13.

  ***

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  ***

  Tuesday, January 25 - Six Days Until Transfer Window Slams Shut

  I was striding towards the Sin Bin for a meeting with Magnus when the man himself popped out of the medical block. "Mate," I said, slapping him on the back. "I need medical help. I've got transfer fever!"

  "You have?" he said, surprised. "I thought you hated transfer mania."

  "I hate that it's its own industry now. It's like Black Friday or something. You can barely move for content and hot takes and think pieces, but freshening things up might just be what the doctor ordered."

  We got to the door. I badged it open and went inside. The room was unoccupied, which was rare. When we expanded into Phase Two I would create four or five mini Sin Bins suitable for one-on-one feedback. For that to happen in the near future, I needed to get rich quick. I hurried over and plugged in my laptop.

  Magnus settled into his spot. While I was gathering my thoughts, he said, "How are you doing, Max?"

  "I'm in a weird mood. How's my aura?"

  "Dimmed."

  "Yeah, that tracks." I liked talking to Magnus. He understood what I said and what I meant in a way that not everyone did. "Remember Beth's story? The old Polish woman told me to make her proud. Her and mum. Make us proud. I've been trying to get my head around it. What does it mean? How does it look in practice? So with everything that happens I try to see my behaviour through that lens. Would my mum approve of this? Would Anna? But that's not very helpful because, much as they're wonderful people, they know jack shit about running a football club. I think I've been struggling under the weight of those three words and the club has actually been regressing in some ways and it has been messing me up. But I had a breakthrough yesterday."

  "When you talked to the Senior Seals?"

  "You know about that? News gets around."

  "Brooke plastered it all over the socials. She double dipped, giving Owen credit for wanting to do that session, then giving you credit for stepping in at the last minute."

  "Did she mention how good she is at football?"

  "She didn't, no."

  I smiled. "I need to think of a nickname for her. I was thinking 'The Conductor'. 'The Texan Totti' was high on the list but I don't think she'd like it."

  "Why not? Totti was a great player, wasn't he?"

  "Yes but totty is a disparaging word for a hot girl."

  "Oh, I didn't know that. Brooke's good, is she?"

  "No, she's terrible, but I acted like she was redefining the sport. She would miskick the ball and I'd say, oh, brilliant, you spotted the chance to bait the oppo deeper into our half! It's exactly what Dieter Bauer would have done! And so on. She was laughing while being annoyed at me." I clapped my hands. "Okay, what I've decided is that if I try to be sweet and nice and kind I'm not actually helping anyone. The Senior Seals exists and is funded and has a place to play because I was a dick and I was ruthless and I pushed the club forward as fast as I could possibly push it." I jabbed my finger towards the future. "I've had a little break, now it's back on the go-train." Magnus didn't reply, so I checked his player profile. His Morale had fallen. "What's up?"

  "Is this meeting to tell me you want to transfer me?"

  I wouldn't have expected him to say that in a million years so there was no faking the laugh that burst out of me. I got up, went to the row of seats behind him, and gave him a pretty feeble hug. "No, mate. The opposite. I want you to sign a contract that's longer than a year. You are step one of my January window transfer strategy. You are the foundation stone. You are the bit at the bottom of the zip that keeps everything together. You are - "

  His Morale had recovered. Smiling, he said, "I get it."

  "One more." I looked around the Sin Bin, hoping to get some inspiration. "You are the underfloor heating that means we don't need radiators."

  "Aristotle said that mastery of the metaphor is a sign of genius."

  "Yeah, well, I'd like to see him navigate transfer deadline day for half a dozen clubs at the same time, then let's talk about who's a genius." I went to my desk and showed some data on our big screen. "Here's how you're looking on DOVE."

  Magnus sat up straight. "Pradeep's tool? Has anyone else seen this?"

  "We're starting to let people see bits of it. It's not quite ready and we're still refining it. As you'll see, it's giving us interesting results already." I tapped to show heat maps from the last two matches. "This is you playing central midfield. When it's red, that's you doing good things. When it's blue, it's bad. Broadly speaking. What do you see?"

  "I don't know; they look like brain scans. Is all that throbbing good?"

  "Yeah, these are 7 out of 10 performances. Absolutely solid. Three things I notice. One, the size of your blob. That's what tells us it's 7 out of 10. Two, the locations. You were very positionally disciplined, being where we wanted you to be most of the time. You were active in this whole quarter of the pitch. Andrew did the opposite side, so you dovetailed together very nicely. The third thing I see is that when you're in our half you're great, you are a big help to the team, but when you move forward we get more blue bits."

  "That's me giving the ball away, is it?"

  "For example. It's more sophisticated than that. The algo is trying to say that even if you completed a pass to this zone, we lost the ball soon after so while your stats went up, it was bad for the team. I don't want to get too much into the weeds - that's for the coaches - but looking at the big picture we can safely say that you're less effective the higher you go up the pitch."

  He looked frustrated, which was unusual for him. "You have tried to correct this ever since we met. Improving my forward passing was one of the first things you asked me to do and I'm still terrible."

  "Don't stress, Magnus. If it was easy, everyone would do it. Plus you are better, but it's hard to see because so is the oppo. What I see when I watch you, what I get from DOVE, is that you're most helpful to the team in defensive situations. Is that disappointing? Not to me. You know what I always say. I don't ask players to do things they can't do." I clicked to a different file. "This is a video of Bayern Munich doing a next-level press. See Kumba Viera there? He's following this midfielder, what, forty yards towards the oppo's goal? Ian Evans would be screaming his head off. Get back! Get back into position! I've been trying to wrap my head around this style of pressing because it's quite daring, even for me. Normally you have your defensive base and you allow your midfield and forwards to run around with some freedom because there's a structure behind it. But this is like saying, we don't need a foundation. If there's a storm, we'll get our walls back into shape before the wind gets there. We're faster than the wind, they're saying. Against limited teams, maybe, but against elite oppo this is mental. It's quite scary. I love it."

  Magnus watched as I replayed the clip. "Huh."

  I went to a new file. "This is me trying to approximate the effect with the youth team against Chelsea. I've plopped Future and Archer into midfield and told them to man-mark two midfielders. Okay, it was effective and it had the element of surprise but this isn't actually close to what Basti's doing, is it? His guy is playing centre back and then storming upfield sometimes. My guys were static. Obviously I need to study this more and practice it more and work out drills for how to train it, etcetera etcetera, but one thing I'm really clear about is that you would be fucking mint at this particular role."

  "Oh," he said, somewhat relieved to finally understand where this meeting was going. He looked at the screen and considered it. "I can play in midfield, so as a defender who rushes forward, I'm more suitable than Kumba Viera if I actually get the ball."

  "Yes. I think you might actually be one of the most effective players in the entire world at doing this specific task. Peter Bauer has elite skills for evading the press and progressing the ball into midfield, but if we can perfect this co-ordinated press with you charging into midfield, we can recover the ball high up the pitch when the oppo is spread out. In essence, this press achieves what Peter does. Maybe it's even better because at the moment we turn the ball over, the oppo's even more destabilised and you'd be an extra body in their defensive zone. Their first reaction is going to be to foul you and if the ref has a brain that's an instant yellow card."

  Magnus eyed me. "You think I can be as effective as Peter Bauer?"

  "I'm actually pretty sure of it. From your side, anyway. Whether I have the skills to get it to work is another thing. That's why I wanted to talk to you before I start selling players. Basically, this is going to take time, right. It's not a question of saying, okay, Magnus, run fast into midfield. There are triggers and everyone else needs to know what's happening and to understand their own roles while that's going on. So I'd like to ask if we can do an 18-month contract. You get the pay raise you obviously deserve, and I get to work on this." I tapped my laptop. "I'm thinking this ties in perfectly with Relationism and my Venus Fly Trap. Anything that destabilises an oppo, where we surround them, where we make it a close-quarters game, that benefits us because we're gonna train it every day but the oppo will only see it twice a year, when they play us."

  Magnus's Morale had crept up another notch. "I'm happy to talk about an 18-month deal, boss. Very happy. What sort of wage did you have in mind?"

  I shook my head. "As much as I can, bro, but you know we're miles over budget at the moment so there are limits. But basically what I'm saying with this is that you'll play a lot as a centre back so if you're cool with that, we've got too many CBs. Let me list them in no particular order." I reeled them off in order of maximum PA. "Thomazella, Peter Bauer, Zach, Lennox Francis from the youth team, Christian Fierce, Fitzroy Hall, Sunday Sowunmi. And we've got Tony Herbert joining in the summer. And you. We've got way too many unless we want to go full Jose Mourinho and play nine centre backs in one match. And really, how many of those can you see on a Championship-winning team? Three or four? We need to start turning some assets into cash to pay for the big projects we've got coming up, so I'm going to give a few of our current guys the boot. Sorry, I mean, I'm going to let them move to bigger, better clubs for much higher salaries. It frees up squad space, budget, and will let us focus our coaching resources on fewer players. I have been preparing the ground for months, finding out which directors of football like which types of players."

  Magnus scratched his head; he was fixating on something he had heard earlier. "I didn't realise I had a choice about where I would play."

  "You don't," I said, leaning forward. "This is the 'make us proud' part of the project. This is me being nice." I smiled, showing my teeth. "To be honest, you have more of a choice than everyone else because I wouldn't want you to walk away from the sport. Wibbers isn't going to quit football if I play him as a left winger. But this is Chester and we need to do what's best for the club. If I have to play left back sometimes, you have to play centre back. That's fair, right?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll still be needed to play left back or right midfield depending on what happens in individual matches, but in general I see you playing centre back more often. Also when I finally get round to doing inverted full backs, that could be you. Without ball, you're a full back. With ball, you move into central midfield."

  "I quite like being a defensive midfielder. I feel like it suits me."

  "It does. You're absolutely bosh as a DM and from there I can send you flying forward to press the oppo's defenders the way Bayern Munich are doing. You'll get minutes there for sure, but I'm bringing Vincent Addo over and he needs time on the pitch to develop."

  "Oh! Already? I thought the plan was to wait until the end of the season."

  "I have a new and better plan."

  "Can we afford it? We're already over budget."

  "We need to sell, sure, but I don't think we're gonna have a problem generating interest in our players right now. We're 7th in the league so if you're a sporting director why wouldn't you want a Chester player who was offered to you by that nice Max Best? I also want Saltney Town to buy a couple of foreign lads and if Addo moves across we can show them that the pathway into the top tiers of English football is real. That's another reason to get that done asap. Yeah, it all seems nicely aligned and I'm looking forward to building our war chest. If you've got loads of money in the bank, banks are happy to lend at a lower rate. We'll borrow to build the new stand, then I'll get spending again in preparation for next season. I've gone super deep into this, Magnus. I should have a submarine named after me."

  "What about the rest of the Europa League? Vini's an important player for Saltney."

  I shook my head. "Our best chance of getting another win was against Celje, from Slovenia, but it didn't happen. That story is all over bar the shouting. It'll be good for his development to come across now."

  Magnus rubbed his chin. "You control Saltney. You control Chester. If a player moves between clubs, who sets his transfer fee?"

  "I do."

  "That seems like an ethical nightmare."

  "It's not."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I said so."

  He laughed. "Okay then!"

  "I've already done it twice, with Tom and Omari. As ever, I'm gonna play this one straight. The fee will be in the range of what another club would pay for Vini in his current state. Same thing with your wages. I'll do my best to get it close to market rates but even if we raise loads of funds, we have loads of bills, too. Getting the rights to buy the land for Phase Two and Three, building the new PetPride End."

  "We sold the naming rights to the new stand? Is that a done deal?"

  "Yep. Ten-year commitment. Gonna be announced any second now, I reckon. Your wages, though. You'll get a bump but if it's not enough and you're not happy, we'll revisit it in the summer. I'm asking you to stay for 18 months but not on your current money." I blew air from my cheeks and made a noise.

  Magnus said, "What?"

  "It's my job to underpay you, right, if we're being honest. And it's Chester so you get underpaid anyway. But I really want to keep you. I'd just be gutted if you quit the sport too soon. I really want to know how good you can get."

  He said, "Me too." He frowned and pointed to the screen. "I'm playing centre back more often. We have Tony Herbert joining in the summer. Who's going to leave?"

  "The question is more, who at Chester isn't going to leave? Two answers I can give you right now - me and you. What do you say?" I held out a hand.

  Shaking it would be a non-verbal promise, one Magnus wouldn't dream of breaking. Shaking my hand meant Magnus would be here until the end of next season. The very thought lifted my spirits.

  He shook my hand.

  "How's my aura now, Magnus?"

  "Radiant."

  ***

  I hopped in the car and drove to Crewe, where I met Ryan Jack, our loans manager, and the Brig, who had a special interest in the players we rescued from academies. (Not 'rescued' the way we had stolen Jack Knapper from Luton Town, but actually rescued.)

  Sunday Sowunmi was one of the players I'd signed at an Exit Trial, and he was currently on loan at Crewe Alexandra, one of Chester's closest neighbours in the top 4 tiers. Crewe were a great club for young players, Sunday was having a good loan, and he was a centre back. He was 20 years old and had CA 82, which was decent in League Two. His PA of 111 meant he would be a great League One player and could play a small role in a Championship club. More than likely, he would spend most of the next ten years in tier three. Chester, of course, would not. He needed a move and the only question was now or in the summer?

  In my current mood, that wasn't really a question. I had arranged a fee with Crewe to make the deal permanent. ￡100,000 wouldn't buy much in the men's game, but it would pay for a shiny new midfielder for the women's team.

  Sunday, his parents, and other family members met us at a meeting room at Crewe's training ground and after the pleasantries, I pitched to them why I thought Sunday should move to Crewe and spend the next few years of his career there.

  "Regular football, good training, a pay rise. And best of all, if we draw Crewe in a cup competition, you'll get to give me a kick in the shins."

  Sunday laughed, but his mother was shocked. She said, "He would not!"

  "He bloody would," said Ryan Jack. "He's a good defender, your lad, and they like him here."

  "Can he not stay at Chester?" said the father.

  "He can," I said, "but next season I'm only going to loan him to Crewe again. Better to sign for the club, in that case, right? The fans will love him more if he's one of theirs. It's the ideal place for Sunday to develop. Literally the only thing I don't like about Crewe is that they capitalise the word club on their website and press releases. I don't let it bother me. I try not to let it bother me. It barely bothers me."

  The guy nodded. He was in serious mode. "And what of other options? Clubs in higher leagues?"

  "I could get more money for Chester if I sold him to Tranmere instead. They're gonna lose a key centre back in the summer but Sunday wouldn't play much for the rest of this season and there's a lot more risk at Prenton Park because the ownership is still unproven. Things are on the right path now but they might decide they want to go in a totally different direction. If it was my son, I'd want him here at Crewe, spend a couple of years, hit level 9000, reassess."

  One of the family members gave me a look. "Isn't it your job to get the most amount of money for Chester?"

  "No," I said. "It's my job to do right by Sunday because that's the promise I made him when he put his trust in us two years ago. Isn't that right, John?"

  The Brig fucking loved it when I talked about doing the right thing. "Yes, sir."

  "Anyway, you could argue that Sunday having two more great years is better for Chester than a bit more cash, because when I go to the next lad at an Exit Trial and make my pitch, he'll believe it." I checked Sunday's Morale - it had been fluctuating for the past couple of days as this moment drew closer. "Sunday, what do you think?"

  "I don't know, boss."

  "You don't want to leave Chester, I know, but we've got too many centre backs. Do you remember when you went to that Exit Trial? You didn't know what the future held. You didn't know if you had a future. I said, hey, come with me, we'll sort you out. And we did. We did it, mate. You're gonna have a six-figure transfer and you're gonna spend the next ten years playing at a good level." I was beaming at him. "You did it. You're a baller. You're a player. Hey," I said, leaning towards him.

  "What?"

  "When the news of this transfer breaks, there's gonna be a kid in Crewe who runs to his parents and says ahhhh I can't believe it, we got Sunday! Sunday signed for Crewe! I can't believe it! This is the best day ever!" Sunday's mum burst into tears. "Sunday!" I complained. "Look what you've done!"

  He got up and hugged her. She said, "I'm so proud of you, son."

  "Oh," I said, perking up. "Are you saying son like son or are you saying Sun like short for Sunday?"

  There were some giggles from the family members. "Son," said the father.

  "Because you could nickname him Sun Son. And if you go to Japan - "

  Ryan Jack shook his head. "Max, did you take your pills today?"

  I spread my arms. "I'm just happy that everyone's happy!" I put my arm on Sunday's shoulder. "It's gonna be all right. Just remember what I said."

  "What did you say?"

  I threw my arms up. "He's forgotten already!" Pretty much everyone laughed at that. I rubbed my hands together. "Amazing. Bish bash bosh! Okay, let's go grab some food. My treat. Maximum one side dish per person. Tap water only."

  Ryan rolled his eyes. "Aren't you about to sign a lucrative boot deal?"

  "Define lucrative," I said. "Okay, fine. Maximum two sides per person, one drink each. But if you want dessert..." I double finger-gunned Sunday.

  "In our family," he said, "we don't eat dessert."

  "Yes, we do," said his dad. "Especially when we are celebrating."

  ***

  

  Crewe are delighted to announce that the talented centre back Sunday Sowunmi has joined the Club on a permanent deal! He has signed a three-and-a-half year deal that will keep him at the Club until he is 23.

  ***

  Later, the Brig and I drove to Birmingham, where Ruth had a meeting booked with a very, very important organisation. At last, at long last, several Chester players and REM clients were famous enough to warrant a boot sponsorship deal!

  The company was called Jive, a relatively new entrant into the boot market, and one that was absolutely tiny. I had done a quick search and read that they had produced 8,000 pairs of boots in 2023. I assumed they had grown since then, since they had the means to sponsor players, but Nike and Adidas they were not.

  We arrived at an industrial park and went inside to a showroom with the entire range of boots on display. "Soz, where's the rest?" I said.

  "This is it, Max," said Ruth, who had been working on this deal for fucking years. "They don't invent new designs every month to drive sales. They want to create timeless designs and build boots that last."

  "Okay," I said. "I like the sound of that."

  Jive were interested in making a deal with me and five REM clients: Angel, Wibbers, Meredith Ann, Roddy Jones, and Wallace Wells. Wallace was a recent addition to Jive's wishlist - it had been easy for Ruth to push him given recent events. The five youngsters were in the room, looking at the boots, reading the marketing material, talking to the two employees of Jive who were present.

  "The background," said Ruth. "Jive was founded by a young man who cockily told his mates he could design and sell a much better boot than the big companies. He discovered it was a lot harder than he thought. He also discovered that 12 million pairs of boots are tossed into the trash every year."

  "Twelve million pairs?" I said. "That's crazy."

  "So he upgraded his mission to not only make a better product but a more sustainable one, too. This model here is vegan."

  I lifted one of the boots and held it to my ear. "Are you sure? Normally, vegans never shut up about being vegan."

  Ruth gave me a patient look. "Strictly no animal derivatives in that entire boot. This one's partly made from kangaroo leather, which is more sustainable than it sounds. The boots are also full of recycled plastic, sustainable oils. It's a really thoughtful product. In the past, Jive didn't sponsor players, but worked with them directly. They became investors in the company and wore the boots."

  "Owning the company is a good incentive to wear the gear," I said.

  "And to make it better," said Ruth. "The boots are good now and the company's ready to grow. You told me you weren't interested in investing. Is that still your position?"

  I pulled a face. "It sounds really cool, tbh, but I think I'm already stretched too thin. I need to stick to what I'm good at, for now."

  Ruth picked up a boot. "I'd say this is a perfect Max Best product. It's trying to be conscious of the planet, trying to be conscious of the supply chain, it's tested and honed and perfected and it's built to last. The only downside, really, is the cost. They are expensive. This is not you promoting your cheap hoodies."

  I nodded. "Okay." I lifted one of the boots and sniffed it to check how Australian it smelled. Kids would pester their parents to buy the boots Max Best wore. I didn't much care for the idea that the boots would be 200 quid. If they lasted for years, though... If they weren't disposable tat... "Sometimes you have to pay for quality. Like with our new midfielder."

  Wibbers appeared next to me, as if by magic. "Are we getting a new midfielder, boss?"

  "The women's team are," I said.

  Angel appeared on the other side of me, as if by magic. "Who is she?"

  "She's called Saffron," I said. "Saffron Walden."

  Ruth made a scoffing noise. "Is she from Essex?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "No reason."

  Wibbers, Wallace, and Roddy looked at each other but they had no clue what Ruth found amusing.

  "Walden," said Angel. "I know her. Isn't she the girl you were drooling over when we played Hashtag United?"

  I sighed. "I'm quite sure I wasn't drooling, Angel. If I had been drooling over a 17-year-old, Jive wouldn't want me to promote their brand."

  "What is she?" said Angel.

  "Central midfielder," said Meredith Ann, who was quiet but took notice of everything.

  "She can do CAM, too," I said. "She can't wait to send assists to you and Angel."

  Angel had reacted to news of the transfer coldly, but she thawed a little at that. "How good is she?"

  "She's about the level of Hashtag United." Saffron was CA 65. "I think she has been blocked because they're semi-pro and maybe their facilities and coaching aren't on our level. She'll kick on pretty fast." Especially if I smashed some Secret Sandra into her.

  Angel's frostiness returned. She folded her arms and said, "Is this to punish Charlotte?"

  I sighed again. "What?"

  "Every time a player pisses you off, you sign their replacement."

  "That doesn't sound like me. My public persona is dreamy centrist. I spend time with members of the S.E.N.D. community and I promote vegan football boots. Brilliant on the pitch, brilliant off the pitch."

  "That's almost our slogan!" said one of the Jive guys. He had the build of a footballer, which made sense because I later learned he had been one.

  "Great minds think alike," I said, smiling at him. "You're probably thinking Chester's squad needs more bodies in midfield, and that's exactly what I was thinking. So I promoted Devi from the youth team and I'm buying Saffron."

  "How much for?" said Angel.

  "Not much," I said. "Hundred grand."

  "Not much?" said Angel. "For us, a hundred grand is like four million quid for the men." Ruth and I exchanged a glance. Angel noticed and wanted to investigate that but didn't know how. So she said, "How good is Saffron?"

  "You already asked that," I said. "You mean how good is she going to be? I've honestly got no clue, but I'm taking a bet that she's really talented." Like Magnus, Saffron had minus 2 PA. I had to assume that she would at least get up to Magnus's current level, CA 126. If she developed no further than that she would still be miles better than Charlotte, whose cap was 101. "She's a great character, too. Very bubbly Essex girl kinda personality. She's lovely. Good as gold." I picked up a vegan football boot in a small size. "She looks up to you, Angel. You're the platonic ideal of the modern women's footballer. Talented, team-minded, in touch with social issues. Yeah," I said, dreamily. "She wants to be more like you. She wants the rewards that come with being a great player. Goals, drama, creating an emotional world for the fans to live in. Her name in lights. Yeah, it's all right there for her."

  "If she does what you want," said Angel, with a touch of sourness.

  "Hmm?" I said, like I hadn't heard. "These would look good on you, I reckon. Have you tried them on? I need to have a tiny chat with Ruth. Be right back."

  We went outside. Ruth shivered and hugged herself for warmth. "What do you think?"

  "I think she got the message. I'm not being subtle about it."

  Ruth tutted. "What do you think about the boots? The deal?"

  "It's intriguing. I like the idea that we can be part of something that's growing and that we can actually help it to grow. For these five, I think it's a no-brainer. The amounts aren't high, though, right?"

  "Ten thousand a year to start with, each, which comes to 20 pounds a week per player for the agency. Buttons, but it's about building that relationship and when we start hitting the top tiers and the England team, it's going to accelerate."

  "Angel's got Jejune, Grindhog, now this. What's she raking in?"

  "This will take her to about fifty thousand a year in basics, plus two hundred thousand when Jejune run a campaign."

  "Okay," I said. Jejune probably would only do one big push every couple of years or so, but it was starting to add up for Angel. "She's already well-poised for when she makes the England team. You're right to have that as the key moment for her profile."

  "That's why I wanted to get this going even if the amounts aren't high." She checked no-one was in the area. "Most of the amounts aren't high, I should say."

  "What do you mean? Oh, Wallace gets more?"

  "No. You do."

  "Little old me?" I said, pointing to myself.

  "Don't be coy. I have to let you in on a bit of insider info. Half the management here are desperate to sign you up as a player. I mean, they can get the Soccer Supremo! The scorer of rainbow flicks at Wembley! But the other half are nervous about giving you the amount your agent has negotiated for you."

  I smiled. "What has my wonderful and beautiful agent negotiated for me? Also, side question, when did I get an agent?"

  She once more checked the area. "Two hundred and fifty grand, Max."

  That shut me up.

  Ruth smiled. "Thought you'd like that. That's not even 'future you' playing Premier League and Champions League footy every week, that's you in UEFA qualifiers and in the second tier. They will give you one hundred and twenty-five thousand for the rest of this season, 250 next. We're not getting promoted, right?"

  "Right."

  "Okay, so that's perfect. It's quite a big spend for a company this size but you're going to be worth it. The only snag is that you don't play much so some at the company are wondering why they'd go after you at all." She hesitated. "It would be useful, Max, and I hope you don't bite my head off for having the temerity to ask, but it would be fantastic for you to play against Wolves tomorrow night."

  "Play tomorrow night?" I said. "What, would you like me to score a hat trick, too? How about seven goals, Ruth? If I score ten goals against what is essentially a Premier League side, I get my boot deal. Is that the vibe?"

  She looked up and exhaled. "Yes."

  "Okay, then."

  "Okay what?"

  I shrugged. "I can play. Whatever. I'll wear their boots, score a free kick. Quarter of a million quid? I mean, it's not like I've got anything better to do tomorrow night."

  Ruth rubbed her arm. "It's maddening but I can't tell if you're being serious."

  "They're gonna give me a few pairs to try out, right? I want one of everything except the kangaroo ones. Slightly different sizes, too, so I can make sure I have the exact right ones." It was my turn to check we weren't being overheard. "What about the other things?"

  She made an okay sign. "On track. Are you sure you want to do it? You're sure you're not over-reacting?"

  "It's never the wrong thing," I said, resting my hand on her shoulder, "to do the right thing." I waited for five intense seconds, then changed shoulder, said it again, and asked if she preferred version one or two.

  "Remind me never to start a company with you again."

  I laughed and pulled her in for a hug. "This is a big day, isn't it? Big day for the business. You've worked your arse off putting this together."

  "I got you a six-figure sum," she said. "So you can pay for dinner."

  "Fine," I said. "But not dessert."

  ***

  Who's Winning the Window?

  Chester Out: Sunday Sowunmi (Crewe, ￡100,000). Talented young centre-back, apparently surplus to requirements. Victim of Chester's rapid rise through the leagues. The transfer seems to suit all parties. Deal rating: 9/10.

  (Note: Max Best has taken the money and used it to buy a player for his women's team. Utterly mad but in retrospect, completely predictable! As Rocky said in our group chat: 'That's one of the most Max Best things that has ever happened.' We don't cover women's transfers here - yet - but Saffron appears to have been a squad player and the fee is causing bewilderment in women's football.)

  ***

  Wednesday, January 26 - Five Days Until Transfer Window Slams Shut

  I trained in the new boots, experimenting with the different models, trying a left boot that was a half a size bigger than the right. The Jives were really light, much lighter than my old pair. They wouldn't give me much protection from people kicking me, but they could give a half a point boost to Agility and Technique.

  Sandra came over while I was fiddling with the laces. "New boots are working well. Retiring your old ones?"

  "I might wear them in a cup final or something but if I keep pounding them, they'll disintegrate. I need to get used to something else. A model that's still made."

  "Was Sunday happy?"

  I stood and rolled a ball under my sole before doing some light tekkers to get a feel for the boots. "It was bittersweet but his mum was in heaven - everyone fussing over her son - and that did it. She's happy, he feels good. Do you know what I mean?"

  "I do." She checked the drills were ongoing. "Emiliano's having another shocker. Recently, he always plays shit when you're in training from the start and I noticed you didn't yell at him. I can't remember the last time you said anything to him at all."

  "I don't talk to the mannequins, either."

  "Christ."

  I kick the ball high and caught it on my laces - that felt good. "We need to change the line up tonight."

  "Oh, thank God," she said, leaning forward. "I thought you were really going to go through with it."

  I gave her a side-eye even though I was facing her. Quite the skill I had developed, there. "We need to give Fitzroy the night off so he can go and visit Derby County."

  "Fitz? Oh. Are we selling him?"

  "We can't sell him this window because he's already played for two clubs this season, but I can lock in a transfer for him from the summer. Derby's director of football has got it into his head that Fitzroy is a bargain at half a million quid."

  "Half a million! That's way too cheap!"

  "Wow," I said, with a laugh. "I should get you on the video calls. Half a mill is about right, actually, but Fitz will double his money and I want to get it all arranged this window, if possible, because when the ink's dry on the paperwork MD will let me use the money. Also, any deal I can do now simplifies my summer."

  Sandra smiled. "So you won't need to be doing deals on your honeymoon. Where are you going, by the way?"

  "I don't know. It's a secret."

  "That's exciting!"

  "If you say so. Another reason to let Fitz travel down is that I don't want him playing against Wolves. He's had two good performances in a row and the guy at Derby can look at that data and go, yeah, this guy can function in the Championship. This is a good deal, I should pull the trigger while I have the chance. Do you know what I mean?"

  "You don't want Premier League quality forwards making Fitz look shit before the contract is signed. Yeah, I get it. Have you spoken to him about it?"

  "Yeah, he's into the move. He gets to finish the season with us, enjoy the laughs and the cup runs and whatever we get up to, but he'll have security. The Derby contract's gonna be worth over a million quid. What's not to like?"

  Sandra licked her lips. "Are you trying to pre-sell Christian?"

  "Of course I am. I have been for ages and the closer we get to the deadline, the more clubs are thinking it's a smart move. For Christian, three years at Stoke City on twelve grand a week is 1.8 million quid. That's a lot of ballet shoes and riding lessons for his little girls."

  "Christian isn't like Fitz, though. He hasn't played for two clubs. If you start negotiating a future transfer, someone's gonna say hey why don't we do it now? And you'll go yeah, sure, bosh."

  I shrugged. "If you're on five grand a week and someone offers you twelve, and you realise you could get that starting tomorrow instead of in July, I mean, why would I stand in his way?" I tried to do the maths in my head. "That's gonna be something like... a hundred and forty thousand pounds extra? What would you do if I dangled that much cash in front of you?"

  "The Last Temptation of Chris," mumbled Sandra.

  I picked up the pace on the tekkers, hitting the ball from left and right, sometimes throwing a leg over the whole affair just for funsies. I let the ball drop. "He wants to see out the season and I'm more than okay with that. But if I can get a seven-figure bid from someone for the summer, I'm gonna go for it. I've already signed his replacement and if his transfer is signed and sealed we won't have loads of hand-wringing about his future. Last home game of the season, Christian will parade the Cheshire Cup and we'll surround him with all the trophies he's won during his time here. Awesome, amazing, now buy yourself a bigger safe. One of those ones where you have to turn a wheel left and right and count the clicky noises."

  "How big's your safe, Max?"

  I smiled. "My fortune is the memories I've made along the way." I turned and called, "Christian."

  Chester's captain strode over. "Yes, boss?"

  "It's transfer o'clock. As a reward for your good and faithful service, I'm gonna give you a choice. I can sell you now or in the summer."

  "Boss," he said, like a little boy who had been told to put his boots on because he had to go to the dentist.

  "If I arrange the transfer for the summer, MD will let me use the money to build things and your bank will let you get a mortgage based on your new wages. You finish the season with us, in style, knowing you've got your family's finances sorted forever. I'm gonna arrange this and you're going to live happily ever after. All you have to do is say yes." He didn't say anything. "All you have to do is grunt happily like a pig."

  He smiled at the image and looked at Sandra. She nodded. Do it. Christian Fierce grunted. Happily? Happily enough to count as a verbal contract, in my opinion.

  ***

  Who's Winning the Window?

  Chester Out: Fitzroy Hall (Derby County, ￡500,000). Solid Championship centre back, unspectacular, reliable. Revived his career at Chester even though the constant rotation did him no favours. He'll be hoping for a longer run in the team at his new club, but strangely, this deal is post-dated. Hall played for a team in Gibraltar in the Champions League and Europa League qualifiers, plus Chester, so he can't play for his new club yet. At the price, it could turn out to be savvy business for Derby, and since Chester picked Hall up for free, they will think they've got a good deal, too. Deal rating: 6.5/10.

  ***

  I zipped down to Saltney to talk in private with MD. There were some deals I needed him to sign off on. Deals that could make most of the transfers I had done in the past look utterly anaemic.

  We met in the meeting room at The Legends Stadium. "I should come here more often," said MD, sipping coffee from the expensive machine we had installed. "It's really nice!"

  To my right were some giant windows with a great view onto the pitch. Saltney Town had become a behemoth in Welsh football, and we were on course to win every domestic trophy. As Death Stars went, we were one of the friendliest, most down-to-earth. "Good, innit?"

  MD said, "Why do I get the feeling this meeting will prove to be expensive?"

  "No clue. Must be your overactive imagination."

  "Maybe it's this text you sent me. Mike, meet me in Wales. Bring your wallet."

  I spun myself around on my chair. "I forgot I wrote that. Okay, here's the sitch. Fitzroy Hall is done and there are a few more Chester deals on the horizon. I think it's time to bring Vincent Addo across and I'd like to introduce him to the Deva crowd. It's gonna be really atmospheric tonight, so the positivity from a new signing being announced will overwhelm any voices who are questioning whether it's unethical or whatevs."

  "Okay. Let's talk numbers."

  "A million."

  "A million pounds for Vincent Addo?"

  "A million pounds for Ghanaian youth star, Europa League starting midfielder Vincent Addo. That will look very cheap very quickly."

  MD looked out of the window and sipped his drink. "We can't be on both sides of these deals, Max. I've already heard people saying that we're marking our own homework."

  "Yeah, well, they can say what they want. As long as both teams keep winning, no-one really cares. That said, I was thinking we should bring back the board in some form."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Maybe we can pencil it in for next season. Or you can float the idea or whatever. I don't know. It should be a pretty straightforward season, right? We'll have the new stand going up, but on the pitch we'll have a very settled side. Okay, look, can I mentally say that Addo for one million is done?"

  MD sighed. "Why do you have to do everything so fast?" He took another sip. "Yes."

  "Bosh. So Saltney's loaded, right? I want to spend that money."

  "Oh my God."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Listen, MD. When I was in Poland there was this striker. Briggy's his agent now."

  "Hmm," said MD, dubiously. "Nothing strange about that."

  "What's strange is that this kid is playing for a little club in the Polish second tier. He has played for Poland's under 18s so we should be able to sign him easily enough. I was thinking about moving him to Lech Poznan for a couple of years to ferment, but fuck it, I want to go absolutely mental next season."

  "You want to arrange his transfer for the coming summer?"

  "Yeah. He's 17 now so we can buy him but we can't register him yet. The basics. He's 17, striker, and he's top." The kid was PA 180. "He's gonna be better than Gabby."

  MD looked impressed. "What's his name?"

  I winced. "That's the only thing about him that's not premium. He's called Engelbert Kornek. Not great for branding," I said, staring at the centre circle. I came back in the room. "We can get him if we move fast. Once Saltney are out of the Europa League, the dynamic changes and we'll lose access to these players but while we're in it, we're in it, right? Being in a high-level competition makes it easier to pitch the club." I couldn't tell if that's how the world had always worked or if this was some Soccer Supremo mechanics bleeding into the fabric of reality. "I'm not worried about a work permit but if there's an issue we can send him to Gibraltar and play him in the qualifiers there - that will tick enough boxes. If we act now, like right now, we can get him for 1.3 million pounds."

  "Oof," said MD.

  "Don't be like that because the second kid's way more expensive." I was being playful but we both knew the risks. Football transfer fees were paid in instalments, normally across three years, so I was only asking MD to commit to 400K in the first accounting period. We had that in cash. The problem would be if the magic money tree I had created stopped bearing fruit. MD wouldn't directly suffer but any losses we bore would hamper Saltney's ability to repay the 10 million quid he had invested in the club so far. I tried to reassure him that there was almost no chance he would lose out by signing off on these deals. "Think about it. Think about the inquiries we get for our players. Engelbert isn't super elite like Foquita, but he'd get you 15 goals in the Premier League. What's that worth?"

  "Sixty million."

  "We can get our grubby mitts on him for just over a mill."

  Something I said had relaxed MD slightly. Later, I guessed that it was me admitting that Engelbert wasn't as good as Foquita. That made me sound less crazy, perhaps. "Oh, Max, I trust your judgement but it's so much money. It really is. Financially, the club is a house built on sand."

  I nodded. "Listen, I regret taking out my share of the qualifying money already but it was for mum stuff. Next time, we'll keep more of the prize money in the club. But hey, I believe in this pair of players to an insane degree. I'll put up my assets as collateral if you want. My flats. Whatever you want."

  That got his attention. "They're that good? Why don't we bring them to Chester?"

  "It's too much of a step up. They're currently not even at Sunday Sowunmi levels, right? How are we going to give them serious minutes? At Saltney they'll get European action, which will be a huge catalyst. I want to gatecrash the Champions League next time, Mike. That's why I'm looking at super premium players. Super premium. It's honestly insane we have a chance of signing them. You'll regret it forever if we don't do this. We both will. This is like those stories of when Sheffield United could have signed Maradona."

  "Who - " he started, but we both got a message at the same time. I lifted my phone.

  Watford FC: If we can have him now, 1.8 million. If it's the summer, 1.4.

  MD looked from his phone to me and back again and back again. "My word."

  "Yeah," I agreed.

  "Why Watford?"

  "Because he would play every week."

  "They sack their manager every two months. It's not very stable."

  "He'll bring the stability the dressing room needs. The lads will rally around him. Nah, I can totally see him at Watford."

  "So..." he said, eyeing the numbers. "More money now, or...?"

  I spoke in a neutral, corporate voice. "Watford FC are pleased to announce that the transfer of Christian Fierce has been agreed. Chester's inspirational captain will join at the end of the current season."

  MD didn't speak for quite a long time. He put his phone on the table and spun it a few times. He spoke while looking at it, like I wasn't there. "When we signed Christian, my peers were shocked. What are you doing, they said. 175,000? He's a good player but not that good. He won't be able to make the step up to League Two. Now look at him. Captaining us in the Championship. 1.4 million transfer fee. You knew all along. How did you know?"

  I shrugged a little. "Christian Fierce is one of the biggest slam dunks of all time. I mean... Honestly, the crazy thing for me is that no-one else saw him and went weak at the knees like I did. Emiliano, players like that, you've got temperament problems. There's a high chance they won't make it. Christian? Nailed on. I mean, slam dunk. I don't know what else to say."

  "Is Engelbert..."

  "Kornek."

  "Is Engelbert Kornek a slam dunk?"

  "Not to the same extent that Christian was but Briggy has been in constant contact with him since we went to Poland. He seems to be very serious, very determined to do well. He's like Nasa but not religious. Mike, there's no way we don't make a profit on him, I can pretty much guarantee that."

  He got up and took a bottle of mineral water from the side table. He twisted the cap. "1.3 million? That's... manageable." He grinned at me suddenly. "Before we talk about the second player, can I remind you that we've somehow agreed to pay the Welsh FA hundreds of thousands of pounds?"

  "Gwen's lovely, isn't she?"

  MD side-eyed me, drank some water, then put the bottle down on the end of the table. He placed his hands beside the water and, while staring downwards, said, "Tell me about the second player."

  "Roddy, Youngster, Wibbers. What have they got in common?"

  "No, Max, no. I don't have the stomach for games."

  "I'll tell you the answer," I said. "They are all worth more than 3.9 million pounds."

  "Christ," he said, sagging.

  I tried not to cackle and mostly succeeded. "Ludo Peeters, 17, central midfielder who can play as a CAM. He's at Club Bruges and they know how to rinse British clubs on transfer fees. But guess what? They ain't rinsing us because as soon as I get my hands on this kid, everyone's gonna realise they fucked up big time."

  The hope in his eyes was pathetic and hilarious. "Big time? Fucked up?"

  "They know he's good. They don't know exactly how good." Ludo Peeters was PA... drumroll... 196. "Mike, he's better than Wibbers. When I look at Ludo, I don't know if I'm seeing the next Kevin De Bruyne or the next Luka Modri?."

  "Oh my God."

  "I know. He's basically as good as it gets but he could also slot right into a Relationist team. He's got flair, balance, agility, imagination, passing, technique."

  "In that case the question is, why is he so cheap?"

  I slammed the table and got up. "That's just it! He is cheap! Flair isn't valued in the market and neither is imagination. Of course, I'd overpay for exactly those attributes. Also, Ludo has had injuries and he's combustible. Half his coaches think he's a dick and he keeps getting frozen out of squads. It has hurt his development but not really because he has skipped years of being battered by cavemen and in all that time he has been working on his technical skills."

  "After what has happened with Emiliano..."

  "No comparison," I said, shaking my head firmly. "Briggy has been all over this, doing due diligence, getting to know Ludo, double and triple checking his stories. He's gobby, right, because he thinks he's a tactical genius. Which he might well be! What his so-called bad behaviour boils down to is him asking the coaches to explain their shitty formations and tactics and them not being able to give an answer other than 'I saw it on TV'. Right? But if he comes to Chester, we'll answer his questions! We'd love it! Not on match day, maybe," I admitted, "but the day before and the day after, we've got dozens of players and coaches who would love to get into the weeds. He has high standards. It's mad when you talk to him and when you hang up you have to remind yourself that he's 17.

  "I did a few video calls with him myself and basically hashed out every objection a reasonable person might have to signing him. I'm convinced. I told him I know just how to manage his career. He challenged me, said prove it. I told him what I'd do if I had control of his destiny. He said what about if X happens, and I created a new story arc based on that. What if Y happens? I said, then you do this, this, this. He seemed impressed at my squad-building skills and my detailed knowledge of European football. He liked that I could back up my positions with stats and playing styles and comparative wages.

  "I told him that I think Club Bruges were going to let him go 'cheap', thinking that he wouldn't be able to cope in British football and they would be able to sign him again for free when his contract ended. That got him worked up. He's ready to sign, MD! I know the fee is high but seriously, I'm willing to stake everything I own on him making it because that's a bet that will pay off in an epic way."

  As I had talked, MD had lifted himself up. "1.3 million for Engelbert. 3.9 million for Ludo." His eyes darted around for a microsecond. "5.2 million total. That's 1.7 million a year over three years. If we make it into the Conference League group stage..."

  "Conference League?" I spluttered. "Mike! Haven't you been listening? We're going to sign the best young creative midfielder in the world, probably, citation needed, and one of the best strikers in Europe! We're gonna fuck everyone up! 1.7 million a year over three years," I said, with affected disdain. "You get that much for winning one match in the Champions League! That's where my mind is at for next season. We'll have a solid basic squad, get some sensible loans from the usual suspects, couple of free agents as per usual, but then we sprinkle in some genuine, bona fide stardust."

  "You make it sound so easy."

  "No, no," I said. "It won't be easy. It will be really, really... ah, what's the opposite of hard?"

  "Easy."

  "Okay, yeah. You were right the first time. Easy as putting on a boot."

  ***

  Who's Winning the Window?

  Chester In: Vincent Addo (Saltney Town, ￡1m). 20-year-old defensive midfielder from Ghana. Fast, mobile, great engine. Addo is best friends with Youngster, and they are expected to dovetail with each other, for example as double pivots in a 4-2-3-1. Addo struggled in the Europa League group stage but did well in the qualifying rounds with Max Best guiding him through matches. This seems like a good move, although eyebrows have been raised at the price. Deal rating: 7/10.

  ***

  Red Army is a hard-hitting Wrexham AFC podcast, unique in that club's media ecosystem since criticism of Ryan Reynolds was permitted for a brief time. The podcast has a Discord server open to its Patreon supporters. One of the channels on the server is called Always Bet on Best, in which gambling tips are discussed and explained. Given the nature of the topic, the server - and any extract taken from it - is for over 18s only.

  Stoop

  Hey, lads, have you seen this? Saltney Town are getting in on the transfer action.

  LongThrowAGoGo

  They've sold Addo to Chester. We know.

  Stoop

  No, not that. They've got INCOMING!

  LongThrowAGoGo

  The hell are you talking about?

  Where's he gone?

  Stoop

  I was looking for a gif where someone in a war movie shouts incoming!

  JasonRhewl

  Just tell us the news, lad. If there is any.

  Stoop

  Saltney have done a deal with Odra Opole for a striker. 1.3m quid! It'll go through in the summer because he's not 18 yet.

  JasonRhewl

  Saltney are buying players for 7 figures? RIP the Welsh league.

  ManMeat

  We need Best to get involved in three clubs, the way he does in Gibraltar.

  (Allegedly.)

  Raise the levels across more clubs so there's more jeopardy and interest.

  Stoop

  I've been looking into this move because it seems mad (where has he scouted this lad?) but obviously Opole was the town from the end of the story of when he went to Poland. This must be the player he found just before the funeral. Let me dig out that text because I'm sure there was a good quote.

  DubaiGuy

  I've got it. Here:

  We find the player and convince him to do some kickups in his back garden. Max kicks balls at him as a test of his first touch. As life-changing examinations go, it's preposterous.

  The kid and his parents go back inside to prepare tea. Max shakes his head. "Of course he's brilliant. Typical." He seems genuinely angry. After a while, he sighs. "Briggy, get to work. Babes? Be charming. Beth?" He looks me up and down. "This kid's one of the best players in Poland. Might as well get on his good side."

  ManMeat

  One of the best players in Poland? That's quite the claim. Look forward to seeing him!

  ***

  Chester Out: Christian Fierce (Watford, ￡1.4m). Fierce is Chester's 31-year-old club captain, top or nearly top of various defensive metrics like headers won, duels won, blocks made. Arranging January deals in advance of a summer move is wild but as commenters in our Discord have pointed out, Chester need the money for the redevelopment of their stadium.

  Fierce is still improving and what kind of idiot sells a key player but keeps him around for another five months? We know that Max Best doesn't think like the rest of us, but perhaps this deal is too clever by half.

  As for Fierce, he will probably do well at Watford. The issue with post-dated transfers is that you're not sure if the current manager will still be in post. With Watford we know for sure that the current manager WON'T be there - they may have gone through three or four managers by the time Fierce arrives. They are signing a true warrior, but are paying a premium for the privilege. Deal rating: 6/10 (Chester) 8/10 (Watford).

  ***

  MossValleyBoss

  Lads, whatever you're doing, stop doing it. Sit down, take a deep breath. Do not operate heavy machinery while reading this transfer bombshell.

  JasonRhewl

  Here comes the Oracle of North Wales. Everyone's second-favourite ITK.

  MossValleyBoss

  Mock all you want, boyo, but I've got the real goss. You heard it here first.

  My mate's a mover in Chester and he's just had an inquiry about hauling some French lad's gear from Brussels up to Chester. Turns out it's not for now but for June. Another foreign lad on his way to Chester confirmed!

  JasonRhewl

  Bollocks.

  Stoop

  Holy fucking shit! Stop the press! Saltney are spending money like there's no tomorrow.

  Ludo Peeters to Saltney from Club Bruges, 3.9 million quid! Personal terms agreed. Paperwork signed. It's happening!

  MossValleyBoss

  Oh ye of little faith.

  JasonRhewl

  No way are you getting credit for that! You got almost every detail wrong!

  MossValleyBoss

  You tell yourself that.

  ***

  EFL Championship Match 29 of 46: Chester versus Wolverhampton Wanderers

  Earlier in the season, Wolves had beaten us 5-1 at their place, so based on the 'win the second half' concept, and bearing in mind that we had been doing a little too well in the league recently, I would have been happy to get beat, say, 3-1.

  But various factors had changed how I was thinking about the match. There were some guys I didn't want looking shit right at this very moment (e.g. Joel and Bark, who were potential sale candidates) and I wanted to play to bag a goal so I could get shitloads of money from Jive.

  Wolves had a crazily handsome manager, which was all kinds of annoying, and he liked to do a 3-4-2-1 formation. It was basically 3-4-3, the one we used with our women's team, but with their version of Wibbers and Pascal pulled back one zone to really flood the midfield and to make it difficult for opponents to play out from the back.

  Shrug. I won't try to do that then.

  Their average CA had been around 153 when we had played earlier in the season, but they had lost some players in the meantime. It wasn't like they would be completely shit all of a sudden - they had sold players for 20 million and bought replacements for 10. I wasn't looking to win, just to be competitive and to bag myself a free kick or a backheel nutmeg or something. Something Ruth could take to Jive and say 'have you seen this? Those are your boots he's wearing. Next week that could be Puma or Nike.'

  All the competing factors (giving minutes to certain players, hiding others) meant I ended up picking a 4-2-3-1. For a long time I had wanted to play at right back, but I couldn't make it work. So we had:

  Swanny.

  Lewis, Christian, Magnus, and Helge.

  Youngster and me as the DMs.

  Pascal, Wibbers, and Cheb as a really decent suite of CAMs.

  Gabby as the striker.

  Average CA: 128.7.

  When I went out to warm up, I noted that the changes at Wolves had reduced their CA a decent amount - they were down to CA 148. Huh. I suppose it made sense - a Premier League club's best players didn't want to be rotting in the second tier and it wasn't so easy to replace them when they left.

  The gap between the two sides was still massive - 20 CA - so it didn't change my approach but I did think about what it would mean for next season. The first half would be harder than the second...

  "Right," I said, in the dressing room as we approached kick off. "Quick pep talk from me. My favourite movie is Das Boot. It's about a submarine crew. Loads of young men trapped in an enclosed space - " I tapped the nearest wall - "Only one bathroom, which causes all kinds of problems when one guy takes too long doing his hair of a morning. Where's Henri? Oh. Okay, ah, what else? Long periods of utter tedium then intense, all-consuming terror. It's the movie version of Arsenal preparing to take a long throw. Okay, truth be told I haven't actually seen Das Boot because when I read the synopsis I nearly had a panic attack just thinking about being on a submarine sinking to crush depth. It's the movie version of being relegated and being powerless to stop it."

  "What happens at the end of the movie?" asked Christian Fierce.

  "Erm... Basically, the team - the crew of the submarine - go their separate ways."

  "They all die," said Pascal.

  "This was a cheery one," said Lewis Lamarre.

  "He's setting up Saturday's talk," said Pascal. "Against Hull."

  "Hull breach!" said Youngster. "Ohhh! So clever!"

  "Er, yeah," I said. "That was the plan. Hull breach, right. It's nothing to do with my new boot deal. Das Boot. Guys? Anyone? Okay, you think that's annoying? Watch this. Pascal, how do you say 'a boot' in German."

  "Der Schuh."

  "How do you say 'the boots'?"

  "Die Schuhe."

  "Hear that?" I said. "Why would the article change? It's absolutely maddening."

  Sandra stirred. "Got anything to say about the match, boss?"

  "Er, yeah. We're the big TV game tonight and DigiWorld insisted on getting access to our dressing room at half time. Relax, don't panic, just make sure you have the telly on at half time. I might be out doing an interview."

  Christian's brows knitted together. "You're going to do the half-time interview?"

  "Yep," I said. "It's in the contract that we have to speak to them, right? So I'll take that hit. Another thing. Brooke has a surprise for us. I don't know what it is, but I know it cost 20,000 quid. Oh! And we've just started Ramadan, so Cheb's fasting. It's pitch black out there but on Saturday there will be a break at sunset so he can take on some nutrients. I'm mentioning it now so I don't forget. As for the match itself, we're doing 4-2-3-1 and it will be hard to pass through the Wolves lines. There will be a lot of bodies in the way and they'll be pressing hard. That's why I've come up with a super-secret megatactic for today. Are you ready? Pass to me."

  "Soz, what?" said Magnus.

  "Pass to me. Right, let's get out there and see what Brooke has cooked up."

  ***

  The Deva was full and it was rocking. It seemed that Joe Anka had turned the volume up on the music, but mostly things seemed broadly normal.

  Sophie pointed a camera at me; someone handed me a microphone. The music faded and my face went up on the big screen, to cheers and jeers. "Awite?" I said. My voice reverberated around the stadium. "Transfer window. Yay! If you don't mind, I'd like to introduce our new signing in person instead of via a tweet, so here he is. Please welcome to Chester FC, an incomparable player who I would say plays quite a lot like his mate Youngster... it's Vincent Addo!"

  Vini was supposed to step forward to stand next to me and pose for photos of him holding a scarf and all that. Instead, the main floodlights dimmed in intensity and the two new stands lit up from within. There must have been thousands of tiny LEDs on the sides, under the roof, even under some of the seats. That's where Brooke had spent the 20 grand - turning the stadium into a light show. Hip hop music pounded the air.

  "Addo!" cried a deep, semi-robotic voice. The new lights flashed while on the advert hoardings the word 'Addo' sped around. On the giant screens, snippets of Vini were shown.

  "Vini!" repeated the voice. (Vini making a tackle. Vini trying on sunglasses. Vini lifting weights.)

  "Addo," intoned the voice, surrounded by itself.

  "Much Addo about sumtin'," squealed an excited female voice.

  Finally, the screens cut to Vincent Addo, dressed like Julius Caesar. He brushed his sleeves, the camera jumped to a close-up, and he said, "Vidi. Vici. Vini."

  The lights returned to normal and the stadium buzzed. The Wolves lot started chanting 'what the fucking hell was that?' but Vini was beaming. He was in a sharp suit and was delighted to hold one end of a scarf while I held the other in front of the world's media.

  After a minute of posing, the pitch started to clear. It was nearly time for the match, but as I was getting into the right mindset the lights dimmed again. Epic music blasted out and the new stands lit up in the colours of the two teams, the away end bathed in old gold, the McNally in blue-and-white stripes. The screens showed the two club crests smashing into each other and epic moments from history and stuff like that.

  "Christ," I mumbled. "We need to switch the marketing team to decaf."

  "Don't you like it?" said Magnus.

  "I suppose it's pretty good, yeah," I admitted. "For the midweek matches, anyway. Are you a fan?"

  "It sets the scene. Sets the stage."

  "Yeah, sure," I said. "Thing is with me, the whole world's my stage."

  ***

  Wolves bossed the first ten minutes, pinning us back in our half, hogging the ball. It would have been a good match for Vincent Addo, because I could have dropped him into the slot I was occupying while I myself played as a CAM who pressed opponents from behind. As it happened, I had to be patient, waiting for mistakes so that I could pounce on the ball.

  Being patient didn't mean being idle - I was having to sprint around non-stop, only getting breaks for throw-ins and injuries. My fitness had been climbing, but running on a treadmill was nothing like as intense as doing it in a match against superb athletes. I had to dial down how much I was 'managing' this one, simply to carry out my role in the team.

  During the stoppages, I thought about transfers. The money spent on Vincent would take my spending at Chester to over 10 million. The money I had brought in, if we included the future fees for Christian and Fitzroy, amounted to just under 8.5 million, leaving me with a net spend of 2.3 mill.

  That seemed high - I wanted to get into profit asap - but the window was still wide open and I had a couple more deals brewing.

  A Wolves player hit a cross, Christian Fierce won the header, Youngster reacted fastest, and I rushed ahead to offer him support.

  He rolled the ball into my path, I took a stride, and before the Wolves counter-press could get to me, I leaned back and fizzed a pass thirty yards diagonally to the left, seemingly to no-one.

  Pascal was already moving that way, though, and he kept the ball in play easily. He played a quick pass to Cheb, and suddenly we had our first chance to create something. Gabby moved left, Wibbers raced into the hole the Brazilian left, and Pascal bombed forward, trying to reach the penalty area in time to cause problems.

  That move came to nothing but that was the model for how we would approach this match. Defend stoutly, force turnovers, break fast, hope I could thread the needle of those long passes often enough for us to get on the scoresheet.

  ***

  We actually took the lead. With 25 minutes on the clock, Helge won a header at right back and shovelled the ball forward. Youngster got to it at the same time as a Wolves dude, but Youngster had more desire to win the duel. He did just that and passed to me. Wolves had learned their lesson and were getting as tight to me as they could. A few times I had dribbled away from defence because their press was designed to block passes, not guys carrying the ball, but this time I didn't have a choice except to whack the ball long.

  Gabby got into position, jumped, and nodded the ball backwards, trying to find Wibbers.

  It hit Wibbers on the shin and went ten yards ahead of him, but this turned out to be better than if he had controlled the ball perfectly. The ricochet surprised the defenders, who hesitated just for a second, and Wibbers barged through one, did a neat bit of footwork to push the ball to his right, kept his balance under pressure, and lined up a thunderbastard.

  When he simply drilled the ball low and straight, everyone in the stadium was surprised, especially the goalie.

  I half-expected the lights to dim and to get a Wibbers-themed show, but I had told Joe never to play music when fans were celebrating - that was the most beautiful sound of all.

  ***

  Wolves got the equaliser when they developed an unexpected overload on the near post - I couldn't wait to see the replays on that - and they continued to create two chances for every one of ours.

  One of ours, though, was a free kick. Wolves had fouled Cheb about 35 yards from goal, no doubt thinking it was too far out to shoot. They probably also thought the kick was too central. Easier to cross the ball if there's a natural angle, right?

  I liked where the ball was. It was far enough that I could hit it really hard, and I could add massive amounts of bend on it if I wanted. The goalie put up a four-man wall that was useless. Surely all it was doing was obstructing his view?

  I eyed the right of the goal, calculating, waiting for the ref to blow. While angling my body for the shot I had telegraphed, I whipped the ball to the left, where it dipped exactly to the level where the goalie's hand could reach it. Somehow, he didn't even get a fingertip to it. The roar from the home fans washed away all thoughts of technique and what I could do better, and I was soon swamped by my teammates.

  At half-time, the score remained 2-1. We were beating the league leaders.

  I ambled off the pitch, sweating profusely, checking the latest transfer news in my head. Nothing major had happened. Good.

  I was halfway down the tunnel when someone grabbed me and turned me around - I had to do an interview. One of the mid-match Q+A sessions some moron had dreamed up as a way to extract the maximum possible amount of content from football. It was like stuffing a pizza crust full of cheese and then saying this is delicious, let's make this part ten times bigger. Do we even need the boring bit in the middle?

  "Max, well done, how do you feel?"

  I clicked into the present moment. The interview had started! With me losing ounces of fluids every second. What was I supposed to talk about? How thirsty I was? "I'm trying out new football boots tonight. Jive. Made by footballers for footballers. They're a lot lighter than my normal pair, which is why I botched that free kick."

  "It looked pretty good from where I was sitting!"

  "Yeah but it dipped to a height where the goalie could easily get it. I want to hit that a few feet higher or lower, right? Give him no chance at all. But it's just a question of practice. If I stick with them, I think Jive boots and I might have a long and happy relationship. All those photos with my foot striking the ball at a key moment in the match. Do you Jive? Max Best does. Staying a-Jive. A-Jive and kicking. You know what? They've probably got a marketing team. They can think up their own slogans. I'll stick to what I do best, which is choosing ethically-created footwear that speaks of me as a man of taste and discernment."

  "What do you expect in the second half?"

  "Honestly, I expect to get a call from Puma or New Balance."

  "What about the football, Max?"

  "Oh, now DigiWorld is interested in the football?" I chuckled. "That's new. A football show would let players take on fluids and nutrients so they could perform well in the second half, right? This is more like chatting to someone who's turning up for a red carpet event. Max, Max! Who are you wearing? I'm wearing Jive football boots." Out of shot, Livia handed me a bottle of water. "Thanks."

  I took a huge swig, and it took the edge off my crankiness.

  "Second half's gonna be tough. Wolves are seriously good. They're moving us around, making us concentrate hard, and it's draining. What we're doing looks easy from in the stands or on TV but it's not. Every time they cross the halfway line they're testing us. It's a good test and we're learning good lessons but Wolves will be learning a thing or two, too. They'll be learning not to give away free kicks in what data nerds will soon be calling Jive territory. I tell you what, I'm really excited about getting back to the dressing room so I can do my job! And to see some replays. I'm fascinated by that goal they scored because from my point of view it came out of nowhere."

  "One more question, Max. The transfer deadline is coming up and there is no Darren Smith in your squad tonight. Should we read anything into that?"

  "I'm glad you asked me about reading. There's a lot of talk these days about the male reading crisis, the youth reading crisis, but I was in a room with five young people yesterday and we were all happily reading the same thing. What was it? Ah, yeah. We were reading about how Jive work extra hard sourcing the materials that go into their boots - "

  "Thank you, Max."

  "And their commitment to being carbon neutral."

  "Back to the studio."

  "Recycled plastics," I said, but we had been cut off by then. The interviewer gave me a pissed-off look. "What?" I said. "Can't put that on your socials?"

  I hurried to the dressing room because I didn't want to miss the part where DigiWorld showed footage from inside the dressing rooms. That was one of their other 'innovations' for the season and I hated it. The dressing room was supposed to be private - I didn't allow anyone in on a match day. Why were they trying to turn our rugged, hard-edged working-class sport into a sanitised, family-friendly TV show? Disneyfication, people called it.

  "Has it been on?" I said, snapping my head towards the screen.

  "No, boss," said Physio Dean. "They had you on. What's the brand of your new boots? I didn't catch the name."

  "We should do that all the time," I said. "We have one pre-match press conference that we take seriously, one post-match interview where we're honest, and the rest of the time we promote brands for money until we stop getting asked to do moronic interviews."

  "I don't mind them," said Sandra. "Some of us need to boost our profile, boss."

  "No, you don't," I said. "You need to win football matches. That'll do more than a million interviews. Argh, I wish they'd cut to it soon. I'm not sure Pradeep and Spectrum set it up right."

  "Set what up?" said Sandra. "The feed from this camera?" She pointed to a new addition to the decor - a sinister half-sphere placed on the wall.

  "Looking at us. Always looking at us. It makes my skin crawl."

  "It's not going to be good content for them," said Andrew Harrison. "They show what's happening in the Chester dressing room and we're just watching ourselves on the telly."

  "The shitter the content, the better. Actually, wait, you're right. We have to be interesting so that they'll cut to us. Okay, I'm gonna pretend to be yelling things at you. Then they'll put us live and then..."

  I turned my back to the new camera and made big gestures like I was screaming my head off. I slammed my fist into my palm, picked up a water bottle and threw it down.

  "We're on!" yelled Andrew, and I turned.

  The screen was showing our dressing room, all right, but what was being broadcast was not live.

  Little Benjy Garland, a ten-year-old winger in our youth system, was wearing a Best 77 shirt. Around him on the floor were eleven soft blue-and-white cat beds (provided by PetPride, naturally), each one labelled with the name of a first-team player. Kittens were escaping from their warm and cosy prisons and were scampering around the room. Benjy was picking them up and trying to put them back in their beds.

  The scene was broadcast for about five seconds before DigiWorld cut back to the studio, where the main presenter looked furious and the former players working as analysts were trying not to laugh.

  Back in our live dressing room, the reaction was incredible. Had Pradeep been around he would have been carried aloft and songs would have been written in his honour. For a second I wondered if the squad would hit the mythical perfect 7 in Morale, but there was too much going on around Emiliano and the transfer window.

  Now that we weren't live, I stared into the new camera and gave it a middle finger for five seconds. Then I lifted a specially-designed cover into place around it. The perverts at DigiWorld who wanted to look into our dressing room would see the edges of the room - contractual obligation satisfied - but not the players. Instead, viewers would see a picture of a cat bed, the PetPride logo, and a price: ￡18.

  "Ahhh," I said, incredibly pleased with myself. I took my co-manager into a quiet corner. "Sandra. Let's talk tactics."

  "How does it feel out there?"

  "It's fucking brutal. They're all over us. I feel like we've got a decent shape but we can't quite get hold of the ball long enough. I'm being very vertical and that's generating threat but, like, the ball's coming right back and we're gonna crack if we can't retain it." I brought up the tactics screen and felt something like revulsion at the formation we were using. My body was telling me it was wrong. "I think we need more balance. More midfield."

  "Can we match up their formation?"

  "Oh," I said. I actually had 3-4-2-1 as one of my formations. "Christian, Magnus, me. Lewis left mid. Cheb right. Sub off Helge, bring on Andrew. Wibbers, Pascal, Gabby."

  "Or Peter as a centre back and you go to central midfield." She thought about what she had said. "That feels pretty close to our best possible team."

  It would have an average CA of 129.3. Very soon we would tip into the 130s and that would be really sensational. I brought up the Live Table, which still had us in 7th, but far, far too close to Wrexham in 6th. "I wish I had Emiliano on the bench," I said. That was the signal that we needed to calm down.

  "God," she said, through a clenched jaw. "You said that when we were in a match, you wouldn't..." She was too smart to throw phrases like 'throw a match'.

  "There's no question of that," I said, as sincere as a politician. "I'm just thinking that our best chance of holding onto this lead is to hold onto the ball. We should switch to 4-1-4-1. Same back four, same Youngster as DM, same Gabby up top. Midfield is Joel Reid on the left, Dan Badford, Andrew, and Cheb. It's still a very good team. We'll give up some attacking threat but we'll get more possession. More control."

  "We sub off Pascal, Wibbers, and you. That's a lot of goal threat."

  "Urgh," I said, suddenly tired. I had run a lot in the first 45 minutes. "We can't just keep giving them the ball. We take control or we lose anyway."

  She grabbed an energy pack and handed it to me. "3-5-2. Helge off, Peter Bauer on. You get ten or fifteen more minutes, then we switch you for Dan. Peter, Dan, Cheb, Wibbers, Pascal. They should be able to put some moves together."

  I munched and realised I couldn't really think straight. I had enough wherewithal to check Wolves's tactics - they hadn't changed. "Okay. I think I like it." The buzzer sounded. "Dive, dive, dive!"

  Pascal Bochum - a man who enjoyed a bit of 'simulation' on a football pitch - perked up. "Dive, boss?"

  I pointed down. "Like a submarine. Not like a naughty footballer."

  "Okay," he said, not ashamed in the slightest. "Let me know if you change your mind."

  ***

  In the 50th minute, I gave away a penalty. The ball was loose in our box and I had the crazy idea that I should smack it fifty yards for Wibbers to chase. I had it all worked out, all lined up, but you can't take that long against players of this kind of quality. By the time I actually kicked through the line of the pass, a tricky CAM had darted in front of me. I gave him a lusty crack across the shins and probably should have got a yellow card.

  I walked away, head in hands, wondering how much of that mistake had been fatigue, how much had been the relentless speed of the match, and how much had been some kind of perverse will to lose.

  Wolves took the penalty. Swanny saved it. Christian Fierce got to the rebound first and hacked it away.

  I stowed my disbelief - Swanny was not good at saving pennos - because the ball looked like it might swirl and stay in play. I sprinted hard, got to the pitch of the ball, veered to my right as the ball held up on a gust of icy wind, and dabbed it just as it landed. The ball rolled along the middle of the touchline and when I got there I gave it another kick, which again rolled exactly along the line. I had never done that before and decided to do it a third time. Great fun! I glanced to my right and saw two sets of players steaming towards the McNally, trying to catch up to me.

  One blink later and for some inexplicable reason, I was going full pelt towards the goal. Why? I didn't want to score. I didn't want to win.

  The goalie finally came charging at me, which forced me into a decision. Obviously, I wanted to roll the ball just wide, or hit the post, or something dramatic that would get the crowd going but wouldn't actually -

  I blinked. I was righting myself after spinning. Why was I spinning? Because I had pirouetted around the goalie. The fans in the McNally were going bonkers. Where was the ball?

  In the net.

  Had I...?

  I had done a stepover then Quantum of Wallaced the ball through the keeper's legs, all in the space of about 0.6 seconds.

  Free will doesn't exist.

  The fans were going next-level bananas, and the weirdo who sometimes takes control of the body of Max Best had a great idea. He made me take off my new right boot and throw it into the crowd. They went fucking feral trying to get it. I knew someone would tell me off for doing it. They would make me promise not to do it again.

  In other words, I would never get another chance.

  I took the left boot off and threw it twenty yards to the left, causing another wave.

  Cheb was the first of the team to get to me. He hugged me, laughing, yelling, "What are you doing? What are you doing?"

  "It's Ramadan," I yelled back, into his ear, because otherwise he wouldn't have heard. "It's a time of giving."

  He looked down at his boots. "I'ma keep mine on, I think."

  ***

  Sandra subbed me off and I took on liquids and gel and covered myself with a towel. My head was buzzing. Buzzing. Non-stop buzzing. We can win this. We shouldn't win this. Guys, hold on for the win. Guys, someone please fuck up.

  Near the end, Wolves got a goal back to make it 3-2, but we held out. We had beaten the league leaders. We had closed the gap on Wrexham and West Brom. We had pulled clear of Norwich, Coventry, and Middlesbrough.

  The away end was pretty sparsely populated and when we did a celebratory light show, we lit up both new stands in blue-and-white. Our colours. Our stadium. Our three points.

  ***

  Friday, January 28 - Three Days Until Transfer Window Slams Shut

  After training, I drove to Manchester. After a quick meeting, I would do some shopping before hitting some five-a-side places. Maybe I would drop into Platt Lane for old time's sake. That's where I had met Beth and Emre. It's where Ziggy and Jackie Reaper had helped me beat Man City under 16s. Emre still sold his kebabs there from time to time. The man never stopped grinding.

  Then I would go check on West. I would hang out at Gemma's house for a while, then spend the night at my mum's. Chester were away at Hull tomorrow so it made sense logistically.

  First, though, the meeting.

  It was being held at the offices of The Wall, Gemma's sport law company. Their building was a lot less grand than I was expecting, but it was a new company. Give it twenty years and it would be suitably opulent, I was sure.

  There was a room with Ruth and her client, Wallace Wells. His parents were with him, looking nervous. I shook their hands and tried to be on my best behaviour.

  Ruth said, "You know Max, of course. He got himself a boot deal this week, didn't he?"

  "Yep. I thought they would be mad that I threw their boots into the crowd. The company's all about reducing how many football boots get thrown out. Isn't that right, Wallace?"

  "Yes, boss," he said. He was also nervous, like he was in trouble.

  "Turns out," I said, leaning back and spreading my arms obnoxiously wide, "they liked it. Called it an iconic moment and whatever."

  Ruth pushed her lips into a tight, unimpressed shape, but I knew she would approve of me trying to put the family at ease by any means necessary, including comically over-the-top smugness. "He generates waste as he generates media coverage. Might not be the best role model."

  "He used my move," said Wallace.

  I laughed, silently.

  Ruth said, "Max, we have a very minor case of cold feet. Can you describe this deal from your point of view?"

  "Sure," I said, getting slightly more serious. I scratched an itch on my throat. "I think from Chester's POV it's clear, right? We love Wallace but we have tons planned. New stands, new areas at Bumpers. We are a selling club. So, Wallace Wells to Chelsea. What does that look like from your POV? Chelsea's model is to get loads of talented players around Wallace's age and develop them either to go into the team aged 23 or to sell them for a profit. It looks like a house of cards from the outside but they're really good at it. They will loan Wallace out to clubs of increasingly high stature and see how he gets on. Normally I'd say stay at Chester, we can do that just as easily, but I've heard about the financial package Ruth negotiated and it's really compelling. Am I allowed to say it?"

  Ruth nodded. "They know you know."

  "Okay, cool. Look, twenty grand a week is serious money, isn't it? And they want you on a 7-year contract. You'd only get 4 anywhere else, or a three plus one. Seven is job security, isn't it? I did the maths and it came to 72 billion pounds over the lifetime of the deal."

  Wallace's dad smiled. "You might have added a couple of zeros."

  "I do that," I admitted. I leaned forward and eyed Wallace. "I like this deal because I get you for the rest of this season and we're gonna win the Youth Cup together. Then you get this mega contract. You still need to learn to play, right, but by the time this deal runs out you'll be 25 and you'll be fucking immense. You've got to put some of your money aside, like we've been telling you, but the next deal you get could be absolutely mega." I leaned back. "It's not going to be plain sailing. You'll have ups and downs. You'll play in France and Watford and Dortmund and all sorts. You won't like all of it. You know that gif where there's a guy crying and he's drying his tears with wads of cash? That'll be you."

  "Max," complained Ruth.

  "It will, though! I'm just being realistic. From these seven years, there will be stretches that are grim. But you'll come through it bigger and better and the good times will be great." I smiled. "You didn't get a boot deal because you played in the Youth Cup for Chester. You got it because Ruth told them Chelsea wanted to buy you."

  That landed well. The mum said, "What happens if we sign the documents today but he gets a serious injury tomorrow?"

  "Nothing changes. We look after him and then he joins Chelsea. They're taking a risk by giving out such long contracts but they can't back out or anything. They won't want to, anyway. They know Wallace is mint."

  The dad said, "If Wallace was your son, would you let him go to Chelsea?"

  "If he was my son," I declared, "he would have a better haircut!"

  The parents were borderline shocked, but Wallace laughed really hard. "Boss, don't. Dad, he's joking."

  "If he was my son," I said, slowly, thinking it through. "Of course I'd want him at Chester so I could play alongside him. It'd be weird that I was only 7 years older than my son." Wallace got the giggles again. He was CA 69 and could finish the season around 80. "The thing is, next year he's gonna need a loan anyway because he's not Championship ready." He would finish the following season at CA 115 maybe. Bottom-of-the-Championship level. "The year after, he'd need another loan because that will be our first year in the Prem."

  Could he get to CA 130, 135 by the start of our second season in the top tier?

  "At that point he might be around the level of being a guy who gets some minutes here and there. It'd be another season or two to really get up to the standard." I pursed my lips into a whistle. "Did you see me against Wolves? I'm a really good player but that was a step up even for me. So the next few years for Wallace are all about loans and learning and I mean, it's obviously way better to do all that while getting paid than to do all that while on League Two money." I nodded to myself. "Anyway, it's Chelsea. If things are going badly for Wallace and they get a decent offer, they'll sell you. In a couple of years, if Ruth says Max, we need to do something about Wallace, I'll be right on it. Worst case is he signs for the mighty Saltney Town for a year. Chelsea get their money back, Wallace wins everything in Wales, plays in the Champions League, reminds the world what he can do. By then, he might even have mastered my move."

  "Jeez," said Wallace, amazed at my cheek.

  "Are Saltney Town in a position to write cheques for 4 million?" said the dad.

  I shrugged. "We just wrote one for 3.9."

  Wallace shook his head. "I can't wait to see that guy."

  The mum said, "What will you do with the 4 million pounds you receive for Wallace?" Her hand went up to her mouth. "If I'm allowed to ask."

  "Of course you are," I said. "Chester have all kinds of projects. Infrastructure, yeah, and social ones, too. But I'm pretty tempted to look for the next Wallace. I quite like this as a business model. Find little wizards, use them to smash up Chelsea, sell them to Chelsea. It's cool, right? And repeatable." I could tell the family needed one little push. Just one more detail to get them to feel good about leaving Chester. "One thing I'm interested in," I said, speaking at a lower volume, "is what happens in the next England under 18s squad after this is announced. I think Wallace will get called up."

  "Really?" said Ruth. This was news to her.

  "Everyone's buzzing about him, right, but still, it's little old Chester. We don't get players in the England setup. We're not fashionable. Technically he'd be a Chester player in the England squad but really he'd be a Chelsea boy. They will definitely want to take a look at him, anyway. Boot deals, England call-ups, I hate to say it but it's all a lot easier to get that stuff when you're at a fashionable club."

  Ruth did a microscopic twitch of the lips. I knew what she was thinking: Ka-ching!

  ***

  Chester Out: Wallace Wells (Chelsea, ￡4m). This one's gob-smacking. Chester bought Wells (18 year old left winger) for ￡800K in the summer and they will move him on a year later having 5x-ed their investment. Wells has played here and there in the Championship but has starred in the FA Youth Cup. One of these clubs is going to look back on this deal and regard it as a masterstroke, but which one? Deal rating: 10/10.

  ***

  Saturday, January 29 - Two Days Until Transfer Window Slams Shut

  I spent part of the morning having a quiet breakfast with my mum, then took a cup of tea into the garden. Apart from all the wins, things were going pretty well.

  With the sale of Wallace, my transfer dealings at Chester would jump well into profit. Almost 1.7 million in profit and there was more to come.

  With REM as his agent, taking ten percent of everything he earned in his new contract, a lot of other numbers were really putting on their dancing boots, too. I had plugged Wallace's future wages into an REM spreadsheet, which told me that my yearly income would jump from around 250k to around 300. And there was more to come.

  First, I had to pick a team to play Hull.

  Hull had an average CA of 128 and were climbing the league, so I had to assume their Morale was high. They played 4-2-3-1.

  It was tricky, picking a team that looked good but was intended to lose. My antics against DigiWorld on Wednesday night had been received with utter glee by most football fans but had provoked consternation in the boardrooms of the EFL. If I carried on the way I was going, the next TV deal might be much reduced. I was literally drilling holes into the cash buckets of some of the world's most impoverished billionaires.

  "Maybe the way to avoid the playoffs is to get a points deduction," I said, sipping my tea. "Must check out how to do that."

  The next best way to reduce the overall level of the team was to prioritise the development of the youth team. They had their next FA Youth Cup match coming up, so Hull was the perfect opportunity to give Roddy some minutes. And why not Wallace, too? Stick Chas and Hamish on the bench, while you're at it.

  I went back inside and scribbled some notes. Average CA 117.3. Average age 24.5. That wasn't even that young! No-one could complain about that.

  Bosh.

  I checked my XP stash. During the match, I would cross 4,000 and would be able to buy one of the final two Attributes.

  Very bosh.

  ***

  The latest blog post from News of the Blues, the leading news and views platform for all things Chester FC.

  Hull Breached! Chester's Depth Chart Sunk By Battel's Chip, But Who'll Leave This Shrinking Ship?

  Chester lost 2-0 to an energetic Hull team that was lustily backed by the home fans. Wagstaff scored the first from a corner before in-form striker Rob Battel doubled their lead with a lovely dink before half-time. Chester huffed and puffed but couldn't find a way back.

  The starting line-up was curious. After weeks of Best and Lane picking somewhat consistent sides, we're back to 'Best Roulette'. How do you get into this team? Hope your name comes up when Best spins the wheel!

  Ian Swan was in goal and he was shaky. Zach Green - back from his time in America - linked up with Christian Fierce again, and they were superb again. Is Christian Fierce playing like a player who has already been sold? No chance. They were assisted on the left by Cole Adams, but the right was a problem. Roddy Jones dominates at youth level but looked out of place here. He'll learn, of course he will, and he'll fill out as well. At times he was bullied off the ball.

  There was a similar issue on the left of midfield, where another pre-sold player, Wallace Wells, struggled to make an impact. He was neat and tidy on the ball but when he failed to dribble past his opponent twice early on, he rather withdrew into his shell. Joel Reid was the closest midfielder and he lifted Wallace's spirits. Next was Andrew Harrison, with Bark on the right. Up front, William Roberts was in the team, and Colin Beckton got an increasingly rare start.

  It might be more interesting to note three players who didn't make the squad. Emiliano Ferrari has been banished to the Mariana Trench. Darren Smith might as well have gone snorkelling after his failed overhead kick. Best broke his own running stats record in 50 minutes against Wolves, so it's understandable he might want a day off. It's easy to forget that he is still recovering from the incident that left him in a coma.

  But what does it all mean? Anything, or nothing? The transfer window is open and buzz around town is that Chester have not done all the business they are going to do.

  ***

  The animation that played when I unlocked a new Attribute had not changed in all the time I had been cursed. One empty cell in a player profile filled with yellow and it danced from cell to cell until it landed on one, the contents of which were then revealed. Simple, effective, but with only two cells left, moronic.

  The yellow in-fill came to rest in the second available slot and a word was revealed.

  Set Pieces.

  Hey, now!

  This was a good one!

  I sorted my players by this new Attribute and was not surprised in the slightest by what I saw.

  Cheb.

  Emiliano.

  Wibbers.

  Roddy.

  And the women?

  Meredith Ann.

  Sarah Greene.

  Dani Smith-Smithe.

  Saffron Walden.

  Ah, this was quality. This was a great get. Every team needed one guy who could take corners and free kicks. Ah, but wait. Did this cover corners? Free kicks? What about penalties?

  I went through all ten squads in my head and came to the conclusion that Set Pieces on its own didn't cover anything. Set Pieces plus Finishing might cover penalty kicks. Set Pieces plus Passing and/or Technique would deal with corner kicks. Set Pieces plus Long Shots would tell me about direct free kicks.

  It seemed compelling, but I would have to do some testing.

  That testing would kill some time in the coming months, which were set to be pretty boring. Long stretches of boredom with moments of extreme drama. Where had I heard that before?

  Oh! And I couldn't wait to plug this data into DOVE. Maybe it would know better than me what the Set Pieces Attribute actually meant.

  And as exciting as that prospect was, there was something else. There was only ONE Attribute left to unlock. I would buy that pretty soon, and then I would be able to sink my teeth into tactics. Hoo, yeah, bring it ohhhhhnnnnn.

  ***

  XP balance: 350

  ***

  Sunday, January 30 - One Day Until Transfer Window Slams Shut

  WSL2 Match 13 of 22: Sunderland Women versus Chester Women

  After the disappointment of losing in fairly lame fashion to Man City in the Nando's Cup, I was keen to see how the women would react. In the past they had normally bounced back after a defeat. This time I had added Saffron to the mix, which would stir things up even more.

  Saffron was such a character that any reservations the ladies had about her melted away. She never stopped talking! I found it borderline maddening but she was so positive and bubbly you couldn't stay annoyed.

  I backed out of any real management duties, letting Jay pick the tactics and whatever team he wanted. I was there soaking up XP (over a thousand) while testing theories about Set Pieces (conclusion: let Meredith Ann take them all).

  We won. It was only 3-0 in the end, but it was comprehensive. A good all-round show, with Charlotte integrated back into the team. She even tried to smile when she was replaced by Saffron in the second half.

  I decided to stay in the North East overnight. That was good for Emma and if it was good for Emma it was good for me.

  ***

  Monday, January 31 - Transfer Deadline Day

  BrokenGround

  Lads, red alert. The rumour mill is churning.

  Stoop

  If this is another Saltney Town transfer, I'm not sure I want to know. I watched some clips of the Belgian lad and I felt sick. How are Saltney getting players like that but Wrexham can't?

  BrokenGround

  We can. We're changing style, aren't we? Moving to a more modern way of playing. The new gaffer brought in some new players but he needs more than one window to make this squad his own.

  Anyway, listen. Bumpers Bank is in a frenzy. People are saying Dazza Smith didn't train but instead, he cleaned out his locker. He's driving up north to sort out a transfer. People are in tears!

  Stoop

  Fuck. I thought they thought he was good.

  Shit. This is about the overhead kick thing, isn't it? Best lost his fucking mind when that happened.

  BrokenGround

  I haven't seen him much recently. Transfer windows, right. You can imagine he's busy.

  Stoop

  Darren Smith. What's he worth?

  TexanWrexun

  I've got my tool! Let me run the numbers.

  Young, no injuries, physical stats high, in an international squad, getting better all-round.

  It says 7 million pounds.

  Stoop

  Knowing Best, Chester will get 15 million and the deal will go through in 2031.

  BrokenGround

  Let's see if it happens and what the number is. I'm gutted, to be honest. Dazza's a great bloke. Just really nice and easy-going. Makes you feel welcome, if you get me.

  Stoop

  And now Best has given him the boot.

  ManMeat

  It's on DigiWorld Sports News. They're saying 4.7 million.

  Stoop

  What the fuck! For a Championship striker?

  ManMeat

  That's what they're saying.

  Stoop

  That'll be a low price because Chester get to keep him for the rest of the season like all the other crazy deals that have been happening.

  ManMeat

  No, this one's happening now.

  BrokenGround

  I'm getting texts. Hearing the same thing. Fuck!

  ManMeat

  Darren Smith to Middlesbrough. 4.7 million pounds. He'll make his debut... against Chester.

  TexanWrexun

  Oh my God! What do you think they are smoking over there at the Deva?

  Stoop

  I know you like him, Dylan, and I suppose we all do, but your mate Max Best is a savage. He's an absolute beast.

  ***

  After a lazy brunch at Emma's parent's house, I drove down to Middlesbrough and parked at the Riverside Stadium. I went to the reception, where a cheeky chappie thanked me for three points earlier in the season. I stared him out until he said, "Right, well, I'll bring yous to the meeting room, will I?"

  I strolled around behind him, checking out the decor, the framed photos, the memorabilia. Middlesbrough was a great football city. It always blew my mind when I realised it was in Yorkshire. There must have been some weird gerrymandering with the boundaries in the olden days because it was next to Darlington, which was County Durham.

  In a meeting room, Ruth was behind a table, as was her client, Darren 'Dazza' Smith, a 22-year-old Australian striker with CA 130, PA 138. I had found him at the Under 20 World Cup and snapped him up for 250 grand.

  "Awite?" I said, politely closing the door slowly, giving my guide plenty of time to get lost.

  "Max!" said Dazza, standing up abruptly. "What? Is the deal off?"

  I froze, starting to panic. "What? What do you mean?"

  Ruth said, "Darren is surprised that you're here. He thinks you have been giving him the cold shoulder."

  "What?" I said, calming a little. "Why would you think that?"

  "Because," said Dazza, "you transferred me to Middlesbrough and haven't spoken to me for days."

  "I haven't spoken to Henri for days," I said. I looked at Ruth. "Do you think he's mad at me?" I pulled out a chair and sunk into it. Dazza retook his seat. "Mate," I said. "It's the end of the transfer window. I'm as busy as six sporting directors." As if to prove the point, my phone started vibrating. "That's Real Madrid calling to hijack this transfer, I bet." I tapped the screen. "Ah, no, it's Henri, calling me a bad friend. Listen, Dazza, thing is, being totes honest, I wasn't giving you the cold shoulder, not consciously, but then I heard there was some gossip and rumours going around that I was booting you out and I thought, you know what? I don't mind if there's a healthy bit of fear around Bumpers Bank. Players should feel at home, they should feel good and positive, but they shouldn't get complacent. I have that same thought every deadline day, which probably makes me a bad person." I felt the wood of the table. "It's good this, isn't it? Old money. You did your medical?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did they show you around?"

  "Yeah," he said, a little happier.

  "Big, innit? 35,000 stadium, Premier League training ground. This is a massive club. They love a good striker around these parts. They'll adore you. Stay here long enough you'll be an icon. Kids will get your name on their shirt. Dads will name their firstborn after you. The North Sea's just there. They've probably got amazing surfing."

  "Why did you come?" said Dazza.

  "Not gonna just let you rush off without saying bye, am I?" I knew from his player profile that he didn't want to leave Chester, but Chester needed to sell some players. "This is an amazing deal for you, isn't it? Big pay rise. You're gonna need a huge safe." He was going to triple his wages from 7 grand a week to 21, which would also be a massive boost for the agency's cashflow. To Ruth, I said, "Dazza's gonna be your top client after this, right?"

  "I wouldn't ever comment on such matters, but yes."

  I showed Dazza an impressed face. "And your profile's going way up. I heard Jive suddenly got very interested in sponsoring you when they heard you were moving to Boro." I held up my fingers in a square, like photographers and movie directors do. "You'll look great in that red kit."

  Dazza tried to smile, but failed. He swallowed. "Are you gonna sign a replacement?"

  "I already have. Lucas Cook from Tranmere, remember. He's young and he's way below your levels but we can be patient with him. I'm not gonna buy anyone today if that's what you meant."

  "So I could have stayed until the end of the season like Fitz and Christian?"

  "Not with the fee this high, and Boro are slipping down the table and their fans are getting angsty. When you sign, which will happen five minutes after I leave, you're going to keep the director of football in his job for another year." I let out a little smile as I looked at Ruth. "Remind him of that when it comes to renewing." Back to Dazza, I said, "Anything can happen in this game. You could get a serious injury and that's you done. When we met, I told you I could get you in the Aussie team and get you a big move. I've done one, this is the other, there's not much more I can do for you. It's time to get paid. Simple. Don't be so glum about it!" I said, merrily digging him on the arm. "No-one here's gonna invent mad Aussie slang or throw spiders at you. You'll be happy here. Money, fame, boot deals, easy access to seafood. You are ascending!"

  Again, he tried to smile but it didn't quite click. "Is all this because of the overhead kick?"

  "No," I said. "Of course not."

  Ruth said, "It might be best if you're honest."

  I tutted and sighed. "Okay, that made me put out some feelers but there was already interest and we would have had bids today. I was able to get ahead of it and make the process a bit more orderly. Of course I was pissed off in the moment but you're not like Emiliano, are you? You've got an almost flawless track record of working hard in training and working hard for the team." I jabbed the table. "You need to sign for Middlesbrough today and you need to be happy about it because this is your reward. This is what you've been working hard for. Enjoy it."

  "He's right," said Ruth. "Your family's going to be proud of you."

  I watched, fascinated, as Dazza's profile changed. 'Doesn't want to leave the club' faded away, replaced by 'Is excited about his big move'. "There we go," I said. "They're gonna have you painted on the side of a building in no time." I held my fingers up in a square. "With that tan and that hair, they're gonna need a fuckton of yellow paint."

  He pushed his blonde hair back, and smiled a tiny bit. There was one thing he couldn't quite get past. "Just tell me one thing. If I had scored that overhead, how would things be different?"

  "We would still be here," I said, doing my cheekiest grin. "But the numbers would all be a lot higher."

  ***

  Chester Out: Darren Smith (Boro, ￡4.7m). Big, burly Australian striker who did a lot of work for Chester in their build-up play. He became a great out ball and was a threat from set pieces. He also helped the team in his own penalty area. Chester will now have to rely on Gabriel and William Roberts and hope they stay fit. It's a club record incoming fee, but Chester suddenly look a lot less capable of making it into the playoffs. Will Max Best regret taking the short-term option? Deal rating: 7/10.

  ***

  Max's new cut of REM's profits per year: ￡280,000

  With Wallace Wells' Chelsea contract included: ￡335,000

  ***

  Notable End-of-Window Deals:

  Sunday Sowunmi: ￡100k

  Saffron Walden: ￡100k

  Jive sponsorship of Max Best: ￡250k (pro rata)

  Fitzroy Hall: ￡500k

  Vincent Addo: ￡1m

  Engelbert Kornek (to Saltney): ￡1.3m

  Christian Fierce: ￡1.4m

  Ludo Peeters (to Saltney): ￡3.9m

  Wallace Wells: ￡4m

  Darren Smith: ￡4.7m

  All-time Chester transfer profits (men): ￡6.39m

  Chester FC war chest: ￡12.35m

  Reported worldwide gross for the theatrical release of Das Boot: $84.9 million.