4.

XP balance: 6

Monday, October 28

It was a foul morning in the north east, the kind where cats sit on windowsills and look out, glum. The kind where umbrellas get turned inside out. The kind where handsome and talented directors of football say 'sod that' and text Sandra to say she's in charge and the team meeting will take place after training, not before.

I snuggled closer to Emma, dozed off for about five seconds, and felt a hand running along my arm. It was her way of waking me up. "You've overslept. You've got to go to work."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"Oh." She was dressed in her work clothes; she had the day off but she had a case she was genuinely interested in and that was motivational for her. I adjusted the pillows and shuffled back against them. Chester had played Gateshead on Saturday, and since I was going to be in the north-east anyway I had turned it into a long weekend. Family dinner with the Weavers, drinks with Emma's friends, romantic walk down by the river. Absolutely splendid in all respects except one. "Not really in the mood for football, to be honest."

We had drawn nil-nil with Gateshead and I had been forced to go on for the last twenty minutes as essentially a third centre back to shore things up. Using my precious life force to head crosses away was abysmal, and seeing all the talented players Gateshead had on loan from clubs ranging from Chelsea to Crawley was depressing. I had my principles and my principles were holding us back. At least we had left the stadium with a point. The women had suffered a setback, crashing out of the FA Cup in the third qualifying round, conceding their first goals of the season.

"It's sort of your job, though, isn't it? And you've booked loads of meetings. So drink your tea and clear out."

"Charming," I said, sipping the delicious revivifying brew. "Ahhh. Hits the spot."

She sat on the edge of the bed holding an oversized mug in two hands. "One of my friends said it's weird you don't have many matches without goals."

"Nil-nil is the fourth most common scoreline but Chester never have nil-nils. There was one in the whole of last season and Sandra was in charge for that. Either we slap or get slapped. Everything else is boring."

"I thought that game was interesting. Sort of heroic. Backs to the wall defending, someone called it."

"Yeah, sure. We had to work hard and we had to put in a shift. Fans love that and we got pretty ragged and so Gateshead had chances. Ben played well. He plays better when we're under constant pressure. Sticky says that's normal because it's easier to concentrate. You know, Chester fans love it when we defend. There's a thing in football about a club's DNA. Man United are supposed to have young players and fast wingers. Tottenham, Grimsby, West Ham are supposed to play attacking, passing football but they've had managers who were really defensive and with those guys the fans get restless much faster. I think Chester's a defensive club. That's come out recently. I sort of feel it around the stadium."

"Spend some bloody money, then."

I smiled. "Have you been listening to the podcasts?"

"Yeah."

"How'm I doing?"

"They love you. They want you to spend some of the Raffi money, though. On transfers."

"Tell them to go boil their heads."

"It's not a phone-in." She got up, put her mug down, and threw open the curtains. The light was weak, but cruel enough. "I've seen it in the Facebook groups, too. There's a vibe that the team is one player short, or the first eleven are great but there's a drop to the others."

"That's true enough. But it's our job to close the gap with coaching. The more we use the weaker players the faster the gap closes. I love how they're developing and how the young lads are showing their stuff. I don't want to be a chequebook manager. I want to be a craftsman. Cole, Omari, Sharky, Tom. They're getting moulded. Buying ready-made players might not be the answer. Like, Zach's great but he's pretty stuck in his ways. We're not a good match. I don't know if I can get through to him." I sipped my tea. "I'm going to try again today."

She clambered onto the bed and sat cross-legged.

"Tell me again about the work permit thing."

Emma was obsessed with the idea that on our holiday I would find the next Ronaldo, which seems fair enough until you realise she didn't mean the Brazilian one. "Okay so, as you know, when we get promoted we'll be able to sign foreign players more easily, but I can't just sign any old dude from anywhere in the world. To get a work permit, that player needs to tick some boxes. Like, does he play for his country? If he does, I can probably sign him."

"Right."

"But if he plays for his country, I can't afford him. I can only sign players no-one else wants."

"Max's Misfits. But that's what Gemma was saying."

"What? When?"

Emma sipped her drink and looked at me with undeserved fondness. "One of the times you were staring into the abyss. She was saying about work permit exceptions. If you get promoted, you can sign two players from anywhere. You mumbled that you already knew so she didn't bother explaining it. She made it sound like it was relevant to our trip."

It was strange that Gemma knew the rules, but I didn't want to get into it. "Okay so if we get to League Two I'll be able to use this thing called ESC. It's like having two jokers. Two get out of jail free cards. I can sign two complete randos." I got animated. This was a great topic and one I'd been thinking a lot about since I'd discovered it. "Yeah so there's these two slots I can fill with anyone in the world. I'm not sure if I should call them ESCapees or Jokers or Slotty Boys or what but the whole concept is awesome and interesting. I could get two Brazilian phenoms aged eighteen and train them up for a few years. They still have to be eighteen, not sure if Gemma told you that bit. Can’t get kids, which is probably right. Whoever I find would take up my Joker slots, right? But if I get players that I actually use, like a first team starter, they can get a normal work permit after a year and that frees up an ESC slot. So I get two 24-year-old Swedish full backs, they play matches, they get a work permit. Now I've got my two Joker slots free and I can repeat the process. In, er, six years my entire team is Swedish!"

"Tell me more," grinned Emma.

"Or I get a more long-term player and don't use him much at first so he blocks a slot year after year but in the end he's a hundred-million-pound player. Do you know what I mean? It's obviously better to develop one hundred-million-pound player than ten five-million-pound players, but those guys would contribute more to the team in the meantime. There's loads to consider. Oh! And when we get to the Championship we can get four slots but only if we use English players for a third of our minutes. I think we'll always do that but it's another consideration. Another variable! I like variables, sometimes. I'll be giving a lot of thought to optimising these special slots. I could make some very fast money with it. Sign a Spanish defender for half a mill, show the world how good he is, sell him for one point five a year later. It's free money."

"Or you could get a Brazilian wonderkid."

I frowned. "That was just an example. First of all, the Brazilian wonderkid story is so cliché. I'm not interested in finding the next party animal who terrorises Paris with his 365 days a year rolling rave. And I kind of don't like Brazilian players."

"Are they no good?"

"No, they're top, but they're, like..." I tried to find the right words. "They're functional, modern players. They do as they're told, mostly, and fit into the manager's plans. They have good teamwork."

Now Emma frowned. "But you like all that. You always say it's not just what you do with the ball, it's what you do without the ball."

"Right. From everyone else. Not from my team's Brazilian. If I sign a Brazilian I want the romantic version. A free spirit. I want samba soccer. 1970 was the first World Cup broadcast in colour and every kid in England fell in love with Brazil. The yellow and green tops with the blue shorts! The style! The flair! If I sign a Brazilian, I don't want a better version of Tom Westwood. I want Clodoaldo against Italy. I want Pele's dummy, one of the most famous pieces of skill. The guy doesn't even touch the ball and then misses an open goal and it's one of the most cherished moments in the history of the sport. I want people to fucking gasp at the audacity."

Emma nodded. "So we'll find you a player who never touches the ball." She drained her tea. "Sounds easy enough. Good. You’re in a football mood again. Now get up and get going. You've got a busy day."

***

I got to BoshCard around ten thirty and the worst of the rain had passed. I shoved my hood up, fished an umbrella out from a crevice in the back seat, and stepped into the abysmal outside world. I was immediately accosted.

"Max! Mr. Best!" It was Benny.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"It's teacher training day. Youngster said maybe they're learning how to run an offside trap." He showed his teeth.

"Life pro tip. Don't repeat Youngster's jokes."

"I thought it was funny. Um... I'm supposed to tell you to come to pitch 1."

"Ask me, they probably said."

His eyes widened. "Yes. Ask you."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Yes."

"Is it something you can just tell me?"

"Yes but I'm not allowed."

I sighed. The last thing I wanted was to get soaked before having a raft of important meetings. Nobody asked Daddy Star to squelch across a soggy field before showing him the latest range of eleven-gallon hats or authentic plastic longhorn skulls. "Jesus Christ. Fine." Benny smiled and sprinted away. Like, sprinted. Fast. "What the...?"

By the time I had plodded along to the pitch I was back to being properly grumpy and was wondering why I didn't keep spare socks in my drawer. I think I was chuntering under my breath when I realised the training session had stopped and the lads were gathered around in a semi-circle. Every single one of them was grinning like a mischievous boy, including Sandra and, weirdest of all, Vimsy.

The next crazy thing was that when I was in place, Henri and Ziggy raced away. Henri ran to the nearest penalty spot, and Ziggy went five yards to his side, sort of in front of the back post.

"Hi, boss," said Vimsy.

"Yep," I said, but being surrounded by friendly faces was warming me up. It was like a hall of mirrors, but for smiling, excited faces. The rain pelting the umbrella made quite a din but I could almost hear the sense of anticipation. Something fun was about to happen.

"Got you a surprise," Vimsy said. I waited. Tap tap tap tap went the rain on my umbrella, very much like the tapping of a busy man's fingers on a table. "Go on, lad," he said, and it's fair to say I was surprised when Josh Owens stepped forward.

Josh was one of the kids we'd rescued at the Exit Trials and his superpower was being able to play left back or left mid equally well. (I assumed he would be even better in his natural home - wing back - but I only had one formation that used that slot by default.) Josh had PA 119 - good enough to one day play in the Championship - but he was uninspiring in most ways. He was a kid who had been let down a few too many times and had learned not to trust anyone. The Brig wanted me to be patient with him and I was absolutely okay with that.

Now, though, he was the unlikely centre of attention.

He glanced at me, looked away quickly, and wandered off. Where the fuck to?

He went four yards off the side of the pitch and I realised what was about to happen. I dropped the umbrella and put my hands behind my head as though I had just seen a car crash. Josh spotted the motion and hesitated.

"Go on, lad," said Vimsy. That triggered an outburst from the squad. "Go on, son! Do it! Yes, mate! Show him, Joshy!"

Josh took a second to compose himself, picked up a football, 'dried' it on the inside of his shirt, then dashed forward and threw it. The ball flew high, a catapult shot, a SCUD missile, all the way to Henri, who waited for it to finally descend before heading it backwards to Ziggy who hit it first time into the goal. The entire squad rushed at Josh, bouncing around in celebration.

I stared. The car crash was ongoing. A vast, multiple pile-up stretching out for the entirety of Josh's career.

The noise calmed as, one by one, everyone waited for my reaction.

I stared not at Josh or Vimsy but at the parabola the ball had taken. "Do it again."

Ziggy rushed back into position. Henri went with less alacrity. Josh went through his routine and lobbed another long throw into the mixer. It was almost identical. The kid was a long throw specialist.

Long throws. Brutal, suffocating Ian Evans football. Caveman plus dinosaur plus gammon but boredom plus cringe. The antithesis of the Max Best experience.

Ziggy and Henri stayed put. I pulled my hoodie off my head and focused on Josh. "Can you do it flatter?"

He understood me immediately and went through his routine again but used more arm speed and threw the ball low and long. This one was less a catapult, more a slingshot. Henri had to run forward to get there but with more speed on the ball there could be even more carnage. The question was, would I sanction this? Would I actually use this in a match?

The rain slapped into twenty faces. People held their breath. Josh knew I hated long throws and had hidden his talent but Vimsy had found out about it somehow. If I didn't know Josh had this in his locker I could bet my bottom dollar that neither did Swindon. I started to smirk as the possibilities exploded like fractals. The lads were desperate to know if I would welcome this discovery or rail against it.

I pointed at Josh. "New plan. You're starting on Saturday." I hadn't told anyone the old plan, so that part of the news wasn't interesting. My acceptance of Josh's skill sent everyone into bounce mode again. I got Sandra to whistle and when everyone's attention fell back on me, I said, "No team meeting today; I need to think about this. Come in ten minutes early tomorrow, please. I still want to see everyone who's due to see me. I'll be in my office. Come in whatever order. Let Brooke and Ryan jump the queue." The scene seemed to demand some kind of punctuation but I couldn't think of anything. I pottered away, hands in pockets.

So Josh Owens could do long throws. He was doing everything else I asked of him, even if he was clearly playing within himself. A player who could code switch between my way of playing and dinosaur football was going to be valuable to a lot of managers. If Stoke City paid a CA 119 left back ten thousand a week, how much would they pay one who could turn a throw-in into a corner? Twelve thousand a week? Thirteen? Fifteen maybe?

I shook my head. The topic was a long way from thinking about my dream Brazilian!

"Boss," said Benny.

"Mmm?"

"You left your umbrella."

"Yeah. Oh. Is it raining?"

***

I grabbed a tea from Best's Bistro and stood by the radiator near my tactics board getting warm and thinking about the Swindon match. They would almost certainly play 3-5-1-1 and they would expect some kind of elegant response. 4-2-4, maybe. Anything where I menaced the corners of the pitch by the sides of their back three.

They wouldn't expect an 80s-style bombardment.

When was the last time I'd used long ball tactics? I'd done it in Das Tournament against the golden burger-eating Wolves. What if I started a grown-up, professional men's football match with twenty minutes of long throws, inswinging corners, direct balls, punts, shoulder-barges, and crosses of all types? Fine any player who cut inside. Fine anyone who played a pass shorter than thirty yards. Get it launched! Have it! Second balls! They don't want it, lads!

I grinned. Against Tranmere, Swindon had started with short, fast players because they were worried about my speed but we had gone direct and they had been forced to use an early sub to put a big lad in defence to stop me winning headers. The manager might look at Sharky, Pascal, and Aff and think he would need the fast guys again. The blitz would shock them, big time, and if they used any subs to counter that, they'd soon get another shock.

My smile got wider. I loved fucking teams up!

There was a knock on the door and Zach poked his head in. I held a finger up while I finished my thought.

Of course, Swindon might decide to start with loads of beefy boys. What then? Then... that would be fine. They would get hyped up for a physical battle that would simply stop. It would take them time to recalibrate to what came next - if they were capable of changing their mindsets so many times in one match. As Swindon were getting the taste of one kind of battle, I would change things, get Bench Boost working early, and let the fantasy football commence. It would be absolutely bewildering and I couldn't wait to see it play out.

"Zach," I said, trying to bring my attention to the present. "How come you're the first? I thought you would be a gentleman and let Brooke go first."

He turned back towards the door. "Yeah. I offered but she knows I like to get home to my dogs."

"Animal lover," I said, meaning Brooke. I had been thinking about her horse a lot.

Zach wasn't sure whether to sit or stand. "You're not?"

I pointed at the nearest chair - permission to land. "I like hedgehogs. I think. And frogs, probably. We never had pets and I don't know loads about animals. When I get my own house I might try a cat or a squirrel or something. Right, quick heat check. Am I saying that right? No, don't explain." I sat on the edge of my desk. "How are you doing?"

He thought about it. "Okay."

"Just okay?"

"Just okay. I don't like losing. It's a long time since I was on a team that lost as often as this one."

The statement annoyed the hell out of me but I tried not to let it show. "Must be hard for you," I said, which was the first part of a florid and potentially relationship-ending sentence.

Zach, for once, realised he had pressed a button he should have left alone. "Not for nothing but you asked, boss. Another thing - I feel I should play more. I'm fit and healthy and don't need rest. You said it yourself - I transform the patterns of play."

"Is your question what more can you do to get in the team?"

That wasn't his question in the slightest but he leaned forward so his face was lowered. He grinned, mostly to himself. It was hard dealing with these Brits. "Yes, boss."

I picked up a marker and pointed it at him. "We're doing this directness thing, are we? You really want to hear what I think?"

My sense was that he didn't really value my opinion but that our relationship dictated he had to say yes. To be clear, I had no doubt he thought I could coach a winger and he liked my with-ball philosophy, but I had shown little interest in his defensive work. He didn't rate me as a without-ball manager. "Yes, boss. Give it to me straight." He settled back and watched.

"With the ball I have no notes at the moment. You get the ball to the midfield. Bosh. End of thread. I'll have thoughts when we get to more complex patterns of play. Let's jump to without the ball so you can go walk your dogs. Your superpower and your Kryptonite is your aggression." I flipped to a clean page and wrote 'aggression' at the top. "I see in you three kinds of aggression." Along the bottom of the page I wrote the letter V, left a space, wrote the letter P, left a space, wrote POS.

"If you're going to call me a piece of shit, we might fall out," he drawled.

"Verbal aggression," I said, tapping the V. I drew a vertical line and added a circle at the top. I moved to the next column. "Physical aggression." I drew another line going up and added a circle there, too. "Positional aggression," I said, moving to the third column. Here, I drew the circle halfway up. Top top middle. "These are sliders. You're in your mid-twenties so I don't know how much you or I can adjust these sliders, but if I could, I'd slide the verbals all the way down to zero. Shit talking is absolutely fucking pointless. Complete waste of everybody's time, often counter-productive, and you're slagging off strikers I might want to sign. I see what you're thinking: Snowflake FC. Not so. When the time's right I'll give you someone who can be taken out of a match with a few well-timed sledges. My attitude to trash-talking is a rare case of Max Best the surgeon instead of Max Best the bludgeoner. See, you think it doesn't affect the rest of your game, that you're doing it on autopilot, but that's moronic. I'll fetch a neuroscientist in if you want, but let's save the club some money and agree that talking - the thing that separates us from the animals - costs mental energy, costs concentration. Think about it. Of course it fucking costs you. How much? Not much. Two percent? Can you get two percent better by shutting your flappy gob? I'm the best player in the league and I'd like to get two percent better for no cost.

"Physical aggression. In some ways this is similar to the verbals but I signed you partly for your physicality. I'd only slide this one down from one hundred to, what, seventy? That first one's down to zero, in case that wasn't clear." I drew a dotted circle at the bottom of the first 'slider' and a few inches below the top of the second. "What does taking a bit of spinach out of your pre-match meal do? It means doing the minimum needed at set pieces to get your head on the ball. You don't wrap your arms around a guy and ragdoll him just to prove you can. Gateshead, 17 minutes. Their 11 is working the channel and you're over there keeping him locked up. Or that's what I thought. Instead you put your knee up his arse, you get a yellow, and they get a free kick in absolute dreamland. Why did you do it? Because he beat Carl in a duel thirty seconds before and you wanted to send a message. I love the team spirit but Carl won't thank you if they score from that. And I won't, either. Stand the prick up, keep him there, wait for support, the end. Now, two minutes later you had him at the edge of the centre circle in their half and you could have smacked him nice and safe - if you hadn't already been booked. By the way, still pointless, but at least that would have been smart. No yellow on that one and that winger would have understood the situation perfectly. Know what I mean? I could give you countless examples of times you've won the battle but lost the war.

"Positional. I love your passing and your physicality is a net positive to the team but as we go up the divisions this is where you'll grow most as a player." I put his circle halfway along the line.

"You want me to tone that down, too?" He wasn't sulking - I think he was fascinated.

Something like a chuckle escaped my lips. We didn't communicate well in the slightest. "No, mate. This is where you outperform." I drew the dotted circle an inch above the solid one. "This is where you have the potential to play the game at a high level. Put yourself in positions where you don't need to chat and you don't need to be strong. You get in and out like a ghost." I put the marker down and wandered around. "When I was really good, there were games when I was so in the zone I didn't even notice the full back who was marking me. You've seen what I've been trying to get Cole to do. I did that at ten times the complexity. The ball would come and instead of taking two touches to control it, I'd combine the control and half of my dribble into one touch. These guys can't defend that. I don't know if anyone can."

I took a pause while I remembered how I'd demolished teams while playing for Darlington. Even with my skills, it had been a struggle because I didn't have any allies.

"If I'd had Pascal or WibRob playing with me then, I'd have been unstoppable. I could have cut out twenty yards of careful progression with every attack. Gone straight for the jugular every time." I mimed sliding the third circle upwards. "What I did as a forward you can do as a defender. You're already good. You step in front of strikers way more than most. Doing that once in the early stages fucks them up. The midfielders are thinking shit, I can't play the ball to the striker's feet. Then when they start chipping the ball over your head you're good at reading it and superb at putting up a fight so the strikers rarely get, you know, quality shots away. Do you get what I'm saying? You're proactive in a way that makes the opposition have to find solutions. Our other guys are more conservative by nature but one day we'll have a back four who can be just as aggressive as you and we can play a crazily high line. Take risks. Catch teams offside, make the pitch small and let our technique win it for us." I tapped the columns again, starting with verbals, going to physical, and ending on positional. "This is shit, this is often mindless, this is where you get to your next level."

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There was a pretty long silence. Zach finally said, "That's a lot to take in, boss. I kinda didn't think..." He struggled to finish. After another moment he said, "How would you say...?" He rolled his hand forward, a gesture I interpreted as 'how do I learn that?'

"I'm honestly sorry but I don't have the resources to hire an elite defensive coach. Also, I don't know one. You could try talking to Pascal about Clive OK. Maybe you could get a few private sessions with him." My eyes flickered towards the door. I had loads of people waiting to see me. Better to wrap this up. But my eyes landed on the photo that was right in front of me. "You know what? I do know an elite coach who used to be a defender. Jackie Reaper."

"The women's coach?" he said, slappably. I walked over to the photo and tapped it. Zach came and joined me. "That's... He played for Everton?"

I found deposits of patience I didn't know existed. "He's forgotten more about defending than you've ever learned. He loves coaching and if he takes you on, you'll be his greatest challenge." I was pleased with that. "Do you think you could approach him in a tactful way?"

"Tactful?" Zach bristled with confidence. "Hell, yeah!"

I pulled a face. "Maybe check the definition of tactful, first. Tell him what we said here and offer to pay full rates for any sessions he's willing to give you."

"Pay?"

"He's got a job. Anything he does with you would be extra. He's Scouse so he might want to be paid in cash, but listen, I'm not forcing this on you. It's my job to get the coaches in place to get you to the next level but there's no deadline to that. You don't want to waste time, do you? Everything I've said is... what's the word? It's like... I'm content with how you're doing but I think you're like me and you want to be ready for the next quest before you've finished the current one. If you've got spare cash look into some advanced sessions but you don't need it, yet. You're progressing just fine. It might be good to have the conversation early so Jackie can watch you play. I know what he's like - ideas will start bubbling up and one day he'll be at your front door saying 'get changed it's time'. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do."

"Top. Good chat. Send the next one in."

"One last thing. The fellas are saying you're handing out twenty-quid-a-week bonuses. What do I have to do to get one?"

It was mad that a one-percent increase motivated him but most of the time if you don't ask, you don't get. "You have to wait."

"Oh, right. I feel you. Be patient, work hard, keep my head down. Don't injure you again."

Funny. "No, Zach. There's no hidden meaning to what I'm saying. You'll get a raise; you just have to wait. You'll be something like the... the tenth guy who gets one. There's a highly elegant system at play; almost as elegant as the plan for the FA Cup on Saturday. Send Brooke in, next. I don't like the idea she's hanging around while I shoot the breeze with loads of dudes."

***

Next in was Glenn Ryder.

"Where's Brooke?"

"Sorry, Max. I told her I'd only be a minute." He took a breath. "I wanted to apologise."

"Okay."

He paused. He'd rehearsed this, whatever it was, but wasn't happy with his speech. I waited. He decided to go with his second draft. Or maybe his third. "I was at the FA Youth Cup game. The lads were great, obviously. But they were pretty shit at set pieces. Areas for improvement in the spacing and they got turned around far too easily." His eyes hardened, but just for a moment. "They were pretty lax when it came to offsides. Sloppy stuff and not all of it was because they had a winger at right back. You asked us... I mean, you asked me... You wanted me to take care of them. Show them the ropes. And I did a shit job. They weren't ready for their big match and it's been eating away at me. You put them in the Cheshire Cup the next day and I was chatting to them the whole time."

"Good."

"No, boss! Not good. It's too much in one go. They couldn't absorb it. I should have started teaching them months ago. Years ago. I, er... We... Look, if you put them in first team training again we know what to do, now. I, er... We didn't get it before."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Yeah." I spun around on my awesome chair. "Look, Glenn, to the outside world you're already a Chester legend. You lifted two trophies last season and whatever we win this time, you'll be there. It's not your job to coach but if you pass on a few tips they'll be treated like Moses coming down with the tablets. Thou shalt not lose thy marker at the near post! I don't need you to give whole sessions. Sam Topps had a good way - he spoke and people listened but it was all informal. You don't need to stress about it and if you say too much it's better than saying too little. You know," I said, going on another spin, "sometimes I think it doesn't matter what you say but just the fact that you say it. Do you know what I mean? Sam never told anyone anything but he saw something in Pippa and Dan Badford and he enjoyed telling those guys and they lit up when he did because it meant more than if I told them."

"You're pretty indiscriminate with your opinions."

I laughed. "Yeah. Fair. By all means, be like Sam. The women's team think he's the bee's knees. Like, I'm a legit megastar and I've told them all dozens of things but when it comes from Sam... gasp!" I put my hands on my cheeks in a mock show of shock. Glenn smiled. I looked up while I thought about Captain, Bomber, and Henk. "Those three defenders from the eighteens have a chance to go deep in the Youth Cup but I personally can't help the centre backs all that much. I play the position on instinct. I don't actually have the first clue what I'm doing. I can't pass on my knowledge because I don't have any. I'll have to get a top defensive coach. What's the sequence? Dentist, club doctor, club psychologist, defensive coach? Maybe it depends who I find first."

Glenn nodded slowly a few times. "What do you want from me? What's the best-case scenario?"

I did a 360 while I thought. With everything that was going on I felt like I was bumping up against some kind of mental capacity. "Go to an eighteens training session and see what you see. Get involved if something's amiss. Feel free to take any sort of initiative you want. I'm very, very invested in those guys but I need help and I don't know what help I need."

"I think I follow. I'm on the case. Thanks for the time, boss."

I pointed to the door. "Your pay rise is on the list. Send Brooke in. Bye."

***

Next through the door was Ben Cavanagh.

"What the fuck," I said.

"What'd I do?" said my number one keeper.

"Why are dozens of men jumping the queue when there's a Southern belle in it? What happened to chivalry?"

Ben looked worried. "But you said it'd only take thirty seconds and I've been waiting ages and Brooke said anyway she was waiting for Ryan."

"Fine. Jesus Christ. Do you want an extra twenty pounds a week, yes or no?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good. Sign there and there and then fuck off. Thanks."

He picked up a pen. "But Max. Are you happy with me? My performance?"

"Yes. I love the way you can feel Sticky coming up the rails. That sounds dirty, doesn't it? We both know Sticky is a serious, serious goalie and what I like is that you're using it as motivation to get better. You're a proper National League goalie now and when I met you, you were a long way off that. I want to see you get even better so keep at it. Oh, while you're here, you know I like to give everyone in my squad ten league games if possible so they get a winner's medal. We're not likely to win the league but if there's the chance to bring Sticky on at the ends of matches I want to do it. I know some people will think it's weird but guess what?"

He smiled. "You don't give a shit."

"Bingo. Keep up the good work. Enjoy your new salary. Send Brooke in. Bye."

***

"Guten morgen," said Pascal.

I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. "I note you are not a hot blonde."

"No," he said, rubbing his hair. "I'm letting my natural colour back."

I tried hard to keep my equilibrium. This lack of manners was genuinely aggravating. "Right, I just wanted to have a quick chat because I noticed a change in you."

"God damn!" he said, slamming his fist onto my desk. I gave him a fierce glare that made him shrink. "I apologise. But how do you know? It is not possible."

The hideous phrase 'dislikes Henri Lyons' had finally vanished from Pascal's player profile and some instinct made me want to let him know that I knew. He would think twice about bullshitting me in future and there was a second reason to have this conversation - I knew I would never even attempt it again. Life happened so fast it would get pushed back and back until it was so awkward it wouldn't be possible. "Yeah, yeah," I said, pretending to be bored. "I have eyes in the back of my head. Like, for anything that affects your football." I thought about this limitation. "If you're, like, struggling to find a flat or something I'm not going to know unless you tell me. So do tell me things like that. Do you get me? I only see what you bring onto the pitch. Right. Big boy time. This whole Luisa thing was a big mess so let's have one final chat about it so we can, you know, move past it. You're not carrying that anger around. What happened?"

His face split in half. "Tiggy! It's Tiggy. She invited me for a drink and oh! We talked for hours. I couldn't believe it. We have so much in common! And her German is sehr gut. That means very good, boss."

"Twiggy?"

Pascal's face took on an unbecoming judgmental quality. "Tiggy! Clive's daughter! She visited him once when I was there. And the second time, we talked for longer." So the horny German had been hanging around at Clive's to meet his daughter! Plot twist. I should have guessed he wasn't only doing it for the extra training. "I do not know how to explain it but... She isn't my type, or what I thought was... But when we talk, I feel... We're on the same level! It's so easy with her. There's no stress and we laugh and..."

I found myself smiling. "Okay. That sounds great." I pinched my lips. "Look, the Luisa thing is over and I want to drop it but I feel like as a friend and yeah, maybe as your manager, I should say what's on my mind and you might resent it or whatever but I think I need to say it."

His face hardened. "If you don't think you should say it, perhaps you shouldn't say it."

I'd thought about possible versions of this conversation many times, and decided to go ahead with it. In the long-term, it might help. Or not, but I had no way to know. "Look," I started, lamely. "If we finish second in the league this year, how will you feel?"

"Sehr gut," he said. "We would finish above six teams with triple our budget. It would be a commendable achievement. Second would be a vindication of Project Youth and next season we would be first."

"Right. It's easy to be objective with football because we're sort of experts in it. There's not loads of nuance for us. There are teams in leagues where we can say fifth is great, sixth is shit. You agree?"

"Of course."

"So Chester in second place would be monumental. People would sit up and take notice. They'd look at the league table in their newspapers and immediately go online to check it. Chester? Second? No way." I coughed. "Er... I know that quite a few lads had a bit of a run at Luisa and she slapped them all down. In the last twelve months how many randos have asked for her number? Twenty-four."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Yes. The number is exactly twenty-four. Same as the number of teams in the National League."

Pascal's jaw clenched. "I comprehend exactly. Say no more."

I shifted my weight, somewhat unhappily. I felt a mad need to press on. "I know it's not the same with a woman because losing is dreadful and soul-crushing but when you stood up and asked her out I was aghast. I gave you zero percent on the win predictor. But she was interested. That's not a retcon or wishful thinking. She was intrigued and that's not nothing. You don't know how exceptional you are." Pascal didn't react in the slightest and seemed to be quietly fuming that I would dare to discuss his private life. I even checked his player profile to see if it read 'Hopes Max Best is killed by a falling piano' or whatevs.

He changed the topic. "What is your tactical plan for Swindon?"

"I'm calling it, The Beast and the Beauty. Talking of which, can you send Ryan and Brooke in next?"

"Which is the beauty and which is the beast?"

I scoffed. "You've seen Ryan Jack trap a high ball. What's more beautiful than that?"

Pascal's lips stretched slowly but steadily until there was a clear smile. "Dieter Bauer at the Deva."

I shook my head. "Dieter would agree with me. It's not who's in the stand. It's who's on the ball. With ball is always more beautiful than without ball."

***

While I waited for the next person, I checked to see if I had any urgent emails and thought about the monthly perk I'd bought. It was called Locktober and it did one very simple but useful thing related to player attributes.

Player profiles came in three columns. At the bottom of the first column, I'd unlocked Finishing. At the top of the second column was a blank space, followed by Handling. If Flair was an attribute - I believed it was - it would be listed in that space between Finishing and Handling.

Now when I bought a new attribute, I would have the choice to trap or 'lock' the yellow, dancing cell, restricting its movements to just one column. Instead of having a one in twelve chance of unlocking Flair, I'd have a one in four shot. If that missed, it would be one in three.

The imps were guiding me towards Relationism. No doubt about it.

***

Brooke and Ryan finally came in. I switched from dashing football manager to dashing director of football. They sat and I got straight into it. "Guys. This weekend, three things happened that changed everything."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm too sober for this?" said Ryan.

"One. I read an article about Man United's youth system. They have the same problems we do of losing talents to teams that are prepared to throw money around, legally or not. They're the biggest club in the world maybe but they worry about talent drain, same as me. What really struck me was the size of the operation. They're so big they've got processes and structures and overlapping responsibilities and all that crap. I always wanted the Ajax model here - we would have six thousand kids in the youth teams, give every kid in Chester a footballing education, blah blah blah. Centralised with me as a floating megabrain. But I'm thinking about what comes after me. I could be gone sooner than anyone thinks." I paused to get a reaction from Brooke - there was just a twitch in one segment of forehead. Not much to go on. "Two, I got a bit annoyed by the Gateshead match and wanted to smash something. So I smashed the six-thousand-kids-all-training-at-the-same-time model. Three, I had way too much cheese before bed. And I'm now going to present to you my vision of the future."

"This week's vision of the future," said Ryan.

I tried to scowl at him but didn't have it in me; I was too hyped about my plan. "Here at the mothership we will have small squads. Twenty lads or lasses per age group. That's it. Bosh. Small, intimate, so the coaches really get to know everyone. It saves money because we don't need to build massive facilities and it saves stress for me because I don't have to scout massive numbers every year and we can get more and more picky with the lads we sign. If I spot anyone who is good but not as good as what we've got, I'll send them to other local teams that we know will do a good job with them. Okay so that's the core concept. Small groups, concentration of quality. It won't get stale, I don't think, because they'll be moving up and down getting minutes at higher age groups and all that sort of stuff. But they'll come up together and it'll be like a family." I glanced at Brooke. "A family you want to stay with." That comment got absolutely zero reaction. Fascinating.

Brooke said, "This sounds good but it's a football issue. You don't need to involve me. What am I missin'?" I went to my trusty flipchart and was about to turn to a new page when Brooke stopped me. "Wait. What's that? Aggression. Piece of shit. Is that about Zach? He's a dimwit but he's not a POS. He's got lovely dogs; he showed me some photos."

I gave her a mysterious smile, turned to a clean page, and tapped the marker pen against my lips. "Small squads, amazing pathway to the first team. But I want to develop football in Cheshire and North Wales while setting up structures that will outlast me. How do I do that if I've only got fifteen hotshots in one age group?" I drew a football pitch, leaving out the centre circle to save time. It didn't look right, so I added it in while my staff waited patiently. "Remember our first meeting, Brooke?"

"You were very charming and professional," she said.

I think my jaw dropped, but realised she was either absolutely rinsing me or protecting my rep from Ryan. "You can tell Ryan the truth. Okay, in that charming and professional conversation I told you clubs can earn loads from renting out their 3G football pitches."

"Up to 150,000 pounds per annum from a typical installation cost of half a million."

She was absolutely sensational. My smile was charming and mostly professional. "What makes more money than one pitch?"

"Two pitches," said Ryan, showing he had some b-boy chops.

"What makes more money than two pitches?"

"Two pitches with a branch of Bosh Bistro next to it," he said.

"Er, Best's Bistro. That's true but how about... three pitches?"

Brooke frowned, or did the thing that was most like a frown on that forehead. "I thought we would have two artificial pitches and lots of grass ones?"

I started to pace around, getting myself worked up. "Right. But this is where I've been thinking too small! Functional fixedness strikes again. We're not limited to the land around the Deva. We can have as many pitches as we want! Check this out," I said, sketching out a staggeringly inaccurate map of Wales and Cheshire. "Chester's here. Imagine we're an army about to set out and conquer some shit. To the north is Merseyside and their loyalties are fixed." I pointed at Ryan. "Boo, by the way. Hiss." I returned to my sketch. "Over here's Manchester. Whoo, Manchester! But yeah, that's like another boundary. Below us is Wrexham and over here's Crewe and Stoke. Big football cities. We're not getting new fans anywhere here, but everywhere else is open. We see, we go, we conquer." I went to the window and looked at the BoshCard training pitches, imagining what our new facility would look like. "Here in Chester we'll have our two artificial pitches. We'll reserve them for us every morning and weekdays from five to eight or whatever and when we don't need them, they'll be available for rent. By the way, we need to leave space around one for a little stadium."

"What?" said Brooke.

"Don't worry about it. Just like a four-thousand seater. Nothing major. So that's Chester. Or is it? Maybe we can put another one over in Vicar's Cross or Hoole if there's enough demand. There probably is now that I think about it. Then we'll have one in Ellesmere Port. Northwich has fifty thousand people. Do they have a good pitch? Deeside. Prestatyn. Rhyl. Here's my idea. We buy land or take over some shitty football pitch the council can't afford to maintain. You've seen all these horrible sloping monstrosities with just mud around the penalty spot. We bosh down a modern 3G pitch and start raking in the cash. If there's space, one full-size pitch, plus a couple of five-a-sides, one little three-a-side for local kids. I've sketched some concepts."

I handed over some very awesome drawings.

"The small pitches will be free to use. They're all about encouraging the next generation. The fives might cost at peak times and be free off-peak. We could put fucking mini games in them, too. Big hoops at the sides you can kick the ball through. Or those bouncy nets you kick a ball against to practise your skills. Stick some of them in the area around the pitches, boom. Football playground. Endless fun. I wish I had one of those near me when I was a kid. So here's the kicker - at every location we hire two coaches. Twenty grand a year basic, so we're still making a tidy profit. But they're doing training for local teams, local talents, whoever's interested. This is how I get my six thousand players. Do you get me? Decentralised. Spread out across Cheshire and North Wales. There's over a million people in this area and we can be the team that sees every kid in Cheshire first. Why? Because we're doing free coaching!"

Ryan was nodding slowly. "The coaches will be scouting, too. It's... it's fiendish."

"Yes! Fiendishly simple. The coaches do their sessions and afterwards, they get on the phone, Max, I've just found the next Jackie Reaper. Sorry I'm only accepting players with hair. No but he's mint. Fine. I'll be there on Wednesday. Do you know what I mean? We make money, we do good in the community, we build the fucking brand in a way you just can't do by making everyone go to the Deva, and we get first dibs on every kid in range of one of our pitches. Oh, and I get to hire loads of coaches and I'll be able to do experiments in making them better and shit like that. They'll all have to do a scouting course. I've got a lot to learn about scouting. Oh, and the income will count towards financial fair play but the costs won't. Imagine I sell a player for ten million and MD only increases my budget by one. I can invest the rest into schemes like these and generate a million a year. A year! MD's cautious but he's not stupid. He'll let me use that on wages."

I finished drawing aggressive squiggles on the paper and waited for Brooke's response. She smoothed out her skirt. "It's fascinating, of course. I love any idea you have after a night on the cheese. It's a lot of half a million pound investments, Max. Do we have a lot of half a million pounds?"

"We might soon."

Again I scoured her face for a reaction. Surely she knew what I was getting at? "Soon? What about now?"

"We don't have the cash right now. So what?"

She smiled a thin smile. "Could be problematic. Not everyone works for minimum wage."

I twirled my finger around. "A Max Best football club is a money-making machine. I'll get you the cash but I know this stuff takes time. We need to identify the locations, check the market, see about grants, talk to the local councils. I think we should start in Chester and work our way out if you get me. I can imagine doing one or two a year. Don't mention the scouting bit to anyone. That's a trade secret. The message is: we're investing in football facilities in the area and we'll make a profit along the way. That's something everyone can understand and get behind."

Brooke often liked to clarify what I was asking her to do. "So you want us to work on the locations, check it would be profitable, make contact with local administrators?"

"Yes, please. If we get promoted we'll get a million pounds in TV money and I might want to get going on one of these."

"Won't you want to buy players?" said Ryan.

"Who knows? Probably. I'm not spending a million on players, though. No chance."

Brooke said, "I understand my role in this. And Ryan will help me assess the value of a location from a footballing perspective?"

"Yeah. He'll make sure you don't waste time trying to set one up in a rival club's heartland and he'll have good instincts for if a spot is gonna work or not."

"I will?" said Ryan.

"Yep. Okay, that's it. I'm excited about this one. Ryan, can you give us ten minutes? Pop down to Best's Bistro. Tell them Max sent you."

"I'll wait in Bosh Bistro." Ryan checked his watch. "Actually, I'm offski."

"Bye," said Brooke, in a friendly way. Not overly friendly, though. Or was she acting friendly-but-not-too-friendly? "Max?" she said.

I must have spaced out wondering if anything was going on between them. "Erm, let's go to the chess board." We headed to the back of the room and slumped into the cosy armchairs I'd installed. It was something of a failed experiment in creating a less confrontational zone. The problem was the chairs were simply too big and the only way to fit them in was to have them side by side like cinema seats. Less confrontational, sure, but not great for conversations. I pulled one of them away so it was angled better, but the setup was still pretty ludicrous. "Brooke. Your dad. What do you want to tell me?"

I had mentally workshopped dozens of varieties of the question and came up with that. It was simple and would let her take the initiative, or not, as was proper. She stared straight ahead. "Not a whole lot."

I waited but that was it. "Okay. So I'll tell you where I'm at and please correct me if I've got bad information. He's making moves to buy Chester as a way to get back in your life." I shook my head. "That's wild, but let's go with it. Honestly, I just want to sort of know how you, like, feel about that and whatever."

Brooke stared straight ahead, eyes glowing, but after a quick clearing of the throat and a slight reshuffle on the chair, she softened. "I'm not a part of it, Max. I don't want it." Her eyes met mine. "It's not me. I promise."

I tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Okay."

We were quiet. I tried to keep my energy positive and, amazingly, it worked. Brooke said, "If he takes the club over, I'm obviously leaving. I'll be gone before the ink is dry. I haven't thought where. Norway, maybe. Or Belize."

"Where's Belize?"

"I don't know. Look, I'll stay as long as possible. I've grown fond of the Chester Chatters and I hope we can get the Chompers up and running. Daddy will shut it all down on day one, of course. There's no helping that, but that's no reason not to get it up and going."

I smiled briefly before trying to get serious. "Brooke... I'm going to try to say this politely out of respect. Ah... If your father tries to take control of this football club I'm going to smash him to a pulp and publicly humiliate him and I'll probably enjoy it." This got no reaction. "You know I don't like billionaires and people who asset strip football clubs but he's still your dad so I thought it would be right to let you know in advance."

She shook her head. "He's not your normal challenge. He'll come with pistols in both hands. He's very, very smart, and cunning."

I sighed. "Brooke, let's get real. If I started a low-cost retail chain in south Texas - "

"East Texas," she said, for no apparent reason.

"If I competed against him on his own turf, Brooke, he'd eat me alive like a shark. This is England, this is football, this is Chester, these are my little shark babies." I went from being animated to bored in a second. "I've already beaten him."

"It's impressive that you found out it was him. I didn't know until the meeting about Pascal. I got a strange feeling. Why was it in that hotel near the train station? I hung around and when I saw him there it was... I didn't know how to tell you. I'm sorry about that. But if you know it's him it means it's already too late. You can't stop him."

I made a harsh buzzing noise. "Bzzzz. Sorry, wrong answer."

Brooke was not impressed. "Are you placing your hopes in these new contracts?"

"I might hold off on telling you my plan, if you don't mind."

She got up and walked to my desk. The new deal that Ben had just signed was there. Brooke picked one up and brought it back to the chess area. She skimmed through it. "I looked at the new contracts."

"You did?"

"They're exactly the same as the old ones. The only difference is twenty pounds a week. You're... you're miles off on this one. I'm sorry, Max, but you're out of your... You don't know who you're dealing with."

I still couldn't read her all that well, but I felt sure she was experiencing genuine anguish. I leaned back and smirked. "Don't worry about it. I'll take him to pound town."

Brooke was so exasperated it almost showed on her face. "My daddy doesn't play nice and he doesn't play fair. He's already coming at you in twenty different ways a normal person can't conceive of. When you get a minute, look up the story of Handsome Horace McNorris."

I laughed. "What happened to him?"

"It got ugly." I laughed even more and Brooke cracked a smile. She tossed Ben's contract aside and pinched her nose. "Max. Please. Just... whatever you're doing is not it. Here's how you defend Chester. You market your vision. You tell people where we're going and how we're getting there. We hit the socials. Remember 'Chester's not for sale?' That was perfect but you stopped as soon as you started. Get back on that, get people excited, rile 'em up. This isn't a takeover, it's an election. You've got to get the votes by fair means or foul. Spend your reserves on players. Trust me, we'll refill the penny jar. Sure, you'll have to hold off on building the training centre for six months, a year tops, but it's worth it if you're still in control. Just, please... Do something."

My last slivers of doubt evaporated. No way would her dad want me to spend the Raffi money. I leaned forward and dared to touch her on the wrist. "Brooke," I said, all kinds of earnest. "I'm going to win and it'll all be over by January."

The expression on her face was, by her standards, huge. "January?"

"Yep. The fans will only give him the club if the transfer window is open. Once it's closed, if we get promoted, we get an extra million or two in guaranteed money and we're away. The price of the club triples, your dad loses interest. It's only now, getting out of this league, where a big cash injection makes sense. It's only now that there's proper danger of a takeover."

She blinked as she considered what I'd said. "There's no chance of a March takeover? April?"

I dismissed the idea. "It'll be January for sure. That suits everyone. Your dad, me, the fans. Showdown. High noon."

"You..."

"I think I can even tell you the date it'll all go down. Friday, January 17th at the mid-season fans forum. I know you don't want to meet him but it'd be good if you snuck in at the back in disguise or whatever. You're the only person who will truly appreciate the enormity of my achievement. God, I'm going to rinse him so hard." I smugged for a few seconds. "Yeah. And don't worry. He won't be there for long once I start talking." I laughed to myself. "Oh, but I forgot to say - I'm going to meet him before then." I stared at a spot on the wall. "I didn't want you finding out and thinking I'd betrayed you or anything like that. I have to meet him for the next stage of my plan to kick in. I mean, I'll try to be cordial." Brooke wasn't often lost for words. "Right, that's that sorted. I win, you stay in Chester. Great."

"Max, no. Listen. It's not that easy."

"What was that guy's name again? Handsome guy?"

"Handsome Horace McNorris."

I nodded. "The way you say Horace - you're saying Horace, right? - to me it sounds like horse. You're only in this job because of a horse and now you're indispensable. I thought I didn't need someone like you but I do. And more specifically, I need you. Your range of skills is absolutely incredible and together we can do so much good for this city. I've sorted the takeover thing but there's another problem - Bicky."

"Biscotti?"

"Yeah." I leaned back again. "I spend quite a lot of time thinking about opposing managers. Are they flexible? Have they ever done a surprise formation or are they fixed? What's my worst fear and what can I do about it?" I bit my lip and tapped the armrest. "It's hard to do that with your dad but if I was him and wanted to get you out of England, I'd buy Biscotti and ship him to I-don't-care-which-part-of Texas. I'd put him on a big ranch and text you a photo of the keypad on the front door. You wouldn't even need to go and get the keys from me. Just turn up and ride your pony as much as you want. Boom."

Brooke's expressions got very, very small. "That's what you'd do, huh?"

I nodded. "Life's easy when money's no object. But it's not what I'd do, Brooke, because I'm not psychotic." I frowned. "Are there special planes for horses? Or do they go in the baggage space like cats?"

She crossed her palms across her lap and looked at them. "This is you thinking like your enemy so you can find a solution."

"Yes."

"So whaddya suggest?"

I tapped the armrest again. Some of my ideas needed money. "How rich are you, actually?"

"I'm comfortable," she said. I tutted. Rich people, Jesus Christ. "If you're going to offer me an extra twenty pounds a week, I'll take it."

I ignored the joke. "I was thinking you could buy or rent a second car so you could visit the horse without your car being tracked. Maybe that's too secret agent, I don't know. If I were you I'd immediately stop telling people about Bicky. Start deleting old Insta posts - not all, that would be too obvious - and start creating a new dream horse. I thought about it and it should be at a different farm. So you go there and find a pretty good horse and ride it and do your normal 'omg this horse has so much try and so many horse elbows!' and all that. You know what I mean? To anyone who isn't a close friend, that horse will be your dream horse. If your dad thinks the same way I did, he'll end up buying the wrong horse." The image was hilarious to me. "If you have tons of cash, sign up to a yoga class somewhere. Drive there, walk through, put on a black wig, out the back is your second car. A Mini Cooper with a British flag on the side. No way anyone watching would think that's you. You drive that to Bicky. Never go in your normal car. Do you know what I mean? I was thinking the Brig could help you with this. And, I don't know if this is even a thing but if the owners won't sell Bicky to you, maybe they'd sell to me."

She laughed. "You don't know the first thing about horses! They wouldn't sell to you!"

"It's a gift for my girlfriend. Emma knows horse things; anyone would sell a horse to her. And I can be charming, too. I'm just offering to try. If they won't sell to me, that's sort of reassuring, isn't it? I'm kind of a big deal in some parts. I could at least, like, ask for the chance to match any future offer they do accept." Brooke didn't say anything and I worried I'd gone too far into her personal life. "Would you like to opt out of hearing my ideas? I've got a form you can fill out."

"No," she said. "No, Max. I was just thinking that if you bought Biscotti I'd have to trust you to sell him on to me."

"Um, right. Why would I keep him? We don't have a similar level of affection. Look, I was just thinking out loud, tbh. Talk to the Brig. Count me in for any mad schemes. The madder the better, to be honest, and if you think Emma won't want to spend a week playing with ponies as the prelude to pretending to fall in love with Bicky... yeah, you get the idea."

"I might just do that."

"Good." I left a space. "Are we still friends?"

Big smile. At some point in the last ten minutes, we had crossed a threshold in our relationship. Which part had done it? Life would be easier if I knew those things for sure. "We are still friends."

"This is a bit weird and not part of your duties and you're free to cry off but BoshCard want me to do an advert that would be used online in Cheshire. The money seems good and it's an amount that means I wouldn't need to stress about going to Brazil. Would you, er... would you check the offer for me? I don't know what I'm worth. I'll pay you and all that. Also, I have an idea for a better script than the one they suggested. Mine would involve Henri so I'd need an idea of a fee for him, too. Um, I'd appreciate any help."

She smiled at me. "I'd be delighted. My fee is zero." Her smile turned dark. "But if you want that money, you'd better get it before the fans forum because after that, this won't be your football club any more."