4.

After leaving Pascal on my doorstep, Magnus strode off, turned the corner, and a few seconds later I heard a car engine start, then the familiar sound of gravel snap crackle and popping.

"What's this all about?"

Pascal looked pretty miserable. "You and I got the flu hard but we normally don't get sick. Everyone thinks it's because we're despondent."

"It's Valentine's Day, I'm not allowed to go to work, and Chester is full of hot women. Do I look despondent?"

He smiled, just a little. "No. But Henri says he's cutting off the wifi until I talk to someone about my feelings. Preferably Max, he said, but he also gave me the option of whispering my worries to a stone and throwing it into a river."

I was in the doorway and Pascal was down one step. I wasn't sure if I wanted him to come in. "Hmm. I'm not in the mood to talk about my feelings and I don't think I ever will be. We could tell everyone we talked. You're a bad liar, though. Tell you what, I'll drive you to a river. You can confess that you've been training like shit, throw the stone, and we can go to Cheshire Oaks. I want to buy a shoe rack."

Pascal stepped aside and waved. He waved at nothing. Literally nothing.

"Dude!" I said, and if I hadn't been fully awake until that moment, I certainly was now. "Where's my car?"

"It's what I'm trying to say. It's a conspiracy. The Brig has stolen your car."

"Hasn't he heard of taxis?"

"He probably has told every taxi firm in Cheshire to inform him if you try to escape."

I shook my head and sighed. "You might as well have a cup of tea while we decide what to do. Have you had brek?"

"Yes, Max."

He wiped his feet and slipped his trainers off, leaving them where Emma had said to put a shoe rack. He was in his Chester training tracksuit - he'd obviously been kidnapped at some point between leaving his room in the digs and leaving the house, otherwise he would have had his kit bag with him. "Take a seat," I said, and popped the kettle on. He sat and looked at the documents on my kitchen tables - I had a sudden pang of fear. Had I written anything specifically about the curse? Nothing that could get me caught, I didn't think. I took two clean mugs and picked up my box of Yorkshire Tea. When I did so, my hand passed through the box - a very strange feeling. The reason was simple - for the first time since I'd moved in, there was no box of tea.

Panic ensued.

"Are you all right?"

"Emma drank the last tea and didn't replace it! What the shit. I thought she was classy."

"There are teabags there."

"Where?" But I'd already seen what he meant. Next to the bread bin was a tupperware. I opened it, removed two tea bags, and clipped it closed again. "Why? Why would someone do this? Oh! The biccies!" My Hobnobs had also been transplanted from their natural home - the packet, twisted round at the end - into another tupperware. "She's running riot! Can you believe this? What next?"

"It keeps them fresh."

"What marginal gain you get in freshness you lose in accessibility. No, this is awful." For a moment, I wondered if letting Emma move in had been a mistake. Between the way she was enshittifying tried-and-tested systems and the Brig stealing my car and my physios telling me what to do and where not to go, I felt surrounded by people controlling me, and I did not like that.

"There's a match missing," said Pascal.

"What?"

"Here on your papers." I used a teaspoon to jiggle the teabags in the mugs, then walked around behind him. He'd been looking through my fixture printouts. Page 5 of 7 included five of the January fixtures, plus all the February ones. Above 'February 2024' I'd used a marker to draw a thick line and written 'transfer window closes'. When I'd drawn that line, I'd felt that it represented an impassable wall. Once I crossed that threshold, my squad would be fixed for the rest of the season and I could plan accordingly. Yeah, great. That line hadn't stopped the Saudi Pro League signing one of my players.

The page was mostly clear - the date and time of the fixtures, the names of the clubs, and even their crests. But with matches being postponed and rearranged, it had got somewhat chaotic. Less printed, more handwritten. I scanned up and down. "What's wrong?"

Pascal tapped the very bottom. "Peterborough Sports should be here. It was rearranged for Tuesday 27th."

"You're right. Thanks. Can you fill it in?"

While he did that, I jiggled the tea again. You have to agitate the water so it brews properly. "What are these numbers?"

"Which?"

"Farsley have 37. Hereford 40. It's not the fixture number."

Those were the average CAs from the last time we'd played those teams, and was the most cursey thing I'd written down since Jackie had been to my house in Moss Side (when I had a perk shopping list written on some paper by the toaster), but it felt pretty safe to talk about it. "It's an estimate of the team's strength. Helps me rotate the team. Farsley and Hereford are among the weakest in the division so we can rest two of Glenn, Aff, Sam, or Henri. Then it's Spennymoor, right?"

"Yes. 44."

"Yeah, they're not bad. They have their moments. Not too worried about them, but I wouldn't have, like, three of the fifteen-year-olds on the bench or anything like that."

"What number shall I write for Peterborough Sports?"

"43."

"Then it's Kidderminster. Away. 51."

"You can change that to 52."

"Is it out of one hundred?"

"The points system is based on ancient Mayan poetry. It's hard to explain." I added milk to his tea, stirred, and placed it in front of him. He mumbled thanks and looked significantly towards the kitchen counter but if he was hoping I'd offer him sugar, he was dead wrong. First, no, gross, disgusting, don't do that. Second, I didn't have any sugar.

I stared in horror at a new jar that had appeared beside the bread bin. It was white and had a cute lid and a five-letter word printed in an old-fashioned font. The word started with the letter S.

"Is this how you plan?"

I finished my own tea and returned to the table. "It helps. It's all in my head but sometimes I like to write things down. You get a different perspective if you think it or read it or write it. Like this. The current league table."

I wrote out the top four positions.

Team P W D L F A GD Pts 1 Chester 30 23 2 5 79 27 52 71 2 Kidderminster 30 18 9 3 53 22 31 63 3 York 31 17 11 3 51 30 21 62 4 Darlington 30 16 11 3 45 28 17 59

"Eight points clear. Isn't it beautiful?"

"It seemed to happen all of a sudden."

"I said, didn't I, that we could go on a winning streak? This is it, now. We should win the next three... Four," I said, tapping the Peterborough fixture he had added. "Twelve points. No chance the others can keep the pace. No chance. If Kiddies get three wins and a draw from their next four, we'll be ten points clear. If we beat them, it's Goodnight Vienna."

"Vienna?"

"Even if we lose, the next games are what? Brackley, Curzon, Southport, Tamworth. We need to beat Kiddies, though. If we crush the league but lose twice to Kiddies and York, that'll bother me. People will say we're flat track bullies."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, it's from cricket. You've seen the way they throw the ball, right? Sometimes when it bounces, the ball does mad things. It can get very hard to hit it. When the pitch is completely flat and the bounce is predictable, it's easy to score runs. Points. So a flat-track bully is a guy who does well when it's easy but only when it's easy."

Pascal stared at something on one of the pages. "You made it easy. You, how would you say it? You flattened the track. And we beat Darlington."

Like me, he'd stopped calling them Darlo after the scurrilous article. "That doesn't count. That was divine justice." Justice plus judicious use of the Fantasy Football perks, which boosted my captain's influence score and made my substitutes perform better. I got to use the perk once in every competition. I hadn't used it in the Cheshire Cup, and I'd need it in the final. We had a tough match against Crewe Alexandra, who were doing well in League Two. They probably wouldn't use their strongest team, but we would be massive underdogs anyway, and the match was to be played in their stadium.

Thinking of the perks reminded me that I'd just been about to read my cursemail when Magnus had knocked on the door. While Pascal looked through my notes and sipped his tea, I brought up my curse screens.

Romantic Special Offer

New perk available for the month of February: Cupid's Arrow

Cost: 1,402 XP

Effects: Once per match, nominate two players. For a fifteen-minute period, they will dovetail more splendidly. Passes between them will have a slightly higher success rate. Their defensive and attacking movements will be slightly more in sync.

Hmm. That was pretty interesting. I instantly wanted it, of course, because it was another in-game boost to play with. The effects seemed like they'd be pretty minimal but it'd be fun to think about which players to use it on, and when. For example, Charlotte and Angel seemed to have a good link. Would I use it on them to make that link even better? Or would it make more sense to do it from Dani to Bea Pea so we'd have two lines of attack?

Pascal on the right of midfield sometimes got overrun at the start of matches. With this perk, I could give him a link to the right back - Carl usually - so he'd have a more solid start to the match.

Really the only downside to buying it was that it would delay me getting Wibwob, the perk of perks. I went to check how many XP I had sloshing around and nearly fell off my chair.

"Holy shit!" I cried.

Pascal looked under the table as though he was afraid of mice. "What? What?"

But all I could do was stare.

XP balance: 3,350

I'd lost about two thousand XP!

I stood and wandered around, hands on my head.

"Max?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"No. Just give me a second."

He sipped his tea, unblinking.

What was this new garbage? The only time I'd lost XP had been during the Copa Mundial mini game, and although it had been pretty annoying the curse hadn't actually stolen the XP. It had simply given me the chance to gamble with it while subconsciously teaching me about football. But this...

I took some deep breaths and in a moment of clarity realised I had to look pretty demented. So I grabbed my phone. The calculator app was there on the home screen and I used it to come to the conclusion that I'd lost somewhere close to 1,900 XP. It was hard to be sure because the fever had taken hold big time during the Scarborough match and I didn't know how many minutes I'd played.

1,900 experience points. That number sounded familiar. Wasn't that the cost of buying the Sweeper formation?

I went to the curse shop and sure enough, Sweeper was gone, and now I had the option to buy 4-2-3-1 for 2,600 XP.

"Argh," I said.

"I could call someone...?"

"I'm fine. Proper fine. I've just remembered that in my fever, I did some online shopping. Bought some junk I shouldn't have. Holy shit, Max. The fuck is wrong with you?"

Pascal stood up. "Do you need money? I have savings."

That made me blink. I went over to him and spread my arms and hugged the little shit. "No, man, it's fine. It's just the stupidity that bothers me. I was saving up for something and I won't get it this season, maybe. But it's fine. We're eight points clear. No drama. Argh! I hate being sick!" I laughed. What could you do but laugh? What I could do was spend my Friday nights and Sundays going to Premier League matches to get that sweet, sweet XP fix. I went to my chat app.

Me: On Friday evening I'd like to take you to an art gallery. They've got an exhibit called Women Who Put Things Inside Things and Men Who Take Them Out Again. Saturday we're going to Farsley. That's Leeds. We could look for an AirBnb there or go north a bit to the Yorkshire Dales.

Once that was done, I bought Cupid's Arrow.

XP balance: 1,948

I would try to get to enough matches to get back on track, but not at the weekend. Weekends were for Emma. My phone vibrated.

Emma: Sounds nice! I'll look. You take it easy today. By the way, please leave it. It keeps the bread fresh.

Bread? I dashed to the bread bin, opened it, and found that my loaf was inside a cute pink fabric bag. "Fresh bread in a bag in a bread bin. What does it do, get younger? Will it start turning back into fucking yeast?"

Pascal washed his cup in the sink and turned it upside down so it'd dry. "Henri has a bread bag. But he buys real bread. What you buy... in Germany it would be sold in the cake section."

"This morning is getting way too international. French, German, Geordie, whatever Magnus is. Let's go for a walk. What do you reckon?"

***

"What are we doing?"

"I like to do a circuit of the house in the morning. There's a wild animal that lives in the roof. Pine marten, I think. I still haven't worked out how he gets in and out and I keep hoping to see him. Soon, Ruth's going to, like, put some mesh around, she said. So it won't be able to get back in..." My attention locked onto a weird thing on one of the tiles, but I decided it was probably some moss. Moss was fun. It grew on boring damp bits that nothing else in the world cared about. "But I don't want to trap it in. Know what I mean? I don't want to actually fuck the guy up." I peered at the gutter. It was the most likely route up, but Ruth had put a ring of plastic thorns around it and it didn't seem to bother the marten in the slightest.

"The marder moves out, Emma moves in. That is an upgrade."

I smiled. "Yes it is! Always upgrading. That's Chesterness. All right, well. Day ninety and I'm still clueless. It's one thing being outsmarted by Brooke, quite another being outwitted by a big squirrel. Do you like horses? Let's potter over to the stable."

"Brooke is the American?"

"I think they prefer to be called Texan."

"She is quite attractive."

"Is she? I hadn't noticed. Oh, good. See that woman there? She's called Ruth. Horse people are disproportionately called Ruth, I've found." This particular Ruth was thin and insubstantial and looked like a strong breeze would blow her over. I called her 'Ruth Plus Ten' because I guessed she was about that much older than my landlord. "Let's talk to her. She's nice."

Ruth Plus Ten was in her riding gear and was brushing a brown horse. Every now and then he'd bellow, and a few of the other horses would respond. "Max! Good morning. You feeling better?"

"Hi, Ruth. Much better, thanks. This is Pascal. What's this horse, again?"

"This is Raffa." Pascal and I glanced at each other, then quickly away. "Short for Rafaela."

"She's a bit shouty."

"Is she bothering you?"

"No. I don't hear it from inside."

"That's good. Yes, her friend is away at a competition. They're thick as thieves. I'm afraid she'll be like this until Spider returns."

"What make is this one?"

"Breed, Max," said Pascal.

Ruth smiled. "PSL. Puro Sangue Lusitano."

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Mexican."

"Portuguese!" complained Pascal. Ruth PT was starting to like him.

"Right, I knew that. Hot-blooded, beautiful, suddenly finds herself surrounded by English uggos. That's why she's complaining so much."

Ruth recommenced her brushing. It looked about twice as hard as I would have liked if I were a horse. "Horses are herd animals. Social animals. They need companionship. When Spider came here she was three and from Rafa's point of view, just a baby. She took on a protective role. Always looking out for danger, always watching, always checking on her. Didn't you, precious? Yes, you did! So now it's devastating when Spider isn't around. Social pain is just as real as physical pain."

"Separation anxiety," said Pascal.

I spotted the flaw in the conversation pretty fast, in my opinion. "So it seems a bit cruel to whizz the other horse away like this. That owner knows it's going to upset this one, right?"

Ruth paused in her brushing, but quickly resumed. "Yes but she bought a horse to ride it. It's upsetting to see them distressed, of course. But they can't live in each other's pockets all day every day." She put the brush down and gave the horse some friendly pats. Its muscles were enormous. "She has to become more resilient. Doesn't she? Yes, she does!"

"Will she?"

"No," laughed Ruth. "Maybe just a little. We train it, sometimes. One of us brings the horse behind that barn, there, so they can't see each other. Peepo! There she is. Oh, she's gone. There she is! It hasn't worked so well."

"It's really interesting," I said, looking around at all the horses. It was a completely different world. No lessons that were relevant to me or my life, but still really fascinating.

"Are you a footballer?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Do you play for Chester? With Max?"

"I am available for selection." Stubborn little shit! I thought about making a passive aggressive comment but decided against it. It was too early for bickering.

"We're off down the Old Trail," I said. "If we don't make it back, tell Emma I want my ashes to be sprinkled all over her dad's cornflakes."

***

We walked in silence along the trail. It was a dirt path that went across streams, through woods, past farmland. It was still all quite wintry with bare trees and forlorn bushes, but a few unbelievably vibrant yellow daffodils had sprung up in defiant little bunches.

"It was funny the horse was called Raffa," ventured Pascal.

"Last time I talked to that Ruth she taught me a horse word. Try. This horse has a lot of try. That's how they talk."

More silence.

A few birds flew over. Sparrows or starlings - I could never remember the difference. "It's funny how people say free as a bird," I said. "They're not that free. They're like the horses; they want to hang out with each other. They need to be with their bird buddies. You can go anywhere you want as long as it's where everyone else wants to go." For some reason, the time I tried to get to know Ziggy came to mind. "What's your favourite chant, Pascal?"

"Bad Boys," he said. It was a chant about himself; a very Pascal answer. "What's yours?"

"Que Sera Sera," I said.

"I don't know it."

"Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be. We're going to Wem-ber-ly. Que sera sera. You sing it on a cup run."

"Why didn't I hear it this year?"

I smiled. "I don't think it's much of a Chester standard. Not yet. Plus the Cheshire Cup final isn't at Wembley. You can change the words to we're going to win the league but I don't think we'll hear it."

"Why is it your favourite?"

"It's my favourite today. It's romantic. It's the magic of the cup. The nostalgia. Fans like to think of cup wins being inevitable. Win a couple of games in the last minute and they start saying our name's on the cup! Tottenham had a thing where they always won the FA Cup in years that ended in 1. Sixty-one, eighty-one, ninety-one. You know what?" I said, coming to a stop. "I've got an unexpected morning off and it's Valentine's Day. Some people get fucking miserable on days like these, don't they?"

"Yes. If you're alone," he said, with some undercurrent.

"Or if your wife left you. There's this guy. When was it?" I pinched the top of my nose but it didn't help. "Can't remember when but I did this event where I invited coaches to come."

"I remember. It was unusual. Henri said it inspired him to write SILK!"

I started walking again. "I thought if I could see them in action it'd be better than a job interview. And, shock horror, I was right. But there were eight people who couldn't go on the Saturday and asked if we'd do it on a Sunday. So we did and seven turned up. I got a bit obsessed with the eighth and when he had time, the Brig went looking for him." I stopped walking. "He's, er, he's a good coach, probably, but he's all depressed and that." I started walking again. "Don't really like thinking about it. Brain stuff. It's mad what goes on. I had a dream where a little Chinese woman working for the mafia garrotted me in a car park. I'm really not keen to find out what goes on in other people's minds." I blew out some air and tutted. "But this Brooke person wants to get all lonely people into our home matches so they get some human contact and since we had that conversation I've been, well, just like thinking about this coach."

"What's his name?"

"Clive O'Keefe. Nickname's probably Clivie O. But look, we could go together and that'd make it easier."

"What is our aim?"

"No aim. I just want to show my face and have a chat and maybe invite him to the stadium with all the lonely people. We've got loads of empathy for this sad horse and we should have at least that much for this lonely guy, too. Right? I mean... Look, we're not social workers or anything. We don't have to fix him or any of that shit. We're just going for a chat. Are you coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. You're as free as a bird."

"I think I don't want to."

"Cool. You've got to walk past where he lives anyway. We can split up there."

***

We got to the main road, walked along the treacherous tarmac until there was some pavement, and followed that to the side street where Clivie O lived. A street sign used to announce that it was Arrowhead Close but a vandal had sprayed over arrow and replaced it with the word dick. "All right. This is me. You go straight ahead and you'll end up in town. Anyone asks, you say we had a good talk and went for a long walk. Easy."

"Max, wait."

"Sup?"

He scratched the back of his head as he eyed the graffiti. "You're just going to talk to him?"

"He's probably not even in. I'll get a pen and paper from a neighbour and leave him a breezy little note. That'll cheer him up."

"And then what?"

"What?"

"What will you do afterwards?"

"Oh. I reckon I'll go for a romantic Valentine's Day lunch with the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Me."

More nervous shifting. "You shouldn't come to these areas alone. It is a very poor area."

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"Not interested in discussing the sociology of crime with you right now. Probably no-one round here ever crashed the world economy and made fifty billion as it went down."

"The Brig will be mad if I leave you alone here."

"He won't because he won't ever know."

"The Brig knows all."

"Just go! Jesus." I strode away.

Pascal hesitated by the sign before shuffle-running into step beside me.

***

Clive was home and invited us in without hesitation. He was shaven-headed with a goatee giving shape to a somewhat chubby chin. He smiled a lot. Far too much, far too wide. It put me on edge, so I offered to make us all teas. His teabags were kept in a tupperware and that seemed to prove something.

"Tiggy won't believe this," he said.

"Tiggy is, don't tell me, your robot butler."

Clive's smile dimmed as he processed what I'd said. "My daughter. She's a fan."

At first I'd been struck blind by the oppressive atmosphere, the thick air, the sense of something being off. It was like I'd entered a basement and a movie baddie had thrown a blanket over me. But as I made the teas and checked the fridge for the milk and looked for a tea towel to dry a splash of water, I told myself it was a perfectly normal house with a perfectly normal guy. The thought allowed me to get a grip and I pottered around looking at his photos. "Is this her?" It was a teenage girl in a quite formal dress. "She was a bridesmaid?"

Clive came over and his smile faded again, which had the strange effect of making it seem more real. "First Holy Communion. Are you religious, Max?"

"Oh," I said. "Erm..." I tried not to think about religion at the best of times, and now there were demons and imps and Sentinels. The first two were real enough but I had to take it on faith that there was, in fact, an all-powerful cosmic referee. Telling me there was a Sentinel could have been a scam from Old Nick to make me more obedient. "I suppose I believe in a higher power." There were loads of football photos - Clive playing, coaching teams of different levels, meeting famous players and managers. "Does she play?"

"No, never interested. Rebellious. Not bothered about her old man's career. Resented me travelling around so much, maybe. Watching England win the Euros, that got her into footy. That was good. Watched it together. First match she's asking me about offside. By the final she's complaining that England's press isn't co-ordinated and there's too much space in the channels."

I smiled and finished the teas. "A lot of people are like that. You need to give them a story and they'll get swept along." As I sat on his armchair, he and Pascal settled onto his sofa. Another sweep of the room confirmed that there were no photos of Tiggy's mother.

"I can't believe how well Chester are doing," he said. "Nearly relegated last year and now this. All the lads think it's amazing."

"Which lads?"

"Mates from coaching. Grassroots guys. You know one of them. Big Man. You managed against him once. He says he knew even then you'd be big. Said your heart's in the right place. Doesn't like when people say things about you. Shuts that down PDQ."

"Do you see them often?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Yeah."

So he had some human contact. That was good, if I could trust him. I sipped my drink. "What's that thing by your sink?"

"Thing?" He looked worried, which triggered a lot of anxiety in me. I didn't want to break him. "Do you mean the meter?"

"It's got numbers on."

"That's the meter. Electric and gas. How much it's costing."

"So you boil the kettle it goes up by 5p or whatever. You turn the heating on and go and check what you're paying? That's grim. If it was me I'd never turn anything on."

"No, it's good. Stops me spending too much. I'll put my winter socks on. I do turn it around when Tiggy's here. She gets it warm like she likes it and I muddle through with the bills."

So this was getting all kinds of depressing. I tried to be normal. "I'm looking at solar panels for the stadium. Energy independence. Just hired a woman to help me get the grants and subsidies for all the projects."

His smile faded completely and I had the strongest premonition he was going to tell me global warming was fake. "But why are you doing that?"

"Because we pay almost a hundred grand in electricity and because the planet's on fire."

His eyes got glassy. I couldn't help thinking of him as a malfunctioning robot, and hated that about myself. "But you do the football."

"Oh! You mean why am I doing it, not why am I doing it. Well, who else?"

Doubt. Confusion. "But you do the football."

"There's less football to do than you'd think. Transfer window's closed. My coaches take training. Picking the team takes five minutes. I did have a bit of a panic attack about having a thin squad but we went from having the best midfield in the league to the worst against Rushall and it hasn't touched us. There's only a few teams who can really hurt us, now. No, it's pretty easy. We're just coasting to the end of the season, to be honest. Yeah. Coasting." I took another sip. "It's pretty boring, to be honest. So I've been getting started on other stuff. Business stuff and getting ready for next season."

He asked me a question but I'd lapsed into some kind of fugue state. The floating megabrain had become unmoored and was drifted off into melancholy. When I drifted back into my body, I realised Pascal was answering for me.

" - relentless. We're paid to train, not to play. Then he got Coach Sandra and things stepped up another level. We train hard on Fridays now. If we get stuck in matches there's always an idea, a tactical innovation. And, of course, if we're really struggling, he does it himself."

Something was missing from the conversation, something that was adding to my sense of unease. But what?

"Teams tried to get men behind the ball. Two banks of four, sometimes two banks of five. Max recruited Chris Beaumont and that was that."

"I'd have preferred an internal solution," I said, though I wasn't really present. "But I don't have time to mess around." It clicked. Clive hadn't asked why I was there. He'd just accepted it even though it must have been an extraordinary incident. Probably his medication. "Clive. You asked about our coaching day and I put on a second date for you but you never came."

The big smile was back. "I was interested. Really interested in the turnaround. But I couldn't make it."

I thought about inviting him to join a session so I could check his attributes, but why? Could I be sure he'd turn up when he said he would? I decided to skip the part where I tried to get him on the coaching staff. Even if he had 20 in all his coaching attributes, it'd be an energy sink for someone. "Okay, listen. The reason we're here is because we're trying to start a little programme where we get lonely pensioners to come to our matches and make a fuss of them. It's just an excuse to get them out of the house, really, and give them someone to talk to. I was thinking someone like you could go and sort of explain the football to them. Not like doing a match commentary but maybe every now and then someone would have a football question. Why is the league's best winger playing as a DM? Why is the league's best winger playing as a sweeper? That sort of thing. Or you'd point out something interesting. Could just be, oh it's the fifteenth of November, it's Pascal's birthday." Pascal nearly spilled his tea. He put it down and went to get a dishcloth. I continued. "Yeah, just, if you're interested in being a volunteer. I say volunteer, it's basically you go and watch a football match and talk about it."

Clive continued to smile. "It doesn't sound so bad."

"Just come once and see how you like it."

Pascal, for some reason, decided to act as Clive's agent. "What's the pay?"

"Pay? You get a free ticket to watch The Max Best Experience and a baseball cap that we can't sell in the club shop."

"And a butty," insisted Pascal. Foreigners saying butty always sounded funny.

"Fine. And a butty and a soft drink."

"And twenty pounds."

"No, Pascal. It's not a job. It's something fun and chill and optional. You start paying people it gets stressful."

Pascal gave me a dubious look and brought the dishcloth back to the sink. As he returned, he stopped and exclaimed in German. He turned to Clive. "But this is VfB Stuttgart! This is Stuttgart in the 90s. Elber! What a player! Bobic. You coached Bobic? I know this team! I can't believe you coached The Magic Triangle."

Clive stood and went over to the photo. His eyebrows furrowed. "Rolf Fringer. His assistant was Jogi Löw. Well ahead of their time. They offered me a job, point of fact. I wish I'd taken it. They were doing fascinating things and they were very kind. German football culture was a good fit for me, I've always said. They're serious and dedicated. There's less banter."

"Less bullying, you mean."

"Yes, Max. I suppose I do." He went back to the sofa.

"Why didn't you stay?" said Pascal, easing along the wall. He was appraising the other photos with a new eye.

"My wife," said Clive. "She didn't want to move. Course, she moved anyway. Moved out, soon enough."

Okay, we'd spotted the iceberg. Time to turn this ship around. "Pascal, I've got that meeting in a bit. We need to get going."

He ignored me, the brat. "Our next home match is against Spennymoor on the 24th. Can I come and pick you up? I would love to hear all your stories from that time, and we can talk to Max's old people while we are there. Kill two birds with one arrow."

"But won't you be in the squad?"

"No," said Pascal. "Max says I am not training well. He is wrong, but he is stubborn. He is using children instead of me. I imagine I shall not be selected for the rest of the season and in the summer I will consider my options."

I wasn't planning on saying anything, but Clive's smile looked like it was starting to hurt him. Bringing our drama into his house wasn't fair, but then again, Pascal was offering to take him to the match and get to know him. Seemed like it'd be good for both parties. Two lonely horses. If I said what was on my mind and Clive pushed back against me, that might draw Pascal even closer to him. "Horse people use the word try, Clive. On the way here we saw a horse with a lot of try. Pascal has a lot of try. He has more try than almost anyone I've ever met. When someone like that does the bare minimum in a drill, jogs instead of sprints, hits a pass with accuracy but no fizz, I feel it. Pascal has too much pride to train like shit but I signed him for his try and when there's no try, there's no Pascal."

"People can't give their best all the time."

"Oh, I know. That's why I'm not pushing him. He's had a shock. His mate's vanished and the pain is real. I'm not pushing him, Clive. He can take all the time he needs. I'll wait. If he needs to take it out on me, that's fine. I can stand it."

"I'm not taking it out on you."

"If you say so."

"I'm not. And you're hurt, too."

"Nah. He's gone. Fuck him. I'd happily never think about him ever again for the rest of my life."

"Don't," whispered Pascal.

"Clive, it was amazing to meet you. Pascal's gonna get your number for the Spennymoor game and I'll see you then."

I shook his hand and went outside into the fresh air. It had all gone well but I couldn't help but feel like I'd failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

***

Pascal didn't take long. We walked to the street sign and turned right onto the main road. Not a nice walk, but it had the virtue of being direct, and a bit of directness was what I thought I needed.

It took a few minutes before either of us spoke. "I can't believe he coached Stuttgart."

"I wonder how good he was."

"Is. He's still a coach. I thought you would try to bring him to the club. We are already understaffed and you want to add more age groups and a reserve team. He coached Krasimir Balakov. I think he can teach Tyson and Benny a trick or two."

"Maybe I will in a couple of years. For now, I need sure things."

"You shouldn't give up on people."

I didn't reply. Instead, I wondered if that was as unfair as it sounded. I'd been patient with all the CA 1 players I'd recruited. Been patient with Pascal in the past and now. I'd worked hard at Tyson and even sought out Julie McKay, whose hooligan boyfriend had made it clear he'd happily beat me to a pulp. The only person I'd ever truly given up on had been Sullivan, and his dad had smacked me with a metal pipe.

"I'm glad we popped in on Valentine's Day," I said. "I reckon his wife left him and that was the start of the spiral. He'll tell all his mates Max Best came to see him and he'll be buzzing off it for days."

"And Pascal Bochum."

"Yeah. You're the big news. Hey guys, guess what? Pascal Bochum just dropped by to ask me out. Oh, and he had the greatest living Englishman with him." I did an exaggerated scoff and he smiled. "I reckon I'm going to get some lunch. By the time we get to town it'll be eleven. That's late enough, I reckon."

"Can I come?"

"Why?"

"No-one's in the digs. It's too quiet when it's empty."

"Fine."

"We could go to Tiny Tino."

"On Valentine's Day? Are you fucking stupid?"

"What?"

"Luisa will be working."

"So?"

"So I can't deal with it."

"What?"

"Just drop it. We're not going there. Anyway, it'll be booked out."

***

I'd worked up a healthy appetite by the time we got to the city centre. We walked along the shopping streets. Some had split levels with arcade-style walkways. The shops on the higher levels seemed to struggle, though. The modern British consumer didn't want to have to deal with the hellish ordeal that was seven steps.

The restaurants didn't seem overly busy.

A cute waitress was doing things outside one. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Question. I thought Valentine's Day would be packed. Can I get a table anywhere, do you reckon?"

"It's rammed for dinner. Lunch, not so much, unless it's a Saturday. No-one takes Valentine's off work."

"Ah, right. Makes sense."

"We've got tables."

"Whoa there," I said, twisting my lips. "Less of the hard sell, please. I'm very delicate today."

"I'm truly, deeply sorry. I'm just saying that I'd love to have you inside."

That was a quadruple entendre, at least. I think one of my eyebrows might have raised. "Tempting. Very tempting. But you don't have peri peri chicken."

"You like it spicy?"

"I like food so good they named it twice."

"How about pasta pasta?"

"I'm gonna think about it. I wasn't planning on being out today."

"Women throwing themselves at you left and right."

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Can I get a selfie?"

"Only if you promise not to squeeze my arse while you're doing it."

"What if... I don't promise?"

"Even better."

She sidled up next to me, held her phone left-handed and put her right on my back. As it slid lower and lower the tension grew and with impeccable timing, she took a pic. She stepped away and looked at it. "Winner."

"Let me see."

"Uh-uh. It's mine. It's all for me."

"What's your name?"

"Ashley Ashley."

"So good they named you twice."

"That's right, Max Best." With a hop in her step, she turned around and went back inside the restaurant. I was pretty sure she hadn't finished doing what she was supposed to be doing, but I wouldn't ruin the moment for her. With a rueful little lip-bite, I turned and walked away.

Pascal scurried along behind me. "Does that happen to you all the time?"

"Does what happen?"

"Women throwing themselves at you."

I laughed. "She was playing. She was having fun. She knows I'm in a relationship."

I turned a corner and only just heard him mumbling something, but I'm pretty sure he said, "At least one of you knows."

***

After a minute of aimlessly looking at restaurants, I stopped and bit my lip. "Pascal. Got a big problem."

"What?"

"I really want peri peri chicken, now."

"So let's go to Nando's."

I scrunched up my face. "Life's boring. There's no challenge. I have to face my fears. Ah! But you know what? She won't be working. She'll be on a fucking date. What was I thinking? And the football crowd won't be there - they're all at training. It's actually the best time to go. This way, Watson!"

***

I burst into Tiny Tino like I was entering a saloon. I was the cocky, swaggering, fastest gun in the state and I had all the stuffing knocked out of me by one withering glance from nature's greatest triumph - Luisa.

She was in the green-and-red apron all the staff had to wear, which went perfectly with her deep brown hair and hazel eyes. There was something about the way her head floated serenely on her neck that made me go weak at the knees, and holy shit, she'd done her hair in a ponytail.

"Table for one?" she said, emasculating me more brutally than a punch to the groin.

"Two, please," I said, recovering like a champion. He's got a lot of try, this Best kid. "A romantic table, please."

She picked up two menus. "This way."

I followed her round to the right, to the old part of the restaurant. That was a good sign. That was the section with the wood panelling and old-world charm. The new area was more modern and more comfortable, but more soulless.

Luisa stood next to a table and waited for me to sit. When I did, she handed me a menu, then repeated it with Pascal. She left and I saw the kitchen door two big steps away. She had given us the worst seats in the entire restaurant.

"Oh my God, she's fantastic," I whispered. Pascal nodded enthusiastically, but not, I think, for the same reason as me. I glanced at the Valentine's Day menu and dismissed it instantly. "I'm going to wash my face. I feel like I've got like a film of exhaust fumes."

I went to the bathroom and had a good old wash. When I returned - in no particular hurry - Luisa was there, waiting to take our order. She'd done it deliberately to put me off balance. She must have - it made no sense to go to a table where half the customers were away. What was her game? It was like sparring with Brooke. Devastating to lose, but fun all the same.

"What will you like?"

"Peri peri chicken," I said.

"That's not on the card," she said. She opened the menu, put it in my hands like I was a child - my resistance was suddenly feeble - and pointed to the set dishes.

"Yeah but I want it."

"It's not on the menu."

"I'll take a peri peri chicken, please." Her eyes blazed, just for a second. "Don't worry if you have to make the sauce fresh." I smiled. "That's fine by me."

"I'll talk to the chef," she said. "See if it is possible."

I stood. "Let me save you the trouble. I'll talk to him."

The chef was the co-owner and it was fair to say I was one of his best customers. Not so much because I was a regular, but because Chester FC's sudden, inexplicable (to him) mania for his chicken dishes had made a cold winter very profitable. And let's be honest, I was famous. Local famous, but still. In the little game between me and Luisa, I'd just picked up my dice and set them down showing a double six. There's a time to play and a time to get the peri peri chicken you need.

"Thank you no. I will."

She vanished. I was pleased with myself. "Dude, what did you get?"

Pascal raised his palms like he was saying a Buddhist prayer. "What do you mean what did I get? There's only one choice. I got that."

"Oh."

He closed his eyes, leaned back, and ran his hands through his hair. Whatever was on his mind, he didn't share it.

"I like that Clive guy. Clivie."

"His nickname is Clive OK. He told me when I was adding him to my contacts."

"Clive OK. That's not bad. He reminds me of a certain type. WibRob's dad's the same. Busy, active, fingers in many pies, exploring the world, doing things. Then the kid comes along and pow - it's all about the kid. Just like that. It's amazing. All kinds of sacrifices. Christ, think of your parents. They're the poster children for devoted parents."

"Poster children?"

"Like, a great example. They leave Germany where it's all nice and cosy and everyone can play the tuba and they go to fucking Darlington so that you can have a go at being a footballer. It's unreal. You're lucky, you know."

"I know. Not everyone in Germany can play the tuba. My mother can't."

"But your dad can?"

"That was the joke."

I laughed. "Sorry, I butchered that. I don't know how to talk to you any more."

Luisa brought some little plates of starters. She didn't talk to us; didn't confirm if I was 'allowed' the meal I wanted. She simply docked at my little island like a superyacht, sending birds flying, making the fish flee, sending waves of insecurity crash against my shore, then reversed just as elegantly.

We munched on bits - we were both pretty hungry after our long journey.

"What about your dad?"

I stopped munching and glared at him. Then the kitchen door crashed open - as it did every eight seconds - and I heard a dramatic sizzle and smelled my chicken. "He bailed. Skipped out. Never met him."

"Oh, but - "

"That's the end of the story, mate."

"Okay."

I tapped on the table. "Magnus," I said.

"Yes?" said Luisa. She'd ghosted in at the far post like an absolute menace. Defences had no chance.

"Sorry, what?"

"You called me."

"I didn't."

"You were tapping the table," said Pascal.

"So? That's not a thing. Who does that to mean they need a waitress?"

"Impolite customers," said Luisa.

"In Germany, people click their fingers to call waiters. It's total fremdschämen. Cringe."

"Well, I'm famously polite. I won awards for my politeness." Luisa swished away. I shook my head. "That was weird, even for her."

"You were saying about Magnus."

"He told me I have an avoidant attachment relationship style. Something like that, anyway."

"What is it?"

"The test is to put a kid in a room with his mum. She leaves and comes back. Most kids are, like, relieved and happy and it's all good. Some get all moody like they've been betrayed."

"That's you!"

"That is not me. I'm actually a good and kind and polite person. But if there is any truth in it, it's interesting. I find it hard to get close to people. Football's always been how I've made friends and got into groups. I think Clive was like me but then the kid comes along and he can't be like that any more. You've got to connect. You've got to. And you can't sulk every time your daughter doesn't laugh at your jokes or whatever. Can't kick her out of the match day squad. I wonder what decisions he's made since she's been born. What opportunities he's turned down so he'll be around when she needs him."

"I wonder what she's like."

"Absolutely no doubt she's an utter, utter brat. Moody as fuck. But one day she'll realise her dad's been trying really hard and she'll calm the fuck down. It'll be good."

"I hope so."

I was done with the starters. They were quite filling and I wanted to make sure I had space for my chicken. "It's a lot about dads these days."

"Sorry Max? I didn't hear you."

"Been hearing about dads a lot. The average-looking blonde you seem to like. There's something there with her dad. Not sure what but it's why she is who she is. This one now who smiles at everyone in the whole place except you and me. I bet her dad was always watching football and never played with her and that's why she resents us. I'm fucked up because mine ran off. You're top dude because your dad is top dude. Henri's always trying to impress his."

"You're not fucked up."

"I am a bit."

"Okay but you have a lot of try."

I nodded, half-laughing, half ready to get a bit weepy maybe. "You know that's why he did it."

Pascal froze. Literally didn't move a muscle.

But Luisa came, unsmiling, and removed our starters.

"Who did what?" Pascal tried to say, but it came out croaky.

The wallpaper next to me was a deep green and slightly textured. It didn't make sense to have wallpaper in a restaurant. There were little tears and stains everywhere, if you looked. But you didn't have to go looking for the flaws, did you? It didn't have to be perfect.

"He was just trying to be a good dad."

Pascal's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Moss?" This moss wasn't the cool plant that grew in dark, damp places. This was the only Moss that wanted to live somewhere hot and dry - Raffi's dad. No sooner had his son got a professional contract than he had been angling for a move to a warmer climate.

"No. I'm sure he was a big part in it, but I meant Raffi. He did it for Serina. Five grand a week for four years. Do you know how much that is?"

"A million," he said. "One million, forty thousand. Tax free. But he'd make more doing what you told him. What if he doesn't play? He might not get another contract."

I brushed my hand along the wallpaper. It had a slight texture. A premium feel. "What if he gets injured like Ryan and doesn't come back? It's a million now, guaranteed, versus two million later, maybe."

"It's not a good deal," said Pascal, one of the few footballers who planned their careers like I planned a football season.

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, so they say." I looked down, sadly, and saw a plate of chicken was there. Suddenly, I had no appetite for it. "He worked in a casino. He never gambled."

Pascal was also not touching his romantic meal. "Okay so it's not the best move but okay. But okay why didn't he talk to us?"

"Three reasons. One, that was part of the deal. You only get the money if you keep your mouth shut. I know it's crazy but there are people who hate me. Agents. I seriously doubt any of them were involved in the deal. I think I know who arranged it and he doesn't hate me exactly but it's plausible he told Raffi not to contact me until the deal was done. Then the next day Raffi wakes up and everyone in Chester's calling him a traitor and whatnot. Okay that's understandable but yeah. He should have spoken to you. Option two. He literally couldn't. Like he was whisked away on a plane to discuss the deal. On the way, he decides to sign. He lands, it's a whirlwind of papers and photos and when he gets to his hotel he finds his phone doesn't work. He doesn't have a roaming plan and the hotel's computer is in Arabic. I mean, it's vaguely ludicrous but possible. Or, like, his phone ran out of battery or was taken by his new agent or whatever. Do you know my phone number off the top of your head? Do you know my email address?"

"Yes. It's max at maxbest. M - A - X - B - E - dot - S - T. What country is that anyway?"

"São Tomé and Príncipe. It's off the coast of Gabon. So he can't contact us and next day, same thing. By the time he gets online, he's reading that we all hate him. He decides to cut his losses. Move on. Option three. He knows if he talks to me, I'll talk him out of it. So he doesn't. For his daughter."

"But - "

Nothing more came, and Pascal picked up his knife and fork and mechanically ate lunch.

I did the same.

"I never had a brother."

"Let's hope your parents don't give you one now or he'll be born in Darlington."

"I was bullied. I had no-one to look for me."

"Look after me."

"No-one to look after me. No-one to teach me how to talk to girls. Raffi's the closest I've ever had. It can't be that he's my friend one day and the next he's not. It can't be."

"Honestly, mate? I think that's exactly what it is. Here's a million pounds to turn your back on your whole life. Okay, then! That's all there is to it. You don't need therapy. You're not a bad person. I'm not even sure he's a bad person. It's just a mad thing that happened. There's no point dwelling on it. Just move on."

"But you haven't moved on. You're distant and moody and angry."

"Okay, fine. I need therapy. I need help. All right? But you're going to be fine. You've got twenty older brothers, now. Someone steps to you we'll smash them up."

"I can take care of myself."

"Top, great. Done." I had a bit of a sulk on as I cut into the next piece of chicken. "Right. We've talked about the traitor. Can you cheer the fuck up now so I can pick you again? I need you against Kidderminster."

He was also cutting and it took him a fraction of a second to stop. He looked up. "Kidderminster?"

"Yes."

"But... Why?"

"Because I want to play a radical formation and anything remotely complicated only works if you're in the team because you are one of my only fucking players with a fucking brain and I fucking need you. All right?"

"But I thought we were going to win the league anyway."

"Stop saying but you little prick! We are going to win the league but I want to beat Kidderminster because they're the only team who's ever properly dicked us and they're the only team who are interesting to play against. I want to beat them because I want to beat them not because we have to beat them. Do you get that?"

"Yes."

"If you're still sulking around it's going to be 4-4-2. Good match, tough, won by lots of small factors. OR, we do my plan and you and I fucking tear them to shreds and we win the league with no question marks hanging over us."

He resumed cutting. "You're talking about playing the sweeper system."

"Henri's been blabbing."

"He's building an alliance. He's calling it the coalition of the unwilling. He's got some players, Sandra, Livia, and he says he's going to make a move on Emma."

I smiled. "Sweeper will work."

Pascal shook his head. "It won't. It's dead. How can you hear me say he's going to make a move on Emma and not react?"

I shrugged. "You mean to nag me about my tactical plans. He's not inviting her out for Valentine's Day, is he?"

"What if he did? Would you mind?"

"What?"

"You are more interested in Luisa, it seems to me. Or the Texan. Or Livia, or Ruth, or, or, or."

"Wrong."

He put his cutlery down. "I don't understand it. Emma is so nice. How can you chase the others?"

I kept eating. The taste was coming back. "It's not like that."

"What is it like?"

"Emma likes me. What does that mean? It means when I fuck up, we talk about it and I try to do it better. Ruth is a Chester fan. Livia works for me. When I'm snippy or aggressive or not a very nice person and then we go and win a football match, all is forgiven. Do you get me? I can be a bit horrible. I can be a bad manager - in the sense of being a bad boss - as long as I'm a good football manager. Or player. I don't go round trying to be rude or difficult. I really don't. But I can get away with a lot as long as we're winning. Now, I notice you're only talking about women, like I'm some sort of sex pest. But how do men treat me? Even if they think I'm a dick or they support Liverpool or Wrexham or whatever, they think I'm great. I'm a 23-year-old football manager and I'm a good player, too. If I'm a bit of a dick, that's football. I'm allowed. Now, take this one and Brooke. This one fucking hates football. It's not that she doesn't know who I am. She actively dislikes everything about me! What a challenge. Come on, you love it, too. Henri's the same. If he was married and completely faithful, he'd still come here once a week as a sort of test. And Brooke, the Texan, she's the only person employed by Chester who doesn't give a shit if we win or lose. So where does that put me? On a normal level. If I'm rude, she will tell me I'm rude. I like being treated like a normo. Do you get it? Yes, it's nice to have the cute waitress at the Italian place throw herself at me. Very nice! And you know it when you go to bars after a win, the attention is addictive. But it's fake. I'm not complaining but I want places where I can have an authentic interaction. This is one. Emma is my special pumpkin and after lunch I'm going to go shopping for the most romantic thing I can think to buy. A shoe rack. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life with her and I'm going to try not to be avoidant personality type with her. When she goes to Newcastle and comes back, I'm going to be happy and not sulk in a corner. I can flirt and daydream about other women because that's all it is. There's nothing behind it. It's like when you're one-one-one with the goalie and you take a shot. You have to mean it or you'll just scuff it and look like a knob."

"Can you teach me to flirt like you?"

"No, because of what I just said. I'm not really flirting and women know that. We're just playing. It's like kittens fighting. It looks like a fight but it's not a fight."

"How did you get with Emma?"

I laughed. "I would never have had the courage to talk to Emma. She talked to me. She was interested in how I was talking to my friend Ziggy. Not sure if you've met him."

"How would you talk to her now? If you weren't together."

"Oh. Um." I tried to imagine it. "I would probably try to do an intense but cheeky expression. Hi, I'm superstar football star Max Best and I would like to talk about how many zips are on your jacket because that's wild."

"What if she was a waitress and there were no zips?"

I groaned. "Can we go back to talking about Raffi? This is hard." I rubbed my temples. "I wouldn't. It's a rule of mine. If they're paid to be nice to you, leave them alone. If I saw her in a library or something, then I'd try."

He was weirdly insistent. "But if Henri was going to make his move. Today, maybe. It could be your last chance."

I tipped my head back. "I don't know. I'd be firm but respectful. Hi, I'm Max. I know you're at work but I'd like to invite you for a coffee one day before a dastardly Frenchman gets his hooks into you. Then I'd wait for her to say no and take my beating like a man, by which I mean ordering take-out for about three months and watching romantic comedies while crying my eyes out."

This seemed to satisfy him and he shut up and let me eat in peace. I started to really enjoy it just as it was all gone. I smiled to myself as I daydreamed about asking Luisa for a second helping.

To my absolute astonishment, when I blinked next, Pascal was on his feet in front of the Portuguese beauty and was giving her intense eye contact. "My name is Pascal Bochum," he said, and I felt my heart plummet. This wasn't going to be good for his morale. "I am a creative forward player. A space invader. My function in the team is to connect the midfield and the attack. I am fast and brave and I have a lot of try. I think you are very beautiful and I would like to get to know you better, for example by drinking coffee or buying a shoe rack together. I should like to add that my French is excellent and I am very willing to learn Portuguese."

Having delivered this extraordinary example of German Romanticism, he took a tiny step back, giving her another two inches of breathing space.

I felt my own pulse racing as we waited for her response. In that moment, she had the complete power of life and death over this young man. She was reading his face like he was a pitch side monitor and she was the referee checking if a skirmish in the six-yard box should be given as a penalty.

The referee has made her mind up...

"I must see you play before I give my reply."

No goal! The match will go to a replay!

"I play twice a week," Pascal lied, the liar.

"She's not going to Hereford to watch Chester," I pointed out, in the interests of keeping the concept of romance alive.

"Our next home match is against Spennymoor in ten days."

"Which you won't play in," I reminded him.

"I am available!"

"Nope. You're kickstarting our big community project, remember. We're all very proud of you and you can tell Luisa all about what a good and kind person you are... later. Why don't you invite her to Darlington? We'll have all our trophies. It'll be a big party."

"That's in two months!"

"Sorry, mate. Are you telling Luisa you won't wait for her?"

He flushed as he gave her a comically earnest look. "Of course I will!" He sank as he turned back to me, which made me realise he'd been standing with his heels raised. "But not Darlington. You will crush them single-handed."

"So?"

"So that won't make me look very good."

I gave him a long, hard stare. "You've got two months. Train like you mean it, then put on a show. Be better than me." I turned my attention to the heartbreaker with the hazel eyes. "Something tells me Luisa knows enough about football to tell your character from how you play. Now would you like to sit down and let her get back to work?"

"I'll be right back," he said, before striding off to the bathroom, no doubt to splash water onto his face. It must have been incredibly tense for him.

I smirked at my plate, thinking through the ramifications of what had just happened. I hadn't planned this, but I'd seized the opportunity when it had arisen.

"What is so delightful?" She was still there. Strange - I was sure I had felt her leave.

"He'll train harder than ever. Two months of being the best version of himself. I'm delighted." She was doing something - like Brooke, I couldn't read her, and that was a huge part of the attraction. "You..." I said, suspiciously. "You get a break, now. All these football pricks will leave you alone until this is resolved." This meaning Pascal taking his shot. "That's clever." She didn't say anything, just invited me to drown in her eyes. I stepped back from the edge of the boat. "You know, if they go too far, let me know. I'll put a stop to it."

"I can handle them. They are robalo. Sea bass. In clube de futebol Chester, there is only one shark."

I slow blinked and made a vague gesture. "Henri. Yes... But he's respectful. He won't overstep. Hmm. Could be trouble with him and Pascal, though." I bit my nail. There didn't seem to be anything I could do if two of my players went for the same woman. Or I could tell Henri she would be coming to the Darlington match and he'd be extra motivated, too. But that seemed gross. "Que sera sera," I said.

"Whatever will be," she said, then went through the kitchen door. It flapped towards me, and then away, and she was gone.

***

"What now?" said Pascal, a while later. We were in the city centre with plenty we could do and nothing we had to do. A few people stopped and asked me for selfies. No-one asked Pascal. This morning it would have depressed him, but now it seemed to fire him up.

"I don't feel like walking home. Let's go to the digs and I'll see if Henri will take me home on the scooter. Or I'll tell the Brig to bring the Duchess there, now that we've worked everything out."

"Did we work everything out?"

I shrugged. "We're men. We got close enough, I reckon."

"I agree."

We set off walking but then I saw something and panicked. "Shit," I said, pacing a different direction. "This way, quick." Pascal followed and I dived into a shop. "Upstairs," I said, and he went ahead. I stepped back onto the street to check what I'd seen.

Henri, dressed to the nines, walking with a big goofy smile, holding an enormous bouquet of roses. Heading, naturally, in the direction of Tiny Tino.

Fuck.

I went back inside and pretended I thought I had seen Welly, the guy who'd once threatened me, and asked Pascal to hang around for a couple of minutes. He agreed without hesitation. "I'll look after you, Max."

I gave him a friendly little slap. "You're like the older brother I never had."

He tutted and rolled his eyes, but he was pleased.

I checked his morale. With one neutral encounter with the official dream woman of Chester FC, his morale had soared from abysmal to very good. It would settle back to ok after the thrill had worn off. I suddenly felt bad. Would he want to know?

"Mate. There's something I need to tell you. About Henri."

"Yes?"

The flushed cheeks. The way he was projecting confidence and self-belief. I couldn't. I just couldn't. He was back from the dead, and to be honest, so was I. "Er... He's wrong about sweeper. It's going to work, and that's a Valentine's Day promise."