd got two weeks from. Not from me, that's for sure. "The transfer window is irrelevant, really. I'm not selling anyone and I plan to have all my business done by nine a.m. on January first. For once, I'm being ultra, ultra professional about it. No-one can be mad at me." The thought struck me as ludicrous. "They will, though."

He sipped his drink. "You asked why I was here. I just wanted to talk to you. See the place and talk to you. It's all loopy. You're basically talking about making me the most expensive player in non-league, pro rata. I... I'd like to know why."

I hadn't expected him to bust out the Latin. He sounded like he had gone to a good school. How had he ended up playing football instead of rugby? I pushed my bottom lip out. "To me, you guarantee promotion. Over your career, you've scored one goal every four games. Here, you'll score two a game. If teams sit back, we'll smash them. If they come at us, we'll smash them. I just want to smash everyone and get out. And if I make you a cult hero and double your wages for the rest of your life, that's fine by me, too."

"I know you don't want to talk tactics too much before we've signed," said Rob, "but we can't quite understand how you're going to do it. It's something of a stumbling block."

"For one thing," I said, with a light laugh, "Henri Lyons, the best striker for miles around, is going to use his substantial gifts in service of you. It's like you start your first day in an Amazon warehouse and Jeff Bezos is bringing you coffee and every fifteen minutes he gives you a little shoulder rub. It's like your first day working for Microsoft and Bill Gates meets you at reception, shows you around, and sets up your computer for you."

Emma boggled. "Does Henri know about this?"

"Yes. And he’ll make my life miserable. He’ll whine and sulk. But he’ll do it."

"Why?"

"Because there’s one thing he values almost more than anything else. Purity. What I’m proposing will be truth and beauty writ large. Very large," I added, giving Chris a playful slap on the nearest (colossal) arm.

"Max," said Rob, smiling, "you’re trying to persuade her."

"Yes."

"You should be trying to convince us."

"Ha! I don't think so. You know it's right. You're excited, and you're right to be. But you think this would be a fun little adventure, a chance to make a bit of extra cash and have an amazing story to tell. But it's not that. This isn't what you think it is."

"No?" said Chris.

I stopped smiling and felt my eyes start to blaze. "No. It’s much much more than that. People will remember the next six months of your career for as long as they live." I had got myself worked up and I had to shake the excess excitement off. "Whoo! I feel evangelical. Do you mind if I say something a bit unpleasant to Emma?"

Curiosity. Anxiety. "No."

"Bebs, Chris here is often held up as some kind of avatar of all that’s shit about non league." I put my hand on his shoulder and looked right at him. "But if he lets me, I’m going to turn him into the apotheosis of all that is good and holy about English football. Low blocks are an abomination, and Chris Beaumont will be my paladin, bathed in cleansing light, slicing through the palisades. Together, we will purify the National League North." The air was crackling with mad energy, as billions of competing universes were born and spun off with that precise moment as the start of their timeline. In half, my high priest of football schtick made Chris sign for Chester; in the other half, it repelled him.

In this universe, Emma said, "That's nice. Oh, that reminds me. MD was worried about you fighting with Sandra."

"What?" I said, bringing my hand back down to my side. "What?"

Rob helped me understand. "Your assistant subbed you off. That situation is unusual, to say the least."

"Ah, no. She was right. I lost concentration."

Chris leaned forward from the neck up. "You hit a fucking spectacular sixty yard diagonal onto the number seven's toes and that really pissed her off. Your number came up on the board and she gave you an earful."

"Pointless show-off Hollywood pass. She knows I hate that crap. I'm not allowed to do it just because I'm the boss. And the row was entertainment. It was... what's the thing in wrestling where they pretend to be mad?"

"Kayfabe," said Emma, which freaked me out.

"Right. It was that. The more she stands up to me, the more the players will respect her."

"Did she think it was fake?" said Emma.

"No, she was really mad at me," I said, delighted. "Said I'd promised to play good football and I had to set an example."

“But who’s in charge?” said Chris.

“Me. But I’ve worked really hard to get a top football brain in. I'm on the pitch, exhausted, struggling to do two jobs at once. She's clear-headed, she has an overview of the match and the wider sitch. I’m not stupid. I’ll listen to what she says. And her subbing me off is like in Star Trek where the doctors relieve the captain when they start firing proton torpedoes against the Kardashians. I want pushback. I want the best outcome.”

Chris looked at his agent, had a rapid non-verbal conversation, then turned back to me. "What will you do if I don't agree to come?"

"Ooh," I said, as though the thought hadn't ever occurred to me. "Then we do it the hard way."

"So I'm the easy way."

"Yep. The easy way and the fun way."

Emma poked me in the ribs. "What about drama? What about telling a story?"

I playfully tried to grab her fingers so she couldn't poke me again. "There will be plenty of that." I jerked my head towards the pitch. "Just not out there."

"I'm cup tied in the FA Trophy," said Chris, meaning he wouldn't be able to play for us in that competition.

"Oh? So the other teams will have a chance." I grinned at him until he smiled back.

He turned to Rob and shook his head. "The guy's potty."

"I'll tell you what the opposite of potty is. Which team in England goes up against low blocks the most?"

"Man City."

"Right. Most teams we play now low block us. And I've just hired a coach from Man City." I tapped my temple. "On my holiday I'll be working on my free kicks and corners. We've got a coach who's perfect for the challenges we're going to face. We've got ten players ready to work their butts off so that you can hog all the glory." I got smug. I had outdone myself. "Have you got any medals?" I had been studying his career but as often happened immediately after a match, I didn't have all my faculties available.

"Won the National League before, and League Two."

"Fuck," I said. "That's good. Well, you know what it feels like. I'm offering you that feeling again. Er... there's only one thing you might not like."

"What's that?"

"Round here, I take the penalties."

vi.

On the sixth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... the tiniest winning spree.

Sunday, December 10

I was trying to have a lazy morning in bed with Emma when there was a knock on the front door. That was very strange, since my post got delivered to the club, and almost no-one knew I lived in that barn. One of the few people who did, the Brig, would invariably text me before coming.

It turned out to be Ruth, in a slight panic.

"Max, it's the Yorks. Can you help?"

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Put your hoodie on." A few seconds later, Emma and I were following Ruth along the dirt path behind her property, and she explained. "There's an old couple that live here. The Yorks. Every morning, they open the bathroom blinds, there, and every evening they close them. It's a signal. That's how I know they're all right."

"Huh," I said. Ahead was a cute-ish cottage. The blinds were still closed. It woke me up pretty fast. Action stations. "You don't have a key or anything?"

"No. But they've left that window open. See? Maybe you could...?"

I jogged ahead, partly to get to the scene faster, partly to warm up. If I did have to climb up there, it would be pretty tough going. By the time the ladies caught up, I had a plan. "If I move the wheelie bin over, climb on that, onto that windowsill, if I can get from there up onto that little roof, sideways there, might have a chance."

"Oh, I don't know," said Ruth, looking at my plan. "It's awfully risky."

"You get started," said Emma. "I'll push the window wider from the inside." She had tried the back door and it had swung open.

"Oh, thank God," said Ruth, racing inside, calling "Hello?"

Emma and I hung around in the garden - neither of us wanted to see a dead body, if that's what the deal was. But it turned out that Mrs. York had a bad cold and Mr. York had gone to the 'big shop' that was open on Sundays to get some Lemsip or chicken soup or whatever, and had forgotten to do the blinds. So it was all good, big relief all round, and Mrs. York was ecstatically happy that Ruth had checked on her.

So nothing much had happened, but the old adrenaline had been pumping for a quick minute, and lazing in bed didn't seem like the plan for the day any more. I went through a mental list of my options. "Ladies, can I interest you in a quick pop to Liverpool? I'll check in on the under twelves - they're playing in a futsal tournament - and then we can find a nice place to eat or a Christmas market or whatever."

"Absolutely," said Emma. "But first, what's futsal?"

***

Futsal is indoor football with a small, heavy ball. The nature of the ball promotes technique, passing, and skill, instead of traditional English virtues like kicking it long to a big man (Goliath), getting stuck in with tackles (Sam Topps), or complaining that a referee made a mistake so the entire match should be replayed and replayed until the team that feels they have a right to win, win (Liverpool Football Club).

When we got there, I felt something in the atmosphere. Something off. I frowned as we sat down at the back of the stand that looked down on three small pitches. What was it that I'd detected? I mean, the obvious thing was that the sports hall was packed with parents of footballers who wouldn't make it as professionals. Fifty or sixty of the sort of person who had crashed a metal bar into my skull.

I shuddered, but it wasn't that.

Over there were the hosts, wearing a certain shade of red. Liverpool FC. They ran this December tournament, calling it Yule Never Walk Alone. Urgh. Emma had complained about my anti-Liverpool rants, so I’d tried to stop making fake vomit noises when that football club got mentioned. But I was pleased to note they all seemed vaguely depressed.

Next to them were a bunch of people in blue - Everton. Again, not many happy faces there. Then bunches of coaches and parents from smaller clubs and local teams, with a normal mix of excited, happy, and unhappy parents and children.

And over to the right, wearing gorgeous blue and white kits, a bunch of familiar faces lying around playing card games. Unlike most of the teams, there was no separation between parents and children. It seemed that Future's grandmother was on a team with Mark Nelson, while Future himself was paired with Tadpole, and Simon Black was in deep discussion with Stephen Watson's dad about what card to play next.

"Our lot look very relaxed," said Ruth.

"They do, don't they? Something’s weird. I want to find out the standings without disturbing them. Can you see any organiser types?"

"There," said Emma, pointing to a table laden with documents being guarded by a middle-aged woman and a gangly teenager. "Want me to go and find out?"

"No, you're too sexy. You'll cause a scene and our lot will notice. Ruth, you go."

"Hey! I'm sexier than you. I cause more scenes than you two combined."

"I'm a superstar footballer," I whined. "Everyone knows what I look like."

"Here," said Emma, fishing her West Didsbury bobble hat from her handbag.

I pulled it as far down as I could manage, and in that disguise, went the long way round to talk to the organisers. I returned the same way.

"Well?" said Ruth. "No-one even glanced at you, by the way."

"Turns out, we are slapping."

"What?" laughed Emma.

"We slapped Liverpool. We slapped Everton. They're playing each other next and the winner of that will be in the other semi final. So we've knocked one of the favourites out, have an easy game in the semi, and will play the final against a team we already beat."

"That's amazing," said Emma.

I scratched my head. It was amazing. How was that happening? "Can we postpone the Christmas market?"

"Course," said Emma. "We can't leave. You're about to get your first trophy. Or cup. Or vase."

"Oh!" I said, as ten tiny little kids from Liverpool and Everton took to the pitch. Five-a-side, red against blue, a real classic. And yet... "We've got the best team here," I said, astonished. At this age, most players still had CA 1, perhaps 2, and a powerful boy was more impressive than a skilful technician. But based on PA, we were by far the most talented team. Nine of our twelve would make it as professionals, and the other three would walk into the West Didsbury team.

"You already said that," said Ruth.

"No, I said we beat them. But look! They're not all that good. Liverpool have one good forward. Couple of decent midfielders. Everton have a good goalie and a good midfielder. That's it. The rest are fool's gold."

"What have we got?"

I looked around. "We're fucking stacked. We've got the best player in the tournament. Stephen Watson. Big Sam is the second best goalie. Tadpole is the best, actually, but he's only ten. I hope he got some minutes. But Big Sam's second best of the starters. Mark Nelson might be the best defender, except if you count Future, who's been training with the fourteens and was even with the sixteens for a while. And the organiser told me Simon Black is top scorer by far. He's a menace at this type of football - he's too fast and sharp to stop." I laughed. I'd been getting annoyed at Playdar for underdelivering, but this was very much a team that Playdar built.

I watched as Spectrum - relaxed and happy - adjusted his glasses and looked down at a clipboard he was holding. Then he looked up at the time and across at the Liverpool versus Everton match. Then he spasmed, reached for his mobile, and when he finished typing, my phone buzzed.

Spectrum: Just FYI - I think we have a good shot at winning YNWA with the under 12s. It's in Liverpool. If you're not doing anything and you can get here soonish, you'll catch the final.

Me: Wouldn't you prefer to do it without me breathing down your neck?

Spectrum: No! But I don't think it matters. The kids are relaxed. I'm rotating the players as fast as I can with no drop in quality. The other teams either don't rotate or have bad subs.

If I took over for the final, I could use the Fantasy Football perks to give us a massive boost - Triple Captain, Bench Boost, and a Free Hit. It seemed like a guarantee of success. But what would that prove? Nothing. Spectrum deserved a chance.

Me: Sounds like you've got it under control. I'm about to do a 120% Hollow Knight speedrun so I won't be able to make it. Enjoy yourself!

He sent me a thumbs up emoji and wandered over to watch the rest of Liverpool versus Everton. Liverpool won, and then it was time for our semi-final against Bootle.

The ref blew the whistle, and Bootle attacked.

Try to imagine three cute little corgis racing each other to the other side of the pitch, enthusiastic, yapping (in Scouse accents), arms flailing, their tiny knees pumping while Emma went 'aww' because they were so tiny and so cute.

Then imagine a level 9000 defensive midfielder approach a kid who was about to shoot, lazily dab the ball away, jog onto it and pass it accurately forward, where little Simon Black accelerated to a hundred miles an hour and rolled the ball into the bottom left.

Seven seconds, one goal.

"I don't think it'll matter if you go down," said Ruth.

"I just want to enjoy it," I said. "Even if there's a slight chance I'd ruin the vibe or distract them, I'd rather not."

"Oh, look at that one!" said Emma. "What is he? Ten?"

"That's Benjy. He's seven."

"Holy shit. Can I keep him, Max? Can I? Oh, can I just pet him though?"

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

I smiled. He was cute. "Benjy. Seven. Attacking midfielder, can play left or right. He'll slap this tournament in a couple of years. Yule Never Walk Alone. Please. You'll never win again, more like. They should rename this, er... Merry Christmax. Oh, that's terrible. Merry Kidsmax."

"Give it up."

"I'm going on a coffee run," said Ruth.

Also going on a run: Theo White, a ten-year-old right midfielder with PA 55. There were so many kids running around I couldn't remember where I'd found him, but there he was, dribbling past two Bootle kids and pulling the ball back for Simon. He thought about passing wide to Das Tournament hero Adam, but scored a goal instead.

Spectrum subbed him off and put Benjy on for a couple of minutes. In that time, Bootle had more attacks, but one of Stephen Watson, Future, or Mark Nelson blocked or intercepted. It was all incredibly controlled. Spectrum was giving everyone minutes and the kids were reshaping how they played based on who was on the pitch. I'd taught them some of that when I was training with them, but almost all of this was Spectrum and the other coaches who had chipped in.

With Simon back on, we scored two more goals and then Tadpole came on to see the match out. Ten years old, the best goalkeeper in our system with PA 130, and he was getting minutes in a semi-final.

I got emotional, and tried to hide it from Emma - don't ask me why.

Ruth returned and handed out coffees in branded paper cups. "There's a Costa. Bonus. Coffee's not bad, there. So we won?"

"Yeah," said Emma. "Max had a little inside cry but I pretended not to notice."

Ruth smiled and leaned over to rub my arm. "They're all talking about Chester in there. This came out of nowhere, it seems. Liverpool have won this four years out of the last five. One of their coaches was raving about Stephen Walton."

"Watson."

"Said he's unbelievable. The woman doing the drinks said 'we should sign him then' and he said yeah. And the striker, too."

I nodded. It wouldn't be long before Stephen's talent was attracting scouts from every major team. How on earth were we supposed to keep him for the next two years, let alone the next ten? "Ruth, you should butter up his dad. Let him know about the agency and all that."

"I've met him, remember? We've had this conversation before."

"Stephen needs these experiences to improve, but these experiences put him on display. We need to keep the dad happy and believing we're the best place for him."

"Are we?"

I scoffed. "We're already the best under twelve futsal team in the world."

"How much of an exaggeration is that?"

"Big one. It's my favourite under twelve futsal team in the world. That's no exaggeration."

"Anyone else we should get?"

"Tadpole."

"Who else?"

"That's it. Stephen's the big fish, though. He'll make the club and the agency a lot of money." I imagined getting a call that Stephen had left to join Liverpool and we'd get no fee. My blood pressure rose. Emma sensed it and pushed herself into me. What more could I do to keep young players at the club? Keep giving them chances in the first team, obviously. Keep improving the coaches and facilities. Keep winning tournaments.

Keep winning? We hadn't won this one, yet.

"Oh, no," said Emma.

"What?" I said, head jerking left and right while I looked for danger.

"That little baby's dressed up like a frog. Oh my God. I want to pinch his cheeks and say ribbit. Am I allowed, Max?"

"You're a strong independent woman. But if you're going there, ask which kid on that team is theirs. They've got a good right back I wouldn't mind signing. Also, it's an owl, not a frog."

Emma bounced away and Ruth gave me a certain smile before returning to her coffee and phone.

Ribbit. The word reminded me of something. Something about football... Ah! On my first trip to FC United, they'd had a player with the nickname Ribbit. He was incredibly talented - why hadn't I thought of him since?

Because, I realised, he wasn't in my database.

Me: Dude. What happened to Ribbit?

Ziggy: Oh! You mean Frogger. Haven't heard that name for ages. He met a Turkish woman and they moved to Marmaris. He runs a bar.

Me: Oh, shame.

Ziggy: No, I think he's happy, now. If we win the league, we're going there for a piss up.

Me: Better stop throwing away two goal leads, then.

Ziggy: I'll pass your advice onto our goalies. Hey, where's my boot deal?

Me: All sorted. Go to nike dot co dot uk, put whatever you want in your cart and use offer code MERRY CHRISTMAX for ten percent off.

Ziggy: Mate.

"Ruth, did you get anywhere with a boot deal for Bark?"

She closed her eyes, recalling some unpleasant memory. "They didn't laugh at me, exactly, but they suggested I might want to, let's say, come back later."

"I think you'll find it easier with Angel."

She scoffed. "You think?"

Emma came back, cheeks flushed with pleasure. She told me which kid the couple with the baby were watching. He wasn't of interest. "I heard you mention Angel. I realised, you know, that you've talked about her looks and her story and all that, but you didn't say much about her as a player."

"I can help with that," said Ruth, to my surprise. "When Max saw her, he became fully erect."

"Mate," I said.

"I mean that he stood up."

I shook my head. "Can you not? She's not even sixteen."

Ruth was unrepentant. "It was quite strange, Max. Even for you. What had you seen?"

This was my fault. I'd been getting sloppy about responding to players as soon as I saw their profiles. I'd started out bad at that and had trained myself to be better, but now I was so comfortable in my position I was falling into old habits. I'd done it not twenty minutes ago when Liverpool and Everton had taken to the pitch. "She's tall and she has a quality of movement that's hard to put into words. It just looked right. It suddenly clicked that Bonnie hadn't been exaggerating. So I went over, and yeah, that's a goalscorer all right."

"But you told her not to shoot."

"She's no good to us in her current form. She needs to become a more well-rounded player. She'll have to work really hard on her passing, technique, and yeah, her defensive work a bit, too. You saw how she struggled in that match."

"Bonnie was stressed to bits, but you seemed happy."

"Angel tried, she was shit, and now she knows we all know the things she can't do. Jackie stopped the match a couple of times to explain things to her and she was paying attention. As long as she's hungry to learn, everything will be all right."

On the pitches, the tournament organisers were moving goals around and generally reshaping the space. The final would be played on centre court, so to speak, giving everyone interested the chance to see.

"So you've signed Venus," said Ruth. "I'm almost more interested in Mars." She saw I wasn't following her. "Chris Beaumont."

"Ah."

"MD came to ask me if your gamble failed, could the club use the money I'd invested in the women's team to shore things up."

"What did you say?"

"I said no. Even though the real answer is yes, of course. But it's no until the very last second, Max. Until we're actually falling off the edge of the cliff."

"We're nowhere near that."

"I know. But it's MD's job to worry. The numbers involved must be frightening. How much are we buying him for?"

"Oh, we're not. Banbury can't sell him. Their whole team is built around him. No, we're loaning him."

"Loaning him? Then we're only paying his wages."

"That's often the case, but you can also pay a fee to loan a player. On top of his wages. It happens a lot at elite clubs. They can't just give away assets for a year. Yeah, I suppose it's rare down at our level. Unheard of, maybe, I don't know. I just want the player."

"So what's the loan fee?"

"Forty thousand pounds."

Ruth stared at me. "That's more than we paid to buy, outright, Ryan Jack, who has played in the Premier League."

"Yes."

"Forty thousand? To use him for six months?"

"Yes."

Emma went, "Oh!" She nodded. "That's what he meant about being the most expensive player pro rata. He'd be eighty thousand for a year, and that's more than that guy Jonathan Hurts. Are you sure about this, bebs? It sounds a bit crazy." The numbers were worse than she thought - Hurts had a three-year contract, if reports were to be believed. I’d know for sure when I started buying the Contracts perks, but you could argue his transfer fee was twenty-three thousand a year.

"Crazy like a frog. All right, it's nearly time. God, this is exciting! My heart's going. The Liverpool kids look really intense. Ours are still chill AF. Holy smokes!"

***

Yule Never Walk Alone. The final. Hosts Liverpool with their fast boys, their strong boys, their tall boys. Mixed morale, mixed talent. A throng of coaches. The visitors and underdogs - question mark - Chester. Often known as tiny Chester. Minnows Chester. High morale, high talent. One coach. Spectrum, pushing his glasses up, enjoying himself. The wizard’s apprentice.

Ruth and Emma were into the first half like no other football match I could remember. Maybe Emma was this animated when I played, but I would never see it. Now she kicked every ball, yelled, yelped, whelped, whined, whinged, moaned, groaned, and shrieked. Ruth was less vocal, but the way she shifted in her seat told a tale.

It was a journey.

We started with a seventy percent sort of team: Big Sam in goal, Future and Stephen Watson as defenders, Adam as the midfield, and Simon Black as the striker. Liverpool had their strongest lineup.

It was pretty end-to-end stuff, but we scored first. Simon - who else? - latching onto a nice pass. Spectrum rang the changes, bringing our relative strength down to sixty percent. Liverpool had shots that Big Sam saved, and John, another veteran of Das Tournament, scored on the counter.

Two-nil, and another flurry of changes. Off went Stephen Watson, on came Simon Black. Liverpool huffed and puffed, but we scored a third. The Reds finally clawed one back, but we were back to Black - Simon made it four-one.

That's when Spectrum lost his mind.

Still smiling, chatting to his substitutes, and generally looking like a good-hearted Fagin, he weakened us to fifty percent, then allowed Tadpole to go in goal for the last two minutes of the half.

Liverpool couldn't believe their luck, and they struck twice.

Four-three at half-time, but the momentum was with the Premier League team. Ruth and Emma spent the half-time break chatting away at a mile a minute, excited, desperate, stressed.

Me? I needed to see one more thing before making up my mind. But I couldn't help but feel that...

Over on the far side of the pitch, the Liverpool head coach was pumping his players up. They would come out fighting, they would come out swinging, and if they got the next goal, there would be absolute carnage. The crowd felt it, too. There was plenty of support for the ten-to-one outsiders - Liverpool - but enough of the smaller teams had stayed behind to watch this most unexpected of finals, and they were almost all cheering for a Chester win.

So what would Spectrum do?

He had two valid choices. One, start weak and let his team get stronger through the half, ending with a thrilling last two minutes, a finale for the ages. Two, put his strongest team on the pitch, crush the Liverpool insurgency and demoralise their players. Honestly, either way sounded fun, but one was obviously much more likely to end with Stephen Watson lifting the first trophy of my management career - and the first of Spectrum's, too. The only option I wouldn’t accept would be a halfway house. A compromise. As long as Spectrum chose a lane, I'd support him.

The Liverpool kids were in a huddle, and as the ref blew the whistle, they roared and clapped their hands and looked aggressive and ready to charge.

Onto the other side of the pitch sauntered Big Sam, Stephen Watson, Future, Mark Nelson, and Simon Black. One hundred percent strength. I flew to my feet and punched the air.

Spectrum's head snapped over and he saw me. I clenched my fist, grinning like a madman. He grinned back and whipped out his phone.

Spectrum: I take it you approve.

Me: Crush them like ants. Then release our ants. I saw Benjy had played. Has Biggins?

Biggins was an eight-year-old centre back with PA 35.

Spectrum: I'll give you two guesses.

He smiled in my general direction and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Three minutes later, I almost felt sorry for Liverpool. Their best players had played most of every match, while ours had been given plenty of rest. Our reserves were ready to come in and play, even our backup goalie. And as their legs faded, so did their morale. Every Stephen Watson interception, every Mark Nelson block, every Simon Black goal stripped away some of their spirit, and I'm very, very sorry to say some of the Liverpool kids spent most of the second half in tears.

A four-goal lead turned into a five-goal lead, and for the last five minutes of the final, Spectrum took the piss by rotating the team, bringing on increasingly tiny players, until we finished with Tadpole in goal, Benjy, Biggins, Theo White, and Adrian Tomkins, aged 10, 7, 8, 10, and 11 respectively.

Liverpool scored the last goal, but somehow that made things even sweeter.

The three of us rushed down to join the celebrations, with me focusing on the players and Ruth and Emma wading into the parents, our sudden appearance flicking the switch from smiling pleasure to dancing joy.

Stephen Watson flushed as he held the trophy aloft - it was a cup with big handles; Emma approved - and flushed again as he was named Player of the Tournament and got a medal and a little man-kicking-a-football trophy. On the pitch, he was cool as a cucumber and played simply but with cheeky, extrovert flourishes. Off the pitch, he was quite shy.

Simon Black got a trophy, too, for being top scorer. His closest rival was six goals short. I noticed the coaches from the Premier League teams eyeing him greedily - Simon played like the reincarnation of Liverpool legend Michael Owen. Oi! Eyes off my players! But then again... he only had PA 77. By the time he was ready for the first team, the first team would be way ahead of him. He'd keep improving for a long time yet, though, and just as the hype was building I could sell him as the new Michael Owen and rip off some club I didn't like.

The idea of rug pulling Liverpool made me even chirpier, even more willing to pose for selfie after selfie, made me make outrageous promises to the parents like "your child will be the first footballer on the moon" and whatnot.

Then I went too far, trying to get everyone to come to Nando's. Ruth shut it down right quick, saying Nando's with ten hyperactive kids was not her idea of a good time, and anyway, she had been doing what I wanted. We ended up at a nice local restaurant. Me, Ruth, Emma, Stephen Watson and his dad, and Spectrum.

After we got settled at our table, with Stephen's trophies displacing the salt and pepper, and after we had ordered, I rested my elbows on the table, rested my chin on the backs of my hands, looked at Spectrum, and sighed, "I've never met a genius before. How do you do it?"

He laughed, and he told us about the parts of the tournament we'd missed. He was just getting to the final, which Ruth, Emma, and Mr. Watson had a thousand questions about, when I was filled with a warm glow. Like, a full-body toasty feeling, hands in front of the fire after coming in from the snow, feet warmed up by the big Christmas socks, head snugly wrapped in a West Didsbury and Chorlton bobble hat.

In my mind, I stretched my arms wide and screamed, "I'm the king of the world!"

And as I returned to reality, listening to Spectrum explain how he thought of a football match as a chapter in a story, and a season as a book, I felt like another chunk of coal had been added to the fireplace.

But then... something strange.

I'd been so busy watching the kids and thinking about their parents while admiring the new, confident Spectrum that it hadn't quite clicked. But now that my mind was fully at rest, I was 99% sure of it - his tactics attribute had been 15. It had always been 15.

But today it was 16.

He wasn't just improving. He was improving.

vii.

On the seventh day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... some transfer chicanery.

Wednesday, December 13

MD and I were driving away from Sutton United, which as you know is down in London. My second trip to the capital in as many days. On the maps app I marvelled at the famous names that were nearby - Sutton United were in the middle of Epsom Downs, Wimbledon, and Selhurst Park. There were times I found the idea of London big and exciting, and others where I thought it was all a bit much.

"That went well," said MD.

"Yep," I said, beaming. "You were amazing for a guy who doesn't want this to happen."

"I do want it to happen," he sighed, as he eased around a corner right into yet another traffic light. Boo, London, boo! "It's just a lot of finance. You're committing us to a lot of spend."

"You seem relaxed about it."

"This comes out of the Boshcard money. The only risk is if Agatha pulls out of the deal before then. Which is vanishingly unlikely. I suppose..." He sighed. "I suppose I wish I knew more about the player. Or saw anything in him. I suppose it's not just you, for once. The scouts like him too. Is it left, somewhere? What does it say?"

I concentrated on the app for a few minutes, giving MD directions to a bar. I texted the Brig and he was outside when we got there. He shook hands with a few guys who had the same sort of posture as him. He got in the back. MD pulled away and I heard the Brig struggling to click his seatbelt into place. I turned, amused, and gave him a thumbs up when he finally succeeded.

"I am pleashed to inform you," he intoned, with much solemnity, "that I am delightfully shozzled."

"What were you on?" said MD.

"Four Horshemen," slurred the Brig.

"Not familiar. What's in that?"

"Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jameshon," came the surreal reply, and I was all set to laugh but MD instantly comprehended.

"Sounds good. Have to try that. Max, put some smooth jazz on so John and his four mates can have a little shnooze."

***

While I waited for my bodyguard to sober up, I thought about my scouting trips to see Sutton. They were rock bottom of League Two and while they were still fighting on the pitch, in the boardroom they were resigned to their fate. When I offered to take a player off their hands, they were interested. They'd get a fee and save on wages for a guy who was, for them, a mostly unused sub.

Eddie Moore had been recommended by a scout I'd befriended. His tip had cost me a hundred pounds in cash, and I'd sent Fleur, our scout, to check him out. She'd sent a glowing report, and so I'd been to see Sutton play at Tranmere - convenient - and at Wrexham - tickets thanks to Eve (who, by the way, sat next to me and flirtily complained I hadn't tried to make her my assistant manager - I somehow forgot to mention this episode to Emma).

Eddie had been on the bench in both matches, but he'd come on for twenty minutes in Wales. Of course, I didn't need to see him play to get his profile, but I had to persuade MD to let me spend even more of the club's money and all the effort was part of that. I'd worn MD down pretty quickly - after Benny's goal I could have asked him to rebuild the stadium and he'd have said yes. But he was a legitimately good transfer target.

Eddie Moore Born 15.9.01 (Age 22) English Acceleration 13 Handling 1 Stamina 9 Heading 8 Strength 7 Tackling 10 Jumping 6 Teamwork 14 Bravery 11 Technique 12 Pace 13 preferred foot L Passing 11 Dribbling 9 Positioning 10 Finishing 4 CA 41 PA 75 Defender (Left)

The scouts had painted me a picture of a player who was underrated by most managers because he wasn't physically dominant, didn't win headers, all that crap. But they'd spotted that Eddie had the core of a Max Best player, and the numbers suggested they were right. He had some speed, positioning, was good on the ball, and he had that sweet, sweet teamwork.

The Brig stirred. He'd driven us to London and then gone on the piss with his old army mates. It seemed a crime to make him leave so early, but it was a long drive home. "Did we win?"

"Yes," I said.

"Gleaming. What did we win?"

"Eddie Moore will join us on loan for the rest of the season."

"On loan? You hate loans."

"If you'll give me more than six microseconds to put one word after the previous word... He'll come on loan... with an obligation to buy."

"Gosh," said the Brig. Then after a while. "What does that mean?"

"It means to the outside world, he's on loan. But actually, we've bought him. But we pay next summer."

"My mother never used to let us buy on the never-never. She said never to the never-never." The Brig giggled.

"MD isn't a big fan of it, either. But it's only twenty-five thousand."

"That sounds both cheap and expensive. Erm... perhaps we could get a coffee somewhere. And a tartlet?" he added, hopefully.

The word tartlet started me thinking, but I never completed the thought. MD was giving his opinion. "It's a lot of money for a reserve left back at a team that will fall into the National League. It's a lot of money for a player all my contacts say is nothing special."

"Why do you want him, sir?"

I turned to him. "We need a left back for when Trick leaves. MD is friends with the Sutton lot and they're going to say that Eddie is a right winger."

"Oh, this again." He blew some unwanted air out. "How about that coffee?"

Ten minutes later we were in a motorway services drinking their appalling coffee. I went through the plan again. "Right. January first in the morning, we sign Goliath on loan. He's really on loan."

"And he's going to win us the league even though he's not that good and has almost no upside."

"Exactly. A minute later we sign Eddie on loan. We say he's a right winger and Sutton do the same on their side. He's only coming in on loan, we say, to cover me for my holiday."

"And people will believe he's a right winger?"

"Who's going to check? Why wouldn't he be? We don't mention the obligation to buy. It's just a loan. At this point, we start briefing that we're way over budget and all the money from the cup run has been wiped out. Something like that. Any time from there, Trick can leave and it will come as a hammer blow. Rymarquis might leave it till late in the window to give me another deadline day headache, but Trick will push for it to be done early and my holiday will help."

"He could ruin your holiday by stealing Trick. But Trick's under contract. He can't just vanish."

"His contract, my enemies have learned, includes a release clause if he can get higher wages elsewhere. He negotiated it last summer."

"That was clever of him."

"Get some more coffee in you! He did no such thing. It's just an excuse so he can leave for free. So, right, Trick's gone, got his pay rise and all that. We've spent all our money, Rymarquis and his mates are laughing their heads off. Soon as Trick's safe, Sutton can mention the obligation to buy, like if they need to placate their fans or whatever. And Sandra can start using Eddie Moore as a left back."

"What if Trick stays?"

I shrugged. "Then we have two left backs and can use Magnus as cover for Carl at right back. But we'll have massively upgraded and Eddie will slap next season, too, and after that, he'll be our backup left back in League Two."

MD smiled. "What about in League One? The Championship?"

He was joking; I wasn't. "You'll have to write more cheques when we get there. Bigger ones. Number goes up."

The Brig stirred his coffee. "So this year's TV money is going on Chris Beaumont. The prize money is going into equipment for the lads. Next year's sponsorship money is already being spent. Don't you think you should reconsider how much you'd accept for Raffi?"

"No. He's an England international."

MD hadn't drunk any alcohol, but the thought of me presenting him with bigger and bigger demands had sobered him all the way up. He tried to see the bright side of this year's spending. "At least we'll have done all our transfer business on day one of the window. Except for signing off on Trick leaving, and Max doesn't need to be around for that."

"Mmm," I said. "We’ll get a right winger, too."

"What?" said MD.

"I didn't want to scare you. Don't worry - he'll be free. He's the kid Tranmere signed from my former club and they’ll cover his wages if we give him some first-team experience." Barkley. A PA 130 right-sided attacking midfielder. His CA was still in the twenties but he'd be able to cover a few minutes and he could hit a good cross. "He can come for a month or two if we need him. That's all agreed. Basically, if we get any kind of serious injury, we press the Bark button. He's very raw, but the price is right and if we're up against a low block he could be useful. I wouldn't put him in against York City or anything, but he's talented. And he knows the level so it's not like signing some kind of prima donna."

There was a silence. "Max," said the Brig. He looked around, laughing in disbelief before fixing me with those ladykiller eyes. "Can I just check, please? Just because I've been drinking." He looked up, theatrically, then down again. "You, who are so very opposed to loan signings, intend to make three loan signings this January?"

My eyes were shining and my smile was devastating - I know because a bored-to-death cleaner who was walking past got a full blast and was suddenly having the best day of her life. "Guys. This is the part where you say how much fun it is working with me."

The older men looked at each other. "More coffee?" said MD.

"Yes, please. Irish, if you can arrange that."

viii.

On the eighth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me… a chance to close the gap to three.

Saturday, December 16

Match 20 of 46: Chester versus Boston United

Before kick off, Henri asked for a word. He wanted to check I had plans for Christmas dinner, otherwise he'd invite me to his place. He said he wanted to ask me 'while we were still on speaking terms', which was odd, but I found out what he meant at the men’s first team Christmas party six days later.

"I've accepted an invitation to Weaver Manors," I said.

He feigned surprise. "I thought you weren't keen on her father."

"While I think it's perfectly reasonable for me to demand that he stops supporting the team he's loved since he was able to walk just as they're about to start winning everything, I have decided to try to overlook this one, huge, unforgivable character flaw in the interests of spending more time with his daughter."

The features of his face spread apart as he admired me. "You're simply wonderful, did you know?"

I grinned. "I recently learned he has an amazing wine cellar, and I'm not going to be playing from Christmas to New Year, so..."

Henri experienced a pang of regret. "Andrew will be there, in my place. If I'd known there would be wine..." The buzzer sounded, so I didn't have time to investigate what he meant. "Let me shoot you to the top of the league, my friend. A win today will give you something to celebrate. He might upgrade from Italian wine..."

"To Spanish?"

He pulled a face. "You are supposed to motivate me, gaffer."

I hugged his shoulders. "If you're struggling to motivate yourself for matches, you can always fall back on your writing career."

This harmless half-joke hit like a cloud of pesticide. Henri looked... guilty?

***

I'd decided to go for a 4-1-4-1 with Raffi Brown not in the match day squad. His big match would be on Tuesday and I didn't want him getting injured. He was both pleased and annoyed. More annoyed, I think, but I didn't care. We'd bought something like seventy tickets and his England debut was going to be our unofficial Christmas night out. The official one would be on the 22nd and I had no idea what to expect from it.

The match kicked off and I spent ten minutes patrolling the halfway line as Boston fell into a low block. Eleven men behind the ball, trying to deny us space, trying to stop us from getting into good crossing positions while also flooding the box with tall boys so if we did cross, they’d probably deal with it.

Grim.

And what made it worse was how much fun our last meeting had been. If you remember, a guy had called talkSPORT to rave about it. With good reason - it had ended six-nil and there had been red cards, fights, the debut of my 2-6-2 formation, MY league debut for Chester, me putting my knee on the ball inches away from the Boston manager, Sam going off injured and hobbling back on. Just a wild ride.

From that to this.

I'd put Trick in the lineup to help with the pretence that he would be hard to replace, and to be fair, while his CA was low, he was far better than Magnus in a game like this. He dragged our average CA down to 50.3, but Sandra's coaching was very much working. She'd squeezed an extra point out of Henri. He was on CA 63, now, and that felt like a huge achievement. Pushing back against the tide of shit facilities and shit opponents. Yes, Sandra mate!

Aff, Trick, and Ryan combined on the left to create a half-chance. Trick's cross wasn't terrible, but Henri couldn't get to it.

At the back, Carl Carlile had finally caught up with Glenn Ryder - both were CA 54, and Steve Alton was starting to leave poor Gerald May in the dust. Youngster was closing in on gold, Pascal had turned silver, and Andrew Harrison was about to hit whatever the shittest metal is. Tin? Anyway, after six months of regular training, he was CA 19. Which... felt slow, but I'd plucked him from a beach and turned his life upside down. I was more than willing to be patient with him, but he was making me wonder about how many CA 1 players I would sign in future. We could end up training them for two years before they were useful.

D-Day dribbled past one player and rolled a simple pass forward for Carl to chase. He smashed the ball across goal, but there was only Henri in the area, surrounded by seven defenders. Raffi was useful in those situations - he often surged into the penalty box, adding another body to our attacks. Ryan and Sam didn't have that desire or the knack of finding themselves in the right place. No wonder Raffi was being courted by so many clubs.

I glanced up at the main stand and saw more scouts and agents than usual. Putting the hours in before the January transfer window. Made sense. A lot of moves to be made. A lot of money to be made.

Boston weren't currently a threat, so I moved forward ten yards, leaving Glenn and Steve on the halfway line and everyone else in an attacking position. Except Ben, of course. He'd moved to CA 45, which was good, but again, it felt slow. Maybe I'd have to upgrade our goalkeeping coach, or find Angles a talented young assistant or something. It couldn't be that I focused all my attention on the outfield players. The goalies needed to improve at the same rates.

I got the ball, shaped to pass left, did the cut back move Cody Chambers had taught me, and sprayed the ball wide to D-Day. He now had a little more space, and he used the time to concentrate. He whipped in a cross - perfect for Henri. Almost perfect. Henri needed to add power to his header, but couldn't quite generate enough. The ball looped up harmlessly into the hands of the goalie.

Sandra was waving at me. Get back! Get back!

I shook my head and pointed to the spot where I was. I'll play further forward than you're comfortable with, thanks.

She nodded.

Boston booted the ball away - not even bothering to pretend to start an attack.

The crowd groaned.

Attendances were slowly rising, which is what you'd expect when a team is playing well and winning most of their matches, but I'd been disappointed in the numbers. I wanted more. MD said word had got round that teams were coming to Chester to defend and as a result, the matches weren't that interesting for casual fans. It was one of the reasons he had allowed me to go nuts on the Goliath fee. We could make some of that 40 grand back by selling more match day tickets.

We got a free kick and Ryan Jack went to take it. I was still pretty down on myself when it came to set pieces, penalties excepted.

I stayed on the half way line while Glenn and Steve went up. Almost everyone was in the penalty area, now. I walked forward ten yards, then another five. Sandra was going tonto, but I wanted to invite Boston to launch a counter. If they did, we'd have much more space to work in. I looked at her and took one step back. She threw her hands up, exasperated.

Ryan's free kick was fired in, and Ryder got his head to it. It went just over the bar.

I shook my head. Quarter chances. Half chances. We'd wear Boston down, make them run and concentrate for eighty minutes and hope to get space in the final ten minutes.

A Boston guy was on the floor, pretending to be injured. Trying to run the clock down. Sandra was waving at me, so I jogged over.

"What? I know what I'm doing."

She was annoyed. "I've been trying to call you."

I gestured vaguely towards my ears. "I don't hear much when the match starts. Tune it all out so I can focus."

"Weird. Forget DM for now. Try being a right-winger."

"Hmm? What about D-Day?"

"He'll be right mid. We'll overload them on the right. You, Donny, and Carl all on that side of the pitch. See what mischief you can get up to."

I laughed. "Hang on. I thought you were trying to stop me going all-out."

"No, Max."

"You want... more mischief?" It was hard to believe. "No-one's ever asked me to go more crazy."

"Putting the league's best right winger at right wing isn't crazy."

I closed my eyes in an attempt to contain my frustration - not at her, but at the truth. I was no longer Max Best: Mystery Winger. But there was no point having a tactical brain on the touchline if I wasn't going to listen to her.

I wandered back to the DM slot, let play stabilise again, and drifted over to be close to D-Day. I played six, seven, eight bounce passes with him, trying to annoy a Boston player into leaving the low block. It worked. He came at me, lunged, and I dabbed the ball back to Carl. I sprinted and looked over my shoulder to see where the ball was. I had wanted it played slightly to my left, but he'd shanked it right. Mate.

I scrambled across, annoyed that a promising move had lost momentum. But then I thought - why not cross with my left foot? I looked up and saw Henri was surrounded. We needed Raffi. We needed bodies in the box, or we needed every pass in one move to be sharp and accurate.

With a push of the ball towards our own goal, I retreated, watching as Boston's players fell into shape - some slower than others. I passed to Donny and jogged to the other side of the pitch. Sandra's general concept was good - it was what we'd done against Kidderminster in the late stages. Why not start early?

***

At half time I had three or four minutes of quiet massage. My fitness had been improving steadily until I'd hit the plateau, and in a game like this where I wasn't storming up and down the length of the pitch doing long sprints, I felt I could just about last the ninety.

When I got down, thanking Dean, I went to Sandra and was about to tell her the plan for the second half when I remembered she knew the game, too. "Thoughts?"

"We might win like this but we need bodies in the box," she said. "4-3-3."

"Width is more important than numbers." From wide we could do a lot more damage than if we tried to attack centrally.

"Right. I forgot you do that narrow 4-3-3. I'll never understand it. 4-2-4, then," she said.

"Better. But the full backs might end up not doing anything." We hadn't practised the Art of Slapping from a 4-2-4. It would probably work in the end, but one full back would typically be out of the game, doing nothing. "3-5-2," I said. "I'll be the third centre back but I'll go roaming. Could be a 2-5-3 with me wide left."

"Left?"

"Link with Aff. Really hammer that side."

She calculated. "So Trick and Steve come off. Tony as second striker. Who goes into midfield?"

"What do you think?"

"Pascal?"

"Bingo."

"What if we score and they come at us?"

I smiled. "Then we'll have a lot of fun, won't we?"

***

It was hard to explain, but just having Pascal on the pitch gave me an injection of energy. There were certain players I had a good on-pitch connection with. Guys who understood what I was trying to achieve and would help me do it. Henri, Raffi, and Pascal topped the list. I found myself wanting to drift infield to combine with Pascal, and darting forward to be a third striker. Most of the time, though, I stuck to the plan of overloading the left. Now we had two to aim for, with Pascal under instructions to arrive late in the box - if he could - and cause a nuisance.

image [https://ted-steel.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/PNG-image-A89834ED47FB-1.png]

As we tried this concept, it became clear that while Raffi Brown's late drives in the danger area were a genuine nuisance, Pascal was something else entirely. He was more like a pet who had decided to wander between your legs while you were checking your phone for the latest score from Darlington versus Kidderminster. Chaos, but not the sort we wanted - we'd have to work on that. Something for some private sessions, perhaps.

By the way, I really wished I had the 'live scores' and 'live tables' perks. They weren't worth the cost, not when I had so much else to buy, but on days like these it'd be so much fun - or so very stressful - to see what was happening in the other games and how that affected the standings.

While I'd lost concentration, Aff had surged forward with no support. With a slight panic, I hared towards Henri, feeling the effort drain my battery.

Aff fired the ball high, but now I was the third player in the box. The ball went all the way to the right, where D-Day collected it, took a touch, and looked up. He had three of us to aim for and I quite fancied scoring another towering header. So I nearly erupted when he played a weak, lame pass sideways. What the fuck?

My skin went bonkers - goosebumps, tingles, hairs on end, the works. He'd laid the ball to Pascal.

I zipped sideways, paused, then darted towards the young German. He fired the ball at me, low and hard, and I deflected it with the side of the back of my heel into Henri's path. He lashed it past the goalie.

One-nil, relief, and the crowd finally had something to cheer.

I celebrated with the lads, then peeled myself away and jogged to Sandra. "What's the score?"

"Still nil-nil, but Kiddies got a man sent off and their other centre back has done his hamstring!"

Wow. They'd lost both centre backs in consecutive games. "That's what you get when you don't rotate. Fuck."

"What?" She'd seen that I was disappointed.

I shrugged. "Just thought it'd be harder."

"To what? Win the league?"

"Yeah," I said, with a hint of sadness.

"Go back to DM," she instructed me. Then she added, "Please."

"What about entertaining our fans?"

"Sorry, Max, but we're professionals. They won't thank you if we all have fun and come out with a draw. You've given them a moment of magic, but if Kiddies slip up and we don't take advantage, it's a bad day. Now do your job."

I walked away, a bit downcast. She was right, but if I had another thirty points of CA I could really go gung-ho. Really smash these teams up. But I didn't. And that's why I was going on holiday. And why I was signing Goliath.

Sandra was smart and she hadn’t been sprinting around. She was thinking clearly. Not only that, if I made her feel valued and listened to her, she might stay at the club longer. Maybe she would turn down the first offer she got because she was having so much fun.

And most of all, the more often I deferred to Sandra, the more my players would respect her. Henri pitched his ideas, as did Pascal, and sometimes I took small ideas of theirs. But when it came to influencing my decisions, Sandra was many levels above those guys, and she’d had the balls to sub me off when she didn’t like what she was seeing. Yep. It would be good if I played up that side of things.

The commentary alerted me that Boston would come at us more. In the tactics screens, I saw that they'd abandoned the low block and would try their normal 4-4-2 defensive style. Direct balls to the strikers, load the box at free kicks and corners.

"Glenn, Carl, you awake?"

"Yes, boss."

"What I want for Christmas is a clean sheet."

Glenn frowned. "Boston are there for the taking, boss."

"Sandra says shut it down."

Glenn's face lit up. "She does?"

"Finally," said Carl. "A boss who understands football. Merry Christmas to one and all!"

***

The three of us dominated their strikers, our midfield dominated theirs, and we had chances to get the second goal. It didn't come, but there were no scares. No surprises. One-nil, three points. Not quite the football of my dreams, but the home fans went away happy enough.

When I got to the touchline, Sandra told me the news. Kidderminster had lost. That put my former team back into title contention, but that wasn't the headline. The headline was that we were only three points away from being top of the pops.

Team P W D L F A GD Pts 1 Kidderminster 22 14 7 1 39 14 25 49 2 Chester 20 15 1 4 53 20 33 46 3 Darlington 21 12 7 2 32 19 13 43 4 York 23 11 9 3 38 25 13 42

There was one more match to play before Christmas day. We were away to Bradford Park Avenue, the worst team in the league. Kidderminster were away to South Shields - a tricky match at the best of times, but they’d lost both their starting centre backs and one of their talented strikers.

If we won and Kiddies lost, we'd be the Christmas number one.

It wouldn't happen. No chance. It wasn't even worth thinking about.

But it's all I did think about, and later I realised the wins and the transfers and the wine had pushed away all thoughts of Sullivan and his metal pipe. My mind's eye was firmly fixed on one thing - the remarkable Christmas gift I hoped to wrap up for the people of Chester.