15.

Saturday the 28th of September was a day with a lot of league games, including an early kick off. Salford were at home to Chesterfield.

I raced back from the bathroom and took my spot next to Sandra. "Did I miss anything?" I said.

"Chesterfield had a goal ruled out," she said. "Offside."

"Salford are getting battered," I said, shaking my head. Chesterfield were no mugs, but Salford had an average CA of close to 100. In League Two terms, they were a Ferrari. "Is it too much car?" I wondered. "It's like they're a model these lower league dinosaurs can't drive."

"Reckon you'd do better?" she said, smiling. She glanced back down at her phone. "Twenty minutes left. What would you do if you were the manager?"

"Oh, tricky," I said, and for some reason Sandra laughed at that. "Obviously I'd put Pascal on and switch to 4-2-3-1, but what do I know?"

She smirked. "I think I'd do the same. Oh! There he is, now."

Sure enough, Pascal Bochum was stripped and ready. He did some stretches. No coach gave him any last-minute instructions. Why should they? Pascal knew what to do.

He took to the pitch and, as always, the opposition looked at each other thinking, 'get a load of this'.

I smiled. The little bastard would show them.

***

I finished my tiny cup of Earl Grey and went to drop the bag in the nearest bin. I was gasping for another dose, but the meeting was over. The outside world was looking great. Green greens, blue blues, and thousands of talented players waiting to be discovered. And they would come - my players were moving up. Youngster to his national team. Sam Topps to Tranmere. Pascal Bochum to moneybags Salford City.

I soaked it all up.

Glorious.

But then... I turned and realised there was a vibe. An undercurrent. The moment in a movie where a song ends in a discordant note and the camera twists as it pushes towards the protagonist.

The minor characters waited for the hero to come and save the day. Sumo, Violet, James Pond in various states of confusion. MD frozen in the act of adjusting a cufflink.

The hero stepped up.

"You've only signed one," said Secretary Joe. "We do need all three, I'm afraid."

Pascal placed the pen on the table and stared at a particular spot.

I stepped back to the table and picked up the one he had signed. I flipped to the last page. "Everybody out," I said.

***

Pascal got the ball and bounced it at an angle he had pre-calculated. He dashed forward to get the return pass. A burly centre back rushed across and took him out with a cynical foul. Yellow card. Pascal slapped the turf in pain and frustration.

He took a few seconds before starting to get to his feet. A teammate bent to help him up - Pascal refused. He looked down. I need to be a better teammate, he thought. In all respects. He called out and offered his hand. His teammate came back and helped him up.

"You'd take a good free kick from that position," suggested Sandra.

"Yeah, so?"

"Just saying."

I shook my head and pointed to the pitch. "That team's a Ferrari. They don't need me."

***

Sumo, Joe, and MD reacted instantly - they got up and walked to the door. MD held it open for the last two. Violet seemed offended but followed them. James Pond, last and least, couldn't think of a reason he should be allowed to stay. The suspense, I knew, would be killing him.

Good. There's no law against being mysterious.

(Apart from in a cluster of towns in Texas.)

"What," I said, "the fuck is this?"

"Just what it says," mumbled the moodiest teenager I'd ever tried to fire.

I read out what he'd written in the 'signature' field of the document. "I want to stay. You want to stay what? You want to stay frosty? You want to Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?"

"I want to stay at Chester and fight for my place."

I needed time to think, so I went to make that second cup of Earl Grey. I jiggled the teabag. "No. Go to Salford. That's optimal for your career. It's a step up and the timing's pretty good, tbh." He was CA 62 now and with a few minutes in League Two he'd accelerate to, what, CA 80 by the end of the season? Maybe not 80, but he could get close.

Pascal picked up the pen and stared at it like it was a voodoo doll. "It isn't a step up. The manager does not have Dieter Bauer coming to visit him."

"He probably gets even better guests."

"Who's better than Dieter Bauer?"

I thought for a minute. "Heidi Klum?"

Pascal gave me a flat look. "The manager is tactically naive. He isn't flexible. As soon as he's under pressure he'll cave to the whims of the fans. If they take to me, good. If they don't, I won't play." He dropped the pen and looked directly up. "I know what people think of me. I need a manager who believes in me and is as stubborn as you."

"Ian Evans," I suggested.

Pascal scoffed. "He's not even close. No-one is as stubborn as you. And he doesn't rate me." He pushed the two copies of the termination deal apart. "I can't believe you would let me go. I was sure you would cave." I didn't reply. "I know you like me as a player. How is it so easy to watch me depart?"

I jiggled the teabag some more. With Earl Grey I liked to keep the bag in while I was drinking it, but there was always a moment when it turned too bitter. I didn't drink much Earl Grey these days. Maybe I'd get more practice when we were staying overnight at hotels. I looked at Pascal. He wasn't doing his Bad Boy schtick; he just wanted to talk.

"Did you ever play Champion Manager?" I said.

He stuck his neck out like a turtle in a show of frustration. "I tried to talk to you about it many times and you always got angry!"

"Oh, yeah, maybe. Okay, so you did."

"I play Soccer Supremo."

"Hmm. For some reason I played an old version. I don't really remember why. It was free, maybe, and I was poor. And I don't remember much of the game, but it's been coming back to me more and more. Not just little flashes, either, but whole, like, feelings. When I look at my squad lists, I sometimes feel like I'm playing the game."

Pascal did the tiniest grin. "You're a real-life Soccer Supremo."

"Oh," I said, fairly glum. "I'm living the dream, all right." I sipped my tea. All the jiggling had made it good. I took the bag out and sat back in my spot, cradling the sides of the cup. I took another sip. "Sometimes I wonder how I came up with a certain idea or solution so fast but that's just it - I've played thousands of matches in a simulation. I've built squads and sold players and all that. I've had an apprenticeship, haven't I?"

"You've learned that DMs are overpowered."

"Right. And I've played 3-5-2 against 4-4-2 and I've tried to run down the clock and been gut punched by a last minute equaliser and so on and so on. I've been through hundreds of seasons. Thousands, probably. It's like a Monte Carlo simulator. What happens if I have a right back but not a left back? What happens if I put two big lads up front and play long ball? What happens if there's a player who hates another player?"

Pascal made some quiet noise or mumbled something, but I was too in the zone to pick it up.

"I'll be the first to admit that I didn't handle this situation well. I should have tried to nip it in the bud but I wanted to give you space to sort it out yourself. But the more you didn't, the more it made my blood boil. Sometimes I've been so, like, implacable it's worried me. I know that I don't have real-world experience and with lots of things like guys not training well because their kids are sick. I really fight hard to bottle my feelings because I know I don't know the first thing about what they're going through. I really try to be more tolerant and more understanding than I actually am." I took another sip. "But I've been 19 and I've been crushed by women enough times to have a sense of what's proportional. And I've played enough football manager games to know what happens when players turn on each other. It festers and grows and it takes over the game. I remember," I said, and hesitated. Did I remember? What did I remember? "I remember things like one player goes to the media and says 'wow I hope a big club comes to sign me because these other players are shit.'"

"Yes!" said Pascal. "They still do that. So annoying!"

"And then it's like eight players hate the guy. And every time you lose, your assistant - you have assistants in the game, right? She tells you the defeat was because the guy was in the team. You draw games you expected to win and you think was that just variance or was that because of the prick?" I stared into the depths of the cup. It wasn't very deep - I could see there was something written at the bottom. A maker's stamp. "I learned the only way to deal with it is zero tolerance. Get rid." I sighed. The next thing to say wasn't very pleasant. "No matter how important that player is, how valuable, there's always another one. You can get a new player. You can't get a new culture." I sipped my tea, not very happy. "Zero tolerance. Zero. I'm not excessively stubborn, I don't think. I'm a doctor. I'll amputate a toe to save the foot."

"The little toe," said Pascal.

"Yeah," I said, half-smiling.

"And buy a new one."

"Yeah," I said. "This won't make you feel better but I already found your replacement."

His head dropped a little. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Very similar to you." I drained my cup. "Only problem is, he's eight." Playdar taking the piss out of me again.

My timing and delivery was spot on - Pascal laughed. He laughed so much he started to hiccup. He slammed the table. "Dummkopf!" he said. Getting mad helped - for ten seconds. Then another hiccup came. "Help me," he said.

I laughed. "What's the cure for hiccups? Give you a shock? What's shocking?" I drummed my fingers on the table. "Shocking... Did you know there's a blogger who writes romantic fan fiction about Chester FC? They shipped you and Sam Topps."

"What? Why? Have you read it?"

"The Brig found it when he was trying to find a connection between," I pointed to James Pond's empty chair, "and that online prick. He did some sort of test to see if the prick wrote the fanfics. You know, the same speech patterns, writing contact instead of contract, writing Early Grey instead of Earl. Computer said it definitely wasn't the same person writing this and that but I was intrigued and skimmed the recent stuff. She - or he - is writing that you're not playing because you're sad because Sam's gone. But you're spending a lot of time being comforted by Charlotte."

"I thought I was gay."

I shrugged. "I don't make the rules. I think the blogger would like you to move back into the digs. Loads of possibilities there."

Pascal stared at nothing for a while, then blinked and shook his head. He frowned and swallowed. "Help me," he said.

"I did. You're cured."

"Not the hiccups. I need help with my... With my feelings. I don't want to be like this."

I leaned back and regarded him. "I mean, that's part of the problem. You both went for the same woman. She chose him. You didn't do anything wrong. She didn't do anything wrong. Henri didn't do anything wrong. I just can't get my head around how that's turned into a whole drama worth risking your career over. I can't help because I don't understand it."

"I don't understand it, either. But it happened and then it was the summer break and Raffi is gone and there was no-one... I didn't know what to do. I think it might have been better to see them together but he moved out so it's all in my imagination. I don't know what to do."

I took a breath and picked up the signed-but-not-signed termination paper. "Have you tried not being a dick?"

He laughed, once. "Have you tried not being a dick?"

I leaned back again. "If you need help, I'll help. I mean, I'm not a psychologist and I don't know shit about anything. Maybe the Brig? One day we'll get a counsellor. Might be a couple of seasons. I bet Salford have one. But look, I just can't have you going round hating people. It's not Chesterness."

Pascal made an exasperated noise and pointed at James Pond's empty chair. "You hate him!" he said.

I did a half-smile again, but this one was cheeky. "Yeah, well. He deserves it. He's trying to sell this club off, one brick at a time. You're allowed to hate someone who's done something to hurt you."

"Can I hate you, then?"

"What for selling Sam Topps? Sure. But you can't hate the players."

"You're a player."

"Ah, the old player-manager dilemma. How did it go in Champion Manager? If a player hates the manager that's all about how likely he is to leave the club. Like, he'll want a transfer, won't sign a new contract. Is that right? Annoying but it doesn't get taken on the pitch. Those players still play well and aren't disruptive. So yeah, you can hate me the manager but you can't hate me the player. Hope not hate. Yes, we can. Things can only get better." I put my palms on the table. "Good. This was a good chat. Now are you going to sign these things or not?"

***

Pascal sprinted from the left back to the centre back, forcing them to play hurried passes. Then he pressed the goalie, who shanked his clearance out for a throw-in. The home fans applauded lustily.

"Look," said Sandra.

There were two options for Pascal. To his left, an opponent was free, and Pascal's instinct was to sprint across and cover. But if that guy was free, it meant there had to be space somewhere. To Pascal's right was a big hole in the defensive line. He could take up that position and create some danger.

I had trained him to take the more aggressive option. The fearless option.

"Risk and reward," I said. "Perfectly balanced."

"Salford's manager would want him to retreat," she said.

Pascal's head dropped a fraction and he took a few steps back towards his own goal. The throw-in was taken, the ball was worked around the left, and suddenly Pascal turned and sprinted forward into the big space the opposition had left. A left-footed guy sprayed a slightly inaccurate pass that Pascal had to move away from goal to collect. No-one else was quite on his wavelength so he found himself in the penalty area with no support. He pushed the ball forward, scampered after it, and hit a low shot just before a covering defender slid in to block. The goalie dived to his left and flipped the ball behind for a corner kick. The crowd went ooh! and gave him a round of applause. Pascal gave a thumbs up to the player who had passed the ball. He looked around. He didn't know who would take the corner!

***

"If I talk to someone, can I stay?"

I shrugged. "You should go. It's honestly better for you."

"I don't think it is."

I shrugged again. "Fine."

"What?"

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"You can stay."

He swallowed. "It's one of your jokes."

"No. You can stay. But listen. You're on a timer. Imagine I'm playing Champion Manager and I see 'dislikes Henri Lyons' in your player profile. Believe that I see it. I cannot be lied to about this stuff. I have a sixth sense about what goes on in my squad. Dislikes Henri Lyons has to go. If you're working on it, fine. If you're not working on it..." I spun my finger around. "We're not doing this again. It's the bomb squad and you'll train on your own for six years. You think I've been stubborn so far? That was nothing. By the time you next play a football match the other team will be a bunch of robots and there will be eleven twelve-year-olds controlling them via AI prompts." I picked up the document and curled it into a baton. I slapped my palm with it, not to be menacing but because it sounded good. "See? This was all my plan."

"What?" said Pascal.

"It's called brinksmanship. I take you right to the edge and then you back down and we're both winners."

He looked at me like I was crazy. "I was about to sign. I nearly signed."

"Did you? Then explain why I've already written my programme notes welcoming you back to the team against Woking."

He looked absolutely stunned. "It's... it's impossible."

"Of course it is, you idiot." I laughed. "I wanted you to leave. It's good for your career. Now you're stuck leading fucking Chester to league and cup glory."

His eyes shone. "Leading?"

I smirked. "Best supporting actor, maybe. God, I want to get to the FA Cup third round. 4-2-3-1 with me, you, and WibRob behind our star striker..."

"Henri."

I slapped the baton really hard against my palm. Pain, then pleasure. "Come on!" I yelled, triumphantly. I looked around the meeting room. It wasn't time for football songs. It was time to take care of business. "All right, well. What now?"

"Now we apologise to the board for wasting their time."

I scoffed. "We'll do no such thing." I rested my chin on the baton. "The board are a problem." If I was smart, I could use this Pascal situation to kickstart something of a fightback against James Pond and his mystery backer. "I'll help you with your shitty teenage brain, Pascal buddy. I think the normal cure is falling in love with someone else. Why don't you read that fan fiction to get some ideas? And if you want, you can help me, too."

"With what?"

"With saving Chester from itself."

***

Saturday the 28th of September was a day with a lot of league games, including an early kick off that was taking place on the other side of the country. Closer to home but kicking off at the same time as us, Salford were at home to Chesterfield. Sandra and I had placed a bet on which team would win, so we were following it on her phone while our Chester team played Woking.

"What are you doing?" said Sandra.

I went to the linesman and told him the next sub I wanted to make. I turned back to my assistant. "I'm taking the corner."

She rolled her eyes. "I thought they were a Ferrari. I thought they didn't need you."

I unzipped my training top revealing a pristine Best 77 home kit. A buzz of anticipation went up around the main stand, and it seemed to be there were a few groans from the away dugout. "I haven't been kicked in days. I'm starting to miss it."

Sandra held her phone up. "I'll kick you if you don't pay up. I told you Chesterfield would win."

"It's not over till it's over," I said.

"Replacing number fifteen, Wes Hayward, number seventy-seven, Max Best."

I got a standing ovation that I milked shamelessly while Henri fumed. I clasped my fingers together and shook them in the old-fashioned style above my head. And now for an old-fashioned corner. Hit the penalty spot and let Zach and Glenn get their big slabby foreheads on it. Bosh!

I picked the ball up, spun it round a few times, and placed it just so.

Then I thought - nah.

Instead of a load of cavemen wrestling each other, how about a clever move to get me some space so I can hit the cross from a deadlier angle? How about taking the defence out of their comfort zones? Only one problem - I needed someone quick-thinking to help me do that.

I used Masterpiece Theatre to move Pascal to the edge of the box. He was far from that spot so he had to run to get there. While he was going I dabbed the ball in his direction, then sprinted away from the corner flag. Pascal touched the ball just where I wanted it. I absolutely smashed it left-footed, aiming at the far post. Between me and goal were fifteen players and the slightest contact from any of them would probably deflect the ball into the net.

And that's exactly what happened.

The Harry McNally stand bounced around and my players wheeled in my direction. I hadn't even seen who got the decisive touch and had to dip into the curse commentary to find out. Guess who? Henri. The three of us formed a triumvirate in the middle of a euphoric mass of bodies. Two-nil, job done, up the league we go.

The stadium was noisy and colourful. In the stand behind the dugout I had a pair of one-hundred-million-pound players, Youngster and WibRob, who were as happy as any lifelong Chester fan. The dugout was full of talented specialists - and Vimsy - and in a few minutes I would bring Josh Owens on to continue Project Youth, my belief in which had never wavered for a second.

Henri was making little heart signs and throwing them towards someone in the crowd.

I glanced at Pascal. He glowered and stomped away... but almost immediately stopped. He waited for Henri to walk past and held his hands up for a high ten.

Good enough, I thought. Good enough.

***

The other members of the meeting weren't waiting in the corridor. Perhaps they had started there but we had taken so long they'd gone to get a drink or wait in the comfy chairs around reception. To find them quicker, Pascal went left and I went right.

My route took me past a lot of meeting rooms and the like, but around the corner was a pretty unexpected little waiting area. Just a random space in the middle of a bland corridor. Some comfortable chairs, some Monet posters hung up.

I frowned - not because of the art - and slipped inside the nearest meeting room, leaving the door very slightly ajar. Three women and two men looked at me, fairly astonished. I put my fingers to my lips and texted MD.

One of the guys started to say something but again I did the shush thing and the sound died. About twenty seconds later fast footsteps went past. I leaned out and saw the back of James Pond. I stepped back into the room and said, "Thanks, sorry. I'm being papped." Hunted by the paparazzi. They all went 'oh!' and smiled - rancour gone.

I took a few sneaky steps down the corridor and saw who was in the waiting area, or as much of him as I could see without being seen myself. I thought about extending my arm and taking a photo but there was a risk of the phone being spotted and anyway, I knew who the man was.

I snuck back, then fell into a fast walk and got into the room just as James Pond was about to go back and make sure I hadn't gone the 'wrong' way.

Big spy energy when James Pond was around! My heart was pumping and I wished there was a beautiful woman in the area; all that energy would have fueled some top-tier flirting. But Brooke hadn't come to the meeting...

"Okay," I said, slapping my hands. "That's all resolved. Pascal is staying."

Pond's head rocked back in surprise, but he actually broke into a smile. "Wonderful!"

"Yeah," I said, sitting on the table so I could look out of the window at the bright, Chestery future. "We worked it out. But I think you're right, Mr. Pond. We need to make sure we keep our young talents happy so we can protect the club's assets. If we sell Pascal at the end of the season, it'll pay for a training pitch and that'll generate a ton of revenue. Or keep him a further season and he'll be worth enough to buy a... I'm thinking a fifty-foot statue of me and my thumbs turn in the wind."

"Of course we should look after ourselves as well as taking care of the youngsters," said Pond, in a very reasonable voice. He was good at this.

I bit my nail. "I'm thinking... I've got some wage budget that isn't really enough for a new player. Not one that will make a difference. If we're struggling in January, we'll need something, so I can't go crazy. But I'd like to offer improved contracts to some of our players."

"Almost everyone signed new deals recently," said MD, deeply confused.

"Youngster's being scouted by his national team and William went and made himself the youngest goalscorer in the history of this competition, the fucking idiot. People are starting to look at them. Do you want to sell now for fifty thousand or in a couple of years for nine hundred and fifty thousand?"

"Well," said MD, smiling.

"They're in my bad books right now but when I let them back in the team, I'll give them a new contract. We can't renew Pascal until we're in League Two, if he wants to stay with us for that. Basically the same terms with the major difference being a slightly increased pay packet. That's, like, in my power anyway but I thought it would be polite to inform the board of my plans and to see if there were objections."

"None from me," smiled James Pond.

"What about the women?" said Violet.

"Yeah, that's something to consider. Take care of the top prospects."

"But Max," said MD, his facial roller coaster launching into another dip.

"MD is right," I said, as though interpreting his frown lines. "We do already take pretty good care of them. There's always room for improvement though. I've got to say, though, really the only thing that can stop us crushing the league is ourselves." I wish I hadn't said that. I really, really wish I hadn't said that. But how was I supposed to know what would happen? "Top," I said, wrapping everything up. "The theme of the day is reconciliation. Trust. Togetherness. Putting petty squabbles behind us so we can focus on what's really important - getting three points against Woking."

"Hear, hear!" said Secretary Joe.

There was a moment of pure contentment that I allowed to linger. I pointed at Pascal. "Didn't you miss training today?"

"Yes, but," he said, indicating the table, as though the table had given him permission to be a slacker.

"Go and do extra!" I said, with fake annoyance. "Jude is there this afternoon doing something for his badges. Join that sesh."

"So," he said, sort of getting up in a hesitant way. "Do you mean... now?"

"Pascal Bochum has a high understanding of the game," I bellowed. "Pascal Bochum understands his manager's instructions."

He grinned, got to his feet, and walked towards the door. "It feels strange to leave without shaking hands with everyone."

"They'll get over it," I said. I thought about his heartbreak. "And so will you."

***

The rest of us left more or less together. James Pond said he had to rush off - I knew where he was going. I walked outside with Sumo and started a conversation about whether I should buy a PS5 or Xbox whatever. That succeeded in getting rid of Violet, Joe, and MD, and then I grabbed Sumo by the elbow and begged him for help.

He went to the side exit while I reparked my car so I'd have a view of the main one.

I called Sumo and we talked while we waited.

"It's like a stake-out, this," he said.

"It's exactly a stake-out. Wow."

"What?"

"I want steak, now. Do you want to get lunch after?"

"I've got a stream in a bit."

"Let's get take-out and you can play and I'll entertain the chat."

"Steak-out?"

I laughed, but then James Pond exited the front of the hotel. He looked left and right. Shifty ay eff. "Awooga!" I said.

"Is it happening?"

"Yes. Pond's out. He's texting his handler that it's safe to leave. Anyone on your side?"

"No, Max."

"Stay frosty."

"Oh," he said.

"What?"

"I want an ice lolly, now."

I laughed. "Steak and ice lollies. Breakfast of champions. Hold up." The main doors slid apart and a man emerged. It was the same guy I'd seen in the waiting area. A round-faced businessman with white eyebrows and hair. He looked stocky and powerful. His suit was classy and understated but he had a gold signet ring, a gold watch, and what looked like a gold lapel pin in the shape of a revolver.

"Sumo? He's here. Come to the car park and I'll drive you home."

"Who is it, though?"

"The man who wants to buy Chester Football Club," I announced, dramatically, leaving a long pause, "is Heidi Klum."

"Fucking hell, Max."

"Okay, it's not Heidi Klum. It's a nobody. Nothing I can't handle, mate. Better if you act like you don't know what's going on."

"I don't know what's going on."

"That's the spirit."

I watched as the b-boy walked to the side of the road - a Bentley rolled up, slowed down, and a leggy brunette got out. The b-boy gallantly dipped his hat to her and she responded with a big smile. The Bentley drove off, the b-boy watched the beauty go inside, and he did a little head twitch as if to say, well, wasn't she swell? He walked off towards the train station. A frugal millionaire, this one. He lifted his cowboy hat onto his head and vanished from sight.

So, the guy behind it all was Brooke's father. Daddy Star. What had Luisa called me? Daddy Shark.

Daddy Star versus Daddy Shark. He had money. Four hundred million dollars at the last count. I had allies. I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror and realised my lips had curled back. I had allies, and I had teeth.

"Are you still there, Max?"

"Yes, Sumo. I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere."

...

END OF BOOK NUMBERS PARTY

XP balance: 6,053

Men's League Table

P GD Pts 1 Grimsby 13 16 32 2 Barnet 13 11 28 9 Chester 13 3 20

Women's League Table

P GD Pts 1 Chester 2 13 6 2 Cheadle Town Stingers 2 6 6

Men's Top Scorers

Henri Lyons 7

Max Best 5

Aff 4

Women's Top Scorers

Bea Pea 4

Angel 3

Misc Data

West Didsbury and Chorlton defeats: 0

National League top scorer: Marcus Wainwright (Grimsby): 11

Crawley League One position: 15th

Tranmere League Two position: 8th

Darlington National League North position: 1st

Ian Evans games won: 0

Post-Euros transfer fee for Leo, the Slovakian Messi: 8 million Euros

Max's unused Raffi Brown cash: approx 300,000

Misc Book Data

Word count: In the region of 178,000

No. of times Brazil tour requested in comments: 5

Best chapter: 12 - Influence

Most tearful chapter: 3 - Leave No Man Behind

Most beloved new character: Zach Green (citation needed)

Best goal: WibRob vs Wealdstone

Most controversial moment: Brooke saying picture not film or movie

Discord award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence: (to be decided)

Chester Loan Analysis

Player Loaned To Tier Loan Rating A Harrison FCUM 7 Superb M Harrison West 9 Good Vivek West 9 Good Lucas Friend West 9 Okay Tyson Nantwich 8 Good Benny Runcorn 8 Superb Dan Badford Witton Albion 8 Good

Loan rating is based on how much a player is learning and similar factors. The rating is produced by an AI computer; don't ask me about it.

Men's Home Attendances

Total: 20,241

Average: 3,374 (vs 2,287 last season)

Women's Home Attendances (in Flint)

Total: 280

Average: 140 (vs 0 last season)

Chester Men's Squad

Squad Age Wage CA PA Contract Yrs 1 Ben Cavanagh GK 27 600 54 67 2+1 13 Rainman GK 18 500 26 99 2+1 25 Sticky GK 30 1600 33 122 1 4 Glenn Ryder DC 31 775 54 54 1+1 2 Carl Carlile DCR 26 650 62 77 2+1 12 Magnus Evergreen D,DM,M 27 600 52 -2 1 26 Vivek (Glenn) DC 18 350 22 66 1 16 Steve Alton D CR 26 600 53 53 1+1 5 Zach Green DC 25 2000 51 139 2+1 3 Eddie Moore DL 23 900 53 75 1+1 21 Cole Adams (Carl) DL 18 500 30 147 2+1 22 Josh Owens (Aff) DM L 18 500 28 119 2+1 8 James Wise MC 30 700 46 60 2 6 Andrew Harrison MC R 23 500 43 ? 2 17 Michael Harrison MC R 19 350 23 ? 2 19 Ryan Jack MC 36 750 INJ Jan 2025 151 1 11 Aff ML 28 575 61 70 1+1 14 Youngster DM, MC 19 700 57 181 2+1 23 Omari Naysmith (Ryan) CM 18 500 32 103 2+1 77 Max Best Omni 24 1000 15 Wes Hayward AM LR 26 500 33 86 2+1 10 WibRob (Max) F (RLC) 17 500 29 185 4 18 Pascal Bochum F (RLC) 19 500 62 133 6 7 Ziggy S 25 450 43 58 LOAN 9 Henri Lyons S 29 1000 60 90 1+1 20 Tom Westwood S 18 500 32 92 2+1 Management Team 3000 23.76923077 21100 43.29166667

Ages are according to Max's spreadsheet. Names in brackets show mentors. Contract plus one indicates the club has the option to extend.

Chester's Women

No. Squad Age Wage CA PA Contract Yrs 1 Robyn Wright GK 20 14 14 13 Queenie GK 17 50 17 94 1 25 Scottie Love GK 24 300 36 63 1+1 16 Erin Barnes CB 20 12 12 22 Mel Robinson RB 19 15 15 15 Mo Walsh CB 19 21 21 23 Lucy LB 43 20 90 4 Bonnie CB 26 350 34 41 1+1 5 Femi CB 26 400 48 121 2+1 2 Luxury Bell D CR 24 350 40 88 1+1 3 Ridley T LB 19 300 38 85 1+1 18 Diane DM 23 50 20 60 1 14 Gracie Davies LM 21 17 17 6 Pippa Hoole CM 33 200 36 111 1 7 Dani Smith-Smithe M, AM LRC 17 350 41 177 1+1 12 Susan Butler MC 19 21 21 11 Maddy Hines MRC 18 200 31 80 1+1 8 Charlotte MC 22 350 45 101 1+1 17 Kisi Yalley AM RLC 16 150 36 143 1+1 9 Beatrice Pearce S 19 150 36 36 1 19 Julie McKay S 18 150 28 53 1 10 Angel S 17 350 31 155 1+1

R.E.M. Clients:

Age Wage CA PA Club Bark RM 18 600 38 130 Tranmere Dani AM RLC 17 350 41 177 Chester Angel S 17 350 31 155 Chester WibRob F RLC 17 500 29 185 Chester Lucas Cook S 18 800 28 142 Tranmere Nelson Smith-Howes RM 18 700 26 139 Tranmere