13.

  Monday, December 15

  The crowd hushed as William B. Roberts, one of the best young strikers of his generation, lined up a shot.

  "Good form," I said into the microphone. "Good intensity. He's a killer. Grrrr."

  Will's tongue poked out between his lips but he got his game face back on and - thwack!

  "Great shot," I cried out. "But no luck."

  "Come on William!" cried a woman and there was much applause.

  Will took his second shot, and his third, but didn't achieve his goal.

  It was Peter Bauer's turn. "I still don't know the rules!" he wailed. "What ought I do?"

  "Boo," I said. "Boo, get on with it." Peter shook his head and took a shot. He missed. "Terrible. This is the biggest choke in a final since Tottenham in the Champions League."

  "Tottenham were robbed by the referee," said Peter, stalling for time.

  "Everyone boo Peter," I demanded. No-one did; he was too popular.

  Peter was holding a shoelace. At the end of the shoelace was a horse chestnut seed that the tree at Bumpers Bank had dropped in the autumn. The tree produced green, spiky shells which contained one, sometimes two seeds, and the seeds were beautiful. An inch or so wide, the polished, shiny brown of your mum's coffee table, with a light brown top. Carve a thin hole through the seed, push a shoelace through, tie off one end and you have created a conker.

  Peter's job was to use his conker to annihilate William's, but he was terrible at the attacking side of the game.

  "Peter lines up his second shot. Oh but that's a bad miss. Heh."

  I was commentating from my vantage point close to the action. We were on the 3G pitch at Bumpers and there was a healthy crowd of Chester players, their WAGs, kids, and all sorts of admin people. The event had developed organically and quickly from this Conkers tournament into our unofficial Christmas party.

  "Peter with his third shot. And the misfiring German has finally managed to land a hit!"

  In this tournament, the players had three goes each. Now it was Will's turn again.

  Peter smoothed out his shoelace and dangled the conker at arm's length. William wrapped his lace around his wrist a couple of times to shorten the length and impart maximum power to his attack.

  Will cracked his conker against Peter's, sending both veering off, their paths constrained by the shoelace. Peter's conker wrapped around and into his arm. Will's somehow hit him on the top of his own head. Conkers is banned in a lot of British schools.

  "A reminder that Peter got through the knockout rounds with a tedious, defensive style. If Jose Mourinho played Conkers..." That got some laughs. One of the risks in Conkers is that if you land a good strike you can break your own seed as easily as you can break your opponents. "The aim of the game is destruction," I said. "Destroy, Will! Get him! Get him, Will!"

  Will stuck his tongue out again, looked around at the crowd, and blushed slightly. That was amazing. I had no doubt he would strut around Old Trafford and if he scored he would shush the 70,000 Man United fans. In a football match nothing fazed him. In the real world, he was a normal 17-year-old boy.

  Will's second shot came with a meaty impact sound, but no visible damage to either conker.

  "The crowd hushes as Will lines up his third and final go. Future? Big Sam? I said the crowd hushes."

  Crack!

  "Ooh, big one! But Peter survives. After the bombs drop there will only be cockroaches and Peter's conker. What a specimen! Now it's Peter's turn. A reminder that Conkers has been played on these islands for thousands of years. Some say Stonehenge was built to host the country's first tournament. Then, as now, light cheating was allowed. Vinegar. Slow-baking the conkers." Someone called something out. "If that's Henri saying the horse chestnut isn't native to Britain, jab him in the ribs." There followed a loud 'ow!' "I happen to know that we exported the horse chestnut to Europe and then took it back a few thousand years later. It was merely out on loan."

  Peter was listening to me babble. "Should I strike now or - ?"

  "Yes! Stop timewasting! Boo!"

  He decided to copy Will's technique of shortening the shoelace. It helped you get more accuracy but less power, and when you got a good contact - "Ow!" he cried, as the hard nut flew around and into his knuckles.

  He frowned. Why were we playing this stupid game? His hands were far too cold to be taking impacts. "Oh no," I said, in a baby voice. "Peter got an ouchie."

  He gritted his teeth and took his second and third shots.

  "Ooh, do I see a bit of a buckle there?" I said, stepping closer. Johnny, the groundsman, had been aghast when I told him I'd be using the pitch to host the final. I felt the floodlights and the early evening mist would add to the sense of drama; Johnny claimed there would be bits of conker in the weaves of the artificial grass forever. That was a good point but we had compromised. He had put down a big sheet to collect the broken pieces. "Yes! There's a big crack in Peter's conker. Will! Look! Hit it there!" William lined up his first shot and hit the target. A visible chunk of Peter's conker flew off. "Yerrssssss! And now the death blow! Death! Blow! Death! Blow!" I whipped the crowd up until their bloodlust was enough to join in the chant.

  William, under pressure, missed the target.

  "The hell was that? Boo! Focus! Use the force. The spirits of the ancient druids are watching. Don't let them down."

  William's third shot obliterated Peter's conker. A cheer rose up.

  There was a handshake and a polite exchange of 'well dones' before I lifted Will's hand and displayed him to the onlookers.

  Before the celebrations had even started to die down, Johnny Planter and his staff were rolling up the sheet, carefully making sure no bits of foreign material got into the precious crevices.

  "There you have it," I said. "William the Conkerer defeats Peter the Great! Thrilling. Will, you win one therapy session with your unqualified manager. Can we get four or five physios to look at Peter's ouchie, please? Thanks to Johnny and his team for collecting the horse chestnuts, thanks to the under twelves for turning them into conkers, thanks to everyone who took part in the tournament. There are nibbles, drinks, mini-games. Have a wander around, mingle, talk to someone you've never met before. All right? Is it too early to say Merry Christmas? Ah, whatevs. Merry Christmas!"

  The crowd replied "Merry Christmas," and made a beeline for the mini-games or the tables laden with white wine, as per their age and inclination. I handed the microphone to a volunteer and walked off. William came with me. We were going to have a quick chat in the Sin Bin before rejoining the party, but there were a couple of people I needed to talk to first in case they left early.

  ***

  "Dazza," I said, and the big boofhead turned around. He was, surprise, surprise, surrounded by women. These included Meghan, Sarah Greene, and Kisi.

  "G'day boss. Champ," he added, nodding at Wibbers. Will barely noticed; he was eyeing the ladies.

  I said, "Well, Darren. I'll just say that it's good you don't play Conkers for a living. You are hot garbage."

  "Fair dinkum, boss. Never played before but it was fun to give it a burl. Picked out a proper cactus, didn't I?"

  "Mmm," I said. I thought he was complaining about the conker he had taken from the bag, but he could have been saying anything. "Maybe let's talk about football. I got your recent data. Number goes up."

  He was pleased. "Anything in particular?"

  "You know the specifics don't matter," I said. "You're doing great and I like your approach. I'm almost tempted to stop throwing spiders at you."

  His eyebrows shot up. "The data's that good?"

  "Yep. We're gonna get offers for you in the summer and you could probably skip League One and go straight to the Championship. Where's your head at right now?"

  He frowned, but only for a moment. "You're asking coz my decision could change what you do this transfer window."

  "Right." If he was likely to leave in the summer, along with Foquita and Henri, the only senior striker I would have on the books would be Tom Westwood and he wasn't League One quality. If Dazza was thinking about leaving, I could get ahead of the problem by signing someone like Lucas Cook, the Exit Triallist I'd sent to Tranmere, who could get some minutes as a backup for the rest of this season and be one of the two starters next.

  "What do you want?" he said, stepping away from his admirers and speaking more softly.

  "Erm..." If we sold Dazza this summer, I'd make the money make more money. If we kept him, that was good too. What would be best for his career? "It depends how you go in the Champ. If your numbers are bad at the start and the manager loses faith you might be on the sidelines for a while, but you'll be at a high level with great facilities. If you stay with us it's more of a slow and steady rise. More of a sure thing but with much less money."

  "Which one's going to get me playing for my country?"

  I glanced at William. The England selectors hadn't shown any interest in him. "If your lot are as lazy as ours, they're not looking in the lower leagues for players. They're definitely looking in the Championship."

  Dazza looked to my right. "What would you do, Will?"

  Will looked at me. "What would you do, boss?"

  I shrugged. "If my main goal was to play for Oz, I'd stay here another season. I'd keep building my technical base, keep adding bits to my game. When I get my chance in the famous baggy green shell suit, I'm taking it and keeping it. And I wouldn't even ask for a raise this coming summer, to prove just how determined I was."

  Will nodded. "I asked Henri to double my rent because I love the grind that much."

  Dazza laughed and high-fived Will. "Reckon I'll stay if you'll have me. I'd be a right conker if I left while I was having so much apples."

  I inhaled. "Will, did you hear that? Having so much apples?"

  "Yes, boss."

  I shook my head. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm hallucinating half of it."

  ***

  I found Peter in conversation with Physio Dean and Livia. "Max," complained Peter. "They are making fun of me." He smiled and rubbed his hand. "That really hurt! It's like being hit by a stone."

  A quick rub of my upper lip hid a smile. "We'll toughen you up by the next tournament. And if you practise hard, you might be able to hit a stationary target from six inches away."

  "I won't be participating in this tournament again. I didn't know what I was agreeing to."

  "Yep yep yep," I said. "Only problem with that theory is that you'll spend the next eleven months thinking about conkers, wondering if you could have done it better. You'll come up with plans and strategies."

  "There is no strategy! It's all about which chestnut you pick from the hat."

  "Is it? Ah, that's interesting. Isn't that interesting, William?"

  Will nodded. "Yes, boss. Very interesting that he would think that."

  The four English people kept a straight face while Peter tried to work out what we meant. I clapped my hands together. "You need some glue wine. Pascal's dad made a batch."

  "Glühwein?" said Peter, perking up. "Authentic German recipe?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Probably. Come and try." There was a little queue and, unforgivably, I cut in. "Sorry, everyone! Legit doing some work."

  "Boo!" cried Zach, who was lining up patiently next to Brooke, who was all wrapped up in coats, gloves, and a cute hat.

  "If you want special treatment," I said, "don't get knocked out in the first round of the tournament!"

  "My conker was bad."

  Will said, with a suspiciously innocent expression, "You have to nut harder."

  "No," I said, pushing him away. "You go to the back of the line for that. Awful." I pushed him away but he came right back. "Can I have a quick word in a second, Brooke? I'll be over there with my glue wine. Guten abend, Herr Bochum!" I said, in a flawless Mancunian accent.

  "How many?" said Pascal's dad.

  "Three, please."

  He ladled three big blobs into paper cups and the finalists and I moved away, took a sip, and let out simultaneous 'ahhs'. Peter smiled. "Sehr gut gemacht."

  "We had this at the digs last year," said William. "What is it?"

  "Mulled wine," I said. "Warms you up on a cold winter's evening. Makes everything ten percent more Christmassy."

  I took a contented look around. Emma and Gemma were over there being besties. Benny and his dad, Chester legend Nice One, were talking to Ben and Sharky. Jill and Smasho were with some of the players who had moved to Saltney's women's team. Angel was talking animatedly to Sophie and Henri while Luisa watched the younger woman's every move like a hawk. Pete, one of our chefs, was walking around with a plate of nibbles and explaining what they were.

  Ryan Jack and Ruth came towards us. Ryan looked worried. Ruth, like Brooke, was tucked into some warm winter clothes in extremely pleasing fashion. "Gaffer," said Ryan. "Bad news. Heard from me sources that Weller's going to Bradford."

  "Fuck," said William.

  "How much?" I said.

  "Two forty."

  "Gazumped again," I said, cheerily. I took another sip. "Peter, this is my new transfer team. You know Ryan. Have you met Ruth? She runs the UK's fastest growing sports agency."

  "Transfer team?" said Peter.

  "I thought about what you said and yeah, deals are only going to get more and more complicated and clubs are going to wind me up more and more. Ryan is charming and patient, Ruth is charming and patient and menacing. I'll tell them who I'm interested in, give them a budget range, let them at it."

  "Oh," said Peter. "I didn't think you'd listen."

  "Why would you think that?" I said, taking another sip. It was good stuff.

  "Everyone said you're stubborn as hell."

  "Who? Name names. I'll batter them!"

  William scratched his head. His agent was half of my transfer team. "Ruth doesn't work for Chester, does she?"

  "No. She'll be something like an outside consultant. The club will pay her a flat fee per deal. I'll have to explain it on a podcast and there will be some grumbling but not much, I don't think. People want transfers. They don't want to hear that I botched a deal and put another club on my shit list." So Weller had gone to join Bradford. My first thought was for Aff. I had got the impression Folke Wester was happy with the Irishman's performances. Then again, it didn't really matter what Wester thought. Chip Star was top of the league and clearly he had successfully petitioned Daddy for more of a war chest. "Bradford aren't going to be in for another left-mid so we should be able to get our second target. I'll text you some names. Hey, Ruth, can you - as sweetly as possible, please - ask Mateo about Lucas Cook? If he'd sell, what sort of price would we be looking at? Tell him I'm worried the Foquita deal will fall through at the last minute."

  "What?" said William. "How can it? No way!"

  Ruth gave Will a strange look. To me, she said, "I'm always sweet, Max. Aren't I, Ryan?"

  Ryan thought about it. "You smile as you're delivering the bad news. Does that count?"

  Zach and Brooke came over. "Bad news?" said Brooke.

  "Nothing to worry about." I sipped the hot wine. "Just Chip being Chip."

  "Yeah," Brooke said. "He does that. Max, people are lovin’ this. The atmosphere, spending time together, exploring the tables and what's in the bar. People are saying we should do a Christmas market. German style with cabins and beer tents and Christmas lights, someone dressed as Father Christmax."

  "A Christmas market, here? Yes, please," said Ruth.

  "Love it," I said. "Who will I delegate that task to, do you think?"

  Brooke smiled. "Peter gets things done."

  "Yeah, he does. Peter, who should I give this task to?"

  "I think I am expected to say Brooke?"

  "Amazing choice! Brooke, you are in charge of next year's Christmas market. Er, quick little thing." I handed my wine to William, but there was only a bit left so I took it back, downed it, and gave him the cup. He slid his cup into mine. "Team work!" I said, then coughed slightly as the spices tickled my throat. "Worr, that one got me. Amazing stuff. Okay, Brooke, I know you're taking a vacation so I won't see you before Christmas." I fumbled in my pockets and realised my hands were proper cold. I found what I was looking for - a simple piece of paper. "In recent times I've been told I'm a terrible negotiator."

  Peter said, "By whom? Name names! I'll have a stern word with them!"

  I smiled. "I'm actually not bad, I think. If it's another football club that cares about their employees, it's easy. It's just a question of what's best for the player and what's a fee we can both agree on. Simples. Most football clubs, though, you call them and as soon as you say you want a player it's like you've landed them in episode 7 of The Traitors. They're trying to play 6D chess with a 2D brain."

  I paused to enjoy what I'd just said.

  William said, "Sorry, what's the topic?"

  "Yeah, got confusing, didn't I? Simple version: Brooke, I got you a Christmas present." I was about to hand the paper over but decided a little more ceremony was in order. "I want to give you a raise and you more than deserve it. I plan to put you on Gemma money within two years. I know that's still a big drop from what you're used to." Brooke rolled her eyes; I continued. "But for now, this is the best I can do."

  I offered the paper. She handed her drink to Zach; he was already reaching out to take it. Brooke opened the paper and looked as puzzled as her carefully-inexpressive face ever got. All that was written there was a pound sign followed by a five-digit number. "What...?"

  "They will sell you Biccy for that price."

  Her face did cartwheels, which was impressive for at least two reasons. "Biscotti? They say they wouldn't ever..."

  "They will. Bosh. Merry Christmas."

  She threw herself at me and treated me to the vibrations of a happy cry.

  Peter said, "Biscotti?"

  "It's a pony," I said.

  Brooke peeled herself away from me and looked at the paper, not even trying to hide her delight. "How did you do it?"

  "Simple," I said, seriously. "Carrot and stick. Carrot, loads of money. Stick, agree to sell or I'll come back with 500 hooligans and we'll trash the place."

  Brooke looked like a little girl when she smiled and said, "No! Tell me!"

  I smiled. "I told them that all this - " I waved my finger around - "Is you. Told them about Chester Chatters, the dentist - is he here? We invited him, right? Just said it's Christmas and that's the time of year I decide who's been naughty and who's been nice."

  Peter said, "You make a list and check it twice."

  "No, mate," I said, fake annoyed. "I don't check because I don't make mistakes. Anyway, they agreed that Brooke deserved to have the opportunity to buy the pony at a sickening mark-up. I'm honestly not sure if it was my charm that sealed the deal or if they want to put in another swimming pool or what."

  Brooke shook her head as the first tiny tear started to form. "I didn't think... I'm astonished. But if I buy Biccy I can go, Max. I can go somewhere warm. Aren't you worried?"

  I turned to the left where Pascal's father was already coming to the end of his glue wine. Who knew free, warming, delicious alcohol would be such a hit? Behind him, spread out all the way to the penalty box on the 3G, were parents of kids in the youth system, first teamers, the women. There were some cliques but a fair amount of mingling. It felt like a Christmas market even if there were no lights, decorations, music, or cute wooden huts. Steam was coming out of everyone's mouths as they joked and laughed and huddled together. "Don't know, Brooke. It's pretty warm here."

  "Yeah, it is," she said, wiping her eyes.

  "Guys," I said, looking from Ruth to Ryan to Zach via Peter and William. "That is the Christmas present equivalent of scoring from 60 yards, all right? Watch and learn." I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warm glow of smugness. It was tastier and spicier than any alcohol. "Hmm. We should have done that with the camera crew here. Black and white filter, acoustic version of an 80s classic, put that on the socials and make everyone's parents cry. Give the gift of Chester this Christmas. Buy your loved ones tickets for Notts County."

  "Well done, Max," said Ruth. It seemed like a comment on the gift, not on the advert idea.

  "Yeah, amazing," said Ryan. "Hats off."

  I mimed doffing my cap to him. "Last thing. Peter, will you give me the gift of being my assistant manager tomorrow?"

  "In the FA Youth Cup against West Ham United? I would love to."

  "Yesss!" hissed William, pulling his fist down. Peter's eyes widened; I was thrilled. No way was he getting genuine outbursts of enthusiasm from the young stars at Bayern.

  "William. Time for some therapy!"

  ***

  I checked the time. I was 21 XP short of affording the Relationism module and while I was hyper about it, I knew there was no point rushing to get it. Our next match was tomorrow evening in the Youth Cup and I would, at most, use Relationism for two minutes at the end just to see how it all worked. Whether I bought it now or in a few hours made no difference, and at 7 p.m. a bunch of randos would come to Bumpers to use the pitch and I would watch them for 21 minutes.

  It was hard to concentrate on our discussion, though, with a giant box of amazingness vibrating gently under the Christmas tree. Mum said I couldn't open it until tomorrow night. Not fair! The other boys got to open one present a day early!

  "Will, did your parents make you wait to open your pressies or did they let you have one early?"

  We were in the Sin Bin and I was clicking around on my laptop. Wibbers was in the middle of the white table, directly in front of the TV. I was to the side, as I had been when I had outfoxed Angel. After I had convinced Jackie not to use her for the rest of the calendar year, she had whispered, 'Well played.' What a good sport she was. Shame I wasn't finished showing her who was boss.

  William said, "We get one early, yeah. But it's never one of the good ones."

  "You were dead impatient. An impossible little brat."

  "Nah, I was all right, gaffer, honest. When I was little they said you get the pressies on Christmas morning. Yeah I ran around the house making a racket until they woke up, but it didn't occur to me to, like, ask for it even earlier. That was Adam."

  "Your brother's impatient?"

  "To say the least. He's a pest. On Christmas Eve they let him open one. A new jumper. Box of chocolates. Some book."

  "Ah, that reminds me. The charity wants to do a new project."

  "Which charity?"

  "Ours. The Chester one. The one that technically owns Bumpers. It's Brooke, really, but with more and more volunteers. I basically just let them get on with it. Brooke's intern, Kian, found out about this thing they do in Germany where football players go to schools to encourage kids to read. Kids who read are better at sports, apparently, and communicate better and so on. I was thinking we could do it together."

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. That's a good division of skills. I'll do some weird, mad stuff, and you'll tell them you like Striker! by Steve Bruce or The Lightning Thief."

  "Why?"

  "I'm in an anti-gammon mood, Will. This will get attention, right, the first time we go. I'll be like, here are five books that the Daily Mail doesn't want you to read! And you'll be like that's nice but I like ones with a story and cool pictures." He pulled a face I saw a lot - smile plus frown equals can't tell if you're joking. I said, "I'll get what I want but we will also achieve our mission of getting kids to stop looking at screens. Win-win. Love it. Okay, let's do some video analysis. Sound the irony klaxon!"

  Will sat up. A lot of the younger players were the same - they loved when a coach took them through game scenarios on the screen, especially when it involved the players themselves.

  Alex, our sports psychologist, had been working with Will and one of Will's issues was some uncertainty about how he was supposed to think when on the pitch. They'd agreed that Will should ask me to do some video sessions with him and I was totes into it. The theme of the first half of the season was getting deeper than pure numbers, right?

  My approach to these video sessions was 'a little but often', so we mostly watched one clip of him and he talked me through what he was thinking, and he chose a clip of me and I talked him through my process. The sessions had already led to one pop in his Decisions score so they were having some impact though I knew better than to think I'd contributed more than the last little fraction of a percent.

  Although there was a party going on outside, the West Ham match was of paramount importance and missing ten minutes of gawping at women wasn't going to do him any harm.

  "Before we look at the clips," I said, rummaging in my pockets for a Post-It. "I thought we could quickly go over some things we've learned this season so far."

  "Sure," he said. He leaned back, relaxed.

  "Are you happy with the technical feedback you're getting? Your charts, your physical stats?"

  "We don't get much. I keep an eye on them but I'm trying not to let the numbers tell me what to do, like you said. Are you happy with my data?"

  I smiled. He was slightly unusual in asking questions like that. Pascal did. Dan did. Most of the others had a more fearful approach and I had to work hard to coax their feelings out of them.

  "Yes," I said. "You are right on track. Next topic. Alex Short. Are you finding those sessions useful?"

  "Definitely. Sometimes when I get angry I think about talking to him and that's enough."

  I nodded. "I know exactly what you mean; I'm the same. Do you talk to him anyway?"

  "Not about that thing, no."

  "Might be good," I mused. "Even if you're over it. Could have a quick chat about your triggers; get ahead of it."

  "Okay."

  I tapped the table. "When we met you were a bit of a hothead, weren't you? You're way better now but as you get more profile, like against Newcastle or what you're going to do tomorrow, teams are going to think up plans against you. Double-marking, snide challenges, guys pinching you, calling your mum, all kinds of shit. Getting angry's fine if you channel it."

  "Like you did against Bolton."

  "Yeah, that's pretty much ideal, I reckon." I smiled. "Can't promise to react like that every time. I know I'm going to go full smashy-smashy one day."

  Will tilted his head and put a finger to his jaw. "How about you get ahead of it by talking to Alex?"

  "Sarky bastard," I said. "But I will if you will."

  "Deal," he said, reaching forward. We shook on it.

  I returned to the Post-It and went down one bullet point. "Are you still putting your money away like we talked about?"

  He nodded urgently. "Yes! Want to check?"

  "No, I don't want to check. Never let anyone see your bank account, mate. That's yours. Anyone who starts asking, that's a red flag. You get me?"

  "Yes."

  "Biggest problem for you, from what I've heard about what goes on in the Prem, is going to be so-called friends sponging off you. That's why you put that 10 percent away, right? You need to finish this career rich and stay rich. If you want to take some mates to Ibiza and pay for everything, yeah, okay. But if you do it once and they expect you to do it again the next year, bin them off."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "I don't have that kind of money."

  "You will. Need to watch out for leeches and bloodsuckers."

  "My mates aren't like that."

  "They'd better not be because I'll Brig anyone who starts taking liberties."

  Will smiled. "What if I'm at Man City?"

  I shrugged. "Depends how much I sold you for and whether you demanded a move ten minutes before the transfer deadline."

  "Are you still thinking of loaning me to a club in a higher league?"

  "Yep."

  "I said it to loads of people and they think you're crazy. They say you're a wizard but not a miracle worker."

  "Well, that kind of negativity is a topic we could get into one day, mate. You and I can do things those people can't. Do you get me? If you go round thinking about all the things you can't do, you'll never do anything."

  "But how would it work?"

  I smiled. "Okay, here's one example from, conservatively, a billion ideas I've already had. We win the league this year. We win the league next year. I'm pretty good at this management lark but I think we need a consolidation year in the Championship before we go up to the Prem. If we went straight through we would be the least prepared team of all time and we would get absolutely pummelled. The first year in the Champ you and Youngster would still be learning. I think it would be fine to keep you that year. The second year, though. You wouldn't learn much, would you? You need to be in the Prem that year. Playing for who? There's often a team that scrapes into Europe, isn't there? They've got the Premier League, the FA Cup, AOK Cup, and the Europa League. Potentially over 70 matches. Say it's Brentford. They don't want to buy five new players, do they? What if it's their only season with European football? They bought five players they don't need and they're paying huge money over four years. Oops! But I've just spoken to that lovely Max Best and he's given me an idea..."

  Wibbers smiled. "Loan me and Youngster for that season. Brentford aren't committed to a long-term deal but they get a couple of extra bodies."

  I beamed. "And you get some Prem experience, some European exposure. Not loads, no, but that's better than retreading old ground in the Championship. Mate, the concept is foolproof. No-one can possibly argue this isn't realistic, plausible, shit - even necessary. As always, I'm ahead of the game. Max Best one, naysayers nil."

  Will shook his head with a smile. My idea had logic... on paper. "It could work," he said, diplomatically.

  "Whatever happens, I'm going to loan you to a so-called bigger club for at least a month just to establish dominance over those who doubt me. You okay with that?"

  He smiled. "Yes, boss. Can I ask a squad-building question?"

  "Yes."

  "How fucked are we?"

  "Because we didn't get Weller? Zero percent fucked."

  "The lads are worried there will be another Raffi Brown transfer twist."

  "There won't be," I said. "We can win the league with the squad we've got. No-one has a release clause. Nothing can go wrong."

  He looked worried. "What if the twist is that Foquita doesn't come?"

  I scoffed. "That's the twist, all right. But the twist isn't what you think."

  "What?"

  "The twist is... he's already here."

  "He's in England?"

  "Yep. He's doing tourist things with his girlfriend and then she'll go back to Peru. They'll be coming to The Happening. All right?"

  "All right," he said, smiling. "She's quite fit, isn't she? Exotic."

  "Yes. Don't fall in love with her."

  "I won't if you won't," he said, and extended his hand.

  I didn't take the offer. "Mmmmight not shake on that one, bro," I laughed. "I'm only human. Okay, focus."

  I tapped my keyboard and a video showed on the big telly. We watched three clips in silence. They were remarkably similar.

  In the first, Wibbers was running through on goal on the left-half of the D. The goalie was rushing out. Wibbers had a few choices of what to do but didn't like any of them so he turned away from goal and passed to Dazza. The ball wasn't in his stride so he ended up flubbing the shot.

  In the second, Sarah Greene was through in an almost identical position. She chipped the goalie.

  In the third, Sarah Greene was through, faked a chip, and dribbled around the goalie before rolling the ball into the net.

  I went back to the first clip and played it slowly, pausing at William's moment of decision.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Yeah, I wanted to run around the keeper but the defender there is really fast. I wasn't sure he wouldn't tackle me."

  I nodded. Made sense. "What about the chip?"

  Wibbers got up and walked to the screen. He used his finger to show the flight of the ball. His fingertip went up and curved towards the top left of the goal. "Chip goes here, over the keeper. I felt he would get a hand to it."

  I nodded towards the other side of the goal. "Could you have put it there?"

  "Normally yeah but... look... well, you can't see it but the ball's not in the right place. It looks it, but it's not. If I tried to wrap my foot around it I would have tripped myself up."

  "I know exactly what you mean," I said. "What about rolling the ball wide? Put some spin on it, bends round the keeper, easy. I love a slow-motion goal. It's even more of a fuck-you than a thunderbastard, sometimes."

  Wibbers bit his lip. "Not sure. The keepers are so tall. I feel they'll just bend and get the ball and I'll look a dick."

  I leaned back. "Okay. I'm happy with that. You could have been more sympathetic with the pass to Dazza. You know he's not the most technical. But I'm happy with your process."

  The point of the sessions, for me at least, wasn't to tell them what to do but to check they were thinking about their game. Wibbers did little else. "What would you have done?"

  "Erm," I said, scrubbing through Sarah Greene's versions. Both were classy. "Sarah's up against tiny goalies who don't always have amazing agility. It'll be interesting to see if she still chips in that situation in the WSL. Taking it round the keeper here is delicious but as you say, you're careful about doing that against a lightning fast defender. One dummy should take him out, though. As I said, I don't mind your choice but generally speaking I get queasy when you turn away from goal in those situations. It takes all the energy out of the move. If you keep driving towards goal the defenders are frazzled. But if it's me running there instead of Dazza, yeah, fucking pass because that's like an open goal for me, that situation."

  "I know," he smiled. "But you didn't answer my question. Go back to where I'm about to shoot." I did. "What do you do there?"

  "Roll it around him," I said. "Okay, it looks dogshit if the keeper saves it, but he's not going to. Plus you will fry his brain because for the first half a second it looks like you're kicking it miles wide. When he realises his mistake, the ball's past him."

  He looked at the screen very intently and I was convinced he would pop in Decisions again. That would have been an incredible result from a bunch of very quick, fun, sessions. "Can you show me Sarah again?"

  I scrubbed through to Sarah's chip. She was beautifully balanced, no particular evidence of exertion, no doubt that she was going to make the exact contact with the ball that was on her mind. "Gorgeous," I said. "I like watching Kisi dribble. Dani or Sharky in full flight is thrilling. Christian thundering into a tackle makes me want to run through a brick wall. But Sarah's just gorgeous." I sighed happily as I played the clip and half of the next one. I paused just as she sent the keeper onto her arse. "Looks the exact fucking same as the chip but we know she's going to dribble. Look at the balance. The purity of the movement. It's effortless. Sorry, Will. You might be the best player I ever manage but she's my favourite."

  "Mine too," he mumbled.

  "Oh-oh," I said, with a laugh.

  "No, I didn't mean it like that," he lied. "It's just... I was thinking maybe I would ask her to come with me to The Happening." My first thought was of the genetics of their offspring. PA 250, minimum. Wibbers took my silence for disapproval. "No," he said. "Not really. She wouldn't..."

  I closed my laptop, cruelly removing the picture of Sarah from the screen. I pointed to the door. "Go and ask her now."

  "What? No."

  "Go and do it right now and then come back. And get a wiggle on; we've got another clip to watch."

  He had turned even whiter. "What do I say?"

  I groaned in mock exasperation. Thought was the enemy of success. "Say one nice thing about her then ask her to be your date to the thing then say you need to get back to the Sin Bin for your sesh."

  "What if she asks why I left the sesh to ask her out?"

  I exploded and it was only about 10% acting. "She won't! What the fuck kind of thing is that to worry about? Just say I'm on a call, for Christ's sake! Hurry up and do it. Jesus wept."

  "Er," he said, but all of a sudden he zoomed off. He left the door open, the prick, and I got smashed with freezing cold air. I closed it and went over to the space heater and warmed my hands.

  So Steve Weller was going to Bradford. What a pain in the arse transfers were! The heater was feeble but it took the edge off. I sorted my mental database by Decisions, by Technique, by Pace, looking for likely candidates who might be interested in joining Chester. I paid particular attention to guys whose contracts were ending in the summer. They would come at a discount.

  I thought about backup goalies and left-footed midfielders until Wibbers rushed back in. Now that he was on the inside, he remembered to close the door. Funny that.

  "She said she'd think about it!" he said, torn between ecstasy and humiliation. "That's bad, isn't it?"

  "Honestly? Yes. How do you feel?"

  "Um... Okay! She was with Dazza again. Do you think she likes him?"

  I went back to my laptop, opened it, and replayed the clip where Dazza had made a pig's ear of a simple chance to score after great work from Will. "Dazza's nice. He's exotic and he knows where to find antivenoms at short notice." I looked Will in the eye. "But he ain't no WibRob."

  He grinned. "Okay. Let's look at the last clip. It's fun out there."

  "Want to call it quits?"

  "No," he said, pushing his head forward decisively. "I want to learn."

  "Kay. You chose this clip." I brought it up. It was from the recent Crewe match when I was charging around like a maniac to get the ball and the rest of the team went mental along with me. I watched as the mayhem unfolded. "What do you want to know?"

  "Well," he said, choosing his words as carefully as he could given the recent spike in his excitement levels. "This isn't good, is it?"

  "No."

  "And we don't practise running around like headless chickens."

  "We don't."

  "Everyone lost their minds."

  "Yes."

  "Because you did."

  "I think that's right."

  "And because we did Bestball."

  I frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Sorry, Relationism."

  "Yes but what do you mean?"

  Wibbers pointed. "Everyone has left their posts and it's a mad ball of chaos. It's not how the eighteens do it or how 3 R Welsh do it but you said every side would do it different. Right? So this is the Chester men version."

  "Ah," I said, smiling now that I understood. "I think this goal was a one-off. I think that's just me in a frenzy because of little baby... Alex? He's not going to be Alex really, is he? Sandra’s trolling us."

  "What I don't get is that Youngster dropped to cover so it was wild but it was controlled. Someone was still seeing the bigger picture. I think my question is, if this happens again do you want me to go tonto or do you want me giving some control?"

  The door opened and a thousand gallons of ice-cold air blew in, followed by Sarah Greene. She didn't close the door - fucking hell! - but strode forward. "William," she said. "You took me by surprise just now. Yes, I'd like to go to The Happening with you."

  I shot to my feet. "Whoa whoa whoa!" I cried, moving to close the door. When it was closed, I said, "Don't do that. Tell him you'll only go on a date with him if he scores a hat trick against West Ham tomorrow."

  "No," she said. "He's fit and kind and he's amazing."

  I spread my arms wide. "Can I get some fucking teamwork here, please? I need to win that match and William's my secret weapon. I've been lurking in the shadows for thousands of years creating the perfect combinations of bloodlines that will lead to the birth of the kwisatz haderach. The prophecy says you will know him by the way he coats his conkers with nail varnish. Behold!" I said, pointing to Will.

  "I didn't use nail varnish," he said. "I'm just the best at Conkers."

  Sarah said, "Max, I can't deal with your weird movie fantasies right now." She looked at the screen and smiled. "That's my favourite goal of yours, I think. You actually did a selfless thing for once. Bye, William," she said, giving him a blast of eye contact. She shoots, she scores! She makes it look so easy!

  "Um, bye."

  She had her fingers wrapped around the door handle when she turned back. "You don't have to score a hat trick tomorrow, William." She smiled. "Two will be just fine."

  ***

  Tuesday, December 16

  FA Youth Cup 3rd round: West Ham United versus Chester

  We rode Sealbiscuit down to London and pulled into the Rush Green stadium, part of the Irons' academy setup and also where their women played. The pitch was nice and there was a chunky stand but it was sparsely populated; apart from the parents of the players and a few die hard fans there wasn't much interest in the arrival of tiny little Chester.

  The lack of interest got under my skin and so did their manager. The guy was a former Hammer - by the way, how moronic to have two nicknames for one club? Make up your fucking mind - and he didn't give the Blues the respect we deserved. He came up to me about ten minutes before kick off and, flanked by about a dozen support staff, he tried to do some mind games on me, the manager of the Seals. Peter hovered behind in an attempt to avoid the usual chat about Dieter.

  The curse told me the guy was called Sam Norman. It didn't tell me that he was full of himself, but I didn't need help seeing that. "Are you Chester? Shame you didn't bring your women's team."

  "Why's that?" I said, dryly. I wanted to get pissed off, to make our victory even more enjoyable.

  "Nicer to look at, aren't they?"

  One of Norman's minions said, "They might give us more of a game, too. Look at that gangly little..." He was going to say 'freak', in reference to Chas Fungrieve. "Looks like a baby giraffe on ice."

  They chuckled at that but I got a good jab in by hitting the prick where it hurt - his ego. "I'm Max, by the way. And you are?"

  Slap! That one hurt. So you played in the Premier League? Think you're famous? You're not, mate. Norman switched tack pretty quickly, trying to beat me at my own game. "Sam Norman. I played against Chester when I was coming up," said the guy. "Tried really hard, they did. I'm glad to see you're doing okay. Big day for you this, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, this is bigger than when we played Slovakia or Newcastle. I think meeting you will be the highlight of the kids' careers, Greg."

  "Sam."

  "Sam, yeah. That's what I said. Have you finished? Can I get on with dumping you out of the cup now?"

  "Dumping me...?" He couldn't believe what I'd said. "You had a decent result against Charlton but this is West Ham, lad. This is the original academy of football. We're going to teach you how to play, all right?"

  "Thing is, Sam, Chelsea beat us last season in the Battle of Stamford Bridge but you're no Chelsea. You don't have a single player who would get in my team." That was a bit of an exaggeration but there are times a half-truth is truer than the truth. West Ham's average, in a very Chester-like 4-1-4-1, CA was 33. That was a smidge lower than Chelsea's 37 but West Ham's average was flatter. They didn't have big stars and competed on teamwork and graft. I mean, lol. We had that plus Dan and Wibbers. Our 4-3-3 gave us an average of 41.6. Stupendous!

  As for Norman himself, he was awful. Low in coaching, scouting, and tactics. Being a former player was a bonus but not in itself a qualification for a position in a football club.

  I had Triple Captain and Bench Boost in reserve but I was so confident that, despite Norman's jibes, I wasn't seriously tempted to use them.

  "My advice," I said, as Sam and his staff mocked me in various ways, "is that you stay quiet in your technical area and if you behave yourself I won't take the piss after the match. You can call yourself the Academy of Football if you want, but today you're getting a lesson from the School of Slaps. Good? Seeya."

  Peter scurried after me. "Fucking hell, Max! What is wrong with you? This is West Ham. You can't seriously think you'll win. He'll be the one taking the piss. I wouldn't have come if I'd known you would embarrass me."

  You know that feeling when you've had an amazing nap and you go up or down the staircase and there's one more or one less step than you expected? I had it then. I led him onto the pitch where we would be visible but where we could talk without being overheard.

  "Peter, what? What are you talking about? We can't beat West Ham? They're... Look, they're fine. Honestly, stepping back, I like them. 4-1-4-1, team work, work rate. Morale is high. They seem like a good bunch. But they don't have any stardust. We will win easily. Easily, mate. Haven't you been paying attention?"

  For the first time since I met him, he showed visible displeasure. "I understand you have to project an image in front of the players, the coaches, the fans, to give them belief and sell your bonds. But not with me, Max. Not here. Look around. This is a spare stadium that West Ham own. These young men have been scouted and tested and run through the fires and the flames, year after year. Your young players don't have internal competition; you don't release the weak. William is good. Dan has moments where he looks pretty. Most of your players you brought from the sixth tier. This will be a walkover. Please be real with me. With me, Max."

  I looked around and wondered what he was seeing, what he was reacting to. It could only be the badge. The name. That was a weakness, wasn't it? If you grew up in the Bayern Munich ecosystem you couldn't envisage being beaten by Leverkusen or Union Berlin, or God forbid, 1860 Munich. Was that something to do with why he'd faked his career-ending injury? He was only good enough to play for the second-ranked clubs. Like 3 R Welsh's motto, he had chosen death before dishonour. I couldn't hate him for it, but that wasn't my way. "I'll be honest with you, Peter. You're going to see something extraordinary today. You're going to see my sixth tier lads crush a Premier League side. William the Conkerer and the Norman Conquest. That's what you're going to see and honestly I'm surprised that you're surprised. But let me use that to my advantage, okay? I think your granddad wants you to come and play for me."

  "Play?" he said, astonished.

  "Yeah, I was wrong when I thought it was about teaching you to be a manager. It might be that, too, but for now it's about playing. This is last-chance saloon for your career. Join me as player-coach and I'll take everything you know about football and smash it like a conker. Dieter Bauer is ancient history. This is the age of Best. Chesterness, Bestball, player-manager, glorious chaos, and the only certainty is that it's better to be on the inside laughing than on the outside mocking."

  He was eyeing me like I was mental. "Join Chester? How would that work?"

  "The usual way. You quit your job and start here in January."

  "Quit Bayern?"

  "Here's the deal. We're going to win today and that's going to be so shocking you're going to be forced to go deeper. Everyone at Chester has been going deeper this season. Dazza, Zach, Kisi, Jackie, me, everyone. It's fucking hard but if it was easy, everyone would do it." I set my jaw. That hadn't been a good speech. Not even slightly. I pointed a finger up in his general direction. "One last thing. Never doubt my players again."

  With that, I strode off to the dressing room to give the speech of a lifetime.

  ***

  To: DB

  From: PB

  Subject: West Ham United (Part One)

  Dear Opi,

  A very strange match today!

  It started with me accidentally triggering Max. Recently, I called him a bad negotiator and he changed his org chart, giving responsibility to people more suited to the role. I told him the warm ups weren't activating the players properly and he listened and decided to change the method across all teams at all ages. But when I suggested his team might not win against their much more storied opponents, he became furious! Never doubt my players, he growled. Batman was never so dreadful. I didn't want to go into the dressing room in case he used my doubts to inspire the youngsters so I sat in the dugout and watched.

  We played 4-3-3 against West Ham's 4-1-4-1. Their home advantage lasted two minutes. Fungrieve, the young man who scored his first senior goal when I was the manager, won a header, Wibbers ran onto it and had an easy pass to Benny, but instead of setting up his mate, Wibbers dinked the ball over the keeper. One-nil! Great finish, as cool as a cucumber.

  Max went ballistic, demanding Wibbers come to the side to get berated.

  'What?' said the young man. 'I scored.'

  'Don't give me that shit,' said Best. 'You know what you fucking did.'

  'I fucking scored! It's the point of the game.'

  'I should fucking sub you off right now. I'd rather lose than watch that trash. That's abysmal. What am I even doing here? We've all come down to watch the Wibbers show, have we? You gonna walk up the cameras going who else, why always me? Is that it? All those fucking sessions and it comes to this?'

  'Look I made a mistake, okay?'

  'Oh, so now you admit it.'

  Wibbers was madly conflicted. He crouched, almost tearing his hair out, before standing tall. 'Yes. It was stupid. I was thinking of Sarah.'

  Max stopped shouting. He was quiet when he said, 'Sarah's a team player, mate.' He spun his finger around. 'Get back to work.'

  I thought he'd made a misjudgment, a huge misjudgment, in aggravating his best player but the next ten minutes were incredible. Wibbers dominated the match and appeared to be trying to set Benny up with a goal to make up for the one he should have had. But when Wibbers brushed past West Ham's defensive midfielder and spotted that Benny and Chas were being tightly marked, he surged forward and cracked the ball just as he did to my conker.

  It flew, as they say here, top bins.

  The rest of the bench went bananas, the subs ran two yards onto the pitch to dance, the players surrounded Wibbers.

  Max gave him a single thumbs up.

  Finally, with two minutes to go before half time, Wibbers and Dan passed the ball around midfield, Wibbers went for a run (taking half the defence away), Tyson dribbled forward and tried to feed Wibbers for his hat trick goal. It wasn't on so Tyson turned back and the midfield passing continued. It went to the right-sided CM, Noah Harrison, who fizzed the ball diagonally to Wibbers, who was back onside. Now he played the one-two with Tyson and now it worked.

  He was through on goal!

  The keeper saw the danger early and rushed out, leaving himself open to a chip. I know from training that Wibbers loves a chip but while I was looking at the spot I would have hit, I saw movement and the ball was nestling into the net. I think Wibbers passed it along the ground, calm as you like. Almost disappointing in its simplicity, but Max went nuts. He jumped around doing unattractive bunny hops and schoolgirl skips until Wibbers crashed into him. They enjoyed that goal for a reason I could not tell you.

  Three-nil at half time. It's fair to say I was close to speechless.

  Not quite perfectly mute, however. I asked a physio what Max had said before kick off to wind the kids up. "Oh. Er, nothing really. He asked if any of the kids knew anything about 1066. None of them did. He said yeah me neither. He said all right lads, listen up. My favourite tapestry is... Yeah, nah. Just beat them and I'll think of something cool to say in the break. Deal?"

  The half time speech went like this: "Guys let's switch to 4-5-1 for a bit to see if this idiot even notices. Keep your fucking wits about you, okay? Calm intensity. No dicking about and if we've got a three-goal lead or more with ten minutes to go..."

  Captain stood up. "Unleash us, gaffer!"

  Tyson laughed. "Yes, boss. Let's go for it from the off. If it's a disaster we can switch back."

  Max pulled a face. "I'm not sure we can. This isn't like 3 R Welsh, lads. This is important to me, okay? It's important to you, even if you don't know it. You've got to earn the right to have fun. Graft, grind, teamwork, togetherness, and when the clock hits 80, you'll get your reward. Okay?"

  They grafted. They ground. They kept West Ham at bay quite easily, and Banksy only needed to pluck some long shots and desperate crosses from the air.

  With ten minutes to go, Max gave the signal.

  He used his hare-brained scheme, Bestball, in a match against a Premier League academy.

  I'm laughing just thinking about it. It will need a separate email, though. I need to find the words to describe what I saw and how I felt...

  ***

  80 minutes.

  The West Ham lads trained harder, longer, and more scientifically than ours, but in this match they were having to run hard just to stop us overwhelming them. Whenever Wibbers got the ball, six Hammers sprinted back. Our Condition scores were more or less equal. I wanted to make my subs early but the players I subbed off would have been annoyed to miss out on Chester's first ever attempt at Relationism.

  I'd bought the perk, of course, as soon as I had earned the XP needed. I didn't want to wake up to a tempting offer that would have derailed me.

  I had put the work in and learned Relationism to a decent standard without the curse's help. My knowledge was basic, sure, but I had grafted and learned the principles and put them in action. I was pretty proud of what I'd done with 3R and with the eighteens.

  The perk would take the concept to a new level, I was sure, but mostly I needed it to be able to switch back and forth between Relationism and positional play at the speed of thought. I assumed that would be possible but if it wasn't I had probably just wasted seven months of grinding because when would I ever use Relationism for an entire match? The next ten minutes were going to answer a lot of questions.

  I got down on one knee, breathed deeply, exhaled shakily, and chuckled nervously. So much work to get to this point. So many doubts. And what if we lost 4-3 as a result of this? Sam Norman couldn't be the man who killed Relationism in Britain. The world wasn't so cruel.

  It was, though.

  It was exactly the kind of thing that happened ten times a day, as reported gleefully by the Daily Mail. Uppity Woke Brat Gets Arse Handed to Him by Proper Football Man.

  I broke into a cold sweat and thought of Emma. My mum. All the people who were counting on me. Better to stick to positional play forever, earn money, take care of people in the most rational way possible. I tuned everything out. When the match had kicked off, a new toggle had appeared in the top-right corner of my vision. It was the most basic possible button. Left for positional play, right for Relationism. I had mentally jiggled it a couple of times but unlike my other buttons it had a kind of weight that spoke of gravitas and importance. It meant, this is one button you don't press for a quick twenty-second experiment.

  I forced it to the right and it resisted. What! That pissed me off so I struggled against it. Get over there, you worm!

  It clicked into place and...

  And I was in the Relationism module.

  My head felt like it would rip itself apart. The pain was shattering, but it faded away and never came back.

  The players were still lined up in 4-5-1, defending. I looked around my new screen. It bore almost no, ah, relation to the screens I was used to. At first I thought it was almost completely empty but a lot of things had simply been shifted to the background. One such section had the match data. I could make it bigger if I wanted to check the numbers like the possession stats or the match ratings. Along the bottom left I still had some hotkeys and could use Cupid's Arrow or Seal It Up whenever I wanted.

  A mini-map showed where my players were. I was aware that there was an option to change the formation - it was the defensive shape we would assume when we lost the ball. I changed us to 4-3-3, thinking it would be less strenuous for the players, but wondered how to instruct the lads to do a blob. All this time, all this dreaming, but there was no button marked BLOB. Why not? I fretted for a few seconds while West Ham had the ball. Maybe when we got possession the option would show?

  We turned the ball over. No button. I felt my heart sink. What was I supposed to - ?

  Wait.

  As the ball was cycled around midfield, my lads began to drift together on the pitch. On the mini-map a blue outline formed around them. As the lads got closer together, the polygon filled with colour, Chester blue, getting deeper, pulsing slightly.

  I hadn't done it - I had little to no control over what the individual players were doing. This blob was forming organically from the combinations of players on the pitch and what they thought was the right thing to do.

  "Argh!" I cried. "It's happening!"

  Wibbers passed to Dan. Dan turned and passed it to Henk. Henk glided forward for the first time in the match, bypassing a striker who was trying to press him. As Henk moved into the blob, that part of the mini-map turned deeper blue. I tried to drag the blob up the mini-map, mentally pushed it to the left.

  Nope. It wasn't for me to control.

  Henk passed to Noah and continued a forward run. Captain moved to the base of the blob, Lucas Friend stayed outside, ten yards to the left, covering any potential breaks while being a safe passing option. The three strikers moved in and out as they wished.

  Noah passed to Jamie, who played it to Chas. Chas touched it back to Jamie and made a sideways run.

  ONE TWO!

  The words, in a funky font, appeared on the left of my vision, got bigger, shook, and exploded with a very satisfying, crunchy sound effect. The text was replaced by a kind of thermometer graphic - a slim tube with a ball at the end.

  Wibbers passed to Tyson and got the ball back.

  ONE TWO!

  The words appeared, exploded - this time with what sounded like a mermaid's tinkling laughter - and fed the thermometer. It was about half full.

  What would happen when the 'liquid' reached the 'ball' at the end? Something good!

  I scrambled to my feet, or tried to. I fell, turned it into a forward roll, and bounced up, gleeful. "Guys! One-twos! More one-twos!"

  They obeyed. West Ham's players didn't know what the shit was happening so they were either stock still or running around in an uncoordinated mess. Passing around them was child's play.

  Another one-two happened, then another.

  The thermometer thing started shaking. What?

  I knew what to do, though. I clicked on it.

  The graphic shook, got ten times bigger, and exploded in a shower of colour. French horns blasted.

  I felt a rush of joy like I’d scored a goal.

  On the pitch, my players seemed to get faster. They raced up the pitch.

  SUUUURGE! laughed the curse.

  Yes, laughed. It was laughing and so was I. Everything was joyful and hilarious.

  The blob was up on the right of the pitch and West Ham had all their players back. One slid to intercept a pass, took control, but our guys swarmed him and retrieved the ball.

  COUNTER-PRESS yelled some text, and the mood was triumphant.

  RAPID RECOVERY, it screamed, making me clench my fist.

  The words grew, popped, and were replaced by thermometer things.

  Every time a word popped, I got a rush of something. Straight dopamine, it felt like.

  "Fucking imps," I said, cackling. They didn't have a game to base Relationism on so they'd turned my brain into fucking Candy Crush! I'd played it once, briefly, but there were millions of similar games, right? They were always based on colourful balls that you moved around in some tactile way and when you lined them up you made things pop, got a rush of colour, noise, and excitement.

  The Chester lads kept pinging the ball around or rushing to recover it, kept making the meters fill up. When I popped them, I couldn't help but cackle, giggle, snigger. It was all incredibly delightful, and it had effects. Every big pop was like giving my players Bench Boost for ten seconds, and there seemed to be other effects I was too fucking drunk on joy to notice.

  "Max, are you okay?"

  Peter was worried by my insane change in demeanour. I was about to reassure him that I was fine when Dan fizzed a pass to Wibbers, now causing pure panic whenever the ball was anywhere near him. Wibbers let it run through his legs and zoomed off.

  RIVERRRRRRRR!!!

  I laughed and threw my arms around Peter.

  "You're great! You're Peter the Great. I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't be so bossy. You do you and I'm there all the way. Oh." Something had happened. I'd earned enough somethings to generate something. A blue prize rosette appeared and throbbed gently. I could press it. What would it do?

  The first thing it did was give me another dose of liquid football, straight to the brain stem.

  Massive, chunky text flew across my vision.

  BOOOOOOOOST!!!

  Tyson passed to Dan, who rushed out of the blob, dribbled past two players, shaped to shoot, and slid the ball through to the onrushing Wibbers.

  He took the ball around the goalie as beautifully as Sarah Greene, drove forward, paused, rolled the ball away from the goal line.

  Benny gleefully smashed the ball high into the net and jumped into Wibbers.

  "AhahahAHAHAHhahahahHA," I said, running around and slapping myself on the head like a chimp.

  FLAWLESS!

  FLAIR BONUS!

  MORALE CRUSHER BONUS!

  TOUCHLINE ANTICS BONUS!

  HAMMER THE HAMMERS!

  UNIQUE COMBO!

  Every new 'achievement' came with a rosette, and each one made me laugh harder. I wiped the tears from my eyes as, from a vast distance, I spotted West Ham making a change.

  "Fuck," I said, sobering up just about enough to remember I had promises to keep. "Subs! All the subs!"

  Peter rushed to the assistant referee to get those going. What else did I urgently need to do?

  The module toggle. Could I slide the button back to positional play? That was essential information.

  Yes, I could!

  The old screens came up. I switched back and forth a couple more times, just to see if there were any obvious limitations. But how boring and stale the old screens were! Nothing popped, nothing exploded, nothing sparked joy, there were no sound effects.

  I decided it would be better to revert to positional play for the last few minutes. It would be more dignified, classier.

  Or not.

  I lasted five seconds before I got itchy and hit the toggle. I felt better instantly. The colour, the life, the sense of discovery, it was all intoxicating.

  The bonuses I had earned remained despite me switching back and forth between modules. I wondered if I could earn some rosettes in the first half of a match and bank them for the second. What would the point of that be? I wasn't sure, but it felt like it might be cool and funny.

  While Tyson and Benny combined to get me another river point, the maddest thing yet happened.

  In the bottom right of my vision came a giant, friendly cartoon seal wearing a blue-and-white Chester top and white gloves. He was holding a dart and he went through a throwing motion. On the left, I suddenly realised, a large, spinning wheel had appeared - the sort you get in a TV game show. The seal threw the dart at the wheel and it stopped dead. It zoomed in to show me the word written on the top of that segment.

  MEGS

  What? What did that mean?

  For once, the curse explained.

  DO MEGS

  Time was running out. "Wibbers! Dan! Megs! Do nutmegs!"

  They looked at each other, shrugged, and waited. West Ham put together a decent move that was snuffed out when they got too close to our lines. Henk slid the ball forward to Wibbers, who threw a shoulder left and pushed the ball through the legs of the guy to his right as easily as putting on a sock.

  MEEEEGGGGGGGSSSSSSS laughed the curse.

  A red rosette appeared and throbbed gently. Another power-up I could activate manually. Would it carry over to the next match? Of course it wouldn't, but there were only seconds left and West Ham were toast. I left the rosette unclicked, just in case.

  I walked down the touchline, away from everyone else. I didn't know what Sam Norman was going to say about my laughter. I didn't know if Peter would be repulsed or if the outstanding victory meant we had half a chance of bringing him to the club. I didn't know if Relationism was what I wanted it to be.

  I knew one thing, though.

  Football had never been this much fun.

  ***

  End of Book Numbers

  XP balance: 190

  League Two Relative Standings

  1. Bradford +17

  2. Mansfield +13

  3. Carlisle United +13

  4. Cambridge United +10

  5. Fleetwood Town +5

  6. Burton Albion +5

  7. MK Dons +3

  8. Chester

  Team Goals (All Competitons)

  Goals For: 67

  Goals Against: 42

  Top Scorers (All Competitions)

  Best 20

  Lyons 12

  Westwood 7

  Dazza 7

  Green 4

  Fierce 3

  Contreras 3

  OG 3

  Bochum 2

  Hudson 2

  Benny

  Adams

  Tyson

  Fungrieve

  Men's Squad

  Men's Squad Estimated Transfer Value

  10.9m

  (Includes Ben, Eddie, and Sharky.)

  Women's Squad

  vs Bristol City, December 7, 2025

  Monday 17th February.