14.

Gardening glossary: hardening off. The process of moving plants from ideal growing conditions into a slightly harsher environment in order to prepare them for life in the cruel outside world.

***

Wednesday, September 18

It would be a warm day but it was still a cool morning. A slow morning. I watched a solitary cloud drift across the sky. Watched it for ages. It was going at the pace of a pensioner at a checkout on Saturday morning. Why couldn't they go during the week and leave Saturdays for people who had normal jobs?

A chill breeze hit my legs; I adjusted my blanket.

The cloud drifted. Some old boy who'd been working for forty years. He'd always done his shopping on a Saturday and he didn't want to change. Why should he change? Young people lived too fast anyway. They could learn a bit of patience. Wouldn't do them any harm.

The cloud kept going. It reminded me of Ryan Jack's running style. Slow, slow, he's never gonna get there - oh! He's there.

Another little gust caught me on the back of my neck. I wished I'd put a hoodie on. I wished a lot of things.

Since getting cursed I'd been going at breakneck speed earning various forms of capital and my reward was the freedom to retreat from the world when times got tough. The financial and job security to do my sulking in private. Next time anyone saw me, I'd be positive and upbeat and ready for a new day and a new challenge.

Today, though, I was allowed to wallow.

It was a higher level of wallowing than I'd ever had in my life. I'd taken the day off work without telling anyone. I'd made myself a breakfast with nice ingredients from Waitrose. And now I was in my garden. My private garden where I had privacy and where I wouldn't be disturbed. I could spend the day listening to old music, new music, texting my former players, looking for new ones, watching The Sopranos, eating expensive ice cream, or just watching a cloud slowly drift. I didn't have lobster money. I didn't have early retirement money. But I had lazy day in my garden money.

A car came, crunching onto the gravel around Ruth's drive. Voices - one male, one female. Footsteps. Footsteps getting closer.

Into my private world, my private wallow, sauntered Henri Lyons - just the two scarves today - and his Portuguese paramour, Luisa. They were holding hands and looked very European in their sunglasses and bright, light clothes. The intrusion, plus their happiness, was deeply annoying.

"Max!" said Henri, holding his hands out for a hug. I stayed where I was, tucked into my blanket like an old man.

"Uh," I said, which was all the welcome I could muster.

"What a nice day," he said, unaffected by the frosty reception.

Luisa was far more sensitive. "Hello, mister," she said.

"Yep," I agreed.

"I would like to discuss one or two things and Luisa was intrigued to see where you live. May we join you?" said Henri, looking left and right. There was only one chair and I was sitting in it.

I looked to my right. "Over there."

Henri frowned. My chair was on a brand new piece of decking which curled around the side and front of the house. The sweep of wooden flooring - or its outline, since the project was nowhere near finished - ended in a pergola. At least, it would one day. Next summer, maybe. For now about a third of the decking was in place, along with four simple posts to represent where the pergola would go. At the end of this path, inside the pillars, was a table with the other three chairs from the set. Henri jogged across - nice to have so much energy after a tough away game - and came back. He placed the chairs facing each other. Luisa adjusted hers to be angled looking towards the stable, same as my chair, and after a tiny pause, Henri copied her.

"This is very pleasant," said Luisa.

I sighed. I didn't want to talk to anyone but if I had to - and apparently I did - at least it was someone attractive. "It will be. I spent the whole summer working out what I wanted. Next year we'll do the rest, and start planting. I reckon it'll be good in, like, three years."

"Are you talking about the garden," twinkled Henri, "or your team?"

I glared at him. If he wanted to do some witty banter in front of his girl, he'd picked the wrong time. "The garden."

He realised something was wrong, but he bounced to his feet and wandered around looking at the line of the decking. He knelt and touched the surface, looked along the edge, and up at the cottage. "What is the concept?" he said.

"What makes you think there's a concept?" I said.

Henri smiled. "I see the hand of the creator, but you have terrible handwriting." Like all French people he believed you could understand someone's personality from their handwriting and defended the use of graphology in professional settings like the hiring process. Amazingly, this belief was not even in the top ten most annoying things about him. Certainly not after last night. "Explain it to me."

I swept my hand along the route of the decking. "Path of the sun. Breakfast area there. Glass of orange juice and the morning paper. Sun worshippers can move the furniture along and tan up. Or we can put a few different sets of chairs and loungers at key spots." I pointed downwards. "Eleven o'clock, cup of tea and a biccie." The deck ended a few yards away, but we had plotted out the rest with sticks and string. I pointed to a spot about ten yards away. "Four o'clock scone."

"What about lunch?" said Henri, alarmed.

"I'm not a barbarian; I don't eat lunch outside." I tutted and nodded at the end of the path. "Then the last of the evening light over there. Pergola. Hammocks. I wanted one of those hanging chairs but they're all shit."

"And?"

"What do you mean, and?"

"There's more. I know there's more."

I looked up, exasperated, but I noticed the cloud had gone. My lazy morning was over. Why? For a fucking chat? Henri was lucky he'd brought Luisa; she was the only thing keeping me civilised. "The spaces to the sides of the deck are for raised beds. Breakfast area will have spring plants. Round here it'll be summer stuff. Autumn at the pergola. It'll be like a living calendar. What date is it, Max? Oh, it's the seventh of begonias."

Henri grinned. "Wonderful."

"Big hedges over there to shelter us from the rest of the world. This floor is level with the doors. It'll be some old people living here one day. Ruth and the Brig, maybe. No trip hazards. Easy maintenance and planting. You could go mad with the planting or you could put begonias in and let them get on with it. I love begonias. I thought they were for old people but they're one of the best things. Easy. Some things should be easy. The reward you get from begonias compared to the effort is off the scale. I want to be sponsored by begonias."

Henri's smile had diminished as I'd talked about my new favourite flower but like an uncertain begonia after a stormy day, it quickly came back into full bloom with no extra work needed. "It's another masterpiece. The title-winning season, Silk! 2, and now this." He admired my vision for a while. "So you design it but Ruth pays."

"No, I'm paying. It's only fair. It's sort of like paying rent but I can stop if money gets tight. But to be honest I'm only buying materials and the Brig does the work. Him and a bunch of guys, ah, from his old job. So that, you know, no-one in Chester knows where I live." That angry little sword thrust missed Henri but hit Luisa. She looked away. They were both wearing expensive clothes and accessories. Henri was rich enough for two.

My financial situation was improving slowly but surely. I was getting 52 grand a year from Chester. Ziggy and Youngster were paying another six K. And our agency now had six clients and even though they were all young and not earning much individually, it added up. My cut of the agency's cut came to over eight thousand a year. I'd told Ruth she could reinvest my share of the dividends until further notice. My only real liability was West Didsbury. I'd committed to putting in fifteen thousand a year but that was pretty easy. At some point, I would have to repay Mateo's loan, but it didn't seem like something out of reach or potentially ruinous. Especially the way West had started the season - they were almost as dominant as Chester's women. No, there was only one team that was floundering.

Thinking about how far I'd come since quitting at the call centre helped my little pang of ire die down. "I want to leave this place better than I found it. And yes, now I'm talking about Chester, too."

There followed what should have been a lovely, peaceful silence as we all contemplated our roles in the world or whatever, but something was off. They were sort of staring at me. Eventually, I realised I was supposed to offer them sustenance. They come to my gaff unannounced and uninvited and I have to give them my stuff. What a scam! (Me going to the digs unannounced and uninvited was different. I was checking on the young players.) I was sure both had grown up in houses where friends and neighbours popped in and out and they were constantly offering ham and a secret Mediterranean concoction called something like pinchy. They were trained hosts; I wasn't.

"Do you want a drink? Cold plum?"

"Don't trouble yourself," said Luisa.

"It's no trouble," I lied. I steeled myself and tried not to groan as I got up. I gathered the blanket and dropped it onto the chair behind me. Luisa made a horrified little recoiling noise. "What? The shorts? They're a bit much, I know. I was in the shop and this guy was being annoying so to get rid of him I asked if they sold anything in gammon pink. It was easier to buy them than explain I was joking."

"Does it hurt?" said Luisa.

"What? Oh, the bruises. That's normal for a football player after a tough away fixture. Isn't it, Henri? Key players like me and Henri get the shit kicked out of us. Don't we, Henri? In service of the team and all that. Let's see your legs, mate."

"He doesn't have bruises," said Luisa.

Henri was trying to beg me not to pursue this conversation but I was in pain and I had suffered for nothing. I'd put almost everything I had into last night's match and we'd lost two-nil and it had been a non-stop series of kicks from the other team and slaps in the face from my players. Henri had contributed the square root of fuck all, except in the slaps to my face department. "Nah, check again, he must. He's a ferocious striker. He's not some five-out-of-ten layabout who does the bare minimum in training and sits back while I try to be the defence, midfield, and attacking threat all on my own. My star striker wouldn't fucking do that to me."

I went inside and nearly punched the fridge. Six-nil win, all systems firing. Two-nil defeat, nothing works. Two steps forward, one step back. Incredibly frustrating.

Back outside, I handed Luisa a glass.

"What's this?" she said.

"Apple and grape mix from a local farm. It's really delicious and sells out in days but they aren't interested in making it into a business. That's a big fraction of their yearly production you're holding."

"I'm honoured."

"Consider it payback for all the thoughtful and solicitous service you gave me at Tiny Tino."

She correctly interpreted that as sarcasm, but tried the drink and her eyes widened. "It's good!"

Henri held his glass up and stared through it. "What's this?"

"That's warm tap water."

Henri sipped it. "Can I have a splash of apple and grape juice? For the taste?"

"Limit one glass per tour group. I knew you'd be chivalrous and let Luisa have it."

His eyebrows rose and he drank half the glass. "Max. Can we talk about football?"

"Football!" I said, astonished. "Are you sure you want to talk about football? In front of Luisa?"

The implication was that I would savage his efforts in training and in last night's match. He eyed her and decided the best thing would be to plough ahead. "I'm worried about the team."

"I think there's a Facebook group for people like you."

"I'm worried you might be burned out again. You've been working very hard. Is it possible you're starting to make more mistakes than usual?" I didn't reply, so he continued. "Cole Adams last night. You said you played him for his height but he made one minor slip-up and you subbed him off after twenty-two minutes."

"You think I was too patient."

That threw him. "Pardon me?"

"I've given him very specific instructions on how to receive the ball, I've given him extra training on how to receive the ball, but as soon as the pressure's on he reverts back to his old ways. He did it twice in the first twenty minutes last night. They went unnoticed - by you - because nothing came of them, but Solihull got a break the third time. He seems to think he has a choice in the matter. He'll do as he's told or he won't play. Nothing irrational about that."

"He's just a boy."

"No, he's a left back."

"Pardon me?"

"On Monday, he's a boy. He can walk around collecting Pokemon. On Wednesday, he's a boy. He can go and stand on a street corner and try to look tough. On Tuesday night he's my starting left back and he needs to play like a left back. He needs to be more afraid of me than the other team's right mid. What? You think he'll have a sparkling fifteen-year career doing the opposite of what his manager tells him? You think I'm hurting his career by trying to make him a better player? Right now I don't even want better. I'll settle for functional. There's a reason he got cut from his academy and it's because he's timid. He'll play fearless football or he'll go back to being a sad statistic. If he does what I tell him he'll get fifty grand a week, fast cars, slow women, a ticket on the escape ship to Mars. If he doesn't, he'll spend the rest of his life laying bricks. Why the fuck would you discourage me from pushing him to be better? Why am I the only one giving him the advice he fucking needs to make it in the industry he says he wants to make it in?" The anger was making my bruises throb, so I switched it off. "If you want to play, you must obey."

To my right, Luisa took a sip of her drink. I felt her eyes on me. She probably thought I was being a brat.

Henri took a drink, too. He must have told Luisa the topics he was planning to bring up because there was no other earthly reason why he would have continued to wind me up. "What about WibRob?"

"What about him?"

"You dropped him from the squad."

"Did you hear me tell him not to chase defenders all over Chester like a dog following a car?"

"I did."

"Did you see him chase defenders?"

"Yes."

"So, what? What's the conversation?"

A look of distaste crossed his face, and it wasn't from the delicious northern water. "I do not like this authoritarian Max."

"See, you think you've got some kind of moral high ground here but to me you're just showing that you don't give a shit about these kids. You think you do, but you don't. Cole absolutely must make the change I'm insisting on and Will absolutely must not develop into an all-rounder. That's an absurd waste of his talents. I'm turning him into one of the purest attacking threats in world football. He'll thrill fans all around the world and be paid half a million a week to do it. Managers at World Cups will base their tactical plans around trying to stop him. It's my duty to the England national team and to football to shape him into the best player he can be. So do as you're fucking told, you stupid fucking prick."

Luisa took another sip.

Henri shook his head. "But what you did with Youngster? It was cruel. Cruel, Max."

"What do you mean?"

He nearly matched my levels of anger, but the sun was out in force and was warming him up. It smoothed out some of his edges. "You knew there was a scout from Ghana at the match last night and you dropped Youngster. He was heartbroken."

"Don't shoot from thirty yards, then."

"You are without remorse?"

"Absolutely. It's my job to turn these fucks into players. Proper players. I have to leave them better than I found them. It's like, my mission. Sometimes it'll be distasteful. I don't enjoy it," I added in a mumble. I leaned forward and ran my palm down my shin. "It's bruising.” Back in my normal voice, I said, “I've been learning about hardening off. If I grow begonias from seed I need to harden them up before planting them outside. Same with these young players. There aren't enough senior players in the dressing room, not enough voices echoing my messages. That's my fault for changing too much too fast. So if I have to get more extreme, I will, and that means speaking the only language you pricks understand - being dropped from the team. You think I like shouting at Youngster? He's the best young man I've ever met. But he's a possessed kid and I'm the exorcist. It's my job and while I do enjoy having you pop along to complain about what a meanie I am, I'm going to keep doing my job and I'll fight for those young men and I won't quit until the moment they quit on themselves."

Luisa made a weird noise. It almost sounded like - ah, no. She was merely out of juice. I summoned some mobility, got up, and pottered into the house. I came back with a bottle of the juice. I filled her glass and handed her something wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll. I handed Henri the bottle and sat down.

"This is the locally-sourced, organic, artisanal juice?" he said, reading the label. It said Waitrose on it.

"Yep. I lied to you. And I lied to WibRob." I watched as Luisa bit into the chilled plum. "He's had a burst of game time. More than I'm comfortable with. He only played against Eastleigh because Dieter Bauer was in town and that's a memory I'm happy to give both men. No, my plan was always to give him a long break after his first start and now he's got the opportunity to think about whether he wants to be shit or to do as he's told. He gets to stew and feel bad. His body gets a break and he gets mentally hardened off. I think that's pretty good, tbh. And I lied to Youngster. There was no scout from Ghana."

Henri tutted. "King hell."

"He's already been scouted. There's this lazy prick who's paid like forty grand a year - part-time - to find players who qualify for Ghana and are based in the UK and Ireland. It's amazing money for not much work, but he's optimised it even further. He's worked out that he can do it without ever leaving London. He's already sent Youngster's name to headquarters; he’ll get invited to a sort of open day."

Henri was partially placated. "Good. That's good. Yes, Youngster will be pleased when he finds out. But now he is upset!"

"Not as upset as he'll be when he shoots from forty yards in the World Cup semi-final, blasts it into orbit, and Portugal run down the other end and score the winner! Not as upset as he'll be when a hundred million people make him public enemy number one!" I took my phone out and did a search. "The population of Ghana is thirty-three million. He's not gonna be an effective warrior for Christ in the eyes of thirty-three million people if he keeps doing moronic things. He is fucking dogshit at shooting and every time he shoots it relieves the pressure and makes us have to dig even deeper and everyfuckingbody smiles and laughs and thinks it's fucking hilarious. It's bad enough my stupid players do stupid things without my smart ones getting in on the act, too. I had the idea to sub him off every time he did it but if I sub Cole off every time he retreats and sub Youngster off every time he shoots and William every time he tackles and you every time you don't work the channels - "

"Can I have a chilled plum?"

"No."

Henri had been expecting the rejection. He decided he was warm enough to take one of his scarves off. He folded it neatly. "We beat Eastleigh and the season grew wings. It feels to me and some others that you clipped those wings the very next match."

"Solihull are much better than Eastleigh." Solihull had put out a formidable, experienced team with an average CA of 73 - twenty points ahead of us. "The budgets of the teams we're playing are crazy. We're tiny compared to everyone in the top half of the table. We have every disadvantage but if we play our best we can compete. You pricks think Dieter Bauer sprinkled stardust on you and you're complete players, now. That's not how it goes. You want it, you have to work for it. I'm working. Brooke's working. MD's working. Everyone's working except the senior players! Last night was dispiriting. It was like the start of a TV show. Previously on Chester FC. You want to skip it, but you realise it's not the intro. It's happening again! Ben distracted at corners, Cole doing that second-rate shit, Zach getting involved in nonsense, Wisey and Magnus too busy putting out fires to help with attacks, and me getting double-marked and triple-fouled. If I've got three guys kicking lumps out of me, mate, where's the rest of the team? There's got to be space somewhere."

"We need a space invader."

The sun had been working its magic on me, too. Making me less belligerent. But much of my annoyance came back in a steely glare. "Excuse me?"

"How can we win without our best players? Cole is better than Josh. Youngster and WibRob add a lot. And Pascal..."

"Bout him?"

Henri looked towards the pergola. "I know you dropped him because of his attitude towards me. I can survive a few huffs and puffs, Max."

"You can. The team can't."

I'd floored him again. "Pardon me?"

"Zero tolerance."

"For what?"

"There's no point talking about it."

"But tell us what is really wrong so we can fix it. Why do we work so hard with the Exit Triallists but not with him? What is his crime?"

I looked around. I was trying to make a garden that Emma and I would like to sit in. "I want to play with players I want to play with. Past Henri, very much so, WibRob, yes. Youngster, yes. Zach, Carl, Sticky, yes. Cole, borderline right now, the prick, but should be a solid yes. Do you get me?" I pulled a face like Luisa's when she bit into the plum and spoke very clearly. "I don't want to play with Pascal."

"I understand," said Luisa. "If I was a boss, I would be like you. But I wouldn't have so many young men. I would fill my team with sharks."

"Sharks are out of my reach," I said.

"I feel your pain," she said. "But you could afford grown men, not babies."

"My babies will become sharks."

"Because you are the shark daddy, yes?"

"Some shark. Every time I bare my teeth, everyone complains."

"Not everyone," she said, but then she fell silent.

I leaned forward and rubbed my bruises. I wanted to tell Henri off. If you want to help the team, mate, take some of these hits for me. Fucking chip in a bit, hey? But I'd been snarky enough. "Eleven points from ten games. Already twelve points behind Grimsby. Feels like I'm banging my head against a brick wall trying to get through to certain people. I'll have lunch and take a nap and I'll feel better in a bit. And there's one thing that isn't shit about today." I took my phone out and brought up a list. "It's the FA Youth Cup draw. We're going into the Second Qualifying Round. Do you want to hear some of the teams left in the competition?" Luisa did. "Three Bridges. Sounds like a maths problem. Kingstonian. Thatcham Town. Imagine the cottages in Thatcham town! Boldmere St Michaels. Think of all the murders that go on round there. Bishop's Cleeve. What's a cleeve? Eversley and California. What? Hereford Pegasus. Larkfield & New Hythe Wanderers. God, sometimes I love this country." I picked my feet up and adjusted them so there would be at least a token amount of blood flow. "I want to be an old man in a quiet little village called Bumpty St Windermere and I want to have naps with my black cat and I want to potter around and talk about begonias with my neighbour, who used to run the dormant accounts section of a bank and who is completely discreet until you get him sozzled, which is only possible twice a year. That's all I want. Is that too much to ask? But in the meantime I'm the manager of a football club and there's no manual and almost everyone else in my position is doing an utterly, utterly shit job. I'm doing it the only way I know how and if Cole, Will, and James think they know football better than me that's their choice. I'm doing what I think's right - for them. Shock therapy. Learn fast, boy, because your career is already nearly over." I rubbed my eyebrow. "People who don't want to be part of the team can leave the team. People who want to play shit can play shit and hope Tom Westwood stops improving so fast."

Henri tutted. "You're in pain. I shouldn't have come."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"No, it was lovely. We must do this again sometime. How about two years from now? You'll see my perfect plan has been messed up by many disobedient flowers."

Luisa gave me a five star smile. "The plants who disobey can be torn out and replaced by ones who will."

I groaned as I got to my feet. My legs were fucking killing me. I went inside and came back out with a small cake box that I handed to Luisa. "The official snack of Chester FC." I handed something cold and round wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll to Henri and took the bottle of juice from him.

"Thanks for coming. Bye."

***

I ate and tried to sleep, but my phone kept pinging. I left it charging in the bedroom and went off for a mini digital detox, touring in the garden wondering if my concept was merely a good story or if there was any actual merit to it. How hard would it be to have eleven or twelve planters with different plants inside? Easy for a gardener; hard for me. Do ten begonias and one or two fancy dans, that was the ticket.

The garden was taking shape but it was still early days. I'd invested a lot of time and money so far, but it wasn't too late to rip it all up and redo it. I could switch the concept, redirect the path, change the planting scheme.

Are you talking about the garden or the football team? I thought to myself in a French accent.

Sam Topps was a begonia. The perfect set and forget footballer.

I tried to walk a bit faster to get the blood pumping.

I had replaced Sam with James Wise. In footballing terms, a good substitute. They grew in the same soil, needed the same amounts of praise (sun) and fertiliser (movie-based team talks). But Wisey was new in the dressing room. He didn't have roots in the area or in the squad. I couldn't count on him to tell the young players to up their game.

Glenn was a begonia, but he was the captain. He had admin to do, bigger picture stuff to do. He wouldn't get in the weeds.

Carl Carlile was a good example of how to play and train but honestly, he was pretty selfish. Not in a bad, destructive way, but he wouldn't think of offering advice to a young player the way I wouldn't think to offer a guest a drink. I had asked him to mentor Cole Adams and he had agreed, but it didn't seem like he had done anything.

Magnus was slightly apart from the main group because one, he was weird and two, he had additional duties as a physio.

No, if I was looking for someone to step into the Sam Topps void it was going to be Ryan Jack or Henri.

Which meant it was going to be Ryan Jack.

***

By the evening, I could walk as normal again. I expected some pain to return as I fell to sleep and to have some stiffness in the morning. I wouldn't train but I'd be able to play on Saturday. There was no way I could take that kind of savaging twice a week. While I was the team's only star, opponents would smash me up like I was an avocado.

I needed a starting eleven that could compete and win without me and that seemed further off than ever. At the rate we were picking up points, we would be in a relegation scrap. The Chester fans believed in me, in us, but they were getting restless.

It was all so frustrating because I'd done it to myself. All I had to do was sign b-boys (begonia-boys) instead of tender, fragile orchids or weird hostas that turned to dust if they got too much water on a full moon. And my management skills seemed to be getting worse. I hadn't tracked it during the conversation but Henri's morale had dipped after he visited me. Cole Adams' was in the toilet, as was Youngster's and WibRob's. I felt like I'd lost some buy-in from the team and even the coaches.

A trio of ducks flew overhead, quacking and flapping their arms in a mad desperation not to plummet. They brought a smile. Cole Adams, William, Youngster. Today, ugly ducklings. Tomorrow, million-pound swans. Compared to me, David Cutter was shit. Ian Evans was shit. All football managers were shit. I knew the names of all my players and I wanted them to reach their goals. That put me miles ahead.

I went to get my phone and found a flurry of messages.

Secretary Joe: FA Youth Cup, Second Round Qualifying. We're away to Walsham-le-Willows F.C. Tier nine, same as your West Didsbury. Four hours to Bury St Edmunds. Big away day! The boys will love it!

Brig: Chunks has been persuaded not to pursue action against you or the club. He claims he didn't have a backer.

Sandra: I watched the match back with Vimsy. This insistence on a good first touch is still so alien to him but he's starting to get it. By the way, that sudden switch to 3-5-2 blows my mind! I tried to explain how cool it was to V. He said it didn't help us win any headers. He's a work in progress :)

MD: I'm not sure if this is a joke but the Slovakian national team wants to play a friendly at the Kirschgarten Gravity Drip Solutions stadium next year.

MD: That name's too long, isn't it? Shit.

Brooke: Ryan says I could cheer you up by announcing we've secured an official Malaysian tractor partner. Do you want an official Malaysian tractor partner? I can get you an official Malaysian tractor partner.

Ryan Jack: My mate's the assistant manager at Runcorn. They love Benny. Apparently he's kicking on. Just FYI.

Ziggy: You okay, boss? You got banged up pretty bad and then didn't talk to anyone the whole ride home. I just wanted to say thanks for bringing me in. I'd like more minutes but it's awesome. It's intense. I'm learning a lot.

***

On Thursday I went to BoshCard but only to get a free breakfast and some sympathy from Livia. She fussed over my shins, recommended the new Greek yoghurt from our canteen, and asked an unexpected question. "Have you seen who's here?"

For a second, I thought Dieter Bauer might have turned up, but I knew he was back in Germany. Livia refused to say who it was, so I walked out towards the pitches. On first glance, I saw that we were doing a 4-1-4-1 versus 4-4-2 drill. On second glance, I saw who the visitor was and it was with some surprise that I found myself taking a place on the touchline next to Luisa. I scanned the pitch and the intensity of training seemed normal. I looked back at Henri's girlfriend and was struck by the shitness of the brown tracksuit she was wearing.

"I learned a new word," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Tartlet."

I smiled and was about to reply when suddenly Wes Hayward was in front of us. He was slightly out of breath but not so much that he couldn't talk. "Boss. I want to apologise for Tuesday night. I was terrible."

I tried to work out what he was talking about. I mean, he'd given me five out of ten but his full back was miles better than him and I had no other options. "You gave it your all like you always do. The result was my fault. If there was an apology queue, you'd be at the back."

Luisa jutted her chin out. "You are Wesley. You are the Shark."

"Well," started Wes.

Luisa gave him double barrels of something and I got very jealous very quickly. "I like sharks. When I first saw you play, I was enchanted. You have much potential."

"Oh," said Wes.

"I see what Senhor Best sees in you."

"You do?"

"Sim. But you do not get better by talking." Wes opened his mouth, but closed it again and walked away in something of a daze. After about ten seconds, he rejoined the match. "Henrique!" she cried. Henri looked confused for a moment, then drifted closer with a blissful look on his face. Bliss departed on the very next train. "What is the word you taught me? The one to describe something that is moving very little, like an escultura?"

"Statuesque."

"Exatamente! You may go now. We are talking about you."

Henri walked away until he was back in the slot between the two opposing centre backs. He looked over at Luisa and seemed to come to life. Instead of standing on his heels, he jogged left and right and when his team next got the ball, sprinted short, turned, and sprinted looking for a ball over the top. Henri Lyons, movement 20.

I watched it happen with a sense that I knew almost nothing about man management and was, in fact, standing next to a true expert.

"What are you doing?" I said, making no attempt to hide my admiration.

"Helping you," she said.

"Why?"

"That is for me. Where is Pascal?"

"He has a bad back."

She mumbled in Portuguese for a while. I'm fairly sure it was all complimentary.

The match was... okay. Henri was doing well in patches, but then he would get distracted. Wes seemed to have lost his top gear. Youngster was subdued. WibRob had been demoted to a sub, which given there were 22 players on the pitch was quite something. "I'm no gardener," I said.

While I did a huge, internal, soul-shaking sigh at my various and many failures, Sharky finally found sixth gear and went to press Cole Adams, playing as the reserve team left back. Panicked by Sharky’s speed, he did his fucking maddening defensive, crabby first touch. All the energy in the move vanished. His team's forward momentum was gone and now the best thing that could happen was that they would pass the ball across the pitch in a boring horseshoe. The worst thing that could happen - as had happened three times in twenty minutes on Tuesday night - was a good break for the other team. My head dropped. Sandra blew her whistle in a sad way - I didn't even know that was possible. The Brig wasn't around. It was my job to do something, but I couldn't think what. I took a step closer to Cole but was immediately pulled back. Luisa had grabbed my wrist.

"Wait," she said.

Sandra glanced at me; I did a subtle palm-down gesture. She nodded and pulled Vimsy back.

"Wait," repeated Luisa.

The guys on the pitch looked around. Twenty-two players looking from me to Sandra to Vimsy. There was a huge, Sam Topps-shaped hole in the scene.

"DUDE!" cried an American voice. Zach had his arms out and he was looking at Carl.

It took a good few seconds for Carl to realise what Zach meant, but he sort of woke up with a jolt and walked towards Cole. He put his arm around the young full back and led him off. They walked away and after a surprisingly discreet moment, Zach bellowed again. "Tens or subs?"

"Will left mid," I said. WibRob ran on and Josh automatically moved back one slot. Some of our moves were butter smooth even without the curse.

Zach nodded. "Man down, boys! We're three at the back!"

Henri threw his hands up in dismay. "Magnus right back, Youngster centre mid. 4-4-1!"

"We're the first team!" yelled Zach. "We can take what they throw at us!"

Henri and several others turned to me. I hid behind my hand and whispered to Luisa. "Are they still looking?"

"Jes."

"This is my biggest mistake. Trying to do everything. How do I do everything but it's never enough?"

"Restart while they don't know what to do."

I signalled and Sandra blew her whistle. Zach rushed to the right, Youngster dropped to centre back, and Magnus dropped to DM. After another minute, they had reorganised themselves into a narrow 4-1-3-1 with Youngster as DM. Solid with a hint of attacking threat. The ten of the first team outperformed the eleven of the reserves. "I'm not sure what I'm learning," I said.

"Wait," she said.

"I know why you keep saying wait," I said, giving her double barrels of whatever I've got.

"Jes?" she said.

"It's because you're a waitress."

She looked up at me, eyes damp, shaking as though I'd said the funniest thing in the history of language. She wiped at her eyes. "Oh my God."

Carl and Cole came back from their pep talk. "Will CAM," I said, putting WibRob up against Youngster. "Carl, stay off." The firsts had ten, the reserves twelve. The intensity ramped up several notches. Passes, tackles, sprints. Shit got real.

"This is good," said Luisa.

"How do you know football?"

"Concentrate."

I walked away, watching the action. Cole touched the ball forward, thought about it, and turned back. Carl clapped. "Yes, mate!" Ziggy and Tom Westwood tried to give Glenn and Zach something to think about. Steve Alton went on his version of a rampaging run from right back.

But the real drama was Youngster versus WibRob. Youngster exchanged passes with Zach, but found William blocking his passing lanes. "Yes!" I called out. Again Youngster took possession but had to touch the ball back. "Perfect!" I called. "That's perfect, Will!" WibRob was defending without tackling or using up all his energy. It was a physical effort to chase Youngster, sure, but he was sticking to his zone.

The next time Youngster got the ball, he dipped his shoulder and played a one-two with Wisey. At first, WibRob chased after his housemate, but he stopped with a sort of depressed huff. "There! There!" I called. William looked over his shoulder. He couldn't see what I was looking at. "There!" I said, arms outstretched.

"There's nothing there!" he called back.

"Exactly!"

By now, the firsts had zipped the ball around and were threatening the box. I saw Youngster think about shooting and think twice - he slipped the ball to Sharky, who was held up by Cole. Sharky tried a left-footed cross - I couldn't help but shake my head even though I was trying to be less of a dick - and Sticky took the ball in his oversized hands. Without thinking twice, he hurled the ball to the right of halfway where WibRob had taken a position in the huge hole between the lines.

He plucked the ball from the air as easily as picking up a remote control, and then it was simply a choice of choosing from the thousand channels he had at his disposal.

William B. Roberts pushed the ball forward, accelerated, and there was immediate pandemonium in my first team defence. It was thrilling. A man would have to be all kinds of stubborn not to put him right back in the match day squad.

I gripped Luisa's elbow and turned her to face me. I bent so that I was partially looming over her. "Listen up. If you break my friend's heart..."

Her eyes were massive. "Jes?"

"Do it after the playoffs."

I walked towards Sandra and away from a stream of language that would make a Portuguese or Brazilian sailor blush. Sandra did a little hop as she watched the on-pitch action come to a conclusion, while Vimsy emitted a loud "ooh!" When their attention fell on me, I said, "Southend plan. Four four two defensive long ball."

"Oh?" she said. She closed her eyes for a second, no doubt picturing a tactics board. "Left back?"

"Eddie."

"Second striker?"

"Tom."

"Mid?"

"Magnus, Sharky."

"Where will you play?"

"I won't. I don't bloom till the winter."

"Vimsy, can you translate from poem to English?"

Luisa had followed me over. "He'll play the end of the match." She had one more thing to say but she didn't want to say it. She sighed. "Not long ball, I beg of you."

"Southend will expect us to play with a single striker," I said. "They will use these slow full backs who take amazing corners. We'll blitz them with Aff and Sharky. They won't know what hit them."

"I don't want to watch long ball."

"Are you going down to Southend?"

She brightened. "It's away? Oh. Then debase yourselves if you want. Just so long as I don't have to watch it."

She strode off towards the mobile kitchen making the shit brown tracksuit look better than anything I've ever seen on a catwalk.

"Bloody hell," said Vimsy.

"Southend will take one guy off at half time. If I know their squad as well as I think I do, they'll end up with a 5-3-2 playing pretty direct. Sandra, can you give me an option for the start of the second half and then one for when I come on at about seventy minutes?"

"I'll think about it, boss. Er, Max. Are you all right?"

I took a few beats to watch the players. There was a ton of green in their player profiles. The guys who had lost morale because of my interventions were working harder than ever. Some of the intangible stuff I thought was missing was actually there, if you really looked for it. If you waited for it.

One bad but expected result had made me question my entire Maxterplan. It wasn't just my young players who needed hardening off. I wasn't quite ready for the big bad world, myself. "I... yeah. Yeah, actually. Tuesday knocked me a bit, if I'm honest."

"It's not all flowers, boss," said Vimsy. “You’re doing great.”

***

Match 11 of 46: Southend United vs Chester

To get to Southend you drive south-east and keep going. Get off at junction 29 or you'll end up in France. Next season we would drive down the day before the match and stay in a hotel, but we didn't have hotel money, yet.

Southend had CA 64, no surprises, and their manager felt safe naming the two slow full backs. We were CA 50.8, which was surprisingly low even by the abysmal standards we'd been setting. Eight of the players were at least silver class, with Carl, Aff, and Henri gold. The average was sucked down by James Wise - who wouldn't let us down - Sharky, whose speed and ability to repeat sprint added 20 points to his effective CA at this level, and Tom, who would run around and be a relentless nuisance. There was no Cole, Youngster, or WibRob in the squad and they hadn't travelled with the team 'to save money'.

Our tactical plan was simple - knock it long for Tom Westwood to chase. If the ball went to the right wing, Tom would compete for it while Henri and Sharky supported. If we got the ball, we would have three guys close together high up the pitch with Aff bombing into the penalty area on the other side. All we had to do, really, was absorb some pressure. Let Southend push up against our lines so that when we broke, it would be devastating.

The plan worked too well. We had four incredible chances in the first ten minutes and scored one of them as Aff popped up at the far post to nod home a cross from Henri. Southend retreated for a while, reorganised, and swapped their left back after only twenty minutes. The new guy had low CA but was fast - just about fast enough to deal with Sharky.

The rest of the first half was a brutal non-league slog. Long balls, high balls, long throws, people yelling 'don't let it bounce!' and 'away!' I'd put out a Sunday league pub team. It was utter cringe.

"Good game this," said Vimsy.

Southend's higher quality told and they equalised. At half time I put Ziggy on for an exhausted Tom and with twenty minutes to go, brought Omari and myself on, replacing Magnus and Sharky. I changed the team's mentality to attacking with short passes. We played dainty triangles in midfield while beefy boys hacked at my shins and ankles. I Let It Happen, moving the ball back to the edge of our own box, getting pressed from all sides, before dinking the ball to the one place Southend hadn't covered.

And then...

Best exchanges passes with Naysmith.

Best is forced back towards his own goal.

He stumbles! Danger for Chester.

But Best launches a pass out to the left.

Aff is free! He races down the wing. He has options in the middle.

He decides to cut the ball square.

Lyons wasn't expecting it. He has to check his run. What can he do with this?

Lyons holds off a challenge, waits, and finds Ziggy with a scooped pass! A fantastic piece of creativity!

Ziggy with only the keeper to beat...

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

His first goal for the club puts them ahead.

Ziggy went full Tardelli, treating it like the goal that won us the title instead of one that moved us four places up the table. For once I went over to join the celebrations. My share of his goal bonus was four whole pounds! I soaked up the atmosphere in front of the away fans. They'd travelled down the same as us. Four hours to watch some Ian Evans back to basics football. After the pain, the pleasure.

The acoustics of Roots Hall meant the away fans could make a hell of a racket and they did so now. "Max Best's blue and white army! Max Best's blue and white army!"

I longed to put on a show but we badly needed the three points. I gritted my teeth and went back to the right midfield slot where I'd been pretending to play. The tactics board showed I was being man-marked by the left mid. I could have had a lot of fun with that, but it wasn't a day for fun. It was a day to grind out a result.

We went back to grinding. Every throw-in contested, every 50-50 a prize fight, every header a stride closer to victory.

Henri was playing like his old self. Not quite as sharp, not quite as fast or agile, but every bit as brave. He rushed to get in front of a loose ball knowing a centre back would absolutely clatter him. Pain for Henri, but we had a free kick in Max Best territory.

Omari, the cheeky fuck, said he quite fancied it. I told him where to go, and made doubly sure with Masterpiece Theatre. Omari to the halfway line. My beefy boys to the far post. Henri to the near. Ziggy right in the middle.

The ref blew. I took a few more seconds, looked at the left of the goal, stepped forward, and hit it with about seventy percent power towards the far right. Steve Alton hadn't been in the team much and maybe he hadn't come up on Southend's scouting reports because why else would he find himself with a free header? The goalie was rushing to my right - Steve redirected the ball left.

Three-one, and this time the celebrations were even louder.

***

In the dressing room, Zach had appointed himself DJ. He blasted out Iron, Lion, Zion, and fist bumped everyone except Steve Alton, who got a hug. Next he played one from the Spice Girls so we could sing Ziggy's song. A few people joined in, but most were too shattered.

Sandra showed me the league table. Our record was four wins, two draws, five defeats and our fourteen points placed us fourteenth with a goal difference of minus one. "I hate having a negative goal difference," I said.

"We can fix that on Tuesday," she said.

"Consider it done," I said.

I took my boots and shinpads off. Even my bruises had bruises. I closed my eyes and knew I would spend another 36 hours hobbling around. I would recover just in time for the home match against Boreham Wood.

Over on the left, Henri was slumped forwards, looking as wrecked as I felt. I got up and tried to walk in a way that wouldn't hurt. Henri's legs were mashed, covered in cuts and proto-bruises. He'd worked his arse off, used his quality to get two assists, used his bravery to get us a free kick. Seeing him willing to put his body on the line for the team, seeing what it had cost him, I got the oddest feeling, like I was a glass of champagne. Bubbles rose from my feet all the way through me.

We had our striker back. We had a focal point. We had a chance.

He looked up and when he saw my expression he broke into a huge, lop-sided grin. "What?" he said.

I reached out my hand and he automatically did the same. As we shook, I said, "Welcome back."

He tutted and tried to act annoyed.

"Tom," I said. The young man tried to sit next to Henri in every dressing room and he was watching us with wide eyes. "Did you see that?"

"The handshake? The eye roll?"

"That performance. That ten-out-of-ten exhibition of the striker's arts."

"Yes, boss."

"I'm learning about plants and flowers. Daffodils are mint but they're only for the start of spring. Magnolia trees are the absolute best but they bloom for like, a week." I jabbed my index finger at Henri. "What I want is the plant version of Henri."

"Max, stop, please," said Henri, with total and complete insincerity.

"Hard work, bravery, headers, first touch, composure, imagination, teamwork. This is a striker for all seasons. Watch and learn, mate. Watch and learn."

I shuffled towards the showers and noted that Henri's morale had shot to maximum.

***

Wednesday, September 25

The timing of the meeting was unfortunate, since I'd once again taken some enormous hits the night before and wasn't likely to communicate in a cool, calm, and collected way. It seemed like it was all just a formality, though. Sign a few papers, scurry back home to lick my wounds. Easy.

The venue was the train station hotel, presumably because that was convenient for someone from the board, or maybe just because it had good parking.

I got out of the Duchess, took a second to steady myself, and shambled in the direction of the reception area.

MD spotted me and came to get me. "We're this way."

"Slow down, you dick."

"Oh!" He looked at my legs. "Are you all right?"

"My shins look like begonias. I think someone's put the word out that the way to beat us is to kick me out of the game."

He smiled. "It's not working, though, is it? Another win! Things are starting to cook." I nodded. We were up to eleventh and parts of the team were showing signs of properly clicking into place. "Is this the new strategy?"

"What?"

"Keep things tight for seventy minutes then you come on and blow them away."

"Two-nil isn't my idea of blowing teams away. But yeah, it's sort of become the plan. I might start against Woking, though. Do a twenty-five minute blitz at the start instead of at the end. Keep teams guessing."

"In here," he said, and we went into a businessy meeting room. Secretary Joe was there, with a lot of papers on the table in front of him. Representing the board was Sumo, my Twitch stream buddy, Violet, the one who was mostly interested in the women's team, and James Pond. James Pond, I'd realised, was the sort of person who goes on YouTube music videos and leaves the comment 'Who is still listening to this in 2024?' In other words, an implacable enemy of all that is good and decent in this world.

Pascal Bochum was on the far end of the table, arms folded, not looking at anyone. He had managed to dress like a normal human being for once. Maybe he realised there was no point showing off to a group of people he'd never see again.

MD said, "Brooke can't make it so since we're all here, maybe we can get started? Start early, leave early." On hearing that the hot Texan wouldn't be joining, Sumo made a little noise and even James Pond looked put out. MD continued. "The purpose of this meeting is to discuss mutually terminating Pascal Bochum's contract and to sign the paperwork that will allow him to leave and continue his career elsewhere." No-one said anything. "Max, it has been requested that you explain this so the board can feed it back to the fans."

"There's nothing to explain. Pascal isn't happy and he has found a new club. Bosh."

James Pond adjusted his glasses. "If a club wants Pascal Bochum's registration they should approach us and pay a transfer fee. You are suggesting we allow an asset to walk out the door."

"He's not an asset, he's an eighteen-year-old boy who is unhappy and who deserves a shot at happiness."

"I'm minded to resist this. I do not like being railroaded."

I looked up. "Pascal, do you think your new club would pay a one pound transfer fee?"

He glanced at me. "Yes."

"Great. I don't need the board's permission to make transfers. We'll do it that way instead of the decent way."

"I won't be able to play until January," said Pascal.

I rapped the table. "That's right. But sorry, James Pond doesn't give a shit about you. He has his own ambitions for this club."

Pond took his glasses off, did something with his face, and slipped them back on. "My assessment of the playing staff indicates that Pascal is one of our leading performers - when he plays. It is patently absurd to let him go without testing the market. We could generate interest, start a bidding war."

"Your assessment is wrong," I said. "Pascal is bad at football and he's too short to play in this league."

Pascal's head jerked up, but soon settled back.

MD said, "James, Max is acting in the best interests of the player and the club."

Violet looked at Pascal. "Do you want us to sign these papers?" He nodded; she did the same. "That's enough for me."

"I'm ready," said Sumo. "I'm very sorry to see you go Pascal, and I hope you do well at your next place. I'll be looking out for you."

Secretary Joe passed the first copy to MD. He signed three copies and passed them across to James Pond. I intercepted one of them and flicked through it. James Pond glared at the documents now in his possession, sucked down some nascent rage, and clicked his pen.

"Hang on," I said. Pond stopped, mid-sig. "Joe, you've put the wrong birth date. You've done it American."

He leaped to his feet and grabbed a copy from James Pond. "Oh my God," he said, aghast. It was probably no big deal but he prided himself on the quality of his paperwork. "I'm so sorry, Max. How have I done that?"

I smiled. "It's no biggie. Can you print a new one?" He grabbed his laptop and rushed out. I got to my feet - big groan - and went to the little drinks area and made an Earl Grey.

There was quiet. Lazy morning in the garden levels of quiet. Some people can't hack stillness. Sumo said, "Good result, last night!"

"Yeah," I agreed. "I'll be honest, it's been much tougher than I expected. We had two magical days, Grimsby and Eastleigh, and the rest has really been a slog. We've got to grind results out but we're just just just getting to the point where we can try different things. In a few months we'll be able to have some fun."

Violet said, "The women started well!"

"They're mustard," I said. "Don't be too harsh on the men, Violet. We're starting as the weakest team. The women were the best from day one. Someone tried to bring them down but that guy doesn’t know who he’s dealing with."

"What did you say to Henri?" said MD. "He's been outstanding the last two games."

I glanced at Pascal. I generally didn't talk about Luisa in front of him, but he would be gone in about ten minutes and there was nothing malicious about my story. "He came to beg me to be nicer to the young players. Cole, Youngster, William, and ah... one other. I was feeling sorry for myself after the defeat and I snapped and said some things. But I don't think that had any effect. I think it was his girlfriend." Some stirring from Pascal over to my left. I very deliberately sipped my tea. "I think she told him to stop being a baby and to get his head straight. She said I needed help and wasn't getting it. There are rumours about some kind of meeting of the senior players. Some home truths got shared. I mean, I'm just guessing she made Henri set that up, if it even happened. She knows football, somehow."

"Her father was a coach," said Pascal.

"Huh. Makes sense. She knows the dynamics. Explains why she hates the sport, too. She came to training and I don't think she liked what she saw. Henri's been on it ever since."

"She went to training?"

"Yep. She asked about you."

Pascal looked normal but I could tell there was a lot of inner turmoil going on. "What did you say?"

"I said you had a bad back." It looked like he might say something stupid like 'did she look happy?' so I changed the subject. "Where are you going?"

He had to work hard to get back in the room. Finally, he said, "Salford City."

I whistled. "Amazing. How did you wrangle that?"

"Because we ripped them apart in the FA Cup. They know what I can do."

Violet said, "Is that a good move for him?"

"Yes," I said. "Almost ideal. The new manager likes 4-3-3 and Pascal will have loads of space to invade. Good players, League Two facilities, no work permit problems, and he'll get to meet Beckham, Giggs, and Neville." I shook my head. "Plus he can live in Manchester. It's all brilliant."

James Pond said, "If he can play in League Two, perhaps he can play against teams such as Boreham Wood?"

I laughed. "He would have destroyed them. They play 3-4-3 and they do not play it well. There were gaps everywhere. It was almost shambolic and their keeper looked lost at sea."

Pond seemed to be angry again. "Then why was he not playing?"

"He's got a bad back," I said.

I was getting under Pond's skin. "Notwithstanding his back, he is a valuable player. One of the best in the squad."

A pang from my shin came at a bad time and I couldn't stop my mouth flapping. "Nah. He's the best. Edged ahead of Carl Carlile. He has been training like a bad arse." I sipped my tea. "Can't quite work out how he's improving so fast, tbh."

"Clive," said Pascal. "Extra sessions with Clive. Oh, you knew."

"I don't follow you around, mate. I guessed. But it's good to have confirmation. Did you pay him?"

"He wouldn't take my money!"

I showed him my palms. "Easy. Whoa there. Whoa, Nelly. I'm only asking because I want to help the guy out. If he's willing to do a few sessions for us, I'd love that and I'd love to put some cash in his pocket. He's good, right?"

"Of course he's good. He trained in Germany."

I grinned. A little flash of the old Pascal, there. Shame he still had 'dislikes Henri Lyons' in his profile.

Big shame.

Secretary Joe came rushing back in, far too flustered. He handed three copies of the new version to MD, and handed me one to check. "You spelled Chester wrong," I said.

"Haha," said Joe, but he looked worried for a second.

I sipped my tea while Pond signed. I clicked my neck around while Violet signed. I let my mind wander as Sumo signed. All done and in triplicate. The forms were passed to Pascal.

He picked up the first one and made out like he would read it carefully. He looked in my direction. "What formation will you use against Woking?"

"They play 4-4-2 and they're one of the easier teams we'll face. They'd normally be a good mid-table side," I said to Violet for the benefit of anyone who wasn't obsessively following the ebb and flow of the league table. "This year the standard is mental. I'm thinking 4-1-4-1 but I'll move from DM to CAM and mess with their heads."

"4-2-3-1 would be effective," said Pascal.

"I don't have the players."

"What about Barnet?"

"Barnet look like the second best team in the league and we're playing them away," I said to Violet. "I'm thinking 4-5-1 low block, try to hit Tom on counters and see if I can do enough damage from set pieces to keep us in the game."

"Maidstone?" said Pascal.

I shrugged. "Whatever. We're actually better than them, which is a rare feeling. I might go three at the back to give Carl and Eddie a rest."

"What about Cole Adams?" said MD.

"He's got a bad back," I said.

Pascal blinked and looked down at the document. It seemed clear to me that he wasn't taking in a single word of it, but it was a pretty standard agreement to terminate his employment contract. No way we could trick him or rip him off.

He stared at it for about seven more seconds, then went from pause to double speed. In a blur, he turned to the last page, picked up the pen and thrust the nib onto the dotted line. He did a sort of single nod to signify that a huge and mostly successful period of his life had come to a close.

I hereby terminate my employment contract.

I hereby agree to join a bigger, richer, more ambitious club.

I hereby agree to leave this story and spin myself off. From Player Manager to Spaceman Unbound with one simple stroke of the pen (in triplicate).

With Pascal off the books, I would have 1,400 pounds a week to spend. What could I get in January with that money? A good loan player, for sure. Or an experienced free agent. There were a few decent options and I could bring one in right away. Or the money could go on Clive. Clive as a part-time coach, as many hours as he felt comfortable doing, with some cash left over for Luisa to come in twice a week as a sort of devastating psychologist.

I drifted back into the room, clocking that something was up. Pascal was stuck with his hand on the pen with the pen on the line. He'd frozen. I felt my hackles rising. Was the little shit about to make some sort of extra demand? A payoff? "P," I said. "A. S. K."

The last letter unfroze him. He seemed to wake up from his dream and he pushed himself closer to the paper. The pen swirled and swished and soon enough the deed was done. He took the document and slid it towards me.

My garden was short one troublesome plant, but I felt strangely proud. I'd taken it from a seedling and nurtured it and now it had hardened off and was ready to fend for itself.

Violet looked at him. "Do you think you made the right decision?"

I smiled. "That's Pascal Bochum you're talking to." I tapped the table twice and began the laborious process of getting to my feet. "His decision-making is the stuff of legend."