16.

Match 46 of 46: Chester versus Darlington

The Brig picked me up and drove me to the stadium. I wanted to drive, but he hinted there were reasons to do it his way, and I went along with it.

I say 'to the stadium' but perhaps 'towards the stadium' would be more accurate. We drove to the city and parked.

"We're going to walk from here?" I said. "Talk about the long way round."

"Quit yer yappin'," said the Brig, in a decent American drawl. I smiled and fell into stride next to him. His accent was explanation enough - we would walk past the posters Brooke had dreamed up.

"Have you seen them?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sir." He stopped, and I copied him. Across the street was a father and son combo walking in the direction of the stadium. They both had ice creams. The dad had a cup-shaped piece of cardboard covered in tin foil tucked under his arm, while the kid was hauling a massive 2D tin foil league trophy. "Spectacular."

"Yeah," I said, feeling the warmth of the sun on me. If there had been the slightest hint of tension in my body, it surely would have melted away. "Could be a perfect day."

We walked on. "Might your former club spoil the party?"

"They'll try, the dicks," I laughed. "There's always the chance they'll land a lucky punch. They'll be motivated, all right. They're fourth. If they beat us they have a good shot at finishing third."

"Third is considerably better than fourth? I didn't study the playoff system, sir. I would have, had we been involved. But you assured me we wouldn't, and, lo and behold."

"It's worth mentioning for next year because if Grimsby drop, as seems likely, we'll be in the playoffs and all this shit will be relevant. Okay, what it is, right..." I paused. The system was both simple and complicated. I'd tried to explain it to Emma once and let's just say she preferred my poetry. "Okay, in the league, the first four divisions, the playoffs have four teams. Take League Two. The top three go straight up, then the next four slug it out. It's looking like Crewe, Wrexham, Crawley, and the last spot is up for grabs. Two games then a final. Easy. That means the top seven teams have a chance of going up and if you're tenth in the league with three games to go, you've probably got a chance of getting into the playoffs, mathematically. Which is good, right? More clubs and fans are more involved for longer. Top. But you know only two teams go into League Two from the National League. It used to be one! God, I'm boring myself but it's important stuff. So one team goes straight up and if you had the next four teams in the playoffs the season would get a bit dull. So they made it into six teams."

"Six is an odd number."

"No, John. Six is an even number."

"Very droll, sir."

"The top two get a sort of bye. The rest play each other and the winners of those 'elimination games' then play the second and third placed teams. So Darlington are fourth now and that gives them an extra game to play. Extra games mean more risk. There's not much to choose between the teams at the top of the league. Every playoff game is 50-50, right? It's a coin toss. Do you really want three coin tosses instead of two? Including the final you'll be playing three high intensity matches in ten days or so. All kinds of mad things happen in these matches. Imagine Ben gets concussion in the first playoff game and Henri gets a red card. Absolute disaster, right? So if Folke Wester can get a win today, that puts him third. Spend a bit of extra effort to beat us - he probably suspects we'll be using our third choice goalie and we'll be in full party mood - and then rest up."

"I see. Then it strikes me as strange you are so sanguine about being in the playoffs next season."

"There's nothing we can do to change it. But what we can do is build a squad that peaks at exactly the right time. Not just a first choice eleven, but a proper squad. From the elimination match to the semi-final we'll be able to change six players. Seven, even. The extra match won't be a problem for us and we'll turn that lottery into a... what's the opposite of a lottery?"

"Three-card monte."

"Strange that your mind went straight there. How much have you fleeced out of your army mates with that one?"

"You should ask how much I've fleeced out of Chester's dressing room."

"Now that I'm resigned to this playoffs thing, I'm thinking up more ways to deal with it. We've got another advantage - long-term planning. We play every team we will meet in the playoffs home and away. Those teams are hyper-focused on the next match and the next match alone. If a team beats us in the regular season we'll immediately start working on a plan to beat them in the playoffs. I can imagine losing the second league match to them instead of revealing that we know how to beat them. Do you get me? I'm able to think much more long-term than every other manager. If I need to feign weakness, I will."

We watched a car go past. It had Chester flags hanging out of every window and Iron Lion Zion was blasting out of its stereo. The driver beeped and waved and the little kid hoisted his league trophy aloft, very nearly spilling his ice cream in the process.

The Brig's voice changed a little. "If I may be serious for a moment, sir... I understand the budget for next season is not all you wished for."

"It is frightening how good I'll need to be to make it work. Fortunately..." My smirk finished the sentence for me. Fortunately, it's frightening how good I am.

"I have been thinking. With my pay rise I'll be a drain. An anchor, perhaps. I should not like to think I'm holding you back, sir."

I glanced at him. He seemed to be in earnest. "Our fitness has been a big help this year. We've had fewer soft tissue injuries than most teams."

"That's a function of the way you rotate the players. Dean agrees."

"The boot camp at the start of the season was massive. You sorted them out in two days. I wouldn't have been able to do it in two years."

"You can achieve similar results without me."

I stopped and pulled on his elbow in a way I wouldn't if I'd been thinking straight. "Are you fucking quitting?"

"No, sir. I am giving you the option of letting me go so you can reallocate my salary towards more necessary expenditures."

"Let's get this straight. I need you. Okay? Is that clear enough? I need all the things you currently do and you're going to do more. By the time we're in the... in League One, you'll be looking at all kinds of physical data so you can do what you do but with added science. I love science and there's so much of it. You'll have to get some of that science into you. For examps, I expect you to take Ruth on long weekends to Holland so you can study the methods of PSV Eindhoven before taking her on a romantic barge ride."

"Romancing Ruth is an official duty, is it?"

"Yes. There's a Ted Lasso episode you can watch for inspiration. Maybe do a version where Ruth doesn't fall into a canal. What else? Oh! The most important fucking thing! I'm letting loads of players go and I'm replacing them with all kinds of cast-offs and thwarted young talents, since that's all I'm likely to be able to afford. There's going to be nutjobs, headcases, and pampered princes and I don't want to talk to them about their fucking problems. That's your job. You are going to take these talented pricks and turn them into... What's the opposite of a prick?"

"A princess."

"Again, curious word association. You're as demob happy as the rest of us, aren't you? I want you to help me turn broken young men into, you know, solid citizens and that. The system chews them up and spits them out. I'll make them better players and put their careers on track but there's more to it than that. Life stuff. The squad does some of it, you do the rest. With you, I can hire imperfect people and all I can afford are imperfect people. You love helping people get their lives in order and you're fucking mint at it. I literally can't do this job without you."

"Very good, sir. You are underselling yourself."

"Disagree. I know my limitations. Now let us never speak of this again."

"May I have the barge weekend in writing, please?"

The edge of my mouth pulled itself up. "What would MD say, do you think?"

The Brig made a pained expression. "Perhaps we shouldn't make amusing comments about Ruth around him. It might be a sensitive topic, still."

"Oh, right." I'd forgotten about his long-term crush.

"Besides," said the Brig, as we yet again came to a stop. "I don't think she'd enjoy a barge ride. Too slow. It would drive her absolutely insane."

"You'd have to find some way to distract - why have we stopped again? We're walking slower than a barge."

The Brig made eyes at something. A poster. About two metres tall, just over a metre wide.

It was the poster Brooke had designed in association with MD, Ryan Jack, and whoever else she'd been hanging out with when I'd been stressing she was lonely.

My grin was instant. "No, come on. This is... Come on. Please tell me this was put up this morning as a joke."

"There are many around the city, sir, and they've been in place for some time."

I took a step back so I could admire it in full.

The background was fairly dark and the top half featured geometric light pinky-purple lines and a sort of glowing outline of a football tactics board - the dots were arranged in a 4-4-2. The lower half featured a misty Deva Stadium with the floodlights on. Straddling both halves was a football player (wearing full Chester home kit) facing away from the viewer. The shirt read BEST 77 and my face - it must have been a Photoshop job - was turning back to smirk, equal parts handsome and slappable.

Across the middle, in large white text, were the words: He's done WHAT?!

At the bottom, in yellow, it said: You have to see it to believe it. Early Bird season tickets available now. Don't miss out!

There was a URL and a QR code people could scan.

"That is... bonkers," I decided.

"People love it."

"Do they?"

"I think it's rather clever. You bug people. This makes the bug into a feature."

"Very droll."

"The numbers speak for themselves. Season tickets are flying off the shelves, so to speak, and today's match will be heavily attended."

"Huh. Pity it will be uneventful," I said.

***

"All right, shut your gobs. It's Max's time to shine." The dressing room was filled to bursting. Every single member of the first team squad was there, including the gaggle of young players we'd been using, plus Michael Harrison, Vivek, and good old Trick Williams who'd scammed the day off at Eastleigh so he could come and join the party. Add in the Brig, Sandra, Vimsy, our physios, and WibRob and we were in like sardines. "My favourite movie is Vanilla Sky. Tom Cruise pottering around New York but it's completely empty. They didn't have computers in those days so they had to shut down the whole of New York for three days. Yeah, I know. The world's first ever mass lockdown, but the residents didn't mind because they knew it'd make the movie look cool. So quiet streets, man versus self, the opposite of this. This is bonkers. We need a bigger dressing room. Someone write that down. Okay I'm seriously getting claustrophobic so 4-2-4, win your duels, don't let them get shots away. I'm going out onto the pitch where there's like, oxygen. Bye."

"Max," said Angles. My goalkeeping coach and third choice keeper was fully kitted up and ready to play. "You'll need these."

He handed me the pair of goalie gloves I'd bought in the days when I was one of the best goalies in the world. "Right, yeah. Good call."

I escaped the room, and was about to head out onto the pitch but thought about what Brooke would say. She'd probably say something like 'if you want to hawk hogs ferra dollar you gotta holler and doll 'er'. Ah, who knew what they said in Texas? Not me, and there was no way to find out. But going onto the pitch early seemed like it lacked a little razzmatazz. Why not keep the crowd in suspense? There was a strong rumour that I'd named myself in goal, but according to the dressing room, at least half the fans on social media didn't believe it.

I slunk into my little manager's office and thought about my line up. Ideally, I'd have named a weakened team so that good lads like Gerald May and Joe Anka could play their last matches in front of an appreciative audience, but there was no way I could name a weak team against Darlington. Anyway, my fringe players had played a lot when I was away at Grimsby. They couldn't complain about how many minutes they'd had this season.

So it was my cup final back four - Eddie, Glenn, Steve, Carl. A good midfield in Aff, Sam, Youngster, and Pascal. And our fearsome strike partnership of Henri and Chris. Average CA 53. Slightly higher than Darlington's, who had named their best team.

I closed my eyes and scrolled up through the curse news feed. After the final whistle in the cup match, I'd received two new achievements. Crewe Are Ya?! came with 1 XP and was for winning my first cup. Double Dragon came with 1 XP and was for doing a league and cup double.

But what was most intriguing was the monthly perk. I had earned enough XP to buy Finances but had held off in case the April option was more useful. To my surprise, it wasn't a perk but a bonus!

New reward available: The Winner of Us

Cost: Free. Must be redeemed before the end of April.

Effects: While a team you manage holds a trophy, home attendances will rise by 2%. This reward will increase by 2% per year provided at least one senior trophy is won. For example, winning any senior competition five seasons in a row will lead to a 10% increase in attendances in the sixth year. The reward will expire after a season in which a trophy is not won. Please note that pre-season friendly tournaments do not count, nor do specially-arranged ten-minute matches.

I'd redeemed it straight away, of course. Why not? It seemed like a legit bonus. I still had over two thousand XP but decided to hang onto them in case I changed my mind about buying Finances. I hadn't heard from Old Nick or the imps in a while, which meant they were happy with what I was doing. Or unhappy?

There was a knock at the door and the Brig poked his head in. "They're going out, sir."

"I'm doing a showmanship."

"One unit of showmanship? Hiding in your closet is showmanship?"

"Yes. I'll go out like twenty seconds before kick off."

"Very good, sir."

"Can we turn the lights down and get loads of spotlights on me and play some hype music as I walk to the ring? What do you think? Let It Happen or Fever?"

"I will ask the sun if it might dim temporarily. Do you really want the hype music?"

"Of course not. I'm being silly. Why? Do you think we could? There's not long left."

The Brig checked one of his watches - he was back up to two. "Don't fall asleep, sir. The team needs you."

He closed the door behind him and I waited in the dark, scrolling through the curse news, looking at the season's many sackings - including mine - Manager of the Month awards, and transfers. I'd won three Manager of the Month awards, for September, November, and February. Sandra had won for March. I'd also won Player of the Month for February.

Us beating Salford hadn't been the biggest cupset - that was Maidstone United's astonishing win against Ipswich Town. A sixth tier team beating one that was heading for the Premier League. Maidstone would be in the National League with us next season and those would be two fun matches. Their manager was all about community, fun, and letting his players and staff speak their mind. Sounded good.

I closed the screens. What else had happened this season? So many things. The scurrilous article, of course, but my mood was far too good to let Folke Wester or his minions ruin it. As long as they left me alone, I'd let it go.

Talking of mood, a big step forward this season had been when I'd unlocked the Morale perk. It showed me now that both Henri and Pascal's was maxed out. Superb morale for the double winners... Or was it the knowledge that their last match of the season would be played in front of the delectable Portuguese waitress Luisa? That triangle had the potential to devolve into chaos, but there was nothing I could do about it. At least if I played in goal I wouldn't steal the show and they could compete with each other for her attention.

The time for reflection was over. Over the next ninety minutes I'd try to make sure the final punctuation mark of the season's story was an exclamation. Then a well-deserved break from it all...

I got to my feet and went out into the corridor that led to the pitch. The Brig was there - he placed his hand on my chest, non-verbally keeping me in my place. He helped me put my gloves on and nodded at a volunteer who spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Good to go," said the guy.

The Brig slipped a bath towel around my neck. He walked in front of me, far slower than normal, and I heard a song start to play on the public address system. It was incredibly familiar but not one I would ever have picked on a jukebox.

As we got to the end of the tunnel, the Brig raised his hands. He was holding a Chester scarf like it was a World Championship belt. As he emerged and became visible to the crowd, heads craned to see what was going on.

LL Cool J's voice boomed out: 'I'm gonna knock you out!'

Once on the pitch, where everyone could see me, I clenched my gloved hands and threw some shadow punches.

'Mama said knock you out!'

The fans went bananas.

***

My players reacted to my grand entrance with amusement, although for Henri and Pascal there was a lot of exasperation, too. Darlington were less impressed. They gathered in a huddle and Folke Wester got them even more riled up than they had been.

I walked to the away end, which was making a terrible racket. They were seriously up for the match. Highly keen to see their team ruin our party. Beating us in our backyard would make their eventual promotion story all the sweeter.

My former teammates - Captain Caveman, Blondie, Shrek, Glynn, came at us fast and furious. Real blood and thunder stuff.

But football isn't only about aggression and hard work and flying into tackles. Being relaxed and confident is good, too. My guys took control of the game and matched them move for move, if not blow for blow.

Darlington's first chance came after two minutes. I saw that the ball was going wide, and I took three tiny steps in the direction of the shot and collapsed in stages before thrusting my hand out and curling into something of a foetal position. This sarcastic 'save' was considered hilarious by the home fans, but the away fans behind me weren't so keen on it. Some chanted, "Grimsby reject! Grimsby reject!"

Henri and Pascal, annoyed that I was stealing the show, redoubled their efforts and we had three minutes of pressure resulting in four shots on goal. Pascal looked a lot more solid than I'd ever seen him. He was up against Jonathan Hurts, the most expensive player the league had ever seen, and Bad Boy was giving him a lot to think about - Pascal's pace was neutering Hurts as an attacking threat. Meanwhile Henri had mastered the art of using Chris Beaumont as a blocker for his runs. The first few times Henri had made a move that left a defender crashing into Chris, I'd thought it was a weird quirk of a fast-moving, dynamic sport. But I came to realise Henri was making it happen, and here he was at it again.

My former team were good, though, and while they were brutal they probably played better football than Wrexham. They had a few good moves that were hard to stop, and soon they were bearing down on goal. The right mid played a pass in behind the defence and the striker...

The striker got a tasty plate of fresh air and a dessert of my exhaust fumes.

My handling wasn't good. If I made one save I wouldn't be able to get to my feet in time to save the rebound. I was okay at punching away crosses but couldn't control where the ball would go. As a pure goalkeeper, there were probably several better choices in the first team squad. Magnus, for example, was good with his hands. But as a sweeper? Mate, I was literally the best sweeper in the world.

Our tactical plan was bold but simple. The defenders would start near half way - a so-called 'high line' - and I would sweep up behind them.

Having intercepted the ball, I dribbled through the midfield at high speed, slowed to do a silly pose that got the three nearest Quakers to come at me, and played a through ball behind Hurts for Pascal to run onto.

***

Boggy: Here come Darlington! Danger for Chester. Can they burst this party atmosphere?

Spectrum: No.

Boggy: Ball played through - Best is there! Miles out of his goal. He keeps going! He storms into midfield. He's got options left, ahead, right. He - oh!

Spectrum: Ha ha what. Ha ha is he... is he doing the Mbappé celebration?

Boggy: Of course, for Darlington this is a serious game. They're not - there it is! Through ball from Best! Bochum races onto it. Bochum at light speed! Into the box, from the sides as they like it. What's... He's going to shoot! No! Cut back to Lyons!

[roar]

Boggy: One-nil Chester! Unselfish play from the German.

Spectrum: His decision-making is off the scale. Oh, that's new. He's bowing to the main stand. So's... huh. So's Henri. What's that all about?

Boggy: Maybe there's a royal visitor we haven't heard about? Huge cry comes up - Champions! People are waving scarves and flags and hoisting aloft home-made league trophies. The away fans lapse into silence. Their former star is a few yards in front of them, paying them zero attention, and he's really taking the Michael by playing in goal. They might think it's disrespectful but our first-choice goalies are injured or sick and so far, Max Best in goal is doing okay. Of course, he hasn't had a shot to save, yet. Darlington have come out fighting, they're really going for this, but they haven't been able to lay a glove on Chester. This is a seriously dominant performance so far.

Spectrum: The defenders are playing higher than I've ever seen them. They're catching Darlington offside again and again, and they know if one pass does get through, chances are Max will clean it up.

Boggy: Who does this? I mean, is this Max's idea?

Spectrum: Probably. He comes in to training, says he had too much cheese and had weird dreams and he wants us to coach a high line. Normally Vimsy does the first session and Sandra takes over and refines it.

Boggy: Sounds like a well-oiled machine.

Spectrum: Or he decides it five minutes before the match. Today, for example, I noticed the Darlington lineup was powerful and tough but not fast. We don't play high defensive lines normally because our defence isn't the quickest so they can't race back. But against this eleven... I mean, if I noticed it, Max certainly did.

Boggy: And there's no risk to that?

Spectrum: It's better to practise. I don't know if they did or not. I was helping Jackie with the women's team.

Boggy: Congratulations on the big win! I'm sure everyone listening to this was tuned in last night, too. A hat trick for the sensational Angel, a fitting end to a wonderful season.

***

With us a goal ahead, Glenn Ryder dropped ten yards and no amount of shouting could make me get him back up. Moving the defensive line up and down hadn't been an issue for me so far but one day I'd need a perk that would give me full control of that. If Ryder started close to the halfway line I would intercept almost any long pass that was played behind. But falling back to protect a lead was so ingrained in him I couldn't do it through the curse - I'd need weeks, maybe months, on the training pitch.

Now that Darlington weren't being caught offside all the time, and with Ryder having accidentally nerfed me, the match became more of an even contest.

Ah, well. In a way I was glad to be reminded that although I'd travelled a long way, there was still an awful lot I had to learn. Who wants it to be easy?

***

Boggy: Good spell of pressure from Darlington. They're moving the ball around nicely. Youngster challenges but the ball breaks unkindly. Chance for a shot... Saved by Best!

Spectrum: Ha ha.

Boggy: He headed the ball clear! He saved it with his head. He could easily have used his hands, Speckers!

Spectrum: That wouldn't have been funny.

Boggy: Throw-in to Darlington. Down the line. Flicked on. All very agricultural over there. Now the ball's on the ground and - oh! Good pass, that. Now another shooting opportunity opens up. Shot! Saved by Best. Oh, but he's spilled it! It's gone through his legs and he... he hurls himself onto the ball before it crosses the line.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Spectrum: Oh my God that was wild. What a mistake! Even for an outfield player in goal, that was sloppy. It was almost as though he bounced it between his legs. Been watching too much NBA, perhaps.

Boggy: He hurls the ball out to the left where Eddie Moore is in space. Have you noticed there are some players you always want to say their full name? Eddie Moore. Sam Topps. Gerald May.

Spectrum: I have noticed that but I can't work out the rules.

Boggy: Loose touch from Beaumont and here come Darlington again. Long range shot - speculative - Best saves. Oh, but he's spilled it again! It's gone through his legs, he falls on it before it crosses the line.

Spectrum: [laughing] Max.

Boggy: What?

Spectrum: He's doing it deliberately. The first time, okay, it looked bad. But for the exact same thing to happen again? Look, Glenn Ryder's asking him to cut it out.

Boggy: Best protesting his innocence. That's suspicious. Okay, well, I for one don't need more drama today. Get through to the end and describe the scenes. That's what I'm here for.

***

Glenn asked me to stop dicking about and I said I would if he moved ten yards further forwards. He tried to push his knuckles into his skull but then laughed and said fine. So it all worked out pretty well.

For the rest of the half I played a pretty stripped-down version of a sweeper-keeper. I didn't dribble into midfield. I didn't do diving headers to save shots. I simply intercepted inaccurate passes and fired the ball straight to Aff or Pascal. After all, that's why we were playing 4-2-4.

We went in at half time one-nil up but we'd had nine shots on target to Darlington's two. We got something of a standing ovation. Folke Wester was so angry I laughed at him in the tunnel and caused a minor flare-up.

God, it's just a game. Why do people take it so seriously?

***

Our half-time team talk featured a brief but intense bicker. In the blue corner was me, Sandra, and the wannabe floating megabrains (Pascal, Youngster, WibRob) and in the black-and-white corner were our defenders. They weren't comfortable doing what they'd been told to do and even the evidence of their own eyes wasn't enough to convince them.

After everyone had spoken up, I tried to put a lid on things. "There's four thousand in the stadium today. They want a party. With a crap goalie there's two ways we can play. One is a low block and try to stop them getting good shots. Do you want to do a low block in front of four thousand people, Glenn? When what we're doing is slapping so hard? You'd prefer to bore these guys to death? Is that how we repay their support?"

"There's a middle ground," he said.

"No, there isn't. We can go high or we can go low. Genuinely the only options today. Sandra?"

"I agree. It's not even a discussion."

"Glenn, I know you don't like it, but you have to trust me."

Sandra scoffed. "To be fair, Max, you acting the maggot doesn't instil trust."

I shook my head. "It's the last game of the season. We're putting on a show. Look, they'll score if they get a good shot away but if we play a high line they'll get maximum three shots this half. All right? If you drop back those fuckers will win. I don't know how to say it more clearly than that."

Henri stood and went in front of his mate. "Glenn, what is the problem? You have this."

"I'm a slow National League North centre back. I've never played like this before."

"They are slow National League North strikers!"

"They're faster than me."

"If you're in a race, Max will win!"

Glenn's head dropped. "I know, but... I don't want to ruin the season because I'm running the wrong fucking way!" He scrunched up his face. "Okay."

Henri pointed at me. "That bastard had me being Chris's manservant the whole year! Me! The premium striker in the division, fetching and carrying. Oh, please have my goals, Mr. Beaumont. Here, Mr. Beaumont, another goal for you and would you like me to press your socks? We have to do things we don't like."

"Max is playing in goal, Glenn," said Youngster. "We must all pull together to make today a success."

The bell rang. "Listen. We're smashing the match and we're bickering. That prick in there is tearing his hair out because he doesn't have a solution. If he brings a fast player off the bench we'll switch to a normal 4-4-2 and they won't get another kick. He's stuck. This is a tactical masterclass and a half, lads." I grinned. "You know what? This is going so well I'm tempted to do it again. Who needs goalkeepers anyway?"

***

We were shooting towards the away fans this half - Folke Wester must have thought breaking convention would annoy me but I couldn't have cared less.

The game restarted and my back four pushed up to within five yards of halfway. I went out of my box, patrolling. A long kick was aimed over Glenn's head. He turned, panicky, as the striker raced past him and onto it.

The striker was Blondie, one of the cavemen from Darlington. He was CA 52 these days, but he hadn't improved his pace. I took the ball on my chest and dabbed a volley over the twat. Glenn took a touch and passed it back to me. I crabbed to the left, drawing the second striker towards me. Then I hit a crisp left-footed pass through the midfielders to Henri. He took it on the half-turn and we were away.

Several passes later, Aff slammed a shot towards the top-left of the goal that the goalie did well to tip behind for a corner. Henri and Pascal stopped dead and turned to look at me. Was I going to go up and take a corner? I thought about it - how funny would that be if I got an assist? But no, that was something for a friendly game or exhibition. York City wouldn't be pleased if I let Darlington finish above them in the league because I was messing about, and they had a couple of players I could imagine wanting to buy one day soon if they didn't get promoted.

Aff took it and it was well defended. Darlington were good at set pieces, all right.

But from open play? They didn't have the tools to escape my net. They tried hard, fair play, but couldn't build up a proper head of steam.

In the stadium, the party was bubbling along. Behind me was most of the women's team. To the right were loads of Manchester's Ghanaian community mixed in with some girls from Man City. To the left, I'd seen the staff of Tiny Tino in a pocket in the main stand - that's where Henri and Pascal had gone after the goal.

Yep, things were bubbling along all right, but the real celebrations would start at the final whistle in about half an hour. Still, there were plenty of chants of Champions!, Max Best's Blue and White Army, and Chester! When the hard core fans weren't taunting the away lot, they were cycling through the player songs. Iron, Lyons, Zion. Bad Boy. And a new one that had sprung up, set to the tune of Delilah by Tom Jones.

"My, my, my Goliath! Why, why, why, Goliath!"

It made no sense, but very little does.

Youngster went into a tackle and got a 'suspected foot injury'. I swapped him for Magnus - as CMs they were very similar and Magnus was fresher, so no big deal. But Magnus wasn't quite up to the speed of the game and with his first touch he played a loose pass in the direction of Carl Carlile. I rushed over to give the right back a simple option but pressure from Dicks made him hack the ball back towards our goal. He'd played hundreds of passes like that over the season knowing Ben or Robbo would be there, but I didn't stand in one spot for ninety minutes. Manic energy was kinda my thing.

I had to sprint like the devil. The ball was spinning, spinning, and would spin all the way into the back of the net in about half a second. I made up a staggering amount of ground, slid in, and booped the ball over the crossbar. I still had some of my rugby skills! Kick boy to the rescue!

I lay on my back, panting, while the Harry McNally stand gave me a standing ovation.

Carl came to apologise - no need, shit happens - and any thoughts I had that Henri and Pascal would be upset that I was continuing to catch the eye were quickly put to rest. Henri hugged me and mumbled words of praise. Pascal insisted he be allowed to shake my hand. Both still had sky-high morale. Little did they know Luisa was about to deliver a knockout blow to one of them...

I stepped behind the goal line to try to catch my breath and to keep my eye on the corner taker. We'd studied the signals Darlington used, but I felt sure they'd aim for the centre of the six-yard box and try to put pressure on us. I called out, “Dead centre, lads!”

Folke Wester was in a mini huddle with his biggest cavemen just outside the box. They were leaning in while he gave instructions. Weirdly, the image reminded me of a boxing trainer telling his fighter what to do, but the delay was stupid. They should have taken the corner while I was out of breath. Now I felt ready for a good spring and a punch. One big juicy punch would do it.

***

Boggy: Corner to Darlington. Under thirty minutes to go and it's the first time they've had the chance to put Max Best under real pressure. Lots of movement, lots of jostling. Looks more like wrestling than football. Chester have Bochum and Eddie Moore on the edge of the box ready for a fast counter. Here comes the cross. Outswinger. Punched clear by Best! What a leap! It's picked up by Hurts. He swings a cross... no, he's gone for goal! Empty goal! He's scored! Darlington have equalised. There's absolute bedlam in the box. Where's Best?

Spectrum: He's down.

Boggy: Chaos in the box. The ref's given the goal. Chester players are surrounding him. Physio Dean sprinting on. The home fans behind the goal are livid! Absolutely livid! Oh, I've got a bad feeling about this.

Spectrum: Max Best is coughing up blood.

Boggy: What on earth...

Spectrum: Someone's punched him when he's gone up for that corner. Hit him in the ribs. He's struggling to breathe. Dirty, cheating [inaudible]

[pause]

Boggy: Fury has turned to concern. Chester players in a little pocket, hands on their heads. Little Pascal Bochum is still furious! He kicks the goal post.

Spectrum: The linesman.

Boggy: The assistant referee is jogging onto the pitch. He's in consultation with the referee. I wonder if he saw who did it? Frankly, I don't care. Okay, Best is trying to sit up. That seems like a good sign.

Spectrum: Oh, thank fuck.

Boggy: He's dazed but, but he's getting to his feet. Oh, bit more blood there. Goes down on one knee. And now the referee blows his whistle. What's he doing? Trying to get the game to restart?

Spectrum: He's disallowed the goal. Free kick.

Boggy: He has! No goal! The ref has wiped out the goal and it remains one-nil. Surely that's a red card, then? The ref has gone to talk to Glenn Ryder. If I had to guess I'd say he's explaining his assistant saw the incident but couldn't say who it was. Ryder is nodding. What else can he do? Now he's talking to Best. The ref's gone to Folke Wester. Now Darlington are surrounding the referee. Pushing him. Let's hope they don't punch him! All very ugly. I think... I think Best wants to stay on. How can he? He's got a broken rib, if I'm any judge! This is insane. Now Ryder's calling a huddle. Everyone's furious. The party vibe is well and truly gone. It's got very nasty all of a sudden. God knows what happens from here.

***

The pain was staggering but I could stand and I could walk. That was more than enough to deal with these fucks. Anyway, all this talk of broken ribs was so pessimistic. Another way to look at it was that I had 23 perfectly solid ones. That was plenty.

Dean, mutinous, entombed me in several rolls of tape, picked up his medical bag, and sulkily walked off.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Dugout."

"Livia can do everyone else. I need you here."

"I'm not allowed."

"Yeah you are. Here's your permit." I made the sign of the cross, but raising my right hand was painful.

He hesitated but went to sit in front of the advertising boards where fans leaned over to pepper him with questions. The answers were spread across social media and within minutes, everyone knew I had a broken rib caused by a right hook from a right wrong 'un.

Glenn jogged over. "Max, please. You can't play. Be serious. Put Angles on."

I smiled, which was a mistake because my teeth were all red. "I'm fine. Look, keep the high line and I'll do my bit. I promise."

He shook his head. "If it was anyone else you'd sub them off. It's not worth dying over."

"I don't have a broken rib. Dean loves to exaggerate. Now will you fucking get the game going? Please? Thank you."

"You're not staying on to do something stupid?"

"Like what?"

"Like snap Folke Wester in half."

"I have no such ambitions," I lied, as a flash of searing hot agony shot up my side.

He jabbed a finger into my face. "Don't do it. Do not do it."

"Aye aye, cap'n."

"Magnus," he yelled, and suddenly Magnus Evergreen, the player with the cleanest aura of any Chester player, was looking into my soul.

"Max," he said, softly. "If you get a red card, a ban, more controversy, then he wins. This plan of yours is more painful to him than a couple of bruises. Don't you think?"

I sighed as the red mist started to float away. "I guess."

"Perfect. Now, if there's any retribution to be served... leave it to me."

"Er, fuck that," said Glenn. "It'll be me."

Magnus shook his head. "I'm player-coach-physio. That's three things. Even Max is only two." He pulled his sleeves up. "As the senior player, I will be the instrument of karmic retribution."

"Senior player? I'm the captain. I decide who gets put on smashing duty."

"Guys," I said. "You know what? No smashing. Overloads and overlaps. Let's beat them, not beat them."

They looked at each other, nodded, and turned away. It was only later that I wondered if the whole thing had been scripted to calm me down.

Ryder kicked the ball out to Carlile, who passed inside to Magnus. We passed around the defence for a little while, and in that time the fans realised the game was continuing and the emotional temperature rose from concerned to angry. There was a fever brewing and the more we attacked the hotter it got.

***

Boggy: Hurts intercepts the pass. Deafening boos every time a Darlington player touches the ball. Hurts dallies and is barged off the ball by Pascal Bochum! Things you never see. Another contested ball in midfield, oh Sam Topps went in hard. And the fans love it! Chester are furious. They're fierce. They're swarming all over Darlington. There's no space! We've compressed the pitch and there's no space.

Spectrum: They've got shit technique. They can't pass their way out of trouble. The ball over the top might work though. Max hasn't moved for about thirty seconds. I'm not sure he's even watching.

Boggy: Here's the test. Hurts with the ball. He's learned his lesson about taking too long! He launches a booming pass over Steve Alton. Blondie in pursuit. He's got the drop on Alton, but what will Best do? Best does nothing - no! No he sprints. He's going to go in two-footed, isn't he? Oh... Oh! Best got there first, waited, and simply popped the ball to the side. Easy does it.

Spectrum: I'm sweating. But that was beautiful. That was the move he taught Dani the day he discovered her in Crewe. Let your opponent run straight at you and simply float away. It's harder than it looks.

Boggy: I bet. Simple pass to Ryder. I can see Glenn's grin from here. He thought Best was going to do something stupid. Eddie Moore. Aff. Back to Moore. Topps, now. He - no! He turns. Backheels it to himself! No-one expected that! He took two midfielders out with that one.

Spectrum: That's the Charlotte Twist! He learned it from her!

Boggy: Topps pops the ball to Lyons. Bochum. Another interchange and Bochum bursts past Hurts. He's to the byline. The cross evades everyone! But Aff's at the far post! He slots home! Two-nil Chester! Two-nil! What a wonderful goal! That's how you play. That's how you play!

Spectrum: Some of the Chester players are making that point to Folke Wester.

Boggy: Urgh, that was satisfying. That was so satisfying. Beauty and the Beast.

Spectrum: They don't deserve such a beautiful goal to be scored against them.

***

I found the best spot to stand was slightly to the right of centre. Most of the long forward passes were hit by right footed players and they imparted spin that would take it to their left, my right. Darlington's left was their stronger side, though Carl and Pascal were competing with them pretty hard.

We had two more subs who could come on. Ideally, I'd have given a few minutes to two of Gerald May, D-Day, and Tony. Nice round of applause. Little touch of class to finish the season on.

Touch of class.

I touched my ribs and wished I hadn't.

Aff beat his man and whipped in a cross just over Chris's head. Henri competed for the second ball, forcing a hurried clearance that Magnus pounced on. He cut it to Sam, who lined up a shot - no, mate! But it was a fake - he slipped it forward to Henri, who tried a backheel pass to Chris but found himself being booted up the arse.

Free kick! Twenty-five yards from goal! Off-centre! In front of the away fans!

I set myself as the free kick taker and ambled forward. The farther I went, the more people in the stadium stood up. By the time I wobbled the ball under my foot - I didn't trust myself to bend - the whole stadium was abuzz.

He wouldn't... would he?

***

Boggy: Scenes at the Deva! Consternation and disbelief. Hope and dread. Max Best, playing with a broken rib, his green shirt stained with blood, has gone up to take a free kick. It's, well, it's Max Best territory, but should he be there?

Spectrum: Yes.

Boggy: Emphatic response from the football expert. I'm sure he knows best.

Spectrum: Okay, fine. He shouldn't be taking this. But you know what? There's a lot of things we shouldn't do. We shouldn't lick ice cubes when they've got that sticky cold edge. We shouldn't ask Max Best to explain the plot of the movie Memento. We shouldn’t jokingly ask Henri to help us learn French. But sometimes we can't help ourselves and we get headaches of all kinds.

Boggy: What's he doing? He's talking to Chris Beaumont, Henri Lyons, Sam Topps. He's giving them a big lecture about something. Are they discussing an intricate routine?

Spectrum: Oh my God! [Laughter.] He's telling them not to hug him when he scores. Oh, he's so arrogant! I love it.

Boggy: Which way will he shoot? The goalie's lined up closer to the near post. That's the right as Best is looking at it. He could curl it into the left. Lots of space there. Or will he shoot right assuming that the goalie will move left?

Spectrum: Oh, that's interesting. Folke Wester pulled someone out of the wall and he's gone there himself. I think... I think he wants Best to kick the ball at him! Then they'll have a chance to break and score into an empty goal.

Boggy: Spectrum! Why do you put these thoughts into my head?

Spectrum: It's smart from Wester. He's horrible but he's smart.

Boggy: The referee is ready. The wall is set. The goalie's on his toes. Max Best. He twitches - the stadium holds its breath. He points left - Pascal sprints - the German is unmarked on the left! Best could chip it over the wall and Bochum could have a tap-in! Wester sees the danger. The wall falls apart. Best - scores! He scores! He shot through the gap in the wall! Bochum - did he hide behind Chris Beaumont? Wherever he came from, he sprinted and caused havoc and - and Best is trying not to laugh. Don't make me laugh, he says. Chris Beaumont acting as his bodyguard while Chester players try to celebrate with their player-manager. And... and he's had enough! Best is leaving the pitch. Cheers turn to a standing ovation. Best, I’m sorry to say, is milking it. Haha! Well, fair enough. He throws one glove up into the main stand where it's caught by - wow. Is that a mermaid? The other glove he hands to a young fan in the front. That very much seems like the end of his goalkeeping career! And on that note, Steve English, Angles, will come on for the last twenty minutes or so. Probably his last taste of professional football. Angles holds up his gloves - Best gives him a left-handed high five, then another one. High ten for Chester's goalkeeping coach. Paid in instalments! Quick word for Sandra Lane and Best goes down the tunnel. The Brig and Physio Dean follow. He'll be all right, they'll take care of him. Now, are there any twists left in this match?

***

I lay on a treatment table and suffered bravely while Dean fussed over me. I promised I'd get a scan after I'd given my speech to the fans. The Brig helped me out of the goalkeeping top - it was painful to lift my arm, and I took a shower.

"Good to do this before Henri uses all the hot water," I shouted into the echoey space. I realised what I'd said and stopped the flow. I squelched to the doorway. "We've got hot water?"

"It was a gift."

"A gift?" I said, genuinely astonished. "Who from?"

"From Crawley Town, MD said. Congratulations on an amazing season, turn the boilers on for a day and send us the bill. They want to pay us in bitcoin. Not sure if MD was joking."

I was more gobsmacked than if Darlington had aimed for my face instead of my ribs. "Crawley Town? I literally don't know anyone there. Is MD mates with them or something?"

"I believe he was as surprised as you. We thought perhaps you'd explain it."

"I can't. I'm all at sea. The only thing I can think... Something from one of the fan podcasts. Crawley's manager - he's got a weird name - saved them from relegation last year and now they're in the playoff spots and he was interested in my demented presentation about the various levels of 4-4-2. You know, when I was off my head on flu medicine. Brig, remind me to send a thank you note or something. Oh! They don't know about Henri's showers. He'll bankrupt them."

"It's a nasty bruise, sir."

"Yeah, well. Tomorrow it'll bloom, right? We'll get a photo of me looking miserable yet handsome and we'll see if Brooke can do anything with it."

"You want to send Brooke a topless photo, sir?"

I laughed, which hurt. "Why don't you go and tell Sandra to make our last sub? She's got three guys to choose from."

"Who would they replace?"

I fussed in my kit bag looking for a toothbrush. "Er... Tony for Henri. D-Day for Pascal. I suppose the lovebirds will be mad if I bring them off when they still have a shot at glory. So, Gerald for Steve, I think."

"I'll be right back. Dean will stay to make sure you don't get attacked. It is the last day of the season, after all."

I returned to the shower, enjoying the feel of the hot water while gently cleaning my teeth, then all of a sudden I was done with it. I turned the shower head and towelled myself off left-handed. The Brig returned, grinning. "You got it all wrong, sir. It seems you don't know quite everything about football."

"What?"

"Both Henri and Pascal wanted to be subbed off. That would give them a standing ovation, you see?"

"Ah. Of course."

"What's that all about, anyway?" asked Dean.

"The hot waitress said she'd be here today and they're both trying to impress her."

Dean scoffed. "Good luck with that. Everyone knows she's a Max Best fan."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Don't play coy. She always makes sure you're in her section, for a start." He laughed. "How are they supposed to impress her when you're hitting fifty-yard passes left and right-footed, scoring free kicks, playing hurt? And didn't you just throw her your glove? So romantic, Max!" He shook his head. "Henri says you're a good wingman. I wonder if he'll change his tune after today?"

"I've never thrown anything left-handed before. It was one in a million it went anywhere near her. Okay, let's stop the gibberish and let's help the wingman into his wingman suit." I had a fresh BEST 77 home kit ready, and with some difficulty, got it on. Then I went to the dugout to nab what remained of the XP available for the season.

***

Boggy: The final whistle! A long, hard season for the men comes to an end. Glory in the FA Cup, winners of the Cheshire Seniors, winners of the league. 106 points, 117 goals. Staggering! The women's team are rushing on, and now the celebrations can begin in earnest. Players dancing around the pitch. Fans throwing scarves to be worn. The trophy presentation being prepared. Fans hold up trophies of their own. Many home-made, some helium balloons. Ah! And as you can hear, they're playing Queen. We Are the Champions! [pause] Note to self. Don't go to karaoke with Spectrum!

Spectrum: Sing up, Boggy.

Boggy: Ah, go on, then.

***

Noise, colour, excitement. Babies and toddlers on the pitch. Triumphant music. Selfies, interviews, smiles, laughs, and a rapidly emptying away end. Bye!

So far, so conventional. Too conventional. It was time to Max things up.

As I got to my feet - my side was really quite sore, now - the hospitality volunteer who had been waiting nearby handed me a microphone and the music tapered off. The buzz from the crowd dimmed, but not enough. I was this close to saying, "All right shut the fuck up" but only about thirty people would have found it funny.

"And now," I said, "Please welcome to the stage... Max Best!" The fans took this as a cue to get louder instead of quieter. Seriously, guys, come on. "Can you shush? Thanks. Okay, if you don't know who I am, I am player-manager Max Best. I think I've achieved everything I realistically could at Chester. I helped save you from relegation last season and we've, you know, done what we've done this season. Cough league and cup double cough." The applause was nervous. My tone was... weird. "I need to tell you something important, now. Ahem. Er... How can I say this?" Tension descended like Old Nick’s helicopter - unwanted and out of place. "I am leaving." Shock. People were so shocked they could barely process what I'd said before I moved on. "I am leaving the lights on in the trophy cabinet. All year round!" A few people groaned. "But listen. Guys. Listen. Next season, we are definitely going down." Pause. "Next season we are definitely going down south a lot more." Groans. "Because it's not just the north, it's national. What? Shush. Okay. I know you all love transfer gossip and we will be doing a lot of signing..." Silence. They didn't trust me. "All our social media posts will be translated into British sign language! Right? Signing? Yeah, that's weak. Sorry about that. One more? No? Fine. That bit's over. Serious bit now.” I squirmed as a sharp pain exploded from my side. “Er... I don't know what the future holds, okay? Next season will be hard. We won't score a hundred goals, but we'll give a hundred percent, and that's no joke."

"Chester! Chester!"

I turned around slowly. So many people to thank. If I mentioned everyone it would take hours. "I need to thank a lot of people for this great season and knowing you guys, you'll applaud every one of them and we'll be here all night. We'll applaud once at the end, all right? First, I'd like to thank our visiting manager for the broken rib. One broken rib for three points? I'll make that trade. I've got 23 more. That's half a season."

Furious boos from the home fans. Great fun.

"I hope you get promoted. I really do."

Jeers from the Chester mob.

"Enough about losers and villains. Let's hear about winners and heroes.

"Johnny Planter! Our groundsman. The pitch held up, mate! You, as we say in Manchester, da man.

"Players who helped us this season and went to other clubs. Trick Williams. End of list.

"Volunteers and match day stewards. Unbelievable work, guys. Without you, there's no club.

"Glendale Logistics! You know I'm not a corporate sellout but guys, Glendale are the only warehousing and storage solution I would ever consider using and they helped us out with the cash we needed to buy Ryan Jack. What a signing he was, by the way! Thank you Glendale. Glendale Logistics - it's only logical.

"(That's not even their slogan. Not sure why I said that. You can have it for 2k. A grand cash, no paperwork.)

"Quick shout out, please, to the voice of Chester. You ready? Boggy Boggy Boggy!"

Half the stadium chanted "Oi! Oi! Oi!"

"God, I love that. MD, Inga, Secretary Joe, and the board. I've been a hassle, I know, and guess what? I'm not sorry. Now, everyone pay close attention to this next part. MD said he'd give me more transfer money if you cheered really loud."

This got a decent response.

"Wow. Feeble. You just summoned a fourth choice left back. Holy cow come on you can do better than that."

They put some backbone into the next one. It was impressive. MD looked pleased with it. I think he was pleased, anyway. I didn't really pause to check.

"Brooke? You did it. You're in. You're one of us now.

"Jackie Reaper and the coaches of the women's team. Nailed it.

"Terry from the Chester Knights. Smashed it.

"Spectrum and our youth team coaches. Spectacular.

"Sandra, Vimsy, the Brig, Dean and Livia, Jude. I shouldn't have started this. I can't name everyone. If I forgot your name you get to poke me in the gap where I used to have a rib.

"And some departures. A few first team players most of you probably know about. Robbo Robson, Gerald May, Donny Dorigo, Joe Anka, Tony Hetherington. They've got loads of offers, don't worry about them. Lots of the under 18s are leaving, too. They've represented the club with a lot more class than me, I can tell you that. And our fantastic loan signings, Chris Beaumont - 29 goals in 25 games, what? Those are Dixie Dean numbers. And Calabash Barkley, a real rising star.

"So, in a moment Glenn will lift the league trophy and we'll run around like idiots. Then we'll form into a procession of glory, formerly called a lap of honour. The men's team with our league and cup. Let me know if you want to see my League Two Player of the Month trophy for January. No? Fine, stop booing." They weren't booing. There were some laughs. My little trips to Tranmere and Grimsby were all part of the story of the season, now. "The women have their league trophy. The under 12s have the cup they won in Liverpool. Guys, you should have seen them. They tore everyone to shreds! Every team has had their moments. Moments of triumph and disaster and they did it all wearing your badge, Chester. They fought like lions and played like kings. Don't mess with Chesters! Let 'em have it!"

As the fans went bonkers, I walked - couldn't jog - to the presentation area. The other guys had their medals around their necks and were bouncing. Glenn bent and raised the trophy high, as he'd done only a few days before. The men's celebration photos were taken, but that was just the start of it. Brooke and the reporters who had come had all kinds of opinions. They saw our silverware and our cast of characters and wanted Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations.

Youngster with the men's league trophy and Kisi with the women's - that's a photo.

Glenn and Bonnie, the two captains - that's a photo.

Glenn, Bonnie, and little Stephen Watson. Three captains - that's a photo.

Chris Beaumont, Henri, Bea Pea, Angel, and little Simon Black - our top gun strikers - that's a photo.

Me, Sandra, Jackie - that's a photo.

The guys with contracts running out - that's a photo.

The kids we'd used in the first team - that's a photo.

Me, Brooke, Emma, Livia, Angel, Ruth - ah, no. Veto. I know your game. Cold shower for that photographer!

Everyone was smiling and joking and having a great time, but I realised that my carefully coordinated lap of honour had descended into a farce of thirty men, thirty women, and thirty kids pottering around showing their medals and cups and plates to the different stands in no sort of order whatsoever.

"Brig," I complained. "This isn't right. Make them march like army guys. This should look like a military parade."

"No, sir. This is right. This is perfect. This is Chester."

***

Shocking Post-Epilogue Epilogue!

As I watched my players and staff potter around, lapping up the sun as much as the adulation, Livia approached and put her hand on my back. "Max. Your phone keeps ringing. The same number. Thought you might want to start taking calls."

"How are you doing?"

She blinked. "I'm feeling... I feel..." Somehow among all the people who were on the pitch, she knew where to look. Maybe it was the sun's reflection on his bald spot that made him easy to pick out. Children were shielding their eyes from her boyfriend's head. He was grinning from ear to ear, a title-winning manager. "I'm satisfied. Ready for more."

"You get a break now, at least."

"Nope. I'm taking you to the clinic."

"Not Dean?"

"He told me to tell you he's got a date with Luisa. Said he hoped you wouldn't mind."

I frowned. Could he...? "That's a wind-up, isn't it?"

"Yeah. She's with Henri. There, look."

"Oh."

Over near the dugout, Henri was leaning over an advertising board, dreamily looking into the eyes of Luisa. She was responding pretty well, but was clutching a gross, sweaty goalkeeping glove.

"Have you seen Pascal?"

"He left." She rubbed my back. "Don't worry, Max."

"Don't worry? Man's got a broken heart."

"Bruised at most. Be serious. He's at least six years too young for her. He has to know that."

"Bruised heart's pretty bad. You bruised my heart pretty early on. Still not quite over it."

"I did?"

"When you said you were a Liverpool fan."

"Good news, then. I'm not any more. I'm a hundred percent Chester, now."

"Glory hunter."

For a thrilling moment I was sure she would let her hair down, but she simply adjusted her baseball cap. "I remember that day. We've come full circle, haven't we? We did a medical at the clinic, and now we'll go again. This time, you're not pretending to be a Chester player. You've been busy since then, haven't you?"

I nodded. Yes I fucking had.

She gave me a fond look and took a few steps away. "Buzz me when you're ready to go."

"Will do." I checked the phone number of the person who had been calling me. I didn't recognise it and it wasn't in my contacts, obviously, or Livia would have seen who it was. Who'd be calling me so urgently? Old Nick? The imps? The South Korean national team? I smiled. The season was over. Who would dare disturb my slumber?

The phone rang again, the same unknown number. I pressed green.

"Manager of the Year Max Best," I said, in my call centre voice.

A light, charming laugh came down the line. "Are you sure? You missed two months."

"That'll count against me, will it?" I was frowning, trying to place the voice. I felt fairly sure I'd never heard it before.

"Yep. If you're not in the dugout you don't get Manager Points. But you'll win. You've won the league by too much for them to give it to anyone else." His English was perfect, it seemed, but came with a slight accent. Some kind of Spanish German hybrid?

"That's good."

The tiniest pause while the guy realised he'd got sidetracked. "You are wondering who I am."

"I was, a bit."

More laughter. "Sorry. I'm Timo. People call me TJ."

"That's... familiar."

"I'm the manager of Crawley Town."

"The hot water guy!"

"Haha. I thought it'd be like an introduction gift. A calling card before meeting as in the olden days. Let me respect your time by getting on with it. We stand in sixth. Wrexham are fifth. If things stay like this after next week's matches, which is likely, we'll face them in the playoffs. You, ah... You offered to help someone beat them. I'm calling to ask you if you were serious about that offer."

"Oh, I was serious."

"Splendid!" He laughed again. "Max, there's a lot of bullshit talked in this industry. Everyone wants to be a disrupter. My club's owners can't go a day without launching a project to disrupt the transfer market or hack corner kicks or reshape the fan experience. Chelsea spent a billion pounds disrupting themselves from European champions to mid-table. All these people bringing disruption into disrepute!" He laughed at his own joke. "But you're really doing it. You've loaned yourself to other clubs twice. You've raised your profile by not speaking to the media. You've resurrected the sweeper system. You're an inspiration!"

"My girlfriend says I put the muse into amuse."

"I would pick your brains for free, but that's not a good start to anything. We're playing your old chums Grimsby next weekend. Come and watch, tell us how to beat Wrexham, we'll pay you." I didn't immediately reply, so he pressed on. "Enough to take your girl somewhere nice this summer."

Who had he been talking to? I felt sure I knew the answer. Beth. "I've got a holiday planned. Somewhere nice. The north of England."

"Somewhere warm then! And Max, I'm fascinated by you and I think many others are, too. Your name came up in a conversation I had recently with an industry insider. Fascinating man. Great suit. He suggested I connect you with a friend of mine in German TV. Her channel will be covering the Euros in Germany this summer and there could be some work for you as a pitchside analyst on their English language broadcasts. Would you be interested in raising your media profile?"

Not so far away, Emma was flitting from group to group like a butterfly. She'd love a proper trip after what was sure to be a damp tour of Cheshire and North Wales. "I'd be interested in trying currywurst and staying in a castle. They have to pay for two flights, though."

"Castles and currywurst. What a charming view you have of the continent. Please, enjoy your celebrations tonight. But I pray, do not make plans for next Saturday. It's high time we meet!"

He rang off and Emma came over. She must have seen something in my face. "Who's that?"

"Good question. I think... I think he's my new best friend."

"What did he want?"

"He wants me to watch him relegate Grimsby, wants to pay me to show him how to beat Wrexham, and wants to get me a gig for German television. They're hosting the Euros. Starts in June, I think. I told him yes if you could come."

"To Germany? I like him already. Will we stay in a castle?"

"Of course. I'm pretty sure that's all they've got." The celebrations showed no sign of stopping. "Poor Ben's missing all this. He missed the fun at the end of the cup final, too."

Emma squeezed my arm and turned me to face her. It should have hurt, but didn’t. Not in the slightest. "You'll just have to do it all again next season, then." She looked up at me, inviting me to kiss her. "Won't you?"

...

[[some data and numbers and how many XP he's got left etc]]