2.

Saturday, May 11

"Who's winning?"

I was so far inside my head that I didn't realise the woman was speaking to me. Of course, I was the only spectator, so who else? I turned and beheld a brown-eyed cutie pie who was out jogging and had stopped, inexplicably, to have a chat with a rando. "Sorry, what?"

"Who's winning?"

I smirked a little bit. "Me, looks like."

Big smile. "I haven't seen you around here."

"Have you been looking?"

I'd say things were heating up but it was already boiling hot - a real sweaty, sultry day and it was only just getting started. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling I'm in over my head?"

I took her wrist and turned her heart rate monitor watch to face me. "Pulse low. Reckon it'd take a bit more than some light flirtation to get you going." I locked eyes with her and didn't release her wrist. Just as the tension was building, I glanced at the watch. Her heart rate had gone up by ten bpm. "There we go." I let her go, gave her one last dazzling smile, and turned back to the match.

She didn't want the moment to end. She came next to me so that her arm was touching mine. "So who's winning?"

I pointed. "Civic Centre Sharks are in that off-white colour. Ringway Jets are red and purple. The Sharks are up two-one."

"Who do we want to win?"

We. I could get up to all sorts of mischief with this one. "We are ambivalent. We have higher motives."

"Gosh. Do we?"

I nodded in the direction she'd been jogging. "I'm going that way. We could walk while I run rings around you."

Her watch beeped - her heart rate had slipped below the target. "Will that get me going?"

"Not as much as we both want."

"Oh," she said, playfully disappointed. She looked at her watch and made a decision. "Bye, beautiful stranger."

"Bye, angel of the morning."

She jogged away and I walked behind. Every twenty yards she stopped to do a provocative little stretch. My God... What would Romeo and Juliet have been like if Romeo had already found his Juliet when he met Juliet? It'd have been something like this, I reckoned.

When she'd gone, I texted Emma asking if she had any tight jogging pants, and then, to cool off, I thought about the day ahead.

The mission was simple - stock up on players for West while trying to persuade a jaded winger to sign for Chester. Oh, and get fifteen thousand pounds from some business boys. Oh, and spend some quality time with my hundred-million pound walking lottery ticket. Had Youngster already met his Juliet? Kisi kept trying to matchmake him with her best friend Meghan. She was from the wrong side of the tracks, though - she played for Man City. Youngster and Meghan wasn't Montague and Capulet, it was Chesterness versus Cityitis. He'd never be tempted.

When I got to the car park I did a quick 360 and was disappointed and relieved not to see the jogger. I got in the Duchess and drove in the direction of the Yalleys.

***

XP balance: 4,099

I'd been accumulating experience points over the past few weeks, mostly from watching playoff matches but also from scouting. Heavy use of Playdar had let me beef up my youth team squads - boys and girls - without producing anything spectacular. Still, every player I added to my database was useful in some way, even if it was only as a point of comparison.

I'd started leaning into the notes section of a player's profile pretty heavily - copy pasting their profiles with dates so when I rescouted them I'd know how much they'd improved or regressed. I was also adding their contract details since it could be interesting to track those over time. And I was writing where I'd scouted them, since that was getting important. Talented kids in Grimsby were no good when I was thinking about adding to the ranks at Chester.

When the angel of the morning had interrupted me, I'd been going through the upgrades that were available in the perk shop. With the season pretty much done, I had the summer to think about what should come next.

The top two picks were WibWob, which would give me greater tactical flexbility, and Finances, which would summarise the state of my club's income and expenditure. My hope was that it would give me the same data from other clubs, because knowing their budgets would be extremely helpful. WibWob was 10,000 XP, which I could bring to 9,000 if I used a discount coupon. Finances was 2,000. I was tempted to let my XP grow over the summer and see how close I could get to affording WibWob. Once that was out of the way, I'd be able to get two perks a month.

My B list options were Contracts 3 and Attributes 6. The latter, priced at 2,050 XP, would unlock another section on the player profiles. Influence, perhaps. It was self-evident that I needed to grab a couple more of those perks this season. Contracts 3, for 1,300, would tell me who a player's agent was. Given my squabbles with certain agents, that could be handy.

The C list were ones I didn't want but needed to buy to progress through that skill tree. 4-2-3-1 was Sandra's favourite formation, so I wasn't opposed to buying it. For 2,600 XP though, it was a lot of investment for a formation that didn't speak to me. What came next, though? I had to buy it to find out. Then there was Playdar 2, which unlocked a second 'token'. The token system was one that hadn't touched me yet, but in essence it would let me refine Playdar in various ways. I could drop in a goalkeeper token, for example, and it would lead me to the best goalies in the area. I was pretty sure I didn't want to spend my precious XP on that, not yet anyway, but again, the only way up was through. I needed to buy Playdar 2 to see what came next.

Also in the shop was a whole host of D options. Player Profile 3 would add to the player history section, Match Stats 3 would add something called 'action zones' to the in-game data I got. Bibliotekkers would give me the last twenty match reports from a team I was about to play. Live Tables and Live Scores would let me see what other teams were doing while I was in a match. Form told me how well a player had been playing and Player Comparison would let me contrast two players on the same screen.

They were all interesting and had potential benefits in quite specific situations, but not enough to feel I needed them urgently.

The last item for sale was the Panopticon add-ons. For 2,000 XP I could add squads to my interface and track them just as closely as the first teams. Useful, but so expensive. It'd have to wait until something made it more urgent.

Emma: Oh, we're flirting with joggers, now?

Me: I happened to be nearby when joggers flirted and were flirted with.

Emma: Would it help if I sent you a pic of me wearing yoga pants?

Me: Not in the way you want. I'm about to spend the day with a Christian. Don't think any more flirting will happen.

Emma: Isn't the Bible full of love poems?

Me: You're thinking of my notebook.

Emma: When am I not thinking of your notebook? Good luck today, bebs. Mwah.

Me: Mwah.

***

The Yalleys were one of those mad families who never locked their front door, so I let myself in and headed straight to the kitchen. As soon as she saw me, Mrs. Yalley offered to make me a cuppa. She had the radio on - a normal station, not the one from Ghana she had as the default on her DAB radio.

I took a step outside into the back garden. They'd added a nice patio door that led out to the kitchen. Youngster - still James to his family - had saved up a few grand to get it done. What a good kid! "Yes, please. Has James been behaving himself?"

"Oh, yes. He led the prayer group last night and he's going to speak in church tomorrow."

"Is that good?"

"It is good. We are proud."

"Top. Don't let him get too religious, though. I need someone to be fit when the new season starts."

She smiled as she jiggled my teabag, as per her training. "He has come a long way in a short time. You must let him relax and recharge. But he is keeping in shape, Mr. Best. He goes jogging every morning."

"Jogging?" I sucked my teeth. "He'd better be careful. There are sharks out there."

"Max?" Kisi entered the living room and saw me. Meghan, the Butcher of Burnage, came in just behind. She gave me a strange grin. Kisi frowned. "What you doing here?"

"I've got eight kilos of miscellaneous pork and need Meghan to turn them into grizzle sticks."

"Because I'm the butcher," said Meghan, rolling her eyes. "Very smart. Very witty. Almost as funny as Man United's defence."

"That reminds me, Megs," I said, all serious, "it was the hottest February ever and the hottest March ever and the hottest April ever. What's it like working for a climate criminal?"

"It's good, Max. Really, really good."

"If you two could stop arguing for a moment," said Mrs. Yalley, "I have a question. Mr. Best, what is to be Kisi's future?"

"Future? I reckon we've got about three years left before the complete breakdown of the ecosystem and the global order. I reckon a couple of years of scrabbling around hoarding resources and eating instant noodles cold until we're forced to choose which nomadic gang to join. I reckon there will be two major ones in the north west, the Jets and the Sharks. The Jets will ride bicycles and will trade puncture repair kits as currency. The Sharks will operate on a four-weekly cycle of ritualised mortification, purgation, invigoration, and jubilation. They'll worship the moon and their currency will be plastic clothes buttons. Kisi will join one and fall in love with a boy from the other gang. Their tragic story will lead to the first great art of the post-anthropocene era."

"Yes, that all goes without saying," said Mrs. Yalley, who seemed to have taken lessons from Beth in how to deal with me. "But before then. Kisi has been offered the chance to extend her stay at Manchester City. Mr. Reaper gave the impression she would be welcome to join Chester permanently. Which is it to be?"

"I don't know," I said. "Whichever. Hmm. That makes me sound like I don't care. What I mean is... they're both good options for her development. They're kind of perfectly balanced in a way not many things are. It comes down to personal preference and I'll support either version a million percent. Kisi, what you want to do?"

She shrugged. "Not sure. What does my agent think, Max?"

"Your agent doesn't give a shit because your agent is too busy living life to the full. Your agent is holy shit turn this up!" Maria Maria by Santana had come on the radio and it went straight into my bones. One of the most perfect sultry summer's day songs. I turned the volume up a couple of notches and took Mrs. Yalley by the elbow. I led her out into the garden where we had plenty of space. I swayed a bit, moved from foot to foot, clapped, spun, and made little percussive noises. "Mrs. Yalley, come on! Hit me! Show us what you got."

"She doesn't got anything, Max," said Kisi, coming to the patio doorway. "She's my mum. She doesn't dance."

"Oh, that right?" said Mrs. Yalley, eyebrows raised.

"No, mum!"

But it was too late. I'm not sure how long it had been since her moves had been busted, but Mrs. Yalley busted them all the way out. For a wonderful ten seconds, we accidentally fell into the same rhythm but we came from different dance backgrounds and couldn't sustain it. Still, our enthusiasm was infectious, and when Meghan joined in, so did Kisi. We recreated a Broadway musical right there in a back garden in Wythenshawe.

"She reminds me of a West Side Story!" I crooned.

That was the scene when a window opened upstairs and Youngster's head popped out. Meghan waved at him to come down, but he pretended not to notice. Without blinking, he retracted his head - a grumpy turtle could have been no more dismissive - and pulled the window closed behind him. I laughed and unleashed my air guitar until the song ended. Youngster turned the volume down and hesitated before stepping foot across the threshold. "Is it safe?"

Meghan eyed him. "It's far too safe around here."

The scene was over; I clapped my hands. "To the Funmobile!"

Kisi stepped in my way. "Can we come?"

"What?"

"You're going around Manchester doing football things. We're bored. There's nothing to do. Can we come?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Your mum said you're not allowed."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," said Mrs. Yalley.

"There's not enough space in my car."

"I'll sit on Youngster's lap," said Meghan.

That was hilarious. I really liked her; it was such a shame she chose to work for a James Bond villain whose stated aim was the extinction of all football everywhere. She liked Youngster and he liked her. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they spent some time together. I did a little swaying dance as I calculated. On the one hand, there was a risk they'd get married and she'd end up convincing him to join Man City. On the other hand, there was a chance he'd convince her to join Chester. From the Butcher of Burnage to the... the Butcher of Blacon. The Slicer of Sealand. The Hoole-igan. The Cheshire Brat. "You can come on condition you don't mess up my sales pitch."

"We're going to pick up a player Max wants to sign for Chester," said Youngster.

"Tell us about him," said Meghan.

I made a little scoffing noise. "What, so you can take him to the Death Star and teach him how to drown seagulls in oil while sending out tweets that start with the phrase yeah but what about?"

She made a bigger scoffing noise. "If you want him he's not good enough for City."

I pointed at her. "See, that's what I mean. You can say that to me if it makes you happy but you can't say it in front of him. Yes, he's not good enough for City. Okay. Are you going to throw that in his face?"

She was mortified. "Of course not. What - ?"

"Yeah. This is a bad idea."

"Why?" said Kisi.

"I'm trying to rescue a guy's career and if you fudge that up I'll be proper peeved." I tried to swear less when Mrs. Yalley was around. "I'm his last chance. Playing in the fifth tier means nothing to Meghan but I'm trying to build something and I'm trying to build it out of broken dreams. It could come crashing down but I'm going to bloody try. If we make it... Can you imagine? Something's coming, Kisi. Something's coming. Who knows what? Max knows Best. Down the leagues, on the beach, up at West. Maybe tonight!"

"Are you singing?"

"What? No. I'm simply letting you know that something's coming and that something is going to be beautiful. This man's career doesn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but it means everything to him and I respect that and Youngster respects that. If you come in with your hilarious 'haha we spent two billion pounds ruining English football and turning an entire sport into a rolling court case' jokes - that's not the right vibe for this guy. I need to make him think he's got a future. That it's not time to give up. He's fallen out of love with football. He's agreed to spend the afternoon with me and Youngster. One benefit of winning the league and having a reputation as an eccentric - "

"Weirdo," suggested Meghan.

"Is that people pick up the phone and agree to things."

Kisi considered. "He gets a career. And what do you get?"

"I get a lot of hard work. But I see a lot of Chesterness in this guy. A good player, an even better asset to the community. All right, seeya later."

"Wait, Max." Kisi was blocking me again. "We'll help you."

"You'll help me? Couple of City slickers, that's what I need? Couple of gobby Manc, er, brats? No. This mission calls for kind hearts and coronets. Veto."

Meghan said, "I'll keep my mouth shut, Max. I promise. Honest - I'm going to be bored to death if I have to listen to Kisi talk about how much she fancies - "

"No," said Kisi, apparently angry, but they both quickly cracked up.

"You should let them come," said Youngster. "I believe they will be a help to your mission. I feel God is speaking to me."

God speaks to you via your sex drive, does he? I tutted and checked my phone. "I don't have time to argue about this; I don't want to be late. When I talk to this guy, keep quiet unless it's to say, 'Max has spoken.'"

***

The dip in mood was soon forgotten and when we unloaded at Heald Green train station we raced past each other like little kids trying to be first onto the platform.

"Max!" Someone was calling me. I looked around, trying to see where the voice was coming from.

"There," said Youngster.

Back in the car park we'd come from was a guy - my guy. "How's he got there? The train's not arrived yet."

"He got the earlier one, Sherlock," said Meghan. "Not playing that hard to get, isn't he? Not like some people."

"He's cute," said Kisi, as we walked back towards the winger.

"He's 25," I said. "Which means if you call him cute in front of a policeman, he'll go to prison forever. So how about you shush your mouth?"

"I'm just saying he's good-looking."

"What I do," I said, "when I'm thinking inappropriate thoughts about joggers or whatever, is I play it cool."

"Cool?"

"Cool," I said, clicking my fingers once every three or four seconds. Sometimes three, sometimes four. Whatever felt coolest. I also bent my knees and walked in a crouch. "Coool," I said again, beckoning the others to join me.

"Which movie have you been watching?" asked Youngster, even though we weren't talking about movies. Such a weird kid, sometimes.

"Jaws," said Meghan, the idiot. "Because he was talking about sharks."

"Coool," I said, sticking to the bit even though no-one else was into it. We met my guy halfway across the walkway.

"Were you doing West Side Story?" he said, smiling wide as he shook my hand.

"These crazy cats were too excited to meet you," I said, in an absurd Beatnik voice. "I told 'em to play it coool." I clicked my fingers some more.

He joined in. "I did it in drama class. Breeze it, buzz it, easy does it. Turn off the juice, boy!" He laughed at the memory and reached out to shake Youngster's hand. "I know who you are. Young Player of the Season. Impressive. I'm Wes."

I crooned, "You remind me of a Wes Side Story!"

He laughed some more. He was six-foot tall, second or third generation Nigerian English, the physique of a sprinter, and a great haircut enriched by thin dreads around the back that jangled as he raced past full backs. Kisi instantly loved everything about him, especially his surprising middle-class accent. Hot but safe. "You did drama?" she said, ready to swoon.

"Yes," I said. "I was voted most likely to EGOT."

"I'm Wes," said Wes, reaching out to shake Kisi's hand.

"Er, this is Kisi. Youngster's sister. She's Schrodinger's player. She exists as a cog in the Man City-industrial complex, one of a hundred thousand numbers and one of the only ones not grown from scratch in a test tube, yet she also plays midfield for the coming powerhouse of women's football, Chester Actual Women, a team made up entirely of footballers with no lawyers involved. And that's Meghan. Sadly, she has taken a vow of silence to atone for her misdeeds."

"I'm Meghan," she said.

"Wow. All right, let's hit the road."

"What's the plan, boss?"

"You can call me Max until I start paying your salary," I laughed. "The plan is to scout some players down near Styal. If we've got time, Meghan wants to go and see Quarry Bank, the mill. She loves water wheels, don't you Meghan? Clean, renewable energy. She's doolally about it. Then it's a six-a-side pitch in Handforth. Cut back through Wythenshawe to Chorlton, where my ninth tier team is. The under 18s are doing their last game and it's decision time about who gets kept for the firsts. I hope there's a few good ones. We're also going to meet four players I want to sign for West next season, see if we can get those deals done today. That'd be good. We'll look around the facilities and all that, meet some volunteers, and then we're going to a pub to watch Crawley smash Wrexham. Lol. And, er, what else? Oh, yeah. I've got a meeting lined up with some b-boys at the Chamber of Commerce. I'll probably drop you off before that. It's going to be boring."

"B-boys?" said Wes.

"Business boys. I need a little bit of finance for the new players. Not you, mate! This is for my team. My little team. Okay you need to get in the back, I'm afraid, because Youngster is my special pumpkin and the passenger seat's been calibrated for him."

"No worries, Max."

It wasn't all that far to Styal but the girls pumped Wes for a lot of information in that time. They learned that he was a winger whose contract at Atherton Collieries was running out and their relegation from the seventh tier meant they were making savage cuts. They learned that his surname was Hayward and that he'd previously played as high as League One. He'd been on the verge of quitting the game when a certain Max Best had called.

"If Max wants you, you must be mint." I nearly crashed. Meghan!

"Max is the best judge of a player in Manchester." Kisi!

"God has given Mr. Best a gift." Guess who? "I am glad he is using it on you. Is Wes short for Wesley?"

"It is!"

"A most Christian name," said Youngster. "Are your parents believers?"

There followed a conversation about churches and whatnot that bored me to tears, but I think overall it was positive. Familiar. Soothing. I pulled into a spot and parked. We got out and the curse kicked in, showing me the details of a match in progress. "Yes! I've timed this like an absolute boss. We're going to catch the end of one match and the start of another. They're doing an under 18s tournament. End of season thing. Top four teams in the league are competing, American-style. Not a big fan of that, but I'll get to see almost all the players in a twenty-minute blob. That's pretty genius, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Don't you need more than ten minutes to evaluate a player?"

"Er, sure, yeah, let's go with that. But ten minutes is enough for a yes or no, isn't it? If it's a yes you can scout again or bring them in for a trial or whatever."

"Do you want me to do a trial?"

"Nope. Meghan says you're mint."

He laughed. "But seriously. When did you scout me?"

"My mate plays for FC United and I try to watch him when I can. That was the first. I've actually seen you three times. You are mint and there's a contract ready for you. Right, I'm going to..." I drifted away and crouched by the side of the pitch. In this match alone, there were three players in the PA 20-40 range! Absolute bonanza.

"He does this," said Kisi. "He's like one of those narcoleptics. He'll wake up in a minute and finish the sentence he started and expect us to go along with it."

"What did he mean about you being Schrodinger's player?"

"I have to choose if I sign Scholarship with City or go proper to Chester."

"Why... Why would you choose against City? They're, like, City."

I started hum-singing I Feel Pretty from West Side Story, but I changed the words to I hate City. Meghan rolled her eyes but Kisi ignored me completely.

"Um. Well, my brother's at Chester. I like Chester. I've got friends there. But I've got friends at City, too. But I play proper matches for Chester, but it's only fifth tier. But I might get some minutes for City's under seventeens, they said. But they don't like me dribbling too much. I lose the ball a lot."

"What about Chester?"

"They don't like me losing the ball, either. Jackie wants me to make good decisions. Max wants me to be me. And at Chester we're building something from the ground up and it's just, just awesome! City's, you know, City. Do you want to be CEO of a startup or some worker bee at a big company?"

"Wesley does not want to talk about you all day," chided Youngster. "Do not be selfish."

"He asked!"

"It's true, I did ask. What do you think she should do?"

"That is simple. God led us to Chester."

"He led you there. I'm a free agent where God's concerned. But Wes, tell us about yourself."

He spoke simply but movingly about his life and career. Football had been an escape from a difficult childhood and something he'd been good at. He could have tried athletics but his father had nudged him into football where there was more money. "Not that I've seen any of it," Wes laughed. He'd been inundated with offers as a kid, had grafted and moved up until he was signed by Blackpool in League One. He had always been a purely attacking player but from that moment he'd had to learn to shuffle and slide and defend and all that, and it was tiring and when he did get the chance to break in matches, he'd been exhausted and didn't have the explosive pace and power he needed to get past a defender. For a time, he got by on raw talent. He'd even played a few minutes at the end of a League One match and had been put through one-on-one with the keeper. He hadn't known what to do and had ended up doing nothing, and that became the story of his life. "I haven't enjoyed football for a long time. A long time. I got the nickname Wayward."

"What?" said Kisi.

"Wes Hayward. Wayward. Wayward Hayward. It got under my skin, to be honest. I'm running down the wing - do I cross? Shoot? Cut back? I end up doing half of one, half of another. The name follows me round. Follows me down. Down the pecking order. Blackpool reserves. Alty. Alty reserves. Rochdale. Rochdale reserves. And so on. All the way down to Atherton Collieries. Down and out."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"No," said Meghan, seeming to be genuinely appalled. "Don't say that. You've got Chester. They bossed their league and everyone says they'll go through into the EFL."

"Not Max," said Youngster. "He expects a tough season. He has plans to come strong at the end and crush our opponents in the playoffs." He said the word crush with quite some relish. "I believe he wants to sign you not for what you are, but what you can soon become."

I got to my feet. "Youngster's nailed it. It's almost in my interest for other teams to dismiss you and surprise them in the playoffs but that's not very fair on you. We'll play it straight because when I'm finished with you, no fucker at this level will be able to stop you. We've got great coaches and the facilities are getting better. The fact you played in League One is huge. It's easier to get back to prior levels than to get there the first time. I'm kind of obsessed with training times and I've got some good data already. That's what's fascinating about Kisi, here. If she stays with the evil empire she'll have access to top training. If she comes to Chester, she'll have good training plus first team minutes. As far as I can tell, the two scenarios are absolutely identical in outcome! I mean, the way we do it. Another team at our level would overuse her or underuse her and it'd be way better at City. But we can actually compete. But, you see, this is the tricky bit, only because she's already had some training there. If she'd come from Atherton, no offence, she'd develop much more slowly. But that exposure to the standards is like jet fuel. Jet fuel, Kisi! You should join the Jets. And Wes, mate, you've got some of that jet fuel in you, too. By January, you'll be twice as good as you are now. That's easy. What comes next? Hard to say but only good things. By the end of next season you'll one million percent have a new nickname and I think I know what it's going to be."

"What's that?" he said, slightly stunned by my passion and the speed the words fell out of me.

I gripped him two-fisted and pulled him a couple of inches closer and dialled up the intensity even further. "Sharkboy." Kisi and Meghan fell about laughing. "Wait!" I said, releasing my grip. "Sharknado!"

"Sharknado?" said Wes.

"As fast as a tornado and full of sharks. I wanted to call the women's team the Chester Sharknados but it's trademarked or whatevs."

"Max," he said, still smiling at the nickname, but with a sombre edge to his voice. "How much do you want me?"

"A lot."

"That's... not what the salary says to me." I'd offered him five hundred a week, which given he was CA 20 was a fortune.

I shook my head. "I've got loads of roles. One role is to stand at the bottom of the balcony serenading you. Another is to buy you a wedding ring for the amount Chester can afford. This is the hard part because I know you've been through enough... Come with us and you'll get paid next year. You've given up so much to get where you are and you think it's been wasted but Wes! I'm here. I found you. You don't realise the magic's already happened." I smiled at the simple truth of that statement. "God, it's hot. It's sweltering. The heat drives people apart or brings them together. I hope it's the latter. You need to invest in yourself one more time. The rewards will come. The fun will come! We have fun. Even Youngster has fun, once a week. We schedule it, don't we mate?" I laughed at his annoyed face and the way his eyes flickered towards Meghan to see if she was laughing at him or with him. "The money's not stellar, I'll grant you that but I can put you up in my mate's digs and you'll find your money stretches a bit further than you'd expect. Quite a few players live there, don't they Youngster?"

"Oh. Er... yes, Mr. Best. Although..."

"Perfect. Basically it's like a big hotel run by a Frenchman which, shockingly, is a positive thing. There's always top snacks and the fridge is well-stocked. I pop by sometimes and man! The hams, the cheeses. Mwah!"

Youngster pointed at me. "You are the hamburglar!"

"What?"

"We have had turmoil, Mr. Best! Councils! Recriminations! Tears! Accusations! Mini-fridges. And all this time, it was you. You are the Brie Bandit."

I grabbed Wes. "God, I love a bit of brie. Somehow when I'm in the shops I never think to buy it. But Henri's always got loads, and this gluey stuff, too. It's so smooth! Now, I'm not saying France has the best cheeses. Hello? This is the United Kingdom. We've got Stilton. Wensleydale."

"Cheddar."

"Cheddar! Cheddar's absolute mustard. But the French, God bless 'em for trying and they really hit the spot now and then."

"It sounds like you've been eating their food and they've been at each other's throats."

I looked around, distracted, as one team put together an unusually good move. How had that happened? I decided it was a fluke caused by the presence of one clever forward. "It's all character-building, innit? See that guy there? He's cheddar. I want him."

"For Chester?"

"No, he's not quite there. I want him for West. That's my team."

"But Max, sorry." It felt like a big moment so I turned and gave Wes my full attention. He was PA 86 and lightning fast. I reckoned we could get him to CA 40 by January - I felt sure he'd been there or higher in his Blackpool days - and maybe we'd even hit CA 60 by the end of the season. Next year he'd be a fucking menace and the best thing was only I knew it. Only I could see it and his success would be a massive boost to my ego. If I could get him for five hundred a week I could pay better wages to another player. That said, if he turned me down it wouldn't be the end of the world. I had a bulging database of alternatives. "Sorry, but..." He sighed. "You said when you were finished with me no-one would be able to stop me. But is that because of my pace or... Or what? I just don't see what I can offer. I've watched you and I can't do what you can do."

My smile started small but kept on going. It was so out of control it fucking left my face and spread onto his. I put my hand on his shoulder. "Even I can't do what I can do." This incredible mini-poem was met with derision from Meghan and Kisi, but I was too inspired to let that bother me. "I know one hundred percent what you can do. You've got in your own head, you're in your own way. That's understandable. Life's a mind fuck. But there's really only three things I need you to do and not only do I believe in my heart you can do them - " I was grinning like a genuine crazy person, now - "I've seen you do them. I've got loads of flaws as a person - " I paused to look at Meghan, but she didn't say anything. "But I've never asked a player to do anything they can't do. Three things. That's your magic. That's why I'm here instead of talking to Messi." I laughed. "No joke, Wes. You're going to be my first signing of the summer."

"Second," said Kisi. "What about me?"

"Wes or bust," I said, getting myself so hyped up I was practically bouncing. He was starting to respond when the final whistle went and I fucking stormed across the pitch towards the organisers. In a manic half minute I introduced myself, said I wanted to sign three of the players I'd seen, and asked if they would delay the second match for two minutes so I could do some impromptu coaching. "Oh," I said, as I jogged back, "if you've got any wingers, send them over. I'm about to give a masterclass in the position."

***

I gave Kisi my phone, keys, and whatever was in my pockets. She was excited by the wallet but not happy with the bits of fluff. She threw one big piece away and I picked it up and placed it gently in her palm. "I need that," I whispered.

We were over by the right touchline, where a winger would live. Wes was standing about five yards in front of the eighteen-yard box, some five yards away from the edge of the pitch. He formed the boundary of a rectangle that was more than enough space for me to show my winger skills. A young goalkeeper was more than happy to hang around in the six-yard box, and I'd picked a striker kid with good heading to loiter around the penalty spot.

"Three things I need you to do, Wes mate," I said to my prospective new signing. "First one's a piece of piss. Imagine there's a sort of Formula One curve there. We're going to storm down the line and whip in a delicious cross that follows the bend. Remember, I've seen you do this."

I got ready.

"One tiny thing," I said, while I thought about it. "When you get going you're very head-down and in my limited experience we're not going to change that. C'est la vie, as they say in the digs. But then you need to look up before you sprint. Right? We'll work around your weaknesses. Turn them into strengths, even. And by the way, you'll be crossing to Henri and he's clever. He gets it. He'll know where you're going to hit the cross more often than not. We're not going to let details bother us. Not ones that we can coach around, anyway. So I'll knock the ball to you, sprint, take the return pass, and hit the cross. Actually, hang on." A gaggle of the under eighteens players had come closer to see what was going on. I talked to them. "Lads, I'm going to play a sort of one-two with Sharknado, here, and when I get to about there I'm going to smack in a fucking dreamy cross. This is a replicable skill. Something you can practice. It's kind of not that hard. The only tricky bit is coming to a stop before you hit an advertising board so watch how I rebalance myself after hitting the cross."

I touched the ball once to get into the proper stride, passed to Wes, glanced to see where the the striker and goalie were, sprinted pretty much flat out, collected the return pass, sprinted another ten yards, and Maria! Maria! You remind me of a West Side Story! I was jogging backwards, slowing, coming to a complete stop a yard behind the goal line as the striker headed the ball into the net. Glorious. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

"Good in the air, that kid. Love a proper old-school header. Wes, that's the first move. Second? How can I describe it? Ah, yeah. Piece of piss." I pointed to one of the kids. "You're a left back, yeah? Go to the far edge of the six yard box and jog in. When you get it, smash this ball low and hard into the net. Go on, then." He scampered away. "Wes, same deal." To the increasing crowd, I said, "So the first cross I think of as having a sort of Formula One curve that the ball follows while I spill off into the thingy lane. This one, though, it's way more perpendicular. It's a flat right angle. Have you seen Tron? I do this when I don't think my striker's gonna get a conventional cross, so I need to mix it up and hey! I've got a bro at the far post and he's favourite to do something with it."

I touched the ball again, looked up, sprinted, and when I got to the point I had last time, took another yard and then hit through the ball exactly sideways. It flew in a perfectly straight line, which is actually pretty hard to do but will happen if you make the right contact, and you guessed it, the left back volleyed the ball into the net smooth as silk.

Okay fine, under the pressure of a hundred people watching him he kicked fresh air and the ball sailed clean across the pitch, but whatever.

"Right? That's two. Now, the third one. Youngster, stand there and try to block my cross."

"I apologise, Mr. Best, but I know what you are planning to do."

"Oh, you do? Spend a few weeks with Henri and Pascal and think you're a floating megabrain?"

"Mr. Best, there's something I need to tell you."

"How about you stand there and try to block the cross? Hmm? Okay, check this out, Wes."

I took a touch, looked up - doing it how Wes would do it was pretty weird and inefficient but I think my impression of him was good - sprinted, and when it came to hit the cross, Youngster jumped up - sarcastically, somehow - but instead of hitting a big, whippy cross I booped the ball almost sideways between Youngster and the byline, turned and chased it so fast I heard a couple of gasps from the onlookers. With the ball about to go out of play for a goal kick I smashed it low to the striker, who successfully deflected it into the goal.

There was some applause. I gave everyone a Maxy two-thumbs to signal that the show was over, and pulled Wes off the pitch. "Three things. We'll coach the shit out of you doing those three things but master them and you'll give defences a migraine for the next five years. Kisi, what's two thousand pounds a week times fifty-two weeks times five years?"

"Hang on," she said, handing off my stuff to Meghan so she could get her own phone out.

"That's right," I said, looking at Wes. "A billion pounds."

"Five hundred and twenty thousand," said Kisi.

"That's what I meant," I said.

Wes smiled. "Lot of dough."

I shook my head. "A lot of work. Wes, I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. More sweat than tears, tbh. Especially on a day like this. It's like running in a sauna."

"Not being funny, Max, but you can hit those crosses without me."

"Yeah but what if I need to play DM? What if I'm in goal? If I'm playing left, you're playing right, they're gonna need two Usain Bolts to defend us. I never thought I'd say this but you're faster than me. Your pace will make teams go into low blocks."

"But we do not have Chris," said Youngster. "What is our solution to the low block?"

"Who says I want a solution?" I grinned.

"But - " he said.

I got my stuff back from Meghan. "I need to ask those kids what their plans are. Meghan, you're a born diplomat. Want to help?"

The others gave us some distance as I spoke to the young men. They were pretty surprised when I said I wanted to sign them to West Didsbury and Chorlton, but all three were keen. It went smoothly and Meghan was perfect. She gave the impression that if they signed, she'd be at every training session keeping an eye on them. She spoke with a sexy bluntness she never used around Youngster and the lads were into it. Like I said, born diplomat.

"That was mint," I said as we walked back to the others. "Bit of a sledgehammer approach, mind."

"I've tried being subtle, Max. It dun't work. Men are thick as pigshit."

"Yeah, fair point. All right let me talk to the organisers quickly." The managers of the next two teams were going through their team sheets with the referee. "Guys, quick question. I want to watch the start of this game, see if you've got any prospects. How long until the first drinks break?"

"We're not doing a drinks break."

"Are you f... Are you pulling my leg? It's boiling. I'm a professional football manager and I wouldn't play in this heat without a break after twenty minutes."

"We're not doing a drinks break."

I rolled my neck around. "There's five professional footballers here," said Meghan, fierce, "and we're telling you - "

"Oh, get bent."

"Meghan, come on. No point talking to them. They're dead inside." I went over to the green team's biggest player. "Are you the captain?"

"Yeah. You're the pro?"

"I'm the player-manager. Get these guys and come over here."

"What?"

"Come on, dude." Six of the green team followed me over to the yellow team. I shut them up with tact and sensitivity then added, "I'm Max Best. Player-manager of Chester FC, Manager of the Season, Player of the Month in League Two for Tranmere." The rest of my gang had come to see what was up. I gestured to each in turn. "I've got the Young Player of the Season here, my next star signing, and two girls from Man City who'll be playing for England soon. Not a single one of us would play in this heat without a water break. Stop playing after twenty minutes, walk to the sides, have a drink. If one of those guys complains, tell them I said to go fuck himself. All right? Now, I'm looking for new players for my team in Chorlton so if one of you's any good, that drinks break is when I'll come and talk to you. Captains, you with me?"

They were. After all, it could have been them I was scouting.

***

"That was smart," said Wes, as the players began toiling around the pitch. It seemed a good bet that we'd get some blood, toil, tears and sweat if we stayed long enough.

"What was?"

"Telling them to stop so you could tell them who you'd scouted. It tipped them over the edge."

I nodded. "It was smart. I like being smart."

"Why'd you do it, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you care about these kids?"

"Why wouldn't I? They're teenagers and those pricks are asking them to work harder and put more strain on their bodies than fully-trained professionals. I fucking hate seeing cavemen in charge of football teams. It winds me up. How many talented players have been through these teams and how many have quit because it was just so fucking grim?" I inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I want to get so famous that when I go over and tell them to do a drinks break they just instantly do it, whether it's out of fear or respect I don't care. Just fucking do something right for once in your fucking lives. What the fuck. I'm pissed and want to leave but I have to stay, now. We're going to have to cut the six-a-sides. Godfuckingdammit."

"Is anyone worth staying for?"

"The full back, there, but I think his dad is the caveman."

"Is that an automatic no?"

"Guy like that tried to murder me." I scoffed. "If that kid was the only talent in Manchester I'd play 3-5-2. I am... simmering."

Kisi poked me in the back and I turned, annoyed, only to see her click her fingers and strut around. "Cool, Max. Play it cool."

Meghan joined in the clicking. "Too cool for school, Max."

Youngster got a goofy smile on and fell into step beside Meghan. "The only rule, Max, is play it cool, Max."

I looked at Wes. His eyes went all over the place - thinking about his career, his future, all the disappointments of his past - then he locked eyes with me and I saw a cheeky grin and some movement from his hand. He was clicking.

"Jesus Christ," I said, laughing. "Fine. I'm cool. Look at me. Ice cold. Not going to flip anyone off."

"So can we go?" said Kisi.

"What? Go?"

"You said there's no-one you want. So we can go."

I shook my head and the smile faded. My heart hardened. "We can go when they get their break."

***

The next stop was to Chorlton - via a shop where I bought five ice lollies and a bag of chilled drinks - and into the stadium at Brookburn Road. My stadium! It was more like a football pitch with a few buildings dotted around, but still. I owned a little piece of Manchester.

As we walked around the pitch, I sang a little tune. "I like to be in Manchester, okay by me in Manchester, I can feel free in Manchester, something something Manchester."

"I'd like to play in America," said Wes, which made no sense because that wasn't even slightly the topic.

I noticed that Kisi had sort of latched onto him, which worried me for a second until I realised it was just a scam to make Youngster have to walk with Meghan. "Huh. Sure, we can try to make that happen. I'd like two seasons out of you first, tbh. Oh! How about Colorado Rapids? That'd fit. I wonder if they're actually faster than average. They should be, right?"

He stopped and touched my arm. He wanted a private word; I shooed the kids away. "I've got doubts, Max. I've lost my faith."

I waited, but there didn't seem to be more coming. "Wes, you're really good. I'm about to cut almost all of these kids. Tell them their football journey's over and they should go and be carpenters or accountants or whatever. Some will keep going and it'll be a waste of time. I don't want that. They should find something they're really good at and treat footy like the game it is. I don't like doing it but here and at Chester it's my job. If you came to me and asked for advice and you were shit, I'd tell you. But you're not. Now, those three brats are very, very talented but you can do something none of them can."

"What's that?"

"Get an entire stadium off their arses. When I fizz you a pass from DM and you're crossing the halfway line, four thousand people are gonna have their pulses up ten bpm because nobody's gonna catch you. You're absolute box office, mate. Oh, my God!"

"What?"

"I'm just imagining the first time we let you loose at the Deva. People are going to lose their minds. That rush is worth the season ticket price, Wes. People work hard and they want to be entertained. They want... the Sharknado." He tried not to smile and failed. "Come on. This is my club. Do you like hummus?"

As usual at West, there was a nice buzz around the gaff, with volunteers and parents and some first-team players. Plus, the four guys I wanted to sign, who'd found each other and were in a little huddle off to the side. I'd started calling them the Fab Four - they would be the new spine of the team. A goalie, centre back, midfielder, and striker. They were grizzled veterans with CAs in the thirties. We would build the team around them.

I introduced everyone to everyone and let Meghan and Kisi do their version of charm on the Fab Four while I talked to West's current manager - he wouldn't last long, sadly, but he was good enough for the coming season - and the guy who ran the youth system. We watched as the under eighteens played their final match and I made comments and listened to what the West staff had to say. After about twenty minutes, I said there was one kid I wanted to promote to the first-team squad, along with the three I'd found that morning and two others from recent scouting trips. With the four semi-pros coming in and maybe the odd loan from Chester, we would surely smash the league.

I went through the current first team squad and crossed out a few names who'd have to go to make room for the new lads. Pretty brutal, really, but the worst thing was that the manager accepted it and the players would accept it. They wouldn't like it but they had spent their entire career waiting for this moment. One day, it would even happen to me. Some talented little shark would knock me out of the team while another would take my Manager of the Year awards.

"This is if those four sign, obviously. If they don't, I'll call you and we'll discuss it. Oh. Where are they?"

"Jane's giving them the tour." Jane was one of the volunteers and there was no better ambassador for West.

"Amazing. I'm gonna go take five minutes to myself. Do we have an aircon anywhere?"

"There's a fan in my office, Max. Good one. Three speeds it's got, to push the hot air into your face."

"Just gonna chill and make a couple of phone calls. If I don't see you again, enjoy your summers and all that."

I went into the club's office - I had a master key to here as well as the Deva - and closed my eyes. How was I doing with Wes? Hard to tell. It was too hot for me to think straight so I was - yeah, I was trying to play it cool. Trying to be honest but also to show that I knew what I was talking about. I didn't know him well enough to say how he was responding. If he was in my squad I'd be able to see his Morale. Ah, numbers. Certainty in an uncertain world.

I sighed and picked up a pen a doodled some CAs and PAs.

West's squad had an average CA of 10, which is why Vivek and Michael Harrison had been able to come and slip into the first team so easily.

With the Fab Four, the first eleven's average would be over 19, while after the morning's scouting we would have six kids in the squad whose PA was in the high twenties or thirties. We would definitely be the best team in the league and any loans from Chester would really hammer home our advantage.

I ripped the paper up and threw half of it into one bin and half into another.

Next stop, pub.

***

The Fab Four had been softened by Kisi and Meghan's youthful energy and the mood around the table was sky high. We talked about football with Kisi chatting a mile a minute telling stories from inside the Beth Heads, from Chester, and even from the brief time I was the manager of a local side against Chester's boys.

I munched my burger and fries and tried to drown myself in ice cold cokes while the League Two playoff semi-final second leg played out on dozens of screens. Wrexham were pushing Crawley back all over the place and the away team seemed unable to do my trademark fast breaks down the middle. Wrexham had finally worked it out! They almost seemed to be playing with three defensive midfielders. A narrow 4-3-3 with the full backs pushing on to hit crosses. Five attacking, five defending. That was wild by their manager's standards.

The camera kept cutting to TJ, the good-looking bastard, as he covered his mouth and talked to his assistant. They were struggling. At one point, the commentator said something like 'and Max Best isn't here to help him today' which caused a minor cheer at my table and that became the main source of friction between me and Wes and the Fab Four. It seemed impossible for them to believe that a sixth tier manager had gone down to Crawley to teach a League Two team how to play. I didn't fight it - seeing is believing.

After about half an hour, I got everyone at the table to shush while I made a call. They leaned in so they didn't miss anything.

"Chad? Max. Get Marley off, switch to 4-5-1, super conservative in the middle, super aggressive out wide. Yeah, right now. No, I'm serious. All right, seeya." I smirked and looked around. "If Crawley win I get a bonus. Pays your wages for a month." I resumed popping chips in my mouth. They were room temperature, meaning a million degrees. I knew that at the side of the pitch, Crawley's head physio had run to TJ to relay my message, and the wheels would soon be in motion. It happened even faster than I expected - the ball went out of play and the camera cut to the away dugout at the Racecourse.

"No way," said the guy I hoped would be West's new goalkeeper.

"Fuck me," said the striker.

On screen, a substitute was stretching while he waited for Marley to jog off the pitch, and TJ was animatedly running around shouting at people and pointing.

"Sorry guys," said Meghan, as she stole one of my chips and dipped it in ketchup. She used it to point at the Fab Four. "You've just seen the owner of your football club make a, ha, thirtieth minute substitution in the biggest game of the year. For a different team! From a pub! The manager at Crawley doesn't have doubts. Why the fuck do you?"

There was a tiny silence that soon filled with laughter. The midfielder put his hands up. "Oh, that's me done. I'm in. Lancaster City can swivel." Lancaster were two divisions higher than West - this was a huge coup!

"I was in anyway," said the striker.

"You should wait to see if the tactical change works, first," said Youngster.

His sister punched him on the arm, quite hard. "Shut up, James!"

"When it works it will be even more powerful!"

"I think I preferred Meghan's help, mate," I said. His head dropped so I took over the conversation for a while, explaining what I'd learned about the players on both sides and their managers.

After a while, Wes piped up. "Sounds like I want to play for TJ."

"What?"

Meghan laughed. "Listen to yourself! You've got a mancrush on him, Max. You talk about him the way Kisi talks about Patricio." Patricio was a hot prospect in the Man City system with hot being the operative word. I'd seen him being named on the subs bench from time to time and with his talent it was a wonder he hadn't got there sooner.

Kisi was annoyed the name had come up. "Hey! It's you who likes him."

Meghan was annoyed Kisi would say that in front of Youngster. "Don't talk shit."

Wes clicked his fingers. I joined in, and then Youngster did, too. Kisi nearly choked from laughing. The Fab Four were perplexed, so Meghan started to explain when Youngster exploded off the table, nearly toppling our drinks.

On the screens, Crawley were running round, celebrating. Four-one on aggregate! (Including the score from the first leg.) I waited for the replay to see how the goal had been scored. There was dead silence on our table as it came on. The left back had gone on a storming run, combined with the left midfielder, and burst into the box before cutting the ball square for the right midfielder to slot home.

"Aggressive out wide," mumbled the goalie.

"You see?" said Youngster, eyes bulging. "Do you see?"

I got up and gave him a big hug and coaxed him back down into his chair while Meghan gave him a very not-cool look. Still hanging onto my firebrand preacher, I got my phone out and redialled. "Yeah, it's Max. Low block. Yeah. Till half time. Cool." I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling. Friendships, projects, scouting, giving opportunities to talented people. Getting to know my dudes. And the sense of power. The awe of what I could achieve when I was in harmony with others, with myself. Mind and body working together. I slipped back into my seat. "Sometimes I wish I could dance. Really properly dance, you know? Like West Side Story. Really go for it."

"What happens at the end of that?" asked Kisi.

"Tragedy. But this isn't West Side Story." I nodded at the Fab Four. "This is my West side and they can tell their own story. Spoiler alert - they win the league and learn how to make an amazing broccoli soup." I decided it was time for my big pitch. "Guys, when you watch West Side Story you get frustrated because these guys are wasting their lives fighting each other even though they're going through the same things. I hate seeing people waste their lives and their talent. There's this quote, 'You should do what you love while you can.' I want to pay you money to play football in winning teams. I want you four to sign for West. Wes, I want you at Chester. I don't know what else to tell you. I chose you because you're good players, you fit the team, and you're not dicks. We'll all achieve our goals this season. West are going up, eight, seven, six. Chester are going to the playoffs and Wes? We could fucking use you."

"What about me?" said Kisi.

"You can stay at City. Meghan didn't turn out too bad."

***

After watching Crawley scrape through into the playoff final - Wrexham scored two late goals but lost four-three on aggregate - I dropped Wes off at a train station. He said he'd sleep on it and pray on it and let me know soon but that his mind was more or less made up. That seemed positive; I was feeling upbeat when I herded my posse into Withington Golf Club.

The Chamber of Commerce had organised a kind of Shark Tank event where people could pitch their ideas to a bunch of local businessmen looking for opportunities and tax write-offs. I knew I didn't have the skills to connect with b-boys who weren't already fans of the team, so I considered this event to be a practice run. I'd get a feel for what worked and what didn't and once I'd had a couple of tries, I'd really make an effort with PowerPoints and handouts and all that. I'd go full Brooke.

We had some alcohol-free drinks and nibbles with about eight of the sharks. One, a wiry, strong-looking sexagenarian called Keith, proudly announced he wouldn't be investing in me because he was a big City fan. That prompted Meghan to give him a blast of her charm. "What are you saying? He's got two players from Man City with him! I'd put money in if I had it. He's going to invest it in the community and get everyone talking about West."

Keith didn't enjoy being told off. He mumbled something about her having a point and he shuffled off.

The other b-boys didn't talk to me in case they got their heads bitten off, too. I couldn't be mad at Meghan, though. She'd been showing more and more Chesterness all day. Thanks to the heat I'd been showing less and less sophistication and diplomacy and now I felt sure I would bomb in the pitch room. I would bomb so hard I wouldn't even learn anything from it. After about five soul-crushing minutes, I was shepherded into a meeting room. There were rows and rows of plush conference room chairs, but only eight people in attendance. The same eight who had been in the lobby. I mean, grim, but I thought of it as grinding for sales pitch experience points. No biggie. I'd stick to the facts and not get emotional.

"Hi," I started, ignoring the microphone I'd been offered. Everyone could hear me. "I'm Max Best. I'm here to ask for funding for West Didsbury and Chorlton Football Club, which we call West. A good measure of a club's underlying health is its average attendance. West's has been rising year on year, climbing from 700 last season to 750 this. That's impressive for the division and shows how it's getting more and more woven into the fabric of the area. The club can stand on its own two feet but I want to bring my skills to bear and put overpowered players into key positions. First, though, a little bit about me." I went about introducing myself, but stopped when the main door opened and a handful of new b-boys came in.

Except they weren't b-boys. They were Old Nick and two imps. They spread out, taking seats to the left, right, and centre.

"Good evening, sir," I said to Tactics Imp. "What business are you in?"

"Cars," he squeaked.

"Gosh, really? Any particular brand? If I know you, Tesla. Right?"

"Hillman!" he said, and he bobbed up and down, making weird wheezing noises.

An elderly b-boy in front of him turned round. "Hillman Imp? My father had one of those. Funny little motor. Do they still make those?"

"Import export!" said Tactics, which seemed to satisfy the b-boy.

I put my head in my hands and looked to Kisi and Meghan for help. They were on their phones, though. Youngster had his eyes open but gave the impression that he was rehearsing the speech he would give in church the following morning. "Sorry," I said, "are you saying there's a car called a Hillman Imp?"

"Yes," said the guy in front. "You've seen it. It's Mr. Bean's car."

"Mr. Bean drives a Mini," said Keith, who had been bored to death until this conversation had started.

"I was sure it was a Hillman."

"I bet you fifty quid," said Keith, who was clearly extremely competitive.

Old Nick shifted. "How much for stadium naming rights?"

"Excuse me?"

"I know you, Max Best. Your name comes up in a lot of our marketing meetings. You're very good and you have a talent for getting publicity. I want my company name in every article, every news story, every twit. So how much will that set me back?"

"I haven't even started my presentation, yet."

"Never mind all that," he said, and I realised he was doing a posh English voice. "These people don't realise that their investment will pay off tenfold. Talk to me, instead. How much?"

"I mean, there isn't a stadium. There's a little metal shack with space for fifty hipsters."

"The Emirates. The Allianz Arena. The No Fussin' Hyperdome. The return on investment is always good from naming rights but with you in charge, it will be stratospheric."

"What's your company name?"

Old Nick bared his teeth. "I represent Hellmann's Mayonnaise."

"You're not serious? And the stadium would be called... Hellmann's? Welcome to Hellmann's?"

Keith was intrigued. "Go on, then. How much for naming rights?"

I scratched my head. What was Old Nick's angle here? Had he really got involved at a famous brand so that... So that... I didn't know how to finish that sentence. I tried to focus. I'd come to try to get fifteen thousand, hadn't it? "Fif - "

"Fifty is far too much," said Old Nick. "I offer thirty thousand. That's enough to finance two players this season. And I offer an extra fifteen on condition you win every game."

"Every game? Every league game, you mean."

Nick glanced at Tactics Imp, who nodded. "Every league game, yes. We will continue the deal next summer. You will win every league game for two seasons. There will be tremendous media interest as the streak continues. I would have to be very dim indeed not to be able to exploit that opportunity."

I scoffed. "The most consecutive wins ever is like twenty. We can't win every match. Certainly not, fucking, ninety-two in a row."

Pilot Imp - I think it was him - spoke up like a kid in a school play not trusted to have many lines. "You can win every home game. Bradford Park Avenue won 25 home matches in a row. Win every home game and don't lose away and my company will pay a big bonus."

There was so much going on here I didn't know where to start. I wanted to ask what his company was called, but didn't want to unduly stress the poor creature. Before I could speak, Keith was on the edge of his chair, jiggling back and forth. "Can you do that?"

"Can we win every home game? I mean, yeah in one season. Two seasons back to back?" I scoffed, but then thought about it. It wouldn't take much, to be honest. "We've got four new players lined up. Add another four next season. The levels are fairly low down there and there's no shortage of players who'd improve the team. Most aren't expensive, to be honest. If they already live in Manchester or near it's not a hard sell. So, yeah. I... Look, there's always the random factor. Crazy stuff happens in sport. But we can stack the odds in our favour, big time. If that helps you sell mayonnaise then, wow. Weird."

"Now you forget mayonnaise, young man. My name's Keith and I understood you were here to pitch to local businesses and you don't get more local than me. I've got shops, I've got properties, I've got sparkies and spreads and skips and scaffs. I like to say I'm a one-man Yellow Pages. Now, why don't you and I go and have a private chat?"

A rival b-boy didn't like that. "Hey, sit down, Keith. There's more of us, here."

Keith pointed at the other man. "You don't have two brass farthings to rub together, Cooky! This young man needs someone who can scale with him and that's not you, that's me. Come on, now, my boy. I'll see you right. Thirty plus a bonus and I'll see my name in lights."

The guy was incredibly forceful when he wanted to be, and I was being led away from the stage by the power of his charisma - and a callused hand on my back. I looked back at Old Nick, whose eyes were shining. He had that hungry look about him. "Keith," I managed to say, as he opened the double doors and we sailed through. "What's the name of your company?"

"Blue Moon Limited."

Blue Moon was the one and only song Manchester City fans sung. "So the stadium would be called... The whole stadium would be one big advert for... nah, hang on a second. Hang on just a second!"

***

In the car on the way back home, the energy was low. The heat and the long period of boredom had exhausted the youngsters. It'd been a good day, though. Weird, but good. I was pretty sure West would do some serious damage this season.

"Are you happy, Max? You got your money and your players."

"We'll see but yeah, looks like. This Keith guy is nuts. More competitive than Sam Topps. He's pretty annoying. If I know him, he'll be wearing West bobble hats by October. He'll tell everyone our record was down to him and skip the part where he said he wouldn't help us."

"If you get the record," said Youngster.

"We have a pretty good chance. The team is going to be miles better than the level. Hmm."

"What?"

"I could afford a fifth player but the manager's a weak link, now. If we want to go on a serious winning streak, we need an upgrade."

"Get a player-manager," said Meghan. "For five hundred a week, I'll do it."

I laughed. "You'd be mint an' all."

"Max," whined Kisi. "Where am I going to play next season?"

"Wherever you want."

"Max!"

"What?"

"Where do you want me to play?"

I sighed. "I love seeing you in a Chester shirt, Kisi. Dribbling and doing tricks and being a dick." I laughed. "Remember that time you nutmegged that one girl and she tried to scissor kick you from the floor and you jumped over it and pretended you were doing a skipping rope? It was so funny and she was so angry she had to be subbed off. It's annoying to think of you being locked up in some evil laboratory somewhere in Beswick and being let out once a year to go on loan. I think Chester can develop you pretty well but if things go wrong with the men's team then our facilities might not be able to keep up with your promotions. It's a risk. City's a sure thing. As a friend, I should tell you to stay at City. As your agent, the same."

"And as Chester's Director of Football? What do you say, then?"

I smiled. "I say fuck City they're everything that's wrong with football and you're everything that's right with it. They don't deserve you. Come to Chester and slap us up the leagues. Build this club with me. Football the right way, all the way." I scoffed. "Once we buy Meghan, we'll be better than them anyway."

Meghan piped up. "You can't afford me."

"I can when I sell Youngster."

"Pardon me?" said the man himself. "Sell me to buy Meghan?" He turned and smiled directly at her for the first time that day and I suddenly realised he hadn't spent the day mentally rehearsing his sermon but trying to cook up a flirty line that would hook a shark. "That would be a good trade indeed. She is formidable."

"And fit," said Meghan, in her aggressive flirty voice.

"And fit," said Youngster.

Oooh it was all popping off! I stopped at a traffic light and started clicking my fingers. Click, click, click. Kisi joined in. "James," said Meghan, in her normal voice. "Would you like to watch West Side Story with me?"

"Yes," he said. "I would very much like that."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight."

***

@Chester - The club are delighted to announce the signing of Wes Hayward. The 25-year-old pacy winger will join the Seals on July 1 in time for pre-season.

***

@Chester - The club are delighted to announce that Kisi Yalley has decided to leave Manchester City and join us on a permanent basis. Director of Football Max Best said, 'This is top in theory but the deal is subject to her refraining from demanding the number 77 shirt. There's only one 77 and it's not you. So stop asking. Also, you made the right choice. Welcome home.'