ix.

On the ninth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a match to boil my wee.

Tuesday, December 19

England's left-sided centre back had time and space. He took a couple of strides forward, calculated, gambled on a couple more. Still no Welsh player bothered with him. One more stride? Why the devil not?

Now a Welsh dude, bedecked in all-red with flashes of white - very Santa Claus - sprinted at the ball. Behind him, his teammates were spread out, ready to press, ready to compete. The England guy passed into the feet of a midfielder, who was immediately swarmed. He fell over, somehow, the ball bobbled around, and Wales tried to launch a fast break. It broke all right, broke down at the first vaguely complicated pass. Instead of using the chance to counter Wales's counter, the England guys passed back to the defenders, allowed Wales to reset, and the whole farce started again.

So went most of the first half. Long periods of tedium - the Welsh goalkeeper took one full minute for every goal kick - interspersed with tiny moments of frantic activity that ended with no progress on either side.

"Argh!" I yelled, and got to my feet. "Glenn, am I allowed to boo England?"

"Depends if you think they're Marxists," he said, a reference to a Daily Mail-led media campaign that had tried to recast England's bland, inoffensive first team as some kind of raging socialists. That particular culture war had flared up, died away, and now the gammons were onto something else.

Our big evening out was not going well. Seventy-four people from Chester had boarded three specially-commissioned buses. Men's and women's first team players plus WAGs and BAHs (boyfriends and husbands), our coaches, Inga, Joe, MD, and so on. MD had decided to let the club pay for the transport - that was a good gesture and pretty cheap as Christmas gifts went.

We'd arrived early enough to see Raffi warming up, wearing his England kit, laughing and joking and looking around Altrincham's stadium with disbelief writ large on his face. Shona, Raffi's wife, and Moss, his dad, were near me, and we yelled out at him. "Raffi! Give us a wave! Raffi Raffi give us a wave!" More of the Chester mob joined in until Raffi shyly gestured in our direction. Our cheer was one of the biggest of the night.

But then, as our carnival was getting going, the teams had been announced.

England were 4-4-2 with lots of players from the National League. I knew about a third of them from my scouting. They had CAs ranging from 50 to 80, but most were around 70. Chester's average, remember, was just over 50. We'd be in the same division as these guys next year. Seven or eight months from now, in fact. Mildly worrying.

If we could finish this season with an average of 55, we'd still lose a bunch of games at the start of next season. But as we kicked on to 60 we'd be competitive. 65 and we'd start winning. Could we scrap hard enough at the start so that a late run would put us in the playoffs? What a lame ambition; the playoffs were such a lottery.

I shook my head - those were problems for future Max.

Back to England C. 4-4-2, lots of physical boys, hard runners, hard tacklers. Not a lot in the way of technique. And no Raffi in the starting eleven. I suppose that didn't come as a surprise. He was CA 52 and playing in the division below everyone else. He scored goals from midfield, though. There was no split between football hipsters, dinosaurs, and floating megabrains - goals from midfield were priceless.

But when the subs were read out and Raffi wasn't among them, there was serious deflation. That's when everything else started to grate.

The rain. The abysmal football. The queues for the burgers. The burgers.

"Max," said Shona. "Sit down. Tell me all about it."

"About what?"

"About what's boiling your wee."

"The pitch is a bog. The rain feels vindictive. There's loads of scouts here and that Welsh goalie is doing everything he can to waste time in the match. Imagine that. You've got the chance to show what you can do in front of scouts from England - where all the money is - and your goalie is trying to bore them all into leaving early. I'd go and punch him in the mouth, if it was me. But their manager must have asked him to do it."

"There's scouts?"

"And agents." I pointed to a section of the main stand where there was, no exaggeration, over a hundred and fifty scouts, and at least twenty agents. "Your mate Bradley Rymarquis is here."

"He's not my mate, Max. I wrote to him once."

"And the football. Christ. No ambition, no flair, no style. This is the worst game I can remember seeing. It's Sunday League quality." I ruffled my hair. "Raffi would change the dynamic. He can take a pass from a defender, hold it, and retain it in midfield. None of these pricks can do that. That one thing would unlock Wales."

"Do you think they came to see Raffi?" said Moss, who I thought hadn't been listening.

"Probably more interested in the Welsh lads. In theory, all the best Welsh players who aren't playing for big teams are here. They have some handy players, by the way. Give them a proper manager, for example me, and they'd do well. But urgh! Raffi's one of the most talented guys here. It just didn't occur to me that he wouldn't play. They've seen him in training. He can do everything these pricks can do, and more." I shook my head, genuinely getting angry. "This England C manager was in charge of like twenty League Two games, won three. He's rubbish. And he's got himself made boss of England C and that's his little fiefdom. It's typical of the sport and the country. We don't want anyone good in charge. He gets points for taking a look at Raffi, but loses them all by not even having him on the bench." Also, it was embarrassing to me, personally. We'd come all this way and it had been a bust. If I'd come alone, I'd have been annoyed. If I'd brought Sandra, I'd have been apologetic. But I'd brought every-fucking-one. It was flat-out catastrophic.

"I hear you've been stopping Raffi from leaving," said Moss.

"Don't," whispered Shona, though I wasn't sure who it was aimed at.

"He'll leave when it's the right time for him. This summer, I reckon. Move him up to League Two, see how long it takes him to get up to speed. Another three-year contract there, people starting to look at him near the end of the second year. He'll be 25 when he gets to a Championship club. A year to break into the first eleven. Five good years running their midfield. Couple of cup runs, couple of shots at making the Prem." I nodded. Every time I said it out loud, it sounded better and better. "Thirty grand a week minimum. That's one point five million a year, Shona."

"He'll get there even if you let him leave this January," whined the doddering old Ian Evans-loving fool.

"Nope. If he signs for a club that's too far ahead of his, let's say current ability, he'll never play. If he never plays, he'll never improve. He'll never get to those levels."

"You just want him in your midfield, scoring goals, winning you games."

"Yeah? Except I just said I'd let him leave in the summer. I just said he could skip the National League level and go straight to League Two. It's not about me. It's about him and his career and providing for his family. Five million pounds over three years. That's the goal." Half a mill of that going into my pockets - damn right I intended to do it the right way and not try for a shortcut.

Shona squeezed my arm and shook her head. I calmed down, and she released me. "Do you have a club in mind? In League Two."

"Not right now. I've got friends at Tranmere and I'm going to meet the guy who owns Grimsby. The Chester fans wouldn't be too pleased if I sold Raffi to Wrexham, but they don't get a vote. Wrexham have got the money; that's for sure. I had thought about Stockport County but they've won, like 14 games in a row. They're going to win the league. I'll be doing a lot of League Two scouting soon. I'll meet some of the head honchos along the way."

"At least find a club in London," whined my tenth least favourite person in this stadium. "Where it's warm."

I brought up my shitty mental map of the country. "Crawley Town are somewhere south. They've got a good manager. Timo Jentzsch. I don't know much about him but they bought him from Benfica to be their player-manager. He only played a few games so it was like they were buying a manager which is an unusual way to go about it. He kept them in the league and now they're in playoff contention. I want to learn more about him because that club had been chaotic before he took over. It's owned by Bitcoin guys. I suppose if Bitcoin goes up, they'd have the money to buy Raffi. AFC Wimbledon is south, but I don't know if they've got money for transfers. Forest Green might be down there, somewhere. They're that vegan club. They're struggling in the league, though."

"Raffi can eat vegetables so long as his dad can be warm in the stadium," said Moss.

"I'm going to mingle," I said, and wandered along the rows of seats looking for someone less annoying to talk to. "Donny, go get me a Four Horsemen."

He blinked, showing that he knew what it was. How did everyone know these random things? "We've got Bradford on Saturday."

"I don't want a drink. I want to sit in your spot. Go and talk to Shona for a bit."

"Oh! Right."

He scarpered and I sat next to Trick Williams. One thing that could cheer me up - confirmation that he'd be leaving soon. "Trick dude."

"Gaffer."

I did a theatrical look around to see if we might be overheard - our section was rammed. "Any news?"

"Yeah. It's on. Eastleigh."

What a buzz! How did I keep so outwardly calm? "That's Southampton, right?"

"Right."

"Fuck. Lot of travel."

"It's all right. I like the banter on the team bus. The logo's a spitfire. Looks just like Swindon Supermarine we just played. National League, too. So I'll be able to prove you wrong about hacking it."

I smiled. "Good money?"

"Pretty good, yeah. Brad fucking hates you, mate." He laughed.

"Top. Top top top. So... probably won't play you the next few games, just in case?"

His head dropped. "I want to play."

"And get injured and in six months you've got no money coming in? Come on. Think."

He exhaled. "Yeah."

"When's it going to happen?"

"Third of Jan, they reckon. Just as you're settling into your holiday. Really trying to twist the knife."

"Cool. That's good. Yeah, that'll do."

"Where are you going, anyway? You haven't told us."

"Not too far. You won't want a postcard. All right. Looks like a win-win."

"Will I get a league winner's medal?"

"Yep. If you can't get up here for the final day, we'll find a fake Trick to dance around the pitch and all that."

I got up and thought of giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder, but I didn't, just in case Rymarquis saw it. I looked around and went to sit near Magnus, kicking Livia out of her seat. "Dude. You happy with us?"

"Yes."

"Want a new contract?"

"Maybe. What are the options?"

"You're not doing much coaching. I reckon we formalise you as player-physio. I'd like to tie you down to a long contract but you don't seem the type."

"I'd prefer to be flexible. I have dreams that extend beyond football."

"Just another year, then, with a pay rise that kicks in if we get promoted."

"I will meditate on it."

"Great. Choose someone for me to talk to next."

"Don't you want to watch the match?"

"No, it's aggravating."

"Andrew Harrison."

That got my pulse racing. While the squad's overall morale was very high, individual players seemed to become happier or sadder on a gentle curve. Henri, to nobody's surprise, was one of the moodier characters. He often had two-point swings in his morale. Youngster and Pascal, despite being teenagers, were two of the most stable.

Recently, Trick's morale had spiked up and down like a seismograph. I guessed the ups were him looking forward to his new club, his new contract, and a general feeling of being valued, while the downs were him thinking about missing his friends, being apprehensive about playing in a higher league, and so on.

Only one player's morale had been trending downwards with no prospect of a rebound.

"What makes you say Andrew?"

Magnus frowned and leaned closer. "He can't ground himself."

"But he touches grass."

Magnus broke into a big smile. He enjoyed it when I teased him about his beliefs because, since being cursed, I'd been pretty open to believing all kinds of mad bullshit. One day, when I didn't have seventy careers to look after, I'd try some Reiki or one of those things where you talk to candles.

"His radiance is diminished."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Another big smile. "But it's interesting you'd choose him. You're very perceptive." I went over and made Michael and Noah leave the area. "Andrew, bro."

"What's he done now?"

"Who?"

"Noah."

"I don't know." We both frowned. "Has he been making a nuisance of himself? Well, it hasn't reached my ears, which means the coaches can handle it, which means it isn't worth mentioning. No, I wanted to talk about you. You all right?"

When we were talking about Noah, he was mega interested, mega present. Now I wanted to talk about him, he shrank. Eye contact stopped. "I'm fine."

I folded my hands in my lap and waited, eyes half-closed, not amused. I had just enough of my vision on the pitch to keep collecting XP - not that there was much of that. The curse was treating this like watching a National League match, which made sense given that was the level of the players. The Welsh league was considered a much lower standard, but the curse generally gave XP based on the higher level of the two teams.

Andrew closed his eyes, counted to some inordinately high number, and when he opened them found I was still there. "It's Gemma."

I leaned away from him. "hhhhhWhat?"

He crunched his shoulders into his neck, defensive, asking me to keep the volume down. Maybe because Henri was nearby and he knew about their fling. "You set it up!"

"Me?"

He rubbed the skin around his upper eyelid. He couldn't get too mad at me because I was his boss and he was mortally afraid of the Brig. "Anyway. I was thinking of... you know."

"Asking her to marry you."

"Of ending it."

"Right. She's not your type. You prefer uggos."

He quashed some burst of anger. "Do I have to talk to you about this?"

"No," I said, standing up. But I sat right down again. "Actually, yes. There's some Christmas dinner bullshit tangled up in this. You've been invited to the Weavers', right?"

He nodded. "Emma said you'd behave in front of one of your players."

I laughed, but he wasn't joking. She'd really said it! "Right. Relationship advice. I can do that. What's the problem?"

He spread his elbows so he could pull at his hair. "There's no problem. She's just... It's me."

"Oh, fuck that," I said, annoyed. "Spit it out, Jesus Christ."

He counted to a billion again, in which time Wales's keeper took one goal kick. "She's trying to change me and stuff."

"Yeah? She trying to make you give it your all in training? Well, it isn't working, is it?"

Another annoyed look. I was slapping this conversation. Ten out of ten material, here. He swallowed, opened his mouth, thought better of it, dipped his head, sighed, and looked at me. "She wants me to dress good and stuff. Always wants to go shopping and that."

Waves of cosmic information flooded into me from all angles. This was something I could understand; I'd been in his shoes! "Okay. Gemma's a hot brunette who likes to dress nice. She wants to go to nice restaurants and bars and show off her body and her hair and, yeah, her man. Have you been doing that?"

"Not much, no. You don't pay me enough." I went to his player profile and opened the Contracts tab. It showed me what I already knew - his contract details - weekly wage, salary length, future increases, release clauses and so on. Adding this screen had cost me a thousand XP but only showed me data from my own players. Excitingly, though, my purchase had led to Contracts 2 becoming available. And, miracle of miracles, it offered exactly what I wanted - it would show me the contracts of players from other clubs. It was a hefty five thousand XP, but that was cheap. I'd have paid four times as much - this knowledge would supercharge me. The price had made me recalibrate when I'd buy it, though. Maybe I would unlock an attribute first so that I kept the feeling of forward momentum.

I touched his coat and flicked at his fringe. "You're not blowing all your dosh on drips and Christ knows you're not spending it on trims. So what are you doing that you don't like doing?"

He inhaled. "It's not about what we do. It's about what she wants to do. I live in a glorified hostel. I'm poor and I've got my brothers to take care of. That's my priority and always will be. I can't spend hundreds of pounds on meals and shoes and aftershaves."

"Emma wants me to dress nice and she likes being taken to fancy restaurants and having nice holidays. You might have noticed that I dress like a tramp most of the time. And that's fine with her because she knows I'm busy and don't care much about that kind of thing, but every now and then I wear a suit or do something fancy and she enjoys it, and I enjoy it, too, truth be told. Wouldn't want to do it every day, but she's my special little pumpkin and I like making her happy. And do you know why I don't mind a bit of hoodie-related banter? Because we talked about it. Right at the beginning I told her how I felt about clothes and style and fashion. Easy. Now Gemma is a bit more into that stuff than Ems, but she's smart, she's a lawyer, she has a career. She isn't some pointless WAG who's obsessed with looks and only looks. If she's dating you it's because she likes you as you are. And sure, she can imagine a future where you look and smell amazing all the time. She's not wrong to imagine you better. That's what I'm doing. Because as a player, right now, you look and smell like dogshit. You're ranked last for improvement across every team, every age group. Michael's fine, Noah's fine. Your family is in a good place; you've done your job. Now it's time to get selfish. Get your head on your career. Talk to the hottest woman you'll ever date. It'll be fine. And on Christmas Day, you'll smile and be charming and laugh at my jokes." I nodded and got to my feet. "Max Best has spoken. Boom. Smashed it. Next."

I wandered around, looking for my next opportunity to spread seasonal goodwill. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but Henri was nearby and had heard my final words. He scribbled into a notebook, looking slightly demented.

***

The match finished one-nil with England scoring after a Welsh defender made a mistake. But my restless mood had made me bounce around the travelling contingent, forcing people to move around and sit next to different people, and that proved to be a big hit. Every time there was a change in the seating arrangements, there was a little bump in energy, and by the time we set off home, everyone was having a good time.

Not what I'd wanted, then, but by the time we got onto the buses my wee was a healthy, normal temperature.

x.

On the tenth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... the fruit of a writer's psyche.

Friday, December 22

I'd never been to a football club's Christmas party. Last year I'd got myself uninvited to my former club's do when I said I wanted to leave to become Chester's Director of Football.

My guess was that there would be rivers of booze, dozens of scantily-clad party babes, pumping music, and a final drunken message from the manager reminding the lads not to overdo it since they had a match at three o'clock the next day. And hey, maybe that's how it went down at other clubs, but for some reason, Henri Lyons had been placed in charge of our event.

It was scheduled to start at 5 p.m. Henri wanted it later but I had a date with destiny at Tranmere that evening and even starting at 5 was pushing it. By the appointed hour it was basically pitch-black, and if anyone wasn't feeling especially Christmassy all they had to do was stand outside for a couple of minutes and they'd get a jolly red nose and, depending on how thick their undies were, a couple of snowballs.

At one minute to five, we parked and the Brig pushed me into a secondary school's assembly room. There were paintings on the walls, a raised platform at the front, and lots of fancy details in the wood that made me think we were in Tyson's expensive private school - I had been deep in thought on the drive, not paying much attention to where we were going.

It looked like I was the last to arrive and that was very much intentional. The men's and women's first teams were there, all mixed up, but no partners. This was strictly internal. With all the backroom staff, we were getting up to fifty people in the audience. There was one empty chair near the front, but while everyone else was on the school's shitty hard-backed wooden numbers, I had a red armchair covered with an embroidered dresser scarf.

I flopped into it and Kisi Yalley appeared to my side, handing me a flute of champagne.

"I can't drink that. We've got Bradford tomorrow afternoon."

"It's alcohol-free," she said. "All the drinks are. Except for Vimsy's. Henri says he's to be our sin-drinker. I don't like the phrase but Vimsy is happy about it."

"What's - oi!" I looked down at my feet where Charlotte was trying to push a red ottoman foot rest under my feet. "Oh!" I looked to my left where the nearest players were shaking their heads and laughing. Did they think I'd insisted on VIP treatment or did they know this was Henri's idea?

I didn't have time to think - a red curtain fell, hiding the stage from us. Lots of stomping happened behind it, and in the main hall, the lights dimmed. Then spotlights shone on the red curtain, sweeping diagonally around like air defence lights from World War 2.

A voice boomed out from speakers built into either side of the stage.

"China. The year 3000. An AI entity known as Cow Cow has allowed small quantities of silksteel to be sold to the west, specifically France."

What? A single, nervous laugh popped out of me.

"President Napoleon the Professional is obsessed with silksteel and is determined to discover the secret of its manufacture."

A young face popped out from the gap in the middle of the curtains. FA Cup hero Benny! "It’s spiders," he said. "Spoiler alert." He vanished.

The narrator continued. "Napoleon sends his top agent and cousin, Ohnree-Leon to steal the secret of silk from the Chinese." Dramatic pause. "This is that story."

Benny's hands emerged from the same place his head had been, but now he was holding a wide sign that read: APPLAUSE.

So we applauded.

To my left, Trick and D-Day were cackling, which made me get hot. There were loads of other players, and then to the side, an annoying light. I leaned up and felt pretty sure the light was next to Dani. Huh. I supposed if she couldn't hear what was going on, it was all right if she was on her phone. We couldn't ask her to wait outside or whatever - this was Henri's version of including her.

The curtains slid apart and now I saw the stage.

On the right was a big sign, about two metres wide, that said SILK! There was smaller writing underneath but it wasn't well illuminated. I think it said, "by Henri Lyons" or similar.

Right at the back of the stage, in the middle, was a projection of an image. It was the Deva stadium, but with some photoshopped cyberpunk elements such as a hovercar going past. I nodded - this was much cheaper than having to make real sets and you could get really creative. Shame for professional set makers, but that's progress.

Entering stage left were Tyson, Captain, and Bomber from the under sixteens. The defenders were wearing yellow plastic coats and sunglasses - to show it was the future, I guess - while Tyson was in red.

"What's happening, Glenn Junior Junior Junior etc?" said Tyson.

Captain straightened. "Not sure, journeyman striker Tony Hetherington."

Now might be a good place to mention that from this point, unless specifically mentioned, at least one person in the audience laughed at every single line in the... the... the play? This time it was Tony laughing hardest, along with those sat near him.

Captain, apparently playing the role of a descendent of first-team captain Glenn Ryder, continued. "All I know is that the hero of the age, he who glitters in the dark, he who knows fourteen ways to look at a blackbird, Henri Lyons pronounced in the French way, repeat for the avoidance of doubt, Henri Lyons, asked us to meet him here."

Fifteen-year-old right midfielder Sevenoaks, also in a yellow coat, fake jogged onto the stage. He looked a lot more nervous than the others and his delivery was stilted. "I just got the message. Am I in time?"

"Yes, Donny D-Day Dorigo." The two pricks near me cheered to see that one of them was part of the story. See? Representation matters. "We're just waiting for Henri to come."

"I wonder who will be playing that role?" said Sevenoaks.

"What?" said Tyson, hands on hips. "Don't get meta! And don't break the fourth wall, either." He turned and wagged his finger at us, the audience. "That goes for you, too!"

"What's all this, then?" said Dan Badford, the minus one PA midfielder I'd discovered at Das Tournament. Unlike the other cast members, he wasn't dressed in any sort of futuristic style. In fact, he was wearing the clothes of a Victorian street urchin, except he had a long, twirly villain's moustache which he caressed sensually whenever he said anything funny, which was often. He had a minor part, but really stole the show.

"Oh, bother," said Tyson. "It's that bloody Trick Williams again." Trick's non-stop giggling ceased, his eyes went wide with amazement, and then he laughed twice as hard. "You get out of here, Trick Williams! You know what will happen if Max Best sees you."

Dan Badford twisted his moustache. "Best? Huh! He'll get sacked any day now. I'm just bidin' me time."

"It's been almost a thousand years!" complained Tyson. "As established, it's the year 3000! Give it up!"

"Mwaaaaaaah," said Dan, an extraordinary noise that conveyed that while he knew Tyson was right, he wasn't going to change. He slunk away behind the SILK! sign.

Angelic music flooded the hall, which after a half second delay, led to more laughter. We all knew where this was going - the arrival of the great man himself. Which kid from the under sixteens would be playing him? Benny, maybe. Lucas Friend? It would have to be the most handsome kid, and that would probably have been Tyson. Would Tyson play two roles? He was absolutely killing it as Tony, so why not?

Henri Lyons himself strode onto the stage - more laughs at his arrogance - in a silver macintosh. He was also wearing a shiny silver and gold glove on his left hand. "You have answered my call!" he said, hamming it up big time. We in the audience were having a blast, but no-one was enjoying this more than Henri. "The weather is foul, my friends, and the tidings are grim. But here you are, steadfast and true. I award you five Relationship Points." He tapped on the back of his glove like there was a computer in it. One by one, the young cast members reacted as though receiving a power-up.

"How may I assist you?" said Tyson.

Dan Badford came out again and a snide look came on his face. "What would you know about assists? Bwaah." He left the stage again.

Henri stepped to the edge of the stage and swept his gloveless hand in a wide arc. "I have been given a mission. A dangerous and difficult one. If I go alone, I will surely die." He dipped his head, but lifted it again. "I need a team! A merry band of brothers, a unit, a squad. Each with complementary and overlapping gifts. A getaway driver, a hacker, and someone who doesn't know about life in the year 3000 to act as an audience surrogate."

"Okay," said Captain. "I'm in, right, but we'd better hurry up and get on with it."

Henri frowned. "Why the rush?"

"You know why! Because if Max hears about this, he'll want to take over like he always does!"

"Not this time. This time I will stand up for myself. This time I am the one with the skills, the knowledge, and the passion for the project. Yes, this time, I will be in charge."

The curtain closed. A few people clapped, but were stifled by the narrator's voice.

"One minute later."

The curtain opened again, and now there was Benny - wearing a cheap black hoodie - looking at some plans on a table, with the young actors to his left and Henri behind him to the right - sulking.

"So what we'll do, right," said Benny, "is we'll take the screamjet to Beijing, which as you know is sponsored by a beer company and is now called Gan Beijing."

Two people rushed out of the wings. One was Kisi, wearing a black macintosh and a white priest's collar. She also had a halo of tinsel that hovered an inch above her head somehow. The other was Charlotte, wearing a yellow mac. They got close to Benny.

Kisi said, "Very good joke Mr. Best."

Charlotte said, "Sehr lustig!"

Benny clicked his fingers and the scene behind him changed. Now it looked like one of those old buildings in China, but again with the same flying hovercar in exactly the same part of the screen. I hoped it would be there on every image and wondered how many in the audience would notice. "I've analysed the sitch and I can say with a billion percent confidence that the secret of silk is definitely here, inside the Forbidden Palace, and it's definitely not a trap."

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Dan Badford, playing Trick Williams you remember, came back to his little part of the stage and leered. "Did someone say Palace? Talk about a tough away trip! Why’s it forbidden anyway? It’s health and safety gone mad!"

Benny clenched his fists. "Get lost, Trick!"

Dan slunk away again.

Kisi said, "Well done, Mr. Best!"

Charlotte said, "Gut gemacht, mein Lieber!"

Henri coughed. "Max, I think we should focus our efforts on the city of Luoyang. It's on the historical Silk Road, there's an enormous factory there that came online a week before silksteel became available for purchase, and a new quarter called Silk Factory Number One is guarded day and night by killer robot dogs, swarms of drones, and old men who sit around drinking tea playing mahjong."

Benny sighed. "Mate. It's not there. It's in the Forbidden City. It's obvs."

Kisi and Charlotte intoned: "Max Best has spoken."

Benny continued. "Now, look, don't stress. I've got a plan. What's the last thing they'd expect?"

Henri looked up at the stage lights. "I do not know. Perhaps we go there pretending to film a movie, but in fact it's a masterfully plotted, meticulously prepared heist."

"My plan's way better than that. Ready? It's 4-4-2."

"Pardon me?"

"They'll never expect 4-4-2! Knock it long to a big man! No-one's used 4-4-2 for 800 years; they'll never see it coming. Yep, that's the ticket. It's absolutely foolproof and nothing can go wrong."

"Max Best has spoken."

The curtain closed, and this time stayed closed for longer. A hubbub of chat exploded in the cheap seats, interspersed with big belly laughs as people remembered lines.

The curtain opened, the picture had changed to a throne room or some such, and Benny was rubbing his hands, delighted. "We're in! I knew it'd work! Now to find the secret of silk production. Um... Henri, try that box."

"You want me to open this box? Box number one?"

"Yes."

"What about... box number two?"

Music from a game show played, causing Trick and D-Day to go all the way back into hysterics. "Open both boxes, you twat!"

Henri opened the first one and the background image changed to be a portcullis. "It's a trap!"

Benny pointed. "What are those mysterious lights that are coming closer? The lights! They're coming closer! Everyone in the audience can use their imaginations to - argh! The lights got me!"

The curtain closed again, and quickly reopened. The sign that said 'SILK!' had gone, freeing up more space on the now totally bare stage.

"Where are we?" said Tyson.

Benny clicked his fingers. "Got it! It's an escape room. What you do, right, yeah, got it. Let me try first. Okay so you pour the five litres into the three litre jug. Then you’ve got two litres of space. Pour that into the four litre jug and pour that into the three. Voila. You’ve got minus two. Wait. Where are the jugs?"

"Max 77," said Henri. "It's not an escape room. We've been portal fantasised."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we've been sucked into a time loop and the only way out is to revisit scenes from our past and learn things from them."

"I was just about to say that," said Benny.

"Well done, Mr. Best," said Kisi.

"So kluggy kluggy," cooed Charlotte, and the laugh from Pascal in the audience sounded like it was genuinely painful.

"Everyone get ready," said Henri. "The first scene is about to start!"

Benny nodded. "Top. Through here is it?"

Henri reached out to stop him. "No Max! That’s the time paradox room! We can't go in there until we've educated the audience about the specific rules of this specific time loop story! Max, noooooo!"

The curtain closed.

Somewhere behind me, Pippa leaned over to Sam and said, "This is the best play I've ever seen." And it was hard to disagree.

The curtain opened, and now Sevenoaks was on the right, wearing Chester kit, his foot on a ball. The background picture showed a penalty kick situation from the point of view of the penalty taker.

"I know this scene!" said Henri. "It's where D-Day took a penalty, made a mess of it, and the original Max Best kicked him in the balls."

"What do you mean, the original Max Best?" said Benny. "I'm the original Max Best."

"No, you're his seventy-seventh clone. Hence the name, Max 77. It works. Shush."

"So what do we have to do?" said Tyson.

"Well," said Henri, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think we should stop Max kicking Donny in the balls."

"But that will change history and Max Prime wouldn't have taken over as Chester manager," said Captain.

"That's true," said Henri. "So we should let him kick Donny in the balls."

"Hang on," said Tyson. "But then... if he kicks Donny in the sack... Donny's great great etc grandson, Donny, who is clearly visible behind us now - " Laughter at Henri's solution to the two Donnies challenge - "won't be born. He'll vanish and then we'll be down a teammate."

"Wait," said Benny. "If past me kicked past Donny in the two-pack, how come Donny had kids and grandkids and all that?"

"It's a paradox," said Henri. "And we have to solve it to get to the next scene. Tricky. Very tricky."

They all leaned their foreheads into their fists in an exaggerated show of thinking. Just as the energy in the audience was dipping, the picture behind the actors changed to one of Benny kicking Sevenoaks in his special area. Benny was giving a double thumbs up to the camera, while Seven was doubled up in fake pain.

When it was quiet enough to hear the actors, they continued.

Tyson said, "I've got it! We let the kick happen, but we save the swimmers." He nearly corpsed delivering that line.

Henri, also fighting a battle to keep a straight face, said, "How? A codpiece? Max will know. His foot is so sensitive it enjoys French poetry."

"Paper!" said Tyson. "Find some paper."

"Here," said Captain.

"What is it?" said Henri. "It can't be a vital document or we'll change history."

"Er..." said Captain, reading the two pages he'd picked up. "Looks like proposed contract extensions for Gerald May and Joe Anka."

"Perfect," said Henri. "No-one will ever notice those are missing."

The audience, collectively, winced. The play had been taking jabs at people, but that was below the belt. This was a proper roast, now, and no-one was safe. Incredibly, everyone fucking loved it.

Captain tore the pages up and crushed them into balls which Seven shoved down his shorts. Benny kicked Seven in the newly-protected groin area, turning to do a thumbs up, just like in the image. Then Benny took a few steps to the side and rejoined the others.

"It worked!" said Henri. "We're going to the next scene!"

Curtains down, hubbub, and we were back.

Tyson was where Seven had been - spotlit. He'd taken his coat off to reveal that he was wearing a simple red football shirt, but incredibly, he was now sporting a ballerina's skirt. He was rolling a football around under his foot.

"What's this?" said Captain.

"I know!" said Henri. "My great etc grandfather was there that day. This is when Max Prime discovered Dani."

"Oh!" said Benny. "But Dani wasn't playing football that day, was she?"

"No," said Henri. Benny went over to get the ball from Tyson, and it was clear that Tyson did not know what was happening.

"Hey, er, that's not..."

"No improv!" snapped Henri. "So, Max 77. Scan your genetically hard-coded memory banks. What do you remember from this day?"

"It's coming back to me. Dani was... I think she was miming."

"Miming?" said Henri.

"You know, like pretending she was stuck in a glass box."

"Stuck in a glass box?" said Henri, doing a fucking unbelievable piece of mime work. For a second I really thought he'd slid a piece of glass onto the stage that we hadn't noticed. "That's right, Dani was miming like she was stuck in a glass box. She was miming..." he repeated, nodding while Tyson shook his head vigorously, "that she was stuck in a box."

"Come on, T," shouted someone in the audience.

Tyson sagged, held his hands out, and felt for the glass in front of him. He was a rubbish mime, which made it funnier.

"And then what did she do?" said Henri. None of the actors spoke. Instead, he held up a big sign. It said: AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION.

"Dance the robot!" called someone.

"That's right!" said Benny. "He danced the robot."

"She," said Henri, with a twinkle.

Tyson grimaced, but felt he had no choice. He made little jerky movements, rotating his arms in increments of ninety degrees. It wasn't bad. He got some applause.

"I think there was one more thing, though," said Henri, cruelly. Tyson was really shaking his head, now. Henri said, "Walking like a certain animal, wasn't it?"

"Chicken!"

"Giraffe!"

"Mollusc!"

"T-Rex!"

"That was it," cried Benny. "T-Rex. She was walking around like a T-Rex and that's how Max Prime knew she'd be good."

Tyson glared at his mate. I'll get you later. But with the cheers and jeers from the first teamers ringing in his ears, he shortened his arms and plonk plonk plonked across the stage, finally looking back the way he'd gone and letting out a big roar. He got half a standing ovation.

"So what do we have to change in this scene?" said Benny.

"Er, nothing. Just don't fall and get knocked out."

"What?"

Someone threw a foam brick onto the stage - I think it was supposed to hit Benny on the head but it didn't even get close. My young striker collapsed, clutching his ear. "Argh," he said, proving that we didn't teach our young players to simulate injury.

"Oh, no," said Henri. "The mission! We'll be stuck here forever. Unless... is there a doctor in the house?"

"You could try Dean," said Tyson.

"Dean?" said Henri. He took a few almost drunken steps around the stage - bewildered didn't even start to describe how I felt - before kneeling and pulling up the hatch of a trap door.

Chas Fungrieve, a lanky striker who went to this school, popped his head up. "Go away."

There was fucking pandemonium - some of the biggest laughs yet. My head was reeling. How did Henri know about the Notes from Underground thing?

"Dean! We need a doctor."

"You just want my magic spray."

"It's the year 3000. Doctors are basically magic spray operators."

"Where's the patient?" Henri pulled Benny close to the hatch and Chas sprayed him with hairspray. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, thanks. You've saved the day again. What are you doing, anyway?"

Chas got shifty. "Nothing." He lifted a pointed tinfoil hat onto his head and regressed into the depths.

That was the last we saw of Chas. All those rehearsals, all the stress and worry, and the payoff was the top of his head being visible for twenty seconds. That's dedication.

"Okay," said Henri. "I think we can handwave scenes three, four, and five. Onto six!"

The curtain closed, some furniture got scraped around, and it opened again.

In the 'look at me' slot on the right was Tyson again. Still wearing the tutu, but now in a wig - long, dark, flowing hair. He was gyrating gently from side to side while turning his hands over and over.

"Ah!" said Benny. "This is the day I met Livia."

Biiiig laughs when people realised Tyson was cosplaying our gorgeous physio. I craned my neck to see if I could see her - I saw a ponytail shaking wildly and guessed she thought it was funny.

Henri pointed. "I need to marry her. That's what this scene is about."

"I don't think it is," said Benny, who suddenly had a copy of the script in his hands. He was flicking through it. "No, there's nothing about that."

"I have written a song," said Henri, and he wandered to the back and picked up an acoustic guitar. He pranced around the stage making it clear he was about to serenade Tyson. Tyson was even more embarrassed than in the previous scene.

"Oi oi oi!" said Dan Badford, rushing onto the stage. "Yellow card! Stop the match! You can't do this. She's in a relationship!"

"No, Trick," said Henri. "On this day, she was single. She's fair game!"

"You have defeated me with logic and historical correctness," said Dan. "Give her your best shot." He moonwalked stage right. I saw him fumble with his hair as he went.

We all fell quiet. I had a ghastly sinking feeling - Henri was going to profess his love for Livia and we were going to have fucking mega drama for Christmas. I felt my breaths coming in irregular jolts. What was I supposed to do? Let it happen?

He strummed his guitar in a way that suggested he knew how to play. To the left of him, as we in the audience saw it, the rest of the team put arms around each other and swayed gently. And when Henri sang, so did they all.

He started with a single hummmmm.

There was a burst of laughter from the far side of the hall and Henri smiled. He made Benny hold his guitar while he went to his collection of big signs. He held one up that read: DANI STOP READING AHEAD.

So he'd given her the script so she could follow! I wondered how much of the seemingly improvised bits were actually on the page. Most of it, I reckoned. He took his guitar, settled, hummed once more.

And then, the song:

"Fair of face and flowing locks,

We agree Liv-i-a rocks,

How did Jackie bag that fox?

We all have much bigger - "

"No! No! No!" Dan Badford burst back onto the stage, but this time he was in one of those bald wigs, hurriedly pulled on, and a garish 80s shell suit. "That's a no from me, dog. Shut dat down. Shut dat down."

"What?" said Henri. "You weren't even dating her, then, Jackie."

"Nah nah nah. Replay the scene. Replay the scene till I like it." He pulled a card out of his pocket. It said REPLAY. "I'm playing my Liverpool card. Replay it. Curtain. Curtain!"

When the stage came into view next, Henri was at the front with Tyson dressed in his future gear again. Back to being Tony Hetherington, then.

"And so," intoned Henri. "We have collected all six crystals from all six zones."

"Sorry, what?" said Tyson. "We don't have any crystals. You never said anything about crystals."

"We have to collect six crystals to end the time loop. I said it eight or nine times. I'm basically a professional writer. I wouldn't have forgotten that."

The kids looked around. "Here's one," said Bomber, and I think that's all he said in the entire production. He looked very nervous, but game to contribute.

"Where are the others, though?" said Henri.

At once, everyone on the stage looked up.

"Magnus?" said Benny. Silence. "Magnus have you been eating our crystals?"

"No." The voice echoed cosmically from all around us - everyone in the audience looked left, right, down, up. Henri must have hidden speakers all around the room for this one bit.

"Did you eat the crystals, bro?"

"No," came the voice again, but it was followed by a deafening burp. It was so disgusting that there was a silence of about three seconds before the laughter started again.

"Mate," said Benny. "Right, we do the time loop again, gather the crystals, and that's the end of the play, right?"

"Great summary, Mr. Best."

"Danke für den Überblick."

"Yes," said Henri. "All we need is some physical energy to recharge the portal so we can go through."

He smiled at Tyson, who sagged again, knowing some prank was about to happen. "No, Henri. The portal's right there. Fully charged."

"It looks fully charged but it needs someone to do ten pushups to make it totally safe."

"We could all do one pushup each," suggested Tyson.

"I've heard you brag about how good your pushup technique is," said Henri. "I'd feel safer going through the portal if you did them."

"Come on, Tyson!" shouted a male voice.

"Show us what you got!" shouted a female voice.

Again, the teenager felt he had no option. He got down and did a quick ten pushups - to massive acclaim and some wolf whistles.

"Wonderful," said Henri, pretending to examine the portal. "Oh, perhaps it's not quite..." He glanced at Tyson, who huffed, annoyed. Henri smiled. "Yes, it's very stable now. We must travel through the portal and live our lives in the year 2023. At all costs, we must not meet our past selves. Youngster, avoid evangelical churches and food banks. Pascal, avoid libraries and walking tours. Glenn, stay away from hair salons offering ten pound trims. Tony, stay away from the poorly-lit car park on Tarvin Road on Wednesday nights after ten."

"What about me?" said Benny.

"You're staying here, Max. I can't deal with two of you."

"But there will be two of you," cried Benny.

"And that is my Christmas gift to the world!" said Henri, stepping back and holding his arms out to indicate that his doppelgänger would be walking on stage. What sorcery was this? My chest tightened; I couldn't breathe. Henri got cheeky. "Aha! But if only for just a few seconds, I allowed you to dream. And... curtain!"

The curtain closed and immediately reopened with the entire cast in a line. The narrator said their real names and who they had played, and one by one they took a bow.

But there was one final gag.

When the voice was telling us that Benny had played Max 77, it hesitated. "You said he was the 77th clone. But that would make him Max 78?"

"No," said Henri. "He's the 77th clone of Max."

"The first clone is called what?"

"Max 2."

"Right. It goes Max Prime, Max 2, Max 3, and so on. So this is Max 78."

Henri stewed, realising he'd made a mistake. "I don't take notes!" he yelled, and stormed off.

The lights came up, doors opened, and people wheeled in trolleys of snacks and alcohol-free drinks. A special trolley was for Vimsy and Vimsy alone. Cheerful Christmas music came on, suddenly everyone was wearing party hats, and the Brig was grabbing my elbow and shepherding me towards the exit.

***

With my head still spinning from what I'd just seen, the Brig pushed me to his car, and whizzed me up to Tranmere.

They were playing a relegation six-pointer against Grimsby Town. Grimsby is on the east coast, one of those places that sounds like it's in Yorkshire but isn't. In 2016, it was voted 'Worst Place to Live in England'. The football team featured in the sensational final episode of season one of Welcome to Wrexham.

We arrived late, missing kick off by five minutes. Mateo's version of the Brig, John Driver (not his real name, that's just what I started calling him in my head), met us in the car park and whizzed us through the badged doors until we burst into the Director's Box like a pair of Christmas fireworks.

"Whoo," I said - the thirty seconds we'd had to wait outside had turned the tips of my fingers into little ice domes.

"Max Best!" said Mateo, rising to shake my hand. You know I don't like handshake culture but I gripped his hands, held them in place. He looked startled, but then understood. "How about a hot drink?"

"Yes, please."

"Alcohol?"

"No, thanks. Game tomorrow." I glanced around and recognised Chris Hale, the lad from Grimsby turned multi-millionaire who had bought his childhood team. I was about to introduce myself, but Mateo intervened. I realised he was blocking my view of the pitch.

"Wait, Max, wait. Have you heard the line ups? The tactics?"

"No," I said. "We rushed here from the Christmas party. Henri Lyons wrote a fucking... thing. The rules kept changing with every scene. My head's jelly. Where were the spiders?"

"Good, good. Fresh eyes, then. Take a look and tell us what you see." He stood aside.

I frowned at Chris Hale and his much younger lady friend. They were wearing sceptical looks and it dawned on me that Mateo had been raving about this floating megabrain he'd found and they rightly didn't believe him. I had no interest in amusing them. I turned back to Mateo. "You want me to do my tricks? Like a performing monkey?"

He grinned. "Come on, Max. It's Christmas! Give us one little treat. You never know, if you impress Chris, he might buy some of your cast-off players."

John Driver handed me a cup of hot chocolate. I took a sip - delicious - and some of my crankiness evaporated. And maybe Grimsby would be an option for Raffi Brown one day. I decided to impress them while being a bit more careful than usual to 'see' what the curse told me in an instant. "Tranmere are 4-3-3," I said, taking another sip. I paused, pretending to be scanning the pitch, before rattling off the line up. I thought about going next level by saying something like 'if those are the starters, I'd expect to find X, Y, and Z on the bench'. But I resisted the temptation and moved on to the away team. "Grimsby. 4-2-3-1. Ha, my assistant would love that. Shame you've not got the players to do it."

"What do you mean?" This was the first thing Chris had said to me directly. It wouldn't be the last.

I answered by naming the Grimsby starting eleven. "The back four and goalie," I added, "are fine for the level. There's something weird there I can't put my finger on, but in theory it's all fine. Then you've got two defensive midfielders. One's good but his legs have gone and in this system you're asking him to do a lot of running. The other is that Simon Green. He's dogshit. But anyway, he can't play DM. If he's your best midfielder, holy shit. But at least give him a chance. CM or go home. Then it's three attacking midfielders, and you need good technique and passing for that. I rate you one out of three. And your striker? Wow. You paid a lot of money for him, didn't you? Bad news. He blows. He blows hard." I laughed. "I'm Max Best," I said, stepping forward to shake the guy's hand.

"Chris Hale. This is Candy."

"Hi, Candy," I said. Look how polite I can be!

"I read your manager notes," she said, gloomily. Perhaps it was supposed to be sultry? Whatever she was doing wasn't working on me in the slightest. "You're unprofessional."

"Understood," I said, turning away. "I'll make a big effort to correct my behaviour." I sipped the hot choc.

"Is there any hope for us?" said Chris, vaguely amused by my analysis.

I shrugged. "Don't really care either way. I've pairbonded with Tranmere. I'm Tranmere for life. If you go down, that's Tranmere safe."

Mateo smiled. "That's nice, Max, but Chris is a friend. There aren't many good guys in football, but he's one of them."

"Kay," I said. "Sack the manager. Get someone else in."

"You, for example?"

"You can't afford me."

"You might be surprised."

I turned to look at him again. It struck me that he was a strange friend for Mateo, and the Owner profile provided by the curse showed they were quite different sorts of people. Chris was a much better businessman - he would make the club generate more money. Mateo had a far, far higher Interference score, meaning he'd get involved in football matters much more than Chris, who would leave things to the professionals. Chris also had more Patience, Resources, and Ambition.

Chris was Resources 14 (compared to Mateo's 4) - he wasn't just rich, then, he was filthy rich. He didn't look it; he had the air of an architect. Sort of a flat, mechanical intellect hidden behind short, white hair and round, dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a plain jacket - nothing fancy - and normal dad jeans. His, er... companion was in a more wealth-appropriate little black number, ready to hit the trendiest hotspot in Soho. I wondered what Andrew Harrison would have made of her.

Mateo spoke. "Chris was like you, working a dead-end job, but he took over the company and turned it into a behemoth."

"Architects," I said, pointing at him.

"Business to business services," he said.

"Oh." On the pitch, not much was happening. Both teams were near the bottom of the table and they were playing safety-first garbage. One of the Tranmere defenders panicked and hit the ball as far as he could down the line. "Fuck me," I said. Then I remembered where I was. "Sorry."

"What should he have done?" said Mateo.

I sighed and put the cup down on one of the little tables; my hands were warm now. "It's not his fault. Both teams are playing through the middle and they're so scared of losing they're reluctant to commit their full backs forward. He doesn't have loads of options."

"If they lose they'll get shouted at," said Candy.

"It's three points for a win," I said.

"Zero for a loss," she said.

With superhuman effort, I kept my gob shut, but that had the effect of filling the room with awkwardness. Unlike with Henri's special brand of cringe, there wasn't a joke lined up to relax everyone. Mateo tried to restart the chat. "Chris built his company on Max Best principles."

That caught my interest. "What does that mean?"

"How would we describe it, Chris? Inclusivity, diversity, taking care of your staff? People first, profit second?"

Chris took his jacket off, showing that he was wearing a plain blue shirt underneath. The only hint he was rich was that he'd released one more button than most British people would be comfortable with. "Max, when I was young I read a book called Liar's Poker. Do you know it?"

"No."

"It's about sociopaths making money on Wall Street. One of the companies with the biggest arseholes had a guy working in the mail room. Just a nobody who went round handing out letters to the staff."

"On a sort of trolley thing? I've seen it in movies."

"Could be. I don't know. The book didn't mention if it was a trolley or a basket." He paused, and I realised he'd made what he thought was a joke. The surprise in my face was enough for him. "This kid's married and his wife gets sick. She's in hospital and they can't pay the bills. The kid's only been at that company a few weeks but it's his wife so his embarrassment isn't relevant. He bites down his shame and goes to ask a partner for a loan so she can get the treatment she needs. The partner listens, says not to worry about it. The bills get paid. No-one ever asks for the money back. They said they'd take care of it and they did. Done. No questions asked."

"Huh," I said. I wondered if I'd do the same with a Chester employee. Maybe when we had Wall Street bank money.

"That kid ends up becoming a trader. Becomes head trader of mortgage securities. He and his team create a new financial instrument and people can't get enough of it. For a few years, that one desk with a handful of traders makes more money than the rest of Wall Street combined."

"The rest of Wall Street combined?" I repeated, because it sounded nuts.

"Yes. They invested ten thousand dollars and retained an employee who made them hundreds of millions. I read that story and I thought, that's the kind of place I want to work. When I became a manager, that's how I treated my staff. None of them created a financial instrument that would one day crash the world economy, thank God, but the better I treated them, the harder they worked. The longer, and better, too. The company became innovative, dynamic, and a great place to be."

"They won awards, Max," said Mateo. He seemed to love telling and hearing this story. He was rich because his family owned land. Sure, he invested the profits wisely, (except for buying a football club) but he clearly looked up to this man who'd created his own fortune. "And made money. Lots of it. Whatever your price is, he can afford it."

"Nope," I said. "Clubs should be owned by their fans. I'll only work for a fan-owned club."

"Our fans own twenty percent," said Chris. "Is that enough for me to get an interview?"

Again, I realised late that he was joking. He was actually funny, this guy! I cracked a smile. "You know what? Yeah. Can't be too picky, can I? Grimsby, eh? What have you got there for tourists?"

"Do you like fishing and learning about fishing?" said Mateo.

Chris stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. "It's a lot more scenic than Birkenhead, Max. And it's a lot closer to your girlfriend."

That made me sit up straight. He'd been scouting me!

Mateo scoffed. "It's not! It's the same distance, you idiot."

"It's half an hour closer. Max, it's a wonderful part of the country, believe me."

"Top. One more reason to look forward to next season."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we're going up, you're going down, and we'll meet in the middle." I smiled. "Unless you sack your manager. He's rubbish." The guy had low scores in coaching, tactics, man management, and judging players. His only strength was massive determination, which was pointless if he had no actual tools to work with.

"He's respected. Has impeccable references, did a great job at his last two clubs. Signing him was a coup." Chris was mad at me - he'd chosen the manager himself. Done the interviews, taken soundings, believed he'd chosen well.

I didn't feel the need to bicker about it. "Okay," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "What do I know? But everything you said is about his reputation and the PR you got. What about on the pitch? That kid on the bench, Tom Hickman. Very, very talented young centre back." Tom was 19, CA 50, PA 120. "Is he improving? How fast? He should be pushing for a starting spot by the end of the season. What about tactics? Is there any flexibility? Do his substitutions turn defeats into draws? Not from what I've seen. When he comes to you in January and gives you a list of five players he wants to sign, do you track the ones you don't buy as well as the ones you do? Because you'll quickly find he's no better at spotting talent than anyone else in the stadium."

"Oh, and James O'Rourke is better, I suppose?"

The truth was James was even worse than Grimsby's clown, but I wasn't going to say that out loud. Ever. "James has one thing no other manager in the football league has."

"What's that?" said Candy, eyeing me with less distaste now.

"A guardian angel," I said, spreading my wings. "Something tells me Tranmere are going to get at least ten points in January. And James is going to survive the season and all will be right with the world. What do you think, Mateo?"

"That's one way it could go," he said, carefully.

"Nope. That's the only way it can go. That's how it will go." My lips quivered as I thought back to Henri's play. "Max Best has spoken."

xi.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... CA fifty and three.

Saturday, December 23

Match 21 of 46: Bradford (Park Avenue) versus Chester

I'd decided to assume a low block was coming and go all-out attack from the start. Just wanted to get to the stadium, crush it, and get home. Thinking about this match exhausted me, but when we pulled into the stadium's car park, seeing stewards smiling and wearing Santa hats, seeing dads bringing their kids to the match, I felt alive again.

I'd decreed that Trick wasn't available for the next three games - if he didn't leave on January 3rd we might use him again - but the squad was looking good. Morale was high despite, or because of, Henri's bonkers stage show. Tyson had travelled with the firsts as though he might be named as a sub, and if we'd have seven slots, he would have been. His selfless performance in SILK! had endeared him to all the first teamers - he felt like one of the gang, now. Apparently, such Christmas plays were pretty common in football clubs - it was a rare chance for players to have a dig at their manager, and everyone was meant to take the barbs with good grace. Henri had even apologised to Sandra for not slagging her off, but he said he'd written most of it before she'd arrived.

So far this season, we'd been crazy lucky in terms of avoiding long-term injuries and that had allowed the group to keep training hard. We'd had a few good pops in the past week. Raffi led the way with a two-point gain after training with his fellow England internationals.

Urgh. That match. He hadn't gone on the pitch so they hadn't presented him with the customary cap. I hoped he'd get one some day otherwise that travesty would linger.

He'd marched forward to CA 54, though, and suddenly he was looking like one of the very best midfielders in the division. Carl was now our best defender, and Andrew Harrison must have spoken to Gemma, because his morale had gone up and he'd trained like a lunatic. He'd finally cracked CA 20, and Sandra agreed we should increase his minutes on the pitch so he could kick on to the next level.

Bradford were the worst team in the league with an average CA of 36. It hadn't been long ago that we'd been putting teams out with CA 40. Our progress had felt glacially slow at times, but here we were, cock of the walk.

In goal I gave Robbo a Christmas match - he was delighted - and at the back started with Carl, Glenn, and Magnus. We'd play a solid defence for ten minutes in case Bradford had ideas of attacking us. Keep it tight first ten!

Ryan, Sam, and Raffi were the three central midfielders. Aff on the left, obviously, with me theoretically lining up as the right mid. In fact, once the game had settled, Magnus would go right mid and I'd do whatever I wanted.

Then Henri and Tony as strikers. Average CA, a monumental 53.5. Hoo-rah!

Run up the score in the first half, then give some minutes to Pascal, Youngster, and Andrew Harrison.

Bradford scrapped, worked hard, dug in, and made life as hard as they could. Aff got into his stride pretty fast, easing to an eight out of ten rating. Raffi kept surging into the penalty area causing havoc. Our only weak spot was the right, where Magnus wasn't the ideal candidate for whipping in crosses or going on mazy dribbles. So I spent most of the half on that side of the pitch, dragging two defenders to cover me, opening space for everyone else.

After getting no shots on target for the first twenty minutes, we got a move to click, then another, another, another. It was four-nil at half time, with two goals for Henri and two for Raffi.

At half time, I asked Sandra for her thoughts.

"This one's in the bag. We've got Warrington in three days. Local derby. Our fans will be well up for that. We should take you off, and two others. Henri and Raffi, maybe. Wrap you up in cotton wool."

I leaned closer and whispered, "I'm not playing in that one." I moved away and I saw her making calculations. She understood me well - I intended to let her manage that game, solo. The tops of her cheeks suddenly flushed with excitement and apprehension. She'd be the first woman to manage a match in England's top six divisions, even sooner than she had expected. Home to Warrington was a potential banana skin - the best team against one of the worst. It could go very, very wrong for her. Whatever happened, she'd get her name in the history books. "If, say, you were picking an eleven against Warrington... which three would be the first names on your team sheet?"

"Max Best," she said, with a hint of a plea.

"No."

Her eyes widened, but after a few seconds, she nodded. Of course she couldn't be the manager if I was playing. At least, not until she'd got a few wins under her belt. But more likely, I'd take over even if I didn't mean to, just like in Henri's play. She took a breath. "Glenn. No, Aff."

"You can have both." She surprised me by hesitating even further. I made the obvious suggestion. "Henri?"

"Or Raffi."

"Huh," I said. So that's where her mind was. I had the CA ratings to fall back on, but a floating megabrain had Raffi and Henri pretty close in terms of value to the team.

"Well, Henri, yeah. Got to be."

I waited. "Raffi versus Glenn?"

"Need that leadership."

I agreed. "Okay, work out three subs for the guys you want to take off today. I can play left mid if you need."

She scoffed. "Oh, can you?" Almost instantly, she closed her eyes. "Of course you can." She moved some magnets around. "Steve, Donny, Pascal. You slide into DM. Make it boring." It was her turn to whisper. "Just so you know, Kidderminster are losing. We're top on goal difference."

Oh! Amazing. I hadn't made a big deal of that since I knew Kidderminster would pull something out of the bag and we would only waste our mental energy and be disappointed.

Still, we were top of the league in the 'as it stands' tables. Better than a kick in the teeth. I went back out with a spring in my step.

For the second half, I made the game boring, just as Sandra had requested. Every time I blasted the ball far and away, I looked over for a score update and it came back in the form of a thumbs up.

Our fans knew the score from the Kidderminster game and were chanting, "We! Are! Top of the league! Said we are top of the league!"

I took my intensity down so that I could hear them, and they kept at it. When the final whistle went - four-nil, no injuries, no red cards - I jogged over. "Kiddies?"

"Last minute equaliser."

"Argh!" I laughed. "Why did I let myself dream?"

Sandra smiled. "One point behind, two games in hand. It's like you said. Why is this so easy?" She showed me the league table on her phone.

Team P W D L F A GD Pts 1 Kidderminster 23 14 8 1 40 15 25 50 2 Chester 21 16 1 4 57 20 37 49 3 Darlington 22 13 7 2 35 20 15 46 4 York 24 11 10 3 40 27 13 43

"You know what this means, don't you?"

"No."

"Whoever's in charge of the next two games is going to get six points. And that person will very probably take Chester to the top of the league."

"Don't."

"And become a hero, forever."

"Stop."

"Her name an instant legend."

"Go to the fans."

I smirked and spun around, walking away as commanded. But then I stopped, turned, and caught her all excited, like a kid who'd discovered that the massive box under their family's Christmas tree had her name on it.

xii.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, the cosmos gave to me... a nice day to go and ski.

Christmas eve? Went to the care home and spent an hour with my mum and Anna while the Brig took Solly for a walk. The guy came back looking all sheepish. Turned out he'd got two phone numbers on his walk. Shocking behaviour. When we got back to Chester, I gave him his Christmas present.

"What's this?"

I'd given him a little envelope. "Open it, open it."

He did, and slid out a card. "Bring Your Nephew to Work Card. Oh! You remembered. That's... But what is it?"

"He likes football, you said. You'll bring him to watch training in the morning. Then you can fuck off to Chester Zoo or something, then at five he can train with the under twelves."

"He's thirteen."

"Oh! Cancel the whole day, then! There's no solution! No way round this impasse!"

He smiled. "Perhaps he could train with the fourteens."

"Think he'd like that?"

"Oh, very much, sir. Very, very much."

"And then the VIP box for whatever match is going on that night. Champagne, truffles, er... all washed down with Four Horseman. Something like that. And I'll score a hat trick for him."

"I'm moved, sir. Moved."

I offered him a hand. "Thanks for everything."

***

Christmas dinner? A smashing success. I was charming, Andrew formed an unlikely alliance with Sebastian. The elder Triplet shamed himself and his ancestors by raving about how much he enjoyed the way Newcastle United were playing this season. How well the players were coached, how much they'd improved. Sebastian preened.

When it came time to drink the fancy wine, I said something along the lines of 'fill 'er up, Jack'. You know, classy.

"Can you drink, Andy?" said Sebastian, dangling the bottle in a tempting way. He knew Chester had an important match the following day.

"He won't be playing," I said, sternly. "He is to be sent for immediate reeducation."

"Max!" complained Emma.

I grinned. "Warrington are almost as bad as Bradford. He might get twenty minutes if he stays sober. But, er..." I stole a look at Gemma. She was dressed very slightly more casually than normal, and Andrew was a bit smarter, in turn. They'd worked it out. "Wine's bad, but pre-match copulation is worse. If Andy wants to do one, he might as well do the other, too. We play Warrington again on the first of Jan."

Gemma stared at Andrew, who turned a similar colour to the wine. Emma glared at me. Sebastian and Rachel glanced at each other. I think they were amused. I couldn't let Henri have all the Christmas fun, could I?

"Maybe half a glass?" said Andrew.

"I think you can manage more than half," said Gemma, and for two minutes that was the funniest thing any of us had ever heard.

***

Tuesday, December 26

Match 22 of 46: Chester versus Warrington Town

I borrowed some gear from Sebastian, and took the train back to Manchester and then across to Chester, getting some very funny looks as I went. Emma came with me, turning a very shitty journey - Christ, our trains are bad - into a fun sesh. We did crosswords together and I let her show me some TikToks.

MD picked us up at the station and drove me to Boshcard HQ.

"I heard the Christmas play was quite something," he said. "Sorry I missed it."

"When we first met, you said Henri was a nutjob. Later you took it back. Turns out, you were right all along."

He grinned before his smile faded. "Your holiday is going to cause all kinds of problems."

"Don't give a shit."

"I know," he said. "But... would you please pop in... before? So I can ask you questions. Check things."

I tilted my head. "New Year's Eve work for you?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, distantly.

"Are they inside?"

He snapped out of his brief funk. "Yes. All ready."

"Kay. I'll be in soon."

MD went ahead while Emma helped me get into her dad's ski gear. The helmet was a bit tight, but I didn't need to strap it closed for a quick visual gag. I walked into the meeting room and coughed. Twenty players plus staff sat up straight or pushed themselves off the walls they'd been leaning on.

"Lads," I said, coughing a few more times. "I'm sick. I'm dead sick."

Lots of head shaking and smiling. They'd known something like this was coming.

"Are you looking for the best white powder?" said Dean, which I didn't totally understand, but Henri and Pascal laughed, as did a few others.

"Ker," I said, fake coughing. "I think I'll leave Sandra in charge for today. All good?"

"What's the formation?" said Sam. "Who's playing?"

In my normal voice, I said, "How should I know? Sandra's in charge. Ask her. I'm fucking sick, remember." I switched to a sickly hunch, picked my skis back up, and flicked my goggles down. I clomped out - ski boots were heavy! - and Sandra walked to the front.

As I left, she was opening her notebook and wheeling the flipchart forward. "Well, this is unexpected, but I made some notes I was going to discuss with Max. I suppose they'll work for you, too." She looked up in surprise. "You still here, Best?"

"No, Miss," I said, and with one last fake cough, left her to it.

***

I left the ski stuff in my office and locked the door behind me. It'd be safe there for a few days. I sighed. Carrying that stuff around had been a drag. Unburdened, I felt lighter. Freer.

"What now?" said Emma.

"Huh. Don't know. What are you in the mood for?"

She thought about it. "Go somewhere?"

"Grimsby," I suggested.

"No. And don't suggest Tranmere, either."

***

New Year's Eve

I went to Boshcard HQ to meet MD, reassure him one last time, and sign some papers. My office was same same but different. "What's all this? Where's the ski stuff?"

"The Brig took it back to Newcastle. Said it was a good scam for getting top plonk."

"Did he say good scam?"

"He did."

That was one of my phrases. I wasn't sure I liked him taking my material. They'd replaced my crappy chess set with a nice, hand-carved one, and given me some comfy armchairs, too. On the top of my bookcase I had a fancy coffee machine. Maybe that was a gift from Boshcard so I'd stop bothering their employees. Then I noticed the walls. "Oh!" I pottered over to where someone had hung up a framed England shirt. It said 'Brown 8' on the back, and it had been signed by the man himself. "Will you look at that? That almost makes it all worthwhile. God, that looks great."

"You've done well, Max. I'm... beyond pleased. I don't have the words."

"Relax, Mike. There's loads more to come. Hey! Little stealth gift. Look it!"

"I know. We gave one to Sandra, too."

It was a newspaper headline and subheading that had been carefully cut out and set into a frame. "Memory Lane," I read. "Chester boss becomes first woman to win professional men's match as Seals slay Yellows." I closed my eyes and when I opened them, it was still there. It had really happened.

"Max..."

I turned round and smiled at the man whose life I sometimes made miserable. This little holiday of mine would cause him a lot of grief, but he'd suck it up because he loved his football club. I felt a surge of affection for him. "Mike."

"You're... you're coming back, right?"

I puffed my cheeks out as though it was a long shot. "Next year, maybe."

His eyes widened with panic, but then he remembered the date. "Fucking hell, Max."

xiii.

On the thirteenth day of the twelve days of Silkmas, the cosmos gave to me... a flash forward to January.

January 1, 2024

I was in the shower area. I'd just gone to check if someone had left a window open in there - the whole space was bloody freezing. Two players entered the dressing room and seeing no-one was around, immediately fell into gossip. From the voices alone, I wasn't sure who they were.

"Did you see who we've signed?"

"Yeah. It's fucking mental. I never would have thought that he'd come here."

"Only on loan, but I hear he's on big dosh."

"He doesn't fit the team. What's the point of him?"

"The boss likes him. That's all that matters round here."

"Might win us a few points, though? Wouldn't say no to that."

"He can take the penalties I suppose."

They dropped their bags and walked out, laughing.

I walked back to my kit bag and pulled out the football boots my mother had bought me as a present. Something told me they were going to see a lot more action in 2024 than in the previous year. A lot more goals and assists. And maybe, I thought, as I fiddled with the laces and checked the studs... maybe I'd find time for the occasional no-look backheel nutmeg, too.