12.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The point of letting the takeover get so close to the end was to shock the fans into trusting me more and giving me more, but around the hall I only saw anger and resentment. I'd scared off the billionaire they had been daydreaming about for two months and now I was berating them. This was supposed to be a winning season; I’d already lost.

I remembered a Mark Twain quote - it's easier to fool people than to convince them they have been fooled. I could explain the story in full, with sources, but the people would continue to sit there, arms folded, or stand at the sides whispering to each other. Groups of burly men coalescing into attack units. The first to throw his season ticket at me would unleash a torrent.

My plan had been clever - on paper. In reality I had worked myself into a corner and couldn't plot a way out.

I reacted badly. I had grown as angry and resentful as anyone in the audience.

"My name is Max Best," I said, more to get everyone to shut up than anything. "I’m not the best football manager in the world. But I’d love to know where I stand in the top ten." A few of my players applauded, but my tone fell flat on the gammons. "I've been your Director of Football for two years. In that time we've made great progress but it seems not everyone in this room agrees with that. I'll tell you two people who do - Gerry Star and Chip. You can't be for them and against me because they know what I've done here. They were going to sell off the squad this summer, sell the club - ideally when it was in League Two - and trouser up to ten million in profit. I put a stop to it and they walked out. You're welcome."

I started striding across the front of the stage, mostly looking at a spot a couple of yards in front of my toes. If I'd made eye contact with the wrong person at the wrong time I would have gone thermonuclear.

"All or nothing. That's the choice you have to make now. That's the vote. You'll back me absolutely or I'll walk. Those are the two choices and there's nothing in the middle. I need 75% of you to back me, otherwise I've got a form in my bag. I'll sign the form, Joe will send it to our wonderful Football Association, and I'll be a free man. I'll walk off into the sunset - yes, I know it's pitch black outside - and tomorrow I'll call Watford and ask if they want a mystery winger for fifty thousand pounds a week."

I clomped around, fighting a losing battle against the anger. It threatened to overwhelm me.

"I can't do this anymore." I fell into a black hole. "I can't do this anymore," I repeated, dismayed at how true it was. I looked at the exit sign that always glowed above the doors in these places. Exit. The portal to a simpler life. For ten grand a week I could smash up the Welsh league and another ten would get West to tier six, easy. As a Championship player I'd still have thirty grand a week left over and as long as I didn't overdo it, the Sentinel wouldn't crush me flat. I cleared my throat. "I've been working for two years with one hand tied. It's hard to win matches and build a club while constantly being stabbed in the back and slapped in the face. If you don't appreciate me you can at least get out of my way. I want you to vote to dissolve the board and give its powers to me." I paused to let that sink in. It was pretty absurd hearing myself say it out loud. This was my plan? I was twenty-four years old. But whatever. It had made sense at the time and now I just wanted this to be over. They would give me the power I needed or they would get nothing more from me.

"Dissolve the board?" said someone to my left. Lily, I think.

"Dissolve the board and let me continue the job I've been doing for two years. Dissolve the board so I can plan long-term. Properly long-term without the risk of you handing it over to a billionaire. That's it. Let's vote so we can all get on with our lives. Do you want me or not?"

There was a fairly ugly silence that became a murmur that became a grumble. As I fumed, steamed, and boiled, I spotted some movement to my left. Henri Lyons was climbing the stairs. Behind him was Pascal, Glenn, and Magnus.

I didn't expect it and when Henri reached to give me a hug, I suddenly found myself without a microphone. I looked around for another one but saw that Sumo had them all. He was cradling them and when he saw me looking, he pulled them tighter.

"What are you doing?" I said.

A hand gently took me by the elbow and pulled. Emma! Fully dressed. She coaxed me down onto a chair that had appeared. For some reason it was side-on to the audience. Also, I realised, side-on to the big screen. The other first teamers sat next to me. Something like bodyguards. Sophie, the documentary director, went to the lectern, closed my laptop, and put her own on top. She didn't need to plug anything in; she was already in control.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Henri, as he glided around the stage like a pro. "As you have seen, Max Best is in a mood." His teeth sparkled. "A big one! When you hear the full story, you'll understand. In essence, he feels you highlighted all his work and pressed delete. It seems he won't tell you the full story now because he is supremely stubborn. Bull-headed. Obstinate! He is in no mood to tell you what the Stars tried to do and he is in no mood to remind you of his vision for the future of this club. He simply says, vote for me and if you don't, I'm leaving! Ha! Tomorrow he will regret it. He will not go to Watford. He will find another worthy club and start again but this time, he will have this meeting right at the beginning. That club's progress would be sensationally fast - it would be a tremendous story. But I'm afraid I can't indulge him. I must be selfish, Pascal must be selfish, we all must be selfish for our careers are short and we must shoot Chester to League Two with Max as the manager. There is simply no time to waste in our short careers. So we intervene. This is an intervention."

My anger deepened. What's this shit? But it was just a flash. The surge receded and into the gap poured hope. A way out of this mess?

How had this happened? I had told MD and Joe I wanted this final, binding referendum. To my face, they had gone along with it. Great idea, Max! Let's do it. But MD had gone to Henri and Glenn and they had set up this 'intervention'.

Henri nodded at Brooke. She went to Sumo and took a microphone. She was still struggling with her emotions - the relief that my plan worked, the stress of working against her family, the uncertainty of what was to come. "My name is Brooke Star. Gerry Star is my father."

Henri said, "It would be unkind to ask you to testify against your papa. But in your opinion, how much money would he have put into Chester Football Club?"

Brooke acted astonished. "Put in? Not a red cent more than he had to. Sending the two million pounds would have caused him physical pain." She looked out at the fans. "I'm sorry but he's not what you wanted him to be." Brooke turned the mic off and returned it to Sumo. After she sat, it seemed like she would burst into tears. MD lightly touched her shoulder and she nodded a few times, clearly saying, "I'm fine, I'm fine."

Henri said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please bear Brooke's words in mind as you watch. And please bear in mind that the Max you see at these Forums and on match days is a man at his most emotional. It is not always Max at his best. We, the players, the staff, see him when he is relaxed and thoughtful and kind and deeply committed to Chester FC. I am happy to show you what he is really like when the camera is off. Which is ironic, because as you will see, the camera was on."

I turned on my seat as the big screen sprung to life. It was me on holiday! In fucking Tenerife! They'd filmed me without my consent. "The fuck?" I called out.

Sophie paused the video. Henri came over and passed his mic to Emma. She said, "Max. You're calling this All Or Nothing. I agree with that. I want the fans to know all about you. You never tell them how much you do. I want them to see all the things you do, all the ways you care about the players and the club. All the things you'd do to protect it. All the ways they don't need money from outside because they've got you. And if, after that, they want to bin you off, I'll have you all to myself. But we've got to try. We've got to tell them the whole story. I promise it's only clips where you're being honest about Chester."

"Clips plural?"

"Max, please," she said.

I took in a deep breath and when I let it out I leaned forward and spoke into her mic. "I consent to being illegally recorded."

Sophie didn't wait for further discussion. We returned to my holiday. Me, off guard. Me having a lovely old time. I was back in the hotel room after doing some exercise, sweating furiously.

"How was your run?" said Emma, only partially in view.

"Mint," I said. "I feel amazing. I should do less but it just feels amazing. I might reinvent myself as a box to box midfielder. Bin off penalties."

"Did you flirt with any joggers?"

"No. I mean, not much."

"Do you want a massage after your shower?"

I looked surprised. "Is that a trick question?"

"I'll do your calves if you tell me about Daddy Star and that whole story."

"I've told you."

"Tell me from the start with all the numbers and everything. It's like a huge thing that's happened and if it's going to drive a wedge between you and the fans and we're going to have to leave the city and our friends I want to understand it inside out."

"Erm," I said. "I'll think about it."

"Smell this," said Emma.

I walked across and took a whiff of some massage oil she'd got. "Oh, that's nice. Did you buy it?"

"No, I asked the spa if I could borrow this."

"Err, all right," I said. "Numbers? Weird." I popped into the bathroom and Emma picked up whatever the camera was hidden inside. She centralised the pillows and plopped the hidden camera down on the corner of the bed. She went around the room moving more things into position.

The scene changed and we got a top-down view of me getting a leg rub from Emma. Then for most of the next speech it was her make-up bag or whatever getting a great shot of me with my head to one side, happily talking through the plot to destroy Chester. Henri or Sophie or MD or whoever had edited this intervention had at least bleeped out the player values so there was no potential embarrassment there.

"Start from the beginning, bebs."

I went 'mmm' and took a few seconds. "The beginning. Gerry Star wants to control his daughter. He doesn't want her to live in Singapore, or Sydney, or Chester. He wants her to live in Texas, the end. He interferes in her life so that she has to keep moving and when I heard about all this I was expecting to get a visit and a threat or an offer. If I sacked her, he'd give me ten grand. Something like that. It never happened. Why? Because he asked Chip to check out this soccer club and Chip found something strange. We're profitable. We sold players worth a million dollars. Was that a lucky punch or something more systemic? Chippy-boy did some digging - maybe he used his famous data skills - and turns out, this place is a goldmine. These players are a goldmine." I smiled proudly. "They got to James Pond. He's perfect because he's a prize chump who thinks he's smart. The Stars know all about such people. Long story short, Pond looks at balance sheets and income and whatnot and proposes a price for the club of two million pounds."

"Right," said Emma. "Same as Wrexham."

"But Wrexham had mostly garbage players. I can just imagine Chip leaving the room, closing the door, and doing a dance. He pretends to call his dad, returns to Pond, says it's higher than we hoped but you got a deal! Pond begins the work of putting feelers out to the board and influential fans. One influential voice got himself destroyed, sadly, when I twatted his phone up onto the roof of the Deva, but there are plenty of fans who want to copy Wrexham, who fear being left behind forever."

"You won't let that happen."

"Course I won't. I'm fucking mint. I can't say it in public but we'll blaze right past them. They play dogshit football. We're doing astonishing things already. I've started to get horny for 3-4-3 even though I've never seen it used well. Isn't that weird?"

"Focus, bebs."

"Okay. The plan. What's the plan? The plan is for Star to drop two million into the Supporters Trust account. There's a chance to get that back if it's used for the stadium but I couldn't work out how they could get it without doing some outright fraud. And there's a risk with fraud that Weaver, Weaver, and Weaver takes them to pound town because here's one club you can't drown in legalese. No, I think they'll accept the two million as the cost of doing business. Everything that will happen will be legal. Once they own the club, almost everything is legal."

"Mmm," said Emma.

"On day one, without me, there's like a twenty percent chance of going up through the playoffs. So I think they'd actually spend some money like they said."

"Some of your money."

"Of course. There's no reason to use their own. And it keeps the fans off their backs for ages because they're seemingly doing what they promised. If it was me, I'd do one striker, and one dominant defender or midfielder. On loan, obviously, because you only need them for six months. For seventy grand you can get a good player. Hundred and a bit for two players who double your odds. It's worth it and it's more fun that way. I think Gerry's having all kinds of fun with this because as soon as the ink is dry he has won. So they sign a couple of dudes. Our fans are like oh Christ, finally some transfers! You saw the team against Plymouth - if they can do that to Plymouth they can do it to Barnet. Add a couple of players and you finish third in the league. That gives you one match to get to the final, then it's fifty-fifty against Barnet. A trip to Wembley is big money but the real prize is getting promoted. If you can get promoted it's go time.

"First, you sell Ben, Glenn, Eddie, and Steve for [bleep] thousand. Aff's going for [bleeep], easy. Sharky, Omari, Cole, Josh, Tom. You'd be crazy to take less than [bleep] thousand each. I mean, everywhere you look there's players other teams want. We had a bid of [bleep] for Carl. Did I tell you that? I'm like double it, mate, the guy's nowhere near his ceiling. Plus we need him for the playoffs. Okay so they try to sell Henri for [bleeep]."

"Henri won't go, though. He wouldn't make them richer."

"I know! But they think it's like America where you just trade players and they don't get a say. Or they think they can persuade him. Same with Youngster. He's religious so the plan is Daddy Star goes to the meeting with his old family Bible under his elbow. Oh this thing? Carry it with me everywhere I go." On the screen, I chuckled. I was in a great mood. In the hall I wasn't so sure. People were watching with interest but it was hard to say if they were believing. "On some spreadsheet in East Texas somewhere, Henri's got a big old [bleep] pounds next to his name and that's a fact. It's all starting to add up, isn't it? Can you name another National League club where every single player has a value of more than [bleep]? No, you can't. Not even Grimsby. Then we come to the crown jewels. I'm not sure how good Zach will be by the summer but I think there will be a lot of scouts realising they missed a trick with him and spending [bleep] to get him now will save them [bleep] in another year. Do you get me? I wouldn't sell him for less than [bleeeep]. He's that good."

"You said his abs weren't symmetrical."

I scoffed and turned my head. Annoyingly for me in the present day, there was another camera on that side. "His abs are fine, I guess, if you like that sort of thing. Then we've got William B. Roberts. The [bleeeeeeep] in England. Chelsea paid three million pounds for a seventeen-year-old who was on the pitch against Wibbers and I've got to say, on the evidence of that match, if that kid is worth three million, Will is worth [beeeeep]. I wouldn't sell him for any price right now. I'm keeping him until I can't help him any more. He's listening to me and he's turning into a proper weapon. When I'm done with him he'll be worth [beep] motherfucking [beeep]. And Youngster! Jesus Christ. He's worth [bleeep] on his own. He slapped at the AFCON qualifiers and he's going to the full tournament in February. How can you sell a club for two million when one goofy little Christian is worth [beeeeep]? It fucking winds me up. He doubled in value during the course of the takeover! How is the selling price the same?"

"Because people think Star's going to put money in and it doesn't matter about the price."

I slapped the mattress and the camera went rogue. "Oh, come on! Make the guy put five mill into an account that can only be spent on new players! Take some basic fucking precautions! You can't trust people. What the fuck."

"Babes," said Emma, climbing over me to massage my neck while secretly fixing the cameras. "Let's slip back into the holiday mood. Smell the oil. There we go."

"I'm soz," I said. "I just can't believe this is happening. They believe every piece of shit Star's chatbots are putting out about me but they don't believe the guy times how long it takes his staff to poop. He's a terrible human and that's on record. Every single one of his employees despises him."

Emma said, "I know. I know. Come on. Promise I won't play Devil's Advocate again. Keep going. I'm really enjoying it. So someone's told them Youngster might not want to leave the club and they've thought, oh we'll persuade him. He's a gullible idiot same as everyone else?"

"Yeah. They think everyone can be bought and sold."

"And you're stopping that."

"I'm taking the whole concept off the table. Star wants to buy a business worth ten million pounds for two million. The ten million is all in the players. So if I reduce the value of the players to zero, he'll walk away. Won't he? If I'm right, which I am."

"And you're doing that via the contracts."

"Yes. I had a very complicated plan. Why do I make everything so complicated? But at the core was a good idea. It's simple and it's fair. I was told Chester was a fan-owned club and that's why I put so much of my life into it. If you tell me it's a fan-owned club but then you sell it - donate it - to a billionaire, you lied to me. I should be free to leave. Right?"

"Right."

"So it's a clause we put in the contracts. If the ownership of the club changes, if so much as one share is sold, then it's no longer a fan-owned club as was promised and I'm free to walk away. Most players don't care either way - the young ones just want to play football and the old ones just want to pay their mortgage. But I reckon I've got a higher-than-average percentage of players who actually give a shit. Let's take Henri. Star takes over, Henri says, ah no, no way. He invokes the clause and he's a free agent. Star gets nothing. Times that by ten, plus Youngster, and Star's got almost no way to make a profit. The only way would be to get promotion with what’s left of the squad and while Chip definitely thinks he's the best director of football in the western hemisphere, his dad knows he ain't. So they're fucked. Star won't touch the club."

"What's the thing with it being complicated?"

"Okay I was changing the contracts one by one because I thought the Stars would stop checking them after six or seven. So, like, the thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth new contracts would have the new clause. But I always had this kind of fear that, okay, Chip would stop looking through each one but maybe James Pond would check every single line on every single page. I thought there was a one percent chance of that but that’s one percent more than I was comfortable with. But we went on the London Eye, didn't we? And Zach said hey it's contract law and we can sign a new contract every day if we want. There's no rules about how many contracts you sign. And that's it! All I have to do is get the lads together on the day of the Fans Forum. We'll sign the new contracts before the meeting. Star will see the clause and then we'll know if he's there to steal ten million from the people of Chester or if he's actually in it to win it."

"Won't the fans be mad when they find out?"

"Why?"

"Coz it's like, you take away the option to sell."

"They only want to sell because Ryan Reynolds moved in next door. The last owner of Chester City crashed the club harder than any football club has ever been crashed. They should remember that."

"But it's their club. They should have the right."

I closed my eyes. "I was told that what I was doing was for the fans and for the community. That matters to me." I opened my eyes. "Even if it's their club, they don't have my permission to take my work and give it away so I can watch it be looted by a [bleep]. I've put together a squad worth what? Six or seven million, conservatively. Daddy Star wants to sell everyone this summer, then sell the club. If it's in League Two, he can get six million for it easy. There's millions in TV money guaranteed and half the people who buy football clubs don't even know about relegation. So he sells the players for six million, sells the club for six million. Fuck, he'll probably sell my solar panels just to spite me. And the Raffi Brown money is still in the bank. He'd send that and all the rest of his haul back to Texas, break out the champagne to celebrate. Celebrate how beautifully he's rinsed the people of Chester for the crime of harbouring his daughter. Just as Gerry's about to pop the cork, Chip says, wait. Should we invite James Pond? And they laugh their fucking heads off. To be fair, it's objectively funny how stupid James Pond is. But that's ten million, minimum, leaving Chester and going to Texas. I can't let that happen even if the gammons fucking hate me for it."

"What if you tell Daddy Star that all the players are going to walk out... and he stays? And buys the club anyway? What if he's a serious investor like he says?"

I pulled a face. "Then I'm the idiot and I'll leave with my tail between my legs. The squad has the option to leave but they can stay if they want. If Star is really interested in the club, he'll ask Sandra to be the manager and he'll promise the players that he's serious and maybe he'll, like, put ten million in escrow that can only be spent on Chester. Something like that, right? The players will watch the presentation and they'll know if it's all bullshit. I know that so far he hasn't spoken to Sandra. If you had the first clue about football you'd beg her to stay and double her salary."

"If he's real and serious and all that, won't you ask your players to leave? Follow you out?"

I scoffed. "No way. Why? They’re my boys. I'll want them to get promoted. I'll be at the playoff final in disguise, cheering them on! And they have to think about their careers. Star is not serious, though. You can't be serious about buying this club without trying to hold on to its star player. The guy who finds all these talents. The guy who puts the club on the back page of the Mail four times a year. If he was serious he'd offer me a million a year to stay. Nah," I said, slumping down to enjoy the rest of the massage in silence. "He's a [bleep]."

***

The screen faded and there was a smattering of applause. Not from everyone by all means. There was a hell of a lot of muttering and frowning. People still not quite getting it. Not quite wanting to get it. You can't convince people they've been conned.

As for me, I'd found it fascinating to watch Max Best on camera, unaware, with no script. The man in the video had a great relationship with his girlfriend, but I didn't like the way he had slapped the mattress. He was more strung out than he knew. Strung out, wrung out, exhausted. Football is corrosive. Fans, agents, rival managers, player's mums, the media, everyone wanted a bite, everyone scented blood. No wonder I wanted to get out of the water. Let me steer the ship for all our sakes.

My attention was drawn to Brooke. She had quite recovered, was in complete control of her face, as usual. But the mask had slipped for a minute. She was feeling it, too.

Henri walked back to the middle of the stage and helped people join the dots. "Max gathered the players today, hoping ten of us would add the new clause to our contract. Not ten but twenty-three signed new deals before the meeting. Pascal cannot sign until we are in League Two. But he is behind Max. We are behind Max! All of us! When Mr. Star realised he would buy a club with no assets, he walked out. There was no easy money to be had! So much for having binders full of players to sign. This clause was the ultimate poison pill for it revealed the Stars to be asset strippers and revealed Pond to be a dupe. Do not distress yourselves, people of Chester. It does not poison you. If you truly wish to sell the club, find someone decent and I will sign a new contract without the poison pill clause." This one statement alleviated half the gammon anger. "Not many of the squad are so keen as Max to be unemployed."

This came with lots of nods from the players and, again, got a response from the crowd.

"And like our manager, we love it here and want to stay. You saw that in our reaction when the Stars fled. No, Max's clause is an elegant defence against a villain, and it has cost you nothing and saved you everything." He took a step to the right to show he was changing the topic. "So Max saved the club. The club's administrators, players, and staff are one hundred percent behind him on this. Bien. Now we come to his demand to be made CEO. Fortunately, for the first time ever he discussed his crazy plan before surprising us with it, so we have a surprise for him. When one applies for a job, one must provide references. Here are Max's references."

Henri strode away and turned to look at the big screen again.

Up first was a video call between Pascal and Dieter Bauer. A few of the gammons smiled to see the World Cup winner.

"Pascal! How is life in England?"

"Much better. Much better. The team is going well."

"I'm glad to hear it. Why are we speaking English?"

"It's for my media studies class." Pascal's lie got a laugh from Emma. She hadn't seen this. I guessed it had been thrown together at quite short notice. "The topic is twofold. Should a football club have a management structure or is it better to concentrate power into one man? And secondly, should that man be Max Best?"

Dieter laughed. "There is a reason big clubs divide their structure. Modern clubs are simply too big for one person to manage. I used to talk to Sir Alex Ferguson and the club he inherited was nothing alike the club he left. It had grown by a factor of ten! On the other hand, the best businesses I experienced had a small management team that went fast and broke things. I would trust Max Best to go fast and break things!"

"Yes, me too. He is finding it difficult to work within our current structure."

"Then you must change the structure."

That scene faded and up came a new one. It was Beth interviewing the Barnet manager. "Quick final question for a different project. Who's the best manager in the National League?"

The guy frowned. "Apart from Max Best, do you mean?"

It faded. Next were some regional reporters - friends of Beth, I supposed - asking local managers the same question in the four quadrants of the screen. Top-left said, "Max Best. What he's doing on his budget is amazing." Top-right: "Best's a pain because he keeps shifting things around and you're never sure if you're winning or what." Bottom-left. "Best, yeah. We had him down as a one-season wonder but no. They're picking up steam again." Bottom-right. "Our stats guys were drooling over Chester. I was like, we beat them three-nil! But they wouldn't shut up about what the lad had done in the game."

The next scene faded in.

It was Beth again, talking on a split screen with former world champion boxer and idol to anyone over a certain age, part-time football agent Donnie Wormwood. "From what I hear, they want to buy the club and bin Max off on day one. What do you think of that?"

Donnie took a pause and recoiled. "What? Bin him off? What for?"

"I can't really work it out."

"But there will be a mutiny. The fans will be at the stadium with pitchforks. It'll be bloody murder."

Beth shook her head. "No. The fans don't mind. They'd rather have the money."

"What good's money if you don't know how to spend it?" In the hall, this line landed like one of Donnie's hard rights. A hundred gammons abandoned Team Star forever. Back on screen, Donnie was struggling to understand the conversation. "Max Best is leaving Chester?" He shook his head in disbelief, but his face split into a cheeky grin. "Max is leaving Chester? I need to call my dad. We can get him in at Colchester before anyone else knows he's available. Colchester. Chester. Nearly the same, innit?"

"No, wait - "

The call went dead.

The next clip was not in video format. On the left was a picture of MD. On the right was a pre-match photo showing the Slovakian national team. Between the pics, a waveform danced when someone spoke.

"Marek."

"Hi, Marek, it's Mike Dean." Silence. "From Chester Football Club."

"Oh! Chester! Max Best. Yes. What do you need?"

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

"We're trying to firm up some dates for the friendly. Can we suggest August 16th?"

"I check and email back. Leo wants very much to play."

"Great. Thanks!"

There was one last scene in this section.

For some reason, Grimsby striker Danny Flash was doing the interview. He was talking to a guy I knew as Neo. He had been Grimsby's data guy, but apparently no longer. Chris Hale, multi-millionaire, had made cutbacks.

"Neo! How you been?"

"I been out of a job, mate."

"I know, I know. We miss you, buddy. But we're top of the league! You'll be back soon."

"Hope so, hope so."

Some small talk was cut. We returned as Flash was saying, "So, this girl I know was asking about Max Best. What are your thoughts on him?"

Neo rolled his eyes. "He's a maniac."

Flash laughed. "Yeah."

"Just... difficult."

"But you're not supposed to talk like a human. You're our data guy. What did the numbers say?"

"The numbers said he was a top five manager in League Two. I think the numbers were having an off day." Neo frowned. "He... Some of what he did was crazy bonkers - playing defenders as strikers and mad shit like that - but six months later the current manager's doing it, too. And it's working. I don't know. I don't know what to think. There are too many variables, not enough sample size. Oh, here's a thing. I've got a friend at Southend who's doing data for them and their owners wanted a list of like three to five managers who could come in if the current guy left. My friend showed a graph about expenditure per points earned.

"It's pretty simple stuff. If you look at most league tables the team with the highest budget finishes first, the team with the second highest finishes second and so on, all the way down. It's a very strong correlation. If your manager is getting less points per pound than he should, you sack him. If there's someone getting more points per pound, you get him. Chester are on just over a million for their player budget. Barnet are at least double that. Okay, Barnet have more points but Chester are way closer than the budgets would imply. Imagine a bar chart with most of the bars tight together and there's one that sticks way, way up. That's Chester. My mate's recommendation was if you can get Max Best, you get him. In the National League he's saving his club a million pounds a season.

"But the data was so distorted the owners discounted it. They said not to show them that garbage again. Points Per Pound seems like bad data now. Best has ruined a whole metric for my mate."

Flash was looking up and to the left. "Wait. So when the numbers stop doing what you think they should do, you stop using them? That doesn't sound right."

"It isn't right. Who's the girl?"

"What?"

"You said there was a girl asking you about Max Best."

"Got to go. Thanks, mate!"

The screen faded and I tried to see what Angel was doing. Glenn and Pascal were blocking her, though.

Henri went back to the middle of the stage. "A friendly between Chester FC and Slovakia. The national team of Slovakia. I've never heard of anything like that. I want to play against Slovakia! The data says Max is worth a million pounds a season from his tactics alone. Other managers say he's the best in the league. We could have done the same to show he's regarded as the best player. You know all this. Come, now. We want Max to stay and Max wants to stay. How do I know? I learned a few things in my time in this country. There is the tradition of the Fake Sheikh."

I shot to my feet but Emma pulled me down. A Fake Sheikh is a guy who pretends to be a rich oil dude to see how easy it is to corrupt famous people. I couldn't remember meeting one but I hadn't been sober the whole trip.

The screen showed two images - me in full Chester kit on the left, a random sheikh on the right. Audio from a phone call played.

"Max Best." The waveform in the middle of the screen crinkled.

"Hi, Max. My name's Sam Fernando, calling on behalf of Sheikh Mazher."

"Right."

"Am I disturbing you?"

"Not really. There's two English guys here sleeping off hangovers. The sun's creeping across them and they must be literally boiling. I'm riveted."

"Oh. Er... So His Excellency is close to completion on Northampton Town."

"Please extend my condolences."

"I'm calling to sound out your interest in the position as manager."

"Mmm," I said. "The one on the right just leaned back and he's out of the worst of it, now. The guy on the left's still getting full blast."

"I take it you're not keen?"

"I've got a job. Chester F to the C."

"Pardon me, but I heard you'd gone to Spain because of the takeover and might be amenable to other offers."

"Your Sheikh should buy Chester. They're giving it away."

"I feel we're rather too far along with this deal to change horses mid-stream. We have big plans for The Cobblers. Could we meet to discuss our strategy?"

"Er, no. No thanks. They haven't actually pissed me off yet and no offence but you're miles behind Chester."

"We're in League One. We're two divisions higher."

"On paper, yeah. But it'll take you five transfer windows to catch up to us and that's if you do everything right. And don't get me started on your youth team. My lot dismantled yours. But tell you what, I could be unemployed soon. Feel free to call me then, I mean, why not? But seriously, do your guy a solid and tell him not to buy a football club. It's a bad investment. Oh, shit! A guy put an umbrella in front of the dudes and they're waking up to complain. Come on, guys, he's doing you a favour. Ugh, got to go save the day. Bye."

Sophie put up a photo of two Brits on holiday, redder than lobsters. It was funny but there was so much tension in the room it got proper belly laughs. If I survive this, I thought, I need to get these guys to come to future meetings and do my pitches for me.

Henri again. "This offer was fake, of course. It had to be so we could record it. But Max gets offers. He gets offers and turns them down. He wants to be here. Now, because he is stubborn, he will not prove his worth and will not entice you with hope for the future. He grumpily folds his arms and huffs and says I've been here two years they should know what I do!" Henri's impression of a toddler sounded nothing like me, but it made Emma laugh, at least. "What is it that Max does for the club? What is it that Max does behind the scenes?"

We got a close-up of Sam Topps, which drew a fairly universal cheer. It wasn't clear who he was talking to, but my guess was not a player. "Max was great. He pushed me. I didn't want to leave, but the offer was too good." There was a cut. "Come back to Chester? Course, yeah! Look, the training's good here at Tranmere and the facilities are better but I think I was learning more about the game there. There are players here who can't do 4-3-3 or they can't do three at the back. They're like, shit, I don't even know where to stand. They don't say that but as a player you know. Ask anyone at Chester - they'll tell you they know seven formations and they can switch easy. Tactically, you're at a higher level than here. And the way he just looks at you and knows if you're injured. It's uncanny. My first day at Tranmere I was like, why is everyone in the treatment room? Max's way is strange but it's better."

Sam faded and up came a clip taken from a balcony in Tenerife. I was on a lounger with a pen and paper, happily scribbling away. Emma was on another lounger but leaning up.

"Babes," she said.

"Yo."

"What are you doing?"

"Planning the playoff final team against Oldham."

"Oldham? I thought it was going to be Barnet."

I flipped back a few pages and showed her. The formation, names, and numbers were blurred out. "I've done them." I turned the page a few times. "I've done Solihull, Alty, Gateshead. Now Oldham."

"Won't you use your strongest team regardless?"

"Not really, no. Some are strong down the wings but soggy in the middle and stuff like that. We can hit them where they're weak so that means different setups for each one. By the time we get to the playoffs we'll have played everyone twice. Solihull three times. We'll adapt these ideas as we go and I might try a couple of moves for ten minutes sort of slipped into a second half. It's a risk, though, because some of these clubs have data dudes and they can spot when we get overpowered and they'll check the tape and see what we did and what we're planning. I might keep it all hidden until the playoffs when it's too late for them to adapt. Not sure. But what I am sure is that if the whole season comes down to one game we're going to be ready ay eff for it. I want to be two-nil up after fifteen minutes."

"Wow. Can I ask about the Welsh team you bought?"

I crunched the notebook into my chest as I looked at her. I raised my sunglasses. "Are you okay, babes? You asked me that yesterday. And the day before."

"Yeah but I didn't get... I, right, what I want is... If there was a Chester fan here now what would you say to them?"

"I'd say why are you so red, haven't you heard about suncream?"

Emma burst into giggles, which pleased me greatly. "But they're all freaking out that you're taking their players and using them for your own team. How would you explain it?"

"I wouldn't. Life's too short."

"We've got time now. Is it good for Tom to go on loan?"

"Course it's good, that's why he agreed." I nudged my shades back over my eyes. "He's a grown man and he can decide what's best for his career. Does he have to go to the Fans Forum and ask permission? It's wild that people think they know better than the players themselves. The Brig knows all about this. If I did something to hurt one of these lads he would literally [bleeeeep] and [bleep] me in a dark [bleep]."

"So Tom will get more experience."

"Yeah," I said, dropping the notebook and pen and lazily crossing my arm over my chest. "He trains with us all week but he gets minutes in real games. It's better than the reserves. Much better. He should get, like, twenty games. That's good for him. I think we'll really see the benefit next season. And he'll get goals, too. When he's 27 and some manager is looking at him and saying ah he's great but does he score enough? He'll say oh wait he scored 15 in 20 that season so he's got goals in him. It's just such an obviously good move for the lads. I can't get why people don't let us get on with it. It's our jobs. Let us do our jobs, please."

"It's just the thing where you own the team and maybe you're profiting from Chester's players."

"Profiting," I scoffed. "Saltney's a bog with two goals and nets and the nets have holes in."

"All nets have holes in."

I pushed my sunglasses up and did a big smile. "Great line. I'll use that on the refs." I sank back again. "No but seriously, if I can make money from Saltney even the haters have to say I've earned it. Ha!"

"What?"

"This whole thing's going to be a right laugh. Okay it's third division now and yeah, the games aren't amazing. But next season's the second division, right, so the next three lads I send will learn even more. And so on. But the real fun starts when Saltney get into Europe. Those preliminary rounds are in July and August. I'll loan players from Chester for two months and you know what? I'll have a queue. Every one of my guys will volunteer. All players want to play in Europe! And it'll be an incredible recruitment tool. I'll try to sign a player and he'll want a clause that I have to send him to Saltney."

"That's good!"

"Yeah but I can only send three at a time. If I send some rando instead of Henri he'll [bleeeep] for fucking months. And I might go myself. I want to play in Europe! I'll have to see where we're at but the first season I'll probably send Rainman, Omari, and Tom as a sort of thank you for getting us going. But imagine we're in League One and I'm trying to get a player from above. Chester sign a player from the Championship who wants to play in Europe for a different team!" I sniggered at the thought. "It's going to be incredible. Every club owner is going to be like hey why didn't we think of that? And they'll buy some Welsh team and try to copy us. Oh! Oh, shit!" I got up and put my feet on the ground. It was clear I was leaning forward but my head was out of the shot.

"What? Lie back."

"I can't! I'm hyper! Check this out. Do you know who'll buy a team in Wales as an affiliate club? To copy what I'm doing? Fucking Wrexham! Haha. Imagine Wrexham buying a Welsh club! We'll dick them in two countries! Holy shit how funny would that be? Think of the memes."

The screen faded and a meme came up. It was a screengrab of Wrexham's owners saying 'We promise to beat Chester'. Underneath the subtitles, Sophie had added... 'in the Scottish Highland Leagues'.

Big laughs in the hall! Some fucking cheers, mate!

A new face came on, unfamiliar to almost everyone at the Forum. His face was wide and friendly and he had decided, no doubt against the advice of his wife, to grow a moustache. He had a storyteller's cadence, holding some vowels a little longer than needed to make his speech more melodical. "Name's Jones. Just a normal Welsh man, proud to be Welsh. My son's a goalscoring striker in our local club and one day your Max Best turns up and I've not been able to shake him loose since. Come to Chester, he says. Your son would do well at Chester, he says. A lot of things, he says. And he keeps saying them. Twice a week he's here watching and two other days he's on the blower. Will you leave me alone I say and he says I'm terribly sorry but I can't. No, I can't. Your son is class in a glass and it's my duty as a genius to introduce him to the world. Genius, says he! I tell him that that there Chester isn't Welsh-friendly, if you get me. I don't know I'll be so welcome and I don't know about my boy. Your Max, he says, oh, tell you what, to prove he'll be welcome I'll go on an adventure all through Wales and a week later he tells me he's found five players for the national team! And I think hey laddie you're full of it and no mistake.

"Only two things happen. First, I start getting calls from agents and scouts from the English leagues! They want to sign my boy! Second, the head of the Welsh Football Association comes to a match with Max and she says they're working together. That's too much for me. He's gone all the way to the top, has he? I take him aside and I say look here boyo, what's this all about? My son can't be good enough for all this hoopla and he says, no, pal, he is. He's so good I'll run around Blaenau Ffestiniog in a Wales flag if that's what it takes. And he sort of grins all cheeky-like. Just don't ask me to spell it. Well, from what I've seen and heard, Chester's the place for my boy all right. It's the personal touch. The effort. But I'm still worried. Will they accept me, I say, with the way that I speak? He shakes his head. Look, Mr. Jones, I don't know. I think so but I don't know. I think when they see your son play you'll never have to buy a beer in Chester again. But I've got a selfish reason for wanting him to come. What's that, I say? I don't want to be the only wizard in town, he says. And he wanders off and next thing I hear, he's bought a team in Wales so he can train young players even faster. I say to my son, your new manager's not a wizard, he's a bloody whirlwind!"

The screen faded and the mood had lifted another couple of notches. The idea that I was out harassing Welshmen seemed to go down a treat.

Henri said, "Scouting for Welsh Wizards is one thing, but Max is already planning a rather more distant trip. My girlfriend and I will be accompanying him. It is relevant that my girlfriend speaks Portuguese." This hint got a pretty good reception with people turning to each other with the answer like at a pub quiz.

The next scene started with Emma once more fidgeting with a hidden camera to get a better angle. When she pulled her hand away, I was leaning forward, big, sunny smile, talking to a Brazilian couple we had drinks with one night by the pool. "I missed it," said Emma. "Start again."

"What? You know all this."

"Please. I like hearing things from the start."

"That's a new trait. We have to get you checked out. Okay so I'm manager of Chester FC and I promised I'd, like, scout kids in the area. And I've done that and I'm still doing it. I think I've found maybe half the good ones, it's hard to be sure. But this summer I'm going to Brazil."

"Where?" said the husband.

"All over," I said. "I'm learning about this new style of play. Bit of a departure from what we normally do. But while I'm there, I'll probably find loads of great players. And I can bring two back! There's this rule when you're in League Two that lets you bring two complete randos. I don't know, if I was a Chester fan I'd be happy to see the local lads in the squads but I'd be so hyped if the manager came back from his summer break with two Brazilian wonderkids. I mean, that's exotic, isn't it? I wonder if Chester have ever had a Brazilian player? I bet they haven't. And I'll come with two of the best. It's gonna be awesome. It's gonna rock." I laughed a lot and took another hit of my Sangria.

Emma gave me a push. "Max is weird, though. He hasn't told anyone, hardly. Like it's a big secret."

"Well, I might not find anyone better than what I've got," I said. "No point getting people hyped up and then nothing happens. That's not good, is it? Or I find two amaze-ohs but we don't get promoted and we can't sign them and it's all doubly frustrating. I prefer to get transfer news when it's done and not have weeks of speculation before. I know some fans love the hype but I find it tedious. No, how it goes is one day they'll wake up and boom! Here's a wonderkid. Bosh."

Henri hadn't moved. He was shaking his head. "I checked and the only Brazilian in Chester is a steak house. Do you want Brazilian stars? Do you want to see national teams at the Deva? Do you want to be visited by World Cup winners? There's only one person who can deliver such things." He walked off. "But we all know that to be really popular, Max must acquire the stadium."

He looked back at the screen and I copied him. There was dead silence now, maximum interest.

The clip was Brooke talking to someone from the council. His name and title were shown on the screen. "We love what you're doing," the guy was saying. "The disabled team and the loneliness project and the dentists. We see players visiting hospitals and working at food banks. Football clubs can have a very positive impact on their local community and Chester are very much showing that."

"Can I ask what effect, if any, that has on the club acquiring the stadium?"

"What? Oh, for the cameras. Well, yes. It's very positive. Very positive."

"And if the club is sold?"

The guy got uncomfortable. "Then we would reset. Frankly much of the goodwill is tied up in you and Max. A new owner, who, ah, had a questionable record in his business dealings... Some of the stories... Ah, we would proceed with caution."

"Just to be clear. The council like the community aspect of how Chester FC is currently run and that will help us acquire the stadium?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

"So all the people complaining that we have social projects... People who say we should stick to football... They'd be wrong."

The guy was a politician. "I wouldn't say wrong. Let's say the social projects are well-received in the town hall. We smile on them."

"One last question, please. To hammer the point home. Would you say Chester are closer to getting the stadium with or without Max Best?"

"Closer with."

"Thank you very much."

The screen faded, unleashing a tidal wave of chat, but footage resumed almost right away and there was a lot of shushing. We saw the Brazilian couple in Tenerife again. I'd gone to the bathroom and Emma was whispering for the wife to hold a little bag and point it at me. "I need to get him to talk about the stadium," Emma said. "He's weird about that, too. Let's just get him talking about it and he'll take over."

There was a cut and then I was back and I had a full Sangria that I was sipping.

"Emma said you would visit the Maracana," said the husband.

"Oh, yeah. Big time. I'm buzzing about that. It's the second home of football, isn't it?"

"In your job," said the wife, pointing the camera at me in a very obvious way, "you must think a lot about football stadiums."

"Oh, yeah," I said, nodding and taking another sip. "Loads."

"Especially in Chester," said Emma.

"Why's that?" said the husband, to Emma, cleverly cutting me out of the conversation.

"Because we don't own it," I said. "It drives the fans crazy, which I get. People are like hey these toilets are always blocked and someone has to call the council and say is it okay if we fix these? And we're always doing cheap fixes because I want to knock it down and rebuild so there's no point making it more premium for a couple of years. So, like, the stadium's getting worse on my watch and that's frustrating for everyone. But it's not the finances or the practicalities that's really important. It's the psychology. Football clubs need to own their stadiums. That's obvs. A Cestrian's Deva is his castle. Famous phrase." I took another sip.

"You'll rebuild it just as it is now," said the husband. How was he so good at pushing my buttons?

"Of course not," I said, astonished by his stupidity. "First we demolish one side. The West. While that's gone we dig down and put in mega drainage and undersoil heating. This winter we're losing games to postponement and with a bit of investment we protect against that. There's this stuff you stitch into a pitch to let grass grow around it and with that you can play more games. I really want to get the women in there. The women are mint. They'll get big crowds soon enough. I want to make it a competition between the men and the women to get the higher average attendance. That'll be sick." The players in my sightlines reacted to this concept with pure delight. Kisi pushed Youngster and he got all goofy.

"The stadium's going to be made of wood," said Emma.

"Won't it burn?" said the wife.

"No," I said, briefly annoyed. Another button pushed! "Everything burns. It's just about how long it burns so everyone can get out safely. This stuff is safer than steel. It doesn't just catch fire spontaneously." I visibly calmed myself. "Mostly the point of it being wood is because it assembles fast. It's prefabbed and we get it shipped from Austria or Germany, can't remember which, and just click it together like Lego. It's amazing. I tell the gammons it's for the environment but it's mostly for the speed. We have a summer to dig up the pitch and build a new stand. You need a fast solution otherwise we'll have a three thousand capacity in League Two or League One and that's a big no-no. Anyway, it's beautiful. It's designed with fans in mind. The seats are nice and big and there's leg room. They'll complain until they get inside and then they'll love it. And it's full of bars and restaurants and hospitality suites and all that stuff you need. But the thing with the wood is the outside. It's got this sort of matchstick design. Not sure how to describe it. It's like there are sticks hanging down from the roof and they block the view but they also let you see in."

"I think I know what you mean," said the husband. "A vertical lattice."

I was in full flow, now. I got closer to him and looked deep in his eyes. This was why Emma had been filming me. She wanted to capture me like this, when I was passionate and emotional and trying to connect and communicate. This was the side of me that won her vote in a deli in West Didsbury. I held my hands up, fingers splayed. "Imagine it's match day. You're seven years old and it's your first time going to the Deva. Thousands of people are ahead of you, going through to their seats, milling around. As you walk, sometimes you think you see some green but it can't be the pitch. It can't be. There's a fuckton of concrete and steel in the way. Right? Same as every other building you've ever seen. You can't see grass from outside. You can't see the pitch from outside. But there it is again! Just a flash. What the hell?

"And you get a bit closer and you pull your dad's hand and go look! It is the pitch! The players! The famous Chester boys. He plays for Ghana. He plays for England! And you can see them." I was radiant with a big, natural smile as I imagined myself outside the ground standing on tiptoes. "I want every seven-year-old boy and girl who comes to my stadium to fall in love, hard. It starts here and every step you take is more intoxicating than the last. The players, the pitch, the noise, the flags, the trophies, and it's yours. It belongs to you."

The scene faded and images of a stadium came up. The one I'd been thinking about for a long time. Wood panels and matchstick lattices and glorious views and big seats and corporate boxes and large electronic screens.

"As you see," said Henri. "Max's stadium is different. It takes a moment to adjust. Here's the angle he was talking about. The view of the pitch. Yes, it is wonderful. It is." He got solemn. "I do not think Max had such an experience when he was a seven-year old boy. He wants to give that to you and to your children. Won't you let him?"

That seemed to be the end of Henri's section. He'd left most people in a wistful state but there were plenty coming closer to the screen to see the image of the stadium.

Interest! Hope! I wanted to shout that I would put the pictures on the socials. I kept my mouth shut.

MD walked forward holding a microphone. "My name is Mike Dean and it's my duty to make sure this club remains solvent. We can't do another phoenix club. I know I won't have the energy for it or the stomach for the fight. Max has told me his plans for the future; they are ambitious but sustainable. Together, we will not bankrupt the club nor lumber it with a stadium it can't afford nor have an excessive wage bill. We offer hope and patient progress, not false promises. But before we get to the vote, I must ask. Max, who is the long-term investor you hinted at?"

He waved the mic under my chin. "Me," I said. "Like what I'm doing with the Raffi Brown money."

"Right," said MD, with a smile. "What's left of that money is ringfenced for the initial phase of the training ground development. Third-generation pitches, fantastic in every way, including financially. But Max being Max wanted to keep the funds available for the transfer window, just in case. When the window closes, work will begin on our very own facility and the pitches will be ready for the start of next season. So, the vote." MD shook his head as he looked at the ceiling. "Max, we can't vote to make you King of the Castle just like that. We're a slow-moving organisation that depends on memberships and small donations and it's not fair to make such a demand. We can discuss a restructure over the coming months and we can have something streamlined in place by next season. One where you can go full speed ahead without feeling you are being held back or undermined. I'm sure there's a solution we're all happy with but it will take more than twenty minutes to hash out. That's fair, isn't it? But it's also fair that we, collectively, show some support and appreciation of your efforts over the past two years. To show that we want you to stay."

"What do you propose?" said Henri, as though he and MD hadn't rehearsed this.

"There is an open space on the board. Max can nominate a candidate and we'll vote for him or her. That will be the equivalent of a yes vote for Max, won't it?"

"Oh, yes, what a very good idea," said Henri.

Sumo handed me a mic.

A compromise, then. Not very Max Best. Not very All Or Nothing. A face-saving exercise? Pascal was in front of me offering his hand; he pulled me up. He needed me. The Exit Triallists needed me. Compromise. Something for everyone. I let go of the last tendrils of anger and new ideas sprung up. Good ideas. Acceptable compromises, very much in the direction of All.

"I want to propose things," I said.

"Like what?" said MD, wary. If I was going to make more outrageous demands after he and Henri had done so much to clean up my mess, there would be a riot, and MD would start it.

"Give me three years where you can't sell the club. So when I bring players here I can give them a contract for three years and they'll be safe. I can keep doing what I'm doing without having to worry about this.” I waved my free hand. “If you get a proper buyer, a real, proper one, they can plan around it."

"It's an interesting idea. I'm happy to discuss that. Three years is a long time in football but not in business."

"Okay the stadium. I said two years ago that stadiums attract sharks. If I've got you the freehold and started the rebuild, when you sell the club, the buyer has to pay what it cost to build. Like if we spent fifteen million doing two stands, he has to pay fifteen million on top of everything else. You can't just give it away cut-price or free."

"Where does the money go?"

"To grassroots football in Cheshire. To the women's team." Kisi did a clenched fist 'yes!'

MD was thoughtful. "It's an interesting idea. Has some merits. We will discuss it. Anything else?"

"Yeah, loads. I suppose... I suppose they can wait."

"Are you sure?"

I blurted out, "I don't like the kit."

"What?"

"The last good Chester kit was 1975/76. I want to go back to that."

"I think that's a quick and easy decision, though I can't remember it myself."

Sophie put up a picture and there was applause. Some of the beefy boys along the sides were nodding their approval. The front of the old-fashioned shirt had three blue stripes, two white, equal, tasteful thickness. The sleeves were similar and there was a collar. The blue was deep and rich. It was a proper football kit, almost more beautiful than the stadium.

MD smiled. "Max, pick someone to join the board and we'll vote on it. You need fifty percent to win."

"Seventy-five," I said.

"Max!" cried Emma and several others. Sandra Lane rocked her head back in dismay. The Brig slumped with his hands on his knees. Some of the beefy boys threw their hands up. This guy!

"Okay fine," I said, quietly. "Fifty. I'll stay if half of you think I've done a good job."

"Choose someone," said MD, holding onto my shoulder like a quiz show host.

I scanned the area. This was more ridiculous in its own way than asking to be made CEO. How was I supposed to pick? "Are there any volunteers to be my avatar?" Quite a few hands went up. "Okay, wow. Only keep your hand up if you promise not to give the club to a con man."

"How do we know it's a con man?" yelled a guy.

"How about because he's trying to buy a business that normally loses a hundred thousand pounds a year?" The guy went back into his shell. "MD, do you know any of these?"

"I know Barbara." He indicated a middle-aged woman with dark hair.

"Great. Done. Let's vote."

"Hang on," said MD. "The voters need to know who they're electing."

"I mean, she's a Chester fan and she has promised not to get scammed. She's an all-time great candidate."

Someone had rushed to her with a mic. "I'm Barbara. My son was in the Chester Knights."

I pushed my head back. I had seen her before. "Right. Hugh. Right-sided defender."

"He prefers to play striker."

"Self-awareness is hard," I said.

"Am I going to get dissolved?"

"What?"

"If I do this, are you going to dissolve me?"

She was joking, mostly, because it was fun to say the word dissolve, but some neurons were firing properly for the first time in weeks. "Hang on," I said. I pinched my nose. "I think I've got it. We don't dissolve the board. We pause it. Just pause it for a year starting next season. There will be two exotic new players, the new training ground, we'll be competing well in League Two. I mean, the progress will be visible. Undeniable. Do you know what I mean? Give me a year when I can really concentrate on the football and if you don't like it, you bring the board back. I mean, it sounds good to me. In my head it's absolutely foolproof. Barbara, what do you think?"

"What if you go crazy? What if it all goes wrong? We'd be stuck with you."

"No," I said. "MD can sack me any time." More ideas were coming. Ways to protect the stadium, ways to protect the club's finances.

"Oh. It sounded like you wanted to be the King of Chester."

"Who wouldn't want to be King of Chester?"

"I've got loads of questions."

"I bet. But I need dinner. I haven't eaten all day. And you guys need to get to the pub and talk about what the hell just happened. All I need right now is to know if I'm coming to work tomorrow."

"There's no match."

"If I'm the manager tomorrow I'm going to sign seven players." This lifted the energy. "Joe? Can we get started with the process? You said it'd take about fifteen minutes, right?"

"Yes," he said, taking MD's mic. "Everyone logs into their membership account and there will be a question and a simple choice. Yes or no. When the time limit expires, we'll get the result."

"Okay," I said, and took a few tired steps away. I paused and went back. "Er... Listen, I just want to say that if this is the end, it's been great and I'm happy it happened." I took a seat and flopped. I was feeling a bit dizzy. It didn't help that I hadn't eaten, but it was the culmination of two months of being eaten away by hidden stress. Henri had saved the day, hadn't he? He'd organised this intervention and Emma had got some clips and others had helped. I wondered who else had contributed something that didn't make the cut. Chesterness. When one weakens, another strengthens.

"Voting is now open in your membership area," said Joe. Around the hall, nearly a thousand necks dropped as blue light shone on their faces.

Joe came over and showed me his tablet. It showed the votes as they were coming in. Already over 400 had been cast and Barbara Jackson Yes was at 55%.

"I don't need to see that," I said, annoyed at the number. 55%! Another slap in the face.

Joe refreshed the page. "Look," he said. It had gone up to 58%.

"I don't want to do this," I said, but I couldn't look away from the screen. "You know, you shouldn't have a red option and a green option. Eight percent of men are colour blind. What's it now?"

Joe refreshed and angled the screen away from me. "More or less the same," he said. Protecting me from the bad news!

I made an exasperated noise and let my limbs hang from the chair. That was a bad look - people were still deciding. I got to my feet and tried to look presidential in my flip-flops.

People who had voted had got to their feet and were trying to restore some blood flow by doing little stretches, while those at the sides had opened the doors to let fresh air in. There was a lot of chat.

There was a collective sense in the room that we would all need time - a lot of time - to process what had happened, but that things were just on the right side of acceptable. I would be able to sign the players I had in mind. My contract clause would protect them from predators, and in future the fans and I would negotiate some kind of new way of working. For the rest of the season, the board would leave me alone. My players and I would follow the plan. Project Youth with a playoff payoff.

"Max!" cried a voice. It came from the very middle of the hall. A few people turned to check out the new scene.

"Is that... Is that Ollie? My Fans Forum nemesis Ollie?"

It was. A few people who had spilled into the corridors stepped back in. Ollie got on a chair and bellowed. "Marcus Wainwright! Gone! Sold!"

I gawped uselessly, patting myself for my phone. The curse! I went to the transfer screen. It was true! Moneybags Stockport had snapped him up.

Marcus Wainwright - Grimsby - National League - Stockport County - League One - £525,000

I raced to my laptop, plugged it in, and found a ‘deal done’ tweet from Stockport that I put up on the screen. There was a big cheer.

I walked around with my head in my hands. I crouched. I bit my nails. My favourite camera guy was tracking me and I was on the big screen. "Not now, bro!" But he caught the scene as Sandra Lane came up to me.

She opened her mouth but first reached out to grab a mic. Why she wanted to do this in public I wasn't sure.

"Max," she said, and the hubbub in the room died down. "You killed the takeover. You've told the fans you aren't happy. They listened. It's all going to be okay. Okay?"

"Yes," I said, fifty-five percent believing it.

"Listen carefully. I know you're in the red zone but you've got to listen. Grimsby are in play."

"They're not in play. We're too far behind. Twenty points and their goal difference is far better."

"But we've got four games in hand. That's a potential twelve points. Win those and we're eight points off. If we go all out... If we go on a winning streak... Grimsby won't pick up points at the same rate as the first half of the season. We can do it. We can get them."

"We can't."

"We can. If we spend."

I thought about what it would take to catch up. "We would need to go all out. All out for the rest of the season. Pedal to the floor." I shook my head. "It's not smart. If we come second we'll have nothing in the tank for the playoffs."

Sandra smiled. "We're fifty-fifty for the playoffs anyway. Why not be fifty-fifty for the title?"

I grinned and she responded. My heart started to beat hard. Joe showed me the tablet screen. 70%. People loved this! On hearing us talk about going for the title, fans were changing their votes. I calmed myself. "I'm a long-term investor, Sandra. What happens if we get promoted and we're still using National League North facilities? It'll be a disaster. We have to think ahead."

"You did think ahead. You kept the money handy, didn't you? This is it. Grimsby aren't going to get a player of the same level, are they?"

I shook my head. "No. No chance."

"So this is it! We'll get promoted and we'll get the TV money and we'll start the training ground late. A few months, Max. We can slum it for another few months. We'll slum it as fucking National League champions!"

My tired brain was fizzing. Thoughts going everywhere. Without training ground upgrades we would struggle to sign better players this summer. What about the current squad? Could they go on a winning run? It was in decent shape. There were pockets of real quality. If I spent the rest of the Raffi Brown money, would I buy a defender or a midfielder? We would need to sign our loan striker right away - like, now - before Grimsby set off a chain reaction in the striker market. We could afford to make one huge signing and get one striker on loan and Ryan Jack was back in the squad. I was mentally tired but physically perfect. We could put out a great first eleven but the drop-off to the backup players would hurt us. Would we have the skill to navigate the fixture pile-up?

Sandra pushed me. "All Or Nothing!" she cried, and the audience loved that. Hundred percent approval.

Henri appeared next to me, leaning in like we were singing a duet. "You promised me glory, Max! Enough with all this cruising into seventh place efficiency. We are all with you and there's nothing we cannot do. Let us create some football, my friend!"

I found myself nodding. Clarity was coming. I had created all the season's problems. I'd allowed the takeover to go right to the wire but had I committed an even bigger blunder? Aiming to finish seventh was rational, logical, clever. But what did words like rational or logical have to do with football? Football is about glory. Life or death. All or nothing. Finishing seventh didn't get me out of bed in the morning. Finishing seventh didn't connect me with the fans.

I wanted them to let me go fast. I had raged at them for getting in my way. But I'd been in my own way the whole season. Seventh? What the fuck is seventh? The number seven meant fuck all to me.

Secretary Joe held the tablet up. I had 77% approval from the fans.

The number seven meant everything to me!

I held my hand up - the mob was yelling, shouting, people were freaking out like I was about to take the decisive penalty in a shoot-out. As I made a cascade of decisions, the weight in my body eased. I felt like I was floating on my own bones. For the first time in months I felt electrified. In charge of my own destiny.

"We win our games in hand," I said, eyes going left and right as I calculated how possible that was. Just, just about possible. Some fans applauded. "We beat Grimsby." More applause, as though by saying it, we had actually done it. "We do that and we're within five points." Applause. "We need the right signing. It would smash the club record fee." Huge applause. I looked at Mike Dean. He nodded. If I kept to what was in the bank, he would let me go for it. "MD," I said, slowly. The camera guy had snuck up on me. I decided to give him a moment. To give everyone a moment. I leaned closer to the lens, brought the mic to my lips, and said, "Get me Christian Fierce."