3.

  Sunday, January 4

  Match 25 of 46: Bradford City versus Chester

  Transcript from Seals Live

  Boggy: Incredible atmosphere at Valley Parade for this must-win game. I'm told there could be over 20,000 here today. Twenty thousand in the fourth tier! The home fans are really behind their team, a team which has slumbered too long. Is the sleeping giant set to awaken? They're top of the league and have a great-looking side. Featuring two former Chester players, of course!

  Spectrum: Three.

  Boggy: That's right. Only two playing today, though. All quite cagey in the opening moments. Bradford content to pass the ball around their back line. No pressure from Chester. Max Best has picked, ah, a rather unusual team. As with the last encounter, he has named himself in the starting eleven.

  [Boggy stops talking so the atmosphere comes through.]

  Listen to that! The away fans more than playing their part, as always.

  Spectrum: They're brilliant.

  Boggy: The ball is moved down the right. The winger doesn't like his options. Back it goes, now over to the left, the Bradford left. Former Chester transfer target Steve Weller gets his first touch as a Bradford City player. Cheers from the home fans, jeers from... well, you can guess. What formation are we doing? Where's Max playing?

  Spectrum: He's not playing where we discussed in the team meeting. He's further forward, although I suppose flexibility was part of the plan.

  Boggy: He hasn't touched the ball yet as far as I can see. Is he in a mood? He's got one of those faces on.

  Spectrum: You can't see his face from here, Boggy.

  Boggy: You don't need to see his face to see his face. Acceleration from Bradford! Through the midfield, clipped towards Brown, Best intercepts. He looks for options... and he boots the ball out of the stadium! He boots the ball towards, I don't know, Leeds!

  Spectrum: I think that way is Sheffield.

  Boggy: What on earth was that all about? Max Best got the ball, glided away from Brown, sped up, turned back towards his own goal and leathered the ball up and away. It's a corner to Bradford City! All their dangerous players are trundling forward and they will have a glorious chance to get ahead!

  [Pause.]

  Spectrum: Okay I think he might be in a mood.

  ***

  ONE HOUR EARLIER

  Bradford City had themselves a megabrain.

  It was the strangest thing but I could almost feel the guy's eyes following every stroke of the pen as I filled out the team sheet. I found I didn't want to talk tactics out loud and was seriously thinking about taking the lads back out to Sealbiscuit to do my team talk on board. I decided against it. That would be too strange and even in the cut-throat world of English football I doubted a team would put microphones or cameras in the away dressing room - the sanctions for being caught would be swift and shocking - but if Bradford had a curse user they wouldn't need to listen in, would they?

  I sat on my part of the bench with my head resting against the wall.

  The stakes were massive. If we lost today, Bradford would go 21 points ahead of us. We still had half the season left but if you're 21 points behind, you're not winning the title.

  If we beat Bradford, we would go 15 points behind with two games in hand. It was tempting to assume those matches would bring us 6 points, closing the gap to 9, but I knew from experience it wouldn't be so easy. For a start, there were still plenty of teams stronger than us. Also, our home pitch was degrading, limiting the quality of the football we'd be able to play for the next couple of months. The Man United cup tie next weekend clashed with our league match against Notts County. We had been able to move that fixture to the middle of March, which came with pros and cons. As always, we would be stronger near the end of the season, but with 7 matches in March and potentially 7 in April, we would have to manage our fatigue levels and any injuries would be costly.

  I had Bradford's match programme open; I skimmed through Folke Wester's latest manager notes. He must have done the same writing course as Jackie Reaper but I wasn't reading for pleasure. Someone at Bradford was playing 4D chess and I was on the hunt for clues as to who.

  Today we are pleased to welcome Chester to the Valley. It will be an exciting match I'm sure and it will be of special interest to Carl, Aff, and Raffi.

  I am happy with our recent performances and our position at the top of the table is well-deserved after the run we have been on.

  We are all keen to kick on in the second half of the season but of course injuries are starting to bite as they always do at this time of year.

  I know the board is keen for us to continue our good form and they will back us as much as they can. I feel we have a fantastic eleven and squad players who can do a job but as a manager you always look to improve and for where we are and where we want to go, that will not come cheap.

  We have identified a few key players who could come in and cement our promotion and we hope to pursue those targets in the January transfer window.

  Meanwhile we must continue to work hard at Woodhouse Grove... and in the medical rooms!

  There followed quite a lengthy discussion of various players and their injuries, how long they would be out for, who was playing with pain-killing injections, who was postponing an operation until more bodies were available.

  I couldn't help but notice that Wester's first eleven weren't mentioned except in the 'playing through pain' category.

  I stood and went to the tactics board. My players shut up.

  "Let's recap. When they played us, Bradford switched from 4-1-4-1 with R. Brown as the DM to 4-4-1-1 with R. Brown as a central attacking midfielder. That formation has stuck and they're having a lot of success with it. R. Brown is getting a lot of goals from late runs into the box, headers from corners, free kicks, whatnot. They're quite a big team overall so if you can give away a throw instead of a corner, do that."

  Brown, thanks to some rest, had recovered from his minor injury and now that he was fully fit, his CA had increased from 78 to 86. Quite good progress for a guy who played every minute that he was available.

  "Youngster, you'll need to be sharp to contain him. You feeling sharp?"

  He grinned. "Yes, boss."

  "What are you as sharp as?"

  "Pardon me?" He looked puzzled but when he realised I wasn't going to repeat myself, he said, "I feel as sharp as a tack?"

  "Attack!" I said. "Weird. I just asked you to defend."

  He lifted his hands in the universal gesture of 'what the hell is going on?' Dazza gave him a friendly shake.

  I continued. "You've been watching the tape from the second half of our previous game. We got surprised, didn't we? There will be no surprises today. We're going to assume they've got tricks up their sleeve, okay? Constant vigilance! They have their new lad starting at left-mid instead of Aff, which I'm not convinced is a good idea."

  Over Christmas and New Year I had been doing a lot of thinking - too much thinking, Emma said - and had been staring and staring at what was available in the perk shop. When I drafted and re-drafted my wishlists, there were the usual things at the top - new attributes, improving Playdar, getting more formations. There were perks that would help me in the transfer market and ones that would let me keep track of the players in all my teams.

  But I had suddenly grown sick of looking at some of the names that had been there longest. I was still reeling from what had happened when I'd used Relationism against West Ham and while I was in this state of minor uncertainty, of not knowing where I wanted to develop my powers next, I decided it was time to buy some of the super-basic perks the imps probably intended me to buy as soon as they became available. They tended to be cheap.

  The first one I bought was called Form. For 500 XP I got a new field on a player profile. It simply showed a player's match rating for the last five games he played.

  Sticky's Form read 6-6-7-6-7 but those sixes meant very different things. The first two came against Crewe and Swindon and showed that he had almost nothing to do in the entire match. The third six represented a genuinely below-average performance against Cambridge. I had to expect some below-average performances, though, didn't I? He had improved to CA 71 but the minimum for a League Two player was 75.

  Henri's Form was 5-9-10-6-7. The 5 came in the drab match against Forest Green - we just couldn't get going. The 9 was a great display against Crewe in which he bagged two goals. The 10 was a crushing display of warrior-poet magnificence against a fairly hapless Swindon backline. The 6 came against Harrogate, I rested him against Cambridge, and the 7 was a fairly poor performance against Accrington in which he boosted his match rating by getting an assist.

  "Steve Weller's form is terrible," I told the lads. "Aff's is great. If I get the chance to move to the right wing I'm going to tear Steve Weller a new one." Tiny grin. "Not that I'm mad he chose to move to Bradford instead of Chester. That's got nothing to do with it."

  That got some chuckles from the lads.

  "They do have guys in good form. Chipper, the prick, is flying. Zach, Christian, on your toes. The guy is just getting back to his best." Chipper had improved to CA 88. Not a huge jump from last time we'd played, but he was playing every minute he wasn't suspended, which, amazingly, wasn't often. "He has been behaving himself better recently. He's still playing slightly over the edge in my opinion, but he isn't trying to get sent off. He's still Chipper, though. Zach, you might want to remind him of that fact."

  "Mental disintegration, gaffer?"

  "Oh, with Chipper that process finished a long time ago. I'm thinking straight up trash talk. Straight up tell him he's shit. Get him a red card and I'll buy you a set of steak knives. Remember, though, don't get sucked into any of their shit. You know they'll be coming after me and I'm ordering you now to let it happen."

  I had been looking forward to seeing Chipper and R. Brown's improvement - Carl Carlile and Aff were maxed out, of course - but I found Bradford's overall progress just as interesting. They had decent training facilities, decent coaches, and, thanks to their winning run, high morale. They were a win-now team under a win-now manager. They did a lot more set piece training than we did, and okay it helped them concede fewer goals and score more, which was not a bad idea overall. But all that time Wester spent on set pieces, I spent on skills. If there was a metric like 'total CA added' I was having one of the all-time great seasons, for sure.

  Wester's gains were much more shallow and were targeted at his most important fifteen or sixteen players. Most of those guys had improved at least a point or two, and with Weller replacing Aff, their average CA against us would be 88.4. That put their first eleven near the top of the division.

  There was a big drop-off to today’s subs, though. Weller to Aff was a 15-point drop. Their CA 90 starting goalie had a CA 66 backup. Their CA 97 and 94 centre back partnership was outstanding but on the bench they had named a guy called Tom Hickman. He was a player I had long admired but after years of neglect he was only up to CA 60. Wester had even named two of the Exit Triallists they had poached from under my nose. I was fairly sure they hadn't been on the bench for any league match, so this was clearly an attempt to wind me up.

  "We all know and love Aff but if this is a tight game, keep in it, stick to your work, and when the subs start happening we will dick them. All right, that's it for now. Let's get warmed up and we'll go over everything one last time before kick off."

  ***

  The starting eleven went out onto the pitch and Peter did his Bayern Munich warm-up drills with us. I was so distracted he kicked me out and told me to 'go for a jog or something'.

  That made the others laugh and I was glad of it. Despite the setback against Cambridge, we were in good spirits. Our average Morale was a very healthy 5.3, just a touch behind Bradford's 5.4.

  I scanned the stadium hoping to spot the megabrain, but the stands were only just starting to fill. Emma and the Brig were in their spots and, of course, Emma was chatting away to some rando she had just met.

  There had to be a megabrain and it was someone who had been at the Deva stadium when we had played Bradford. Someone had turned a three-nil drubbing into a three-all draw. People remarked that Folke Wester had morphed into Max Best, had used my own tricks against me. The comeback had kickstarted Bradford's season.

  Dazza was warming up even though he wasn't in the match day squad. That was a precaution in case one of the eighteen dropped out, and it made his long journey on Sealbiscuit seem slightly less pointless.

  Bradford were doing the same thing with some of the players who weren't in their squad. Some of the guys Wester was saying were too injured to actually play. To a man, there was nothing in their Injuries tab, and they each had Condition 100. The curse said they were fit to play. My neck exploded with tingles.

  "Peter," I said, interrupting the warm up. He hurried over. "I think there might be a late change to Bradford's line up. They'll say someone's hurt himself in the warm up and they'll change things up." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I could see them jiggling things round to a 3-5-2 or even a 3-4-3."

  Peter nodded. "Okay. When I've done this and the media I'll hover around in front of the referee's room so I'll know as soon as the change is made."

  I shook my head. "Fucking amazing. I didn't even think of that."

  He smiled. "That's why you pay me the big bucks."

  He was currently working for free, though he wasn't going to starve; Bayern Munich were still paying his 7,000 pounds per week salary.

  I ran around, noting where the pitch had become slightly worn. Bradford had been having trouble with their surface for years. Their megabrain hadn't found the million pounds it would cost to dig the whole thing up and sort it once and for all.

  The thought cheered me up until I spotted that Chip Star was in his royal box with his latest squeeze. Chip was waving at some Bradford fans. He held up a red, amber, and black scarf to huge applause. I decided I was warm enough. Warm enough to bring the heat. I went inside.

  ***

  With ten minutes to go, I went over the plan once more. The squad and staff were focused. It was going to be a very professional performance, I could feel it.

  "Right. Basic tactical outline. Bradford will attack us. We will repulse their attacks - insert joke about Youngster looking repulsive - and counter at lightning speed. Their defence is very good but it's relatively slow.

  "That's why we're going to do 5-3-2.

  "Sticky in goal." So far so good but with the start of the year being so jam-packed, I hadn't been able to get a new goalie in to replace Ben and that meant young Banksy was my backup. Talent for days but only CA 31. If he was needed today, we were in deep, deep doo-doo.

  "Back four is Cole, Christian, Zach, Lee H." Now that I had sold Eddie Moore, Cole Adams was my best left back. I was using 50 experience points per weekday to boost his training rates via a perk called Secret Sandra and it was already making a difference. He had started the experiment dead level with Josh Owens, but already there was daylight between them. Cole was CA 67, Josh 64. "Lee, remember last time. We warned you about Aff and the new guy is better… in theory. Please be on your toes the whole ninety."

  The implication that he had switched off in the previous match made Lee bristle, but I didn't care about his feelings. He had cost us a win by underestimating Aff and his sloppiness had possibly kept Wester in a job. If Lee let our right side buckle again today I would go mental so it was only fair to tell him my expectations.

  "I'll be the third centre back doing a Peter Bauer impression.

  "Midfield is Youngster dropping back to DM, plus Ryan and Lee C. It'll be hard to get much control so think defensively. Safety first but looking for quick breaks.

  "Forwards are Pascal and Wibbers. Save your energy for those counters. If we get a lead you can drop and support the midfield and we'll play keep ball, but basically I want you right on the defenders, ready for the ball over the top. Stay onside!" On the tactics board I made a 5-3-2 shape, moved the middle CM back one slot, and moved the middle CB up one slot. "A lot of the time it will look like this. Four-two-two-oh-two. But like I said, when I get the chance I'm going to go to the right and fuck up the new kid."

  While Pascal and Wibbers exchanged excited grins, I reflected that our average CA was a mere 80.2. It looked anemic but was actually 9 points better than last time, and would improve when I brought my star strikers on.

  "Any questions?"

  Henri did. "Yes. Will I be going on after ten minutes or fifteen?"

  I rolled my eyes. "I told you. Foquita's first and I want to get to half time before making any changes if that's possible."

  "That's why you have been doing more fitness work than usual."

  "Yeah," I said, vaguely. I had been doing some 4D chess of my own, hadn't I? I had left Foquita out of the Accrington match and mentioned he was injured but only in a social media post from Saltney Town's account. Foquita had hated not playing, as he was hating being a sub for this match. But I had got Camila on the phone and said that beating Bradford was the single most important thing in our season and this was how I wanted to do it. Foquita, of his own volition, had got onto Sealbiscuit on crutches. Folke Wester was in the next room wondering if my new striker was fit or not. He probably suspected I was dicking around but he couldn't be sure, could he?

  "Are you okay, boss?" Vimsy had sidled up to me and was almost whispering.

  I snapped out of my reverie, clapped my hands, filling the room with energy. The time for moves and counter-moves was over. Now it was action. Peter entered and shook his head. I checked the tactics screens. No late change in the lineup for Bradford. Weird.

  "Okay, lads. You know what I want. Win your duels, compete, make it hard for them, and we will fuck them all the way up. Remember, if things get dicey, we only need to hold out until the last fifteen or twenty minutes, right? Our subs will murder them. Oh!" I added, just as Christian opened his mouth to bellow something. I stretched my hands up and out while I turned to look at everyone in the room. "Keep your eyes on a fucking swivel today, lads. These bastards are up to something, I can feel it. Okay? Concen-fucking-tration. CF, they're all yours."

  "Come on you Seals!" yelled my captain, triggering a guttural roar from the others.

  Oh, to have Triple Captain available for this match. Bench Boost, too. I'd already used those perks in the league but only yesterday I'd triggered them in a match between what Dylan called 'Best's Bales' and Cardiff Bluebirds. I'd rotated every single player off and onto the pitch and they had gone tonto. The 7-1 win had been enough to convince Dylan that Wales needed to get on board the Max Best Express and if he was the King, he would send every kid in Wales to me for training. Even if I only got half the kids in north Wales I would make millions. That one use of Bench Boost would potentially pay off to the tune of ten million quid a year in transfer fees!

  I smiled. All it would cost me was five to ten million quid to build a world-class training centre, but one thing at a time, hey?

  ***

  I stayed on the bench for the pre-match rituals. By pretending to be going over some tactics with Peter I was able to skip the handshake rigamarole and hopefully spare the world some of the most tedious headlines in all of sport. Max Best refuses to shake R. Brown's hand! Max Best refuses to shake Steve Weller's hand! Max Best refuses to shake Chipper's hand!

  One last check of the main stand to see if there was someone with a strange profile. A director of sport, perhaps, or a head of performance. No - there was nothing except an older chap who couldn’t believe a hot blonde was interested in what he had to say.

  Either the megabrain was way back in the shadows or it was Chip Star, Folke Wester, or one of the players.

  The match kicked off, Bradford didn’t surge forward, and I realised that with all the fretting about my genius opponent that I hadn't done some very basic checks. Bradford's defenders and their two central midfielders were on make forward runs: no. Their team mentality was set to defensive.

  I narrowed my eyes. Was Folke Wester going to play for a draw? A draw would suit him just fine in terms of keeping Chester at bay, but Mansfield were snapping at their heels in the race for the title. What was the plan? Chester draw against Bradford and beat Mansfield? We hand the title to Chip and Folke?

  That was a dumb hope. Mansfield was going to be our third match in seven days at the end of January. It would make far more sense for me to try to win the first two and throw that one.

  "Max!" called Ryan, as I strolled around not affecting the match whatsoever.

  I stopped thinking about the end of January. What about right now? Bradford weren't going to come at us so our plan to counter-attack wasn't going to work.

  Unless...

  ***

  Boggy: And it's a corner to Bradford City! All their dangerous players are trundling forward and they will have a glorious chance to get ahead!

  [Pause.]

  Spectrum: Okay I think he might be in a mood.

  Boggy: Steve Weller trots across to take the corner. Chester have everyone back in their own six-yard box. Bradford are piling bodies forward. Weller spots the ball. The referee tells him to wait while he deals with some argy-bargy in the box. Looks like Green and Chipper are getting into it. The ref tells them to cut it out. Weller raises a hand. Lots of movement. Er... Chester players are sprinting away from goal. What? Here comes the corner... Whipped in left-footed... Plucked out of the air by Sticky! Chipper collides with him. That looked painful. Young Wilfred Banks is the... Sticky flings the ball to the right. Best is there.

  Spectrum: [Squeaks.] Men over! Men over!

  Boggy: Roberts and Bochum are sprinting, trying to keep up with Best! So is Carl Carlile. Best's, er... A challenge comes in. Best touches the ball square, defender gets a whole chunk of nothing.

  Spectrum: Don't dive in! What an idiot!

  Boggy: The defender has taken himself out of the game. It's three against one! Bradford players streaming back to help Carlile but they've been left for dead by this break. Bochum... forward to Roberts. He slows, waiting for Best to overlap on his left. Best sprinting like a demon! He's in place. Carlile goes to cover the danger man. Roberts... rolls the ball into the goal! [We hear 1,800 individual Chester fans attempt to merge into one giant superbeing through the medium of hugging.] Roberts kept his composure at the end of that sprint and simply passed the ball into the bottom right. Carlile was abandoned, the keeper had no chance. Two minutes gone and Chester are ahead!

  ***

  Shit shit shit!

  That was too easy. Was that part of their plan? Chipper had taken a pop at Sticky. That was an obvious move - knock the experienced guy out, get the kid on, profit. Sticky seemed good to continue for now. Maybe don't give away another corner...

  "Boss!" cried Wibbers. "Was that all right? Are you mad at me?"

  "What for?"

  "I should of passed!"

  I blinked and replayed the move in my head. "Nah, you did it right. I'm just thinking about what next."

  "Okay," he said, flushed, delighted. Why so happy?

  "Wait," I said, slipping out of my state of anxiety. Another perk I'd bought was the third level of a player's profile. The imps called it Nerdlonger. All it did was give me more history on a player's profile. Instead of only being able to see last season's appearances, yellow cards, goals, etc., it extended the data to five years. That would help me with conversations with potential new signings - people liked it when I pretended I'd been scouting them for years.

  Buying the perk led to the final one in that particular chain. For another 500 XP I got all a player's data, including from the current season. It was a lot of XP for something I didn't really need, but it was almost all worth it just for this moment.

  William's profile showed me this was his first goal for the seniors this season. He'd scored loads for the youth team and seemed to hit the post or crossbar every match.

  "Was that your first of the season, mate?"

  "Yeah," he grinned. Clearly it was a monkey off his back.

  "The fuck?" I laughed. "Benny has a first-team goal! Tyson has a first-team goal!"

  He tutted. "In the Cheshire Cup."

  "Ahhhhh," I went, as I wrapped my arms around him. "You deserve it. You've worked hard and you've been patient. Well in, mate."

  He had been working hard. He had hit CA 70 and the change from a 6 at the front to a 7 really made him feel dangerous. I had used him sparingly, twenty minutes here, a half there. Now he was CA 70 and scoring against the league leaders two months before he turned 18. Surely he was going to be my greatest achievement? My ultimate gift to the world?

  We crossed half way just as the referee was getting angsty, and Bradford resumed with grim determination etched onto their faces. I didn't like it. I brought us back into a low block for a few minutes waiting to see how that early goal would bite us on the arse.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  If anything happened, it was too subtle for me to notice so I slowly, carefully, reverted to our original plan. Stay compact, stay cautious, look to hit them on the break. The plan would work even better now that we were ahead, since Bradford would have to come at us and leave gaps.

  Unless that was what they wanted us to think?

  I commanded everyone to fall into a defensive posture again. Parked the bus.

  Time crawled by while I patrolled the space in front of Zach and Christian. Youngster stuck tight to R. Brown.

  Then my legs told me I needed to go right.

  ***

  Boggy: Steve Weller is having a tough debut against Lee Hudson. Hudson seems fired up. There's another big tackle! The ball rolls to Best, who has popped up over on the right. He points left. Wants to hit one of his booming long diagonals. Bochum isn't moving. Best is taking too long on the ball! Weller is back up, challenges...

  Spectrum: Megs!

  Boggy: [Tries to stifle a laugh.] That's why Bochum didn't - oh, another nutmeg! Best put the ball through Weller's legs, waited for him to turn around, then did it again! Weller, I'm sorry to say, is having a stinker and Best is not helping.

  Spectrum: That was the first smile from Max today. I think he enjoyed it.

  Boggy: One man who didn't - Chipper. He was steaming over to the right to get involved but Best had already given the ball to Contreras. There is, how can I put it, a full and frank exchange of views going on between Best and his former player.

  Spectrum: Max wouldn't normally get involved with that - no, don't laugh - but I think they're targeting Chipper as a potential red card.

  Boggy: [Drily.] I wonder why. Chester keeping the ball well, but they're still trying to entice Bradford forward.

  Spectrum: This is interesting, Boggy. Bradford's back four are quite deep, aren't they?

  Boggy: Yes. That's to prevent another counter-attack like the one that led to the goal?'

  Spectrum: Exactly. And our back four are even deeper. So the amount of space from line to line is huge. Much more than you normally get and that suits us to a tee. We're far more technical and you can see Wibbers and Pascal are more than comfortable coming back to make triangles. Bradford will have to do something because they won't get the ball off us the way they're set up.

  Boggy: So interesting. And if they compress the space, that simply gives us the option to hit balls over the top?

  Spectrum: Ten out of ten, Boggy. Their best chance to get at us leads to our best chance to score another. Max is playing 4D chess today.

  Boggy: Wow. I like the sound of that.

  ***

  My main involvement in the match was offering myself as a passing option and first-timing the ball to a teammate. We were able to keep the ball for long stretches and when Bradford got a tackle in, we were content to let them pass the ball around in front of us. They seemed reluctant to use their left flank - Weller was having a proper 4 out of 10 nightmare debut.

  Lol.

  The third and final old-school perk I had bought was Match Stats 3: Action Zones. All it did was give me a simple graphic showing what percentage of the match was being played in certain areas. The part of the pitch we were attacking had seen 3% of the action - almost all of which must have been the goal.

  Our defensive third was home to 36% of the action, which would make it seem like we were being crushed. Nothing could be further from the truth. The remaining 61% had happened in the midfield.

  Not exactly thrilling information but it had only cost 300 XP and might prove useful one day. Plus removing it from the list made the perk shop seem less cluttered and overwhelming.

  The match was going just as I had planned - better than I had planned in some ways, and I started to enjoy it. Macro-management could wait till half time. For now I was free to focus on the ball, the next pass, the next layoff, the next recovery sprint.

  Glorious minutes passed without me thinking about megabrains. I lost myself in the controlled chaos. Sure, I took extra relish in beating R. Brown to a loose ball, openly laughed as Zach beat Chipper to a header, and just as Bradford's back line was sneaking higher I pinged a ball over for Wibbers to chase. He could have had a long shot but dribbled and tried to square to Pascal. The CA 97 defender slid and blocked the pass - really good player, him. Smart, too. He gave up on pushing forward and we resumed our sterile domination of midfield where we effectively had six players - me, Youngster, Ryan, Lee C, plus Wibbers and Pascal.

  The half threatened to peter out - I wouldn't have minded - but then something happened that briefly made me forget the match situation. It was related to the monthly perk that had dropped earlier that morning.

  New perk available this month: Happy New Yie-Ar

  Cost: 1,000 XP

  Effects: For a ten-minute period (of your choosing) per match, one-twos are slightly easier to perform.

  The name of the perk led me down a rabbit hole of research into an old-school arcade beat-em-up called Yie-Ar Kung Fu. I presumed 80s beat-em-ups were fresh in the imps' minds because I'd been talking about Double Dragon to Dylan. Yie-Ar Kung Fu was a precursor to Double Dragon, but I couldn't find any link between it and football except for the name. Yie-Ar seemed to be a unique (AKA wrong) way to write 'Yi-Er' - the Chinese Mandarin for one-two.

  Despite my reservations about the name, I bought it almost straight away. Why? First, these in-game boosts were handy, even if they tended to be marginal in effect. Second, it was very clearly aimed at improving Relationism. Third, even if I played positional football, one-twos were quite common (or they were the way I wanted my teams to play). Fourth, if I used this perk in conjunction with Cupid's Arrow, on the same two players, wouldn't that provide a double dose of extra connection?

  So just before the half hour mark in the Bradford match, and with my energy reserves still seemingly decent, I decided to try it.

  I used Cupid's Arrow to connect Wibbers and Pascal. I further blasted them with Happy New One-Two. I slapped Seal It Up to give us some defensive solidity while I pushed forward.

  And then came the opposition megabrain!

  My timers on these perks didn't stop counting down when there was an injury delay or the floodlights went out. Ten minutes meant ten minutes and fifteen minutes meant fifteen minutes.

  All of a sudden, Bradford players were falling to the turf all over the shop, including their big tough centre back, and not one of them was really hurt. How do I know? The curse, mate.

  I was getting angry until I realised - that's what they want. They know I'm using the perks, they know this will get under my skin, they know I'll explode.

  While the latest pathetic exhibition was going on, I sat cross-legged and pinched my thumb and index fingers together. "Hom," I said, almost instantly entering a state of complete inner peace.

  "Fuck you, you fucking ugly prick!" This was Chipper, attempting to prevent me from achieving zen. "Think you're fucking funny? I'll wipe that smile off your face."

  I winked at him and said, "Hommm."

  His eye started twitching and I laughed, but while I was down there I was going through my screens and saw something utterly bonkers.

  When I tried clicking 'Bestball: yes' on Wibbers and Pascal... it worked! It went yes and stayed yes.

  I shot to my feet and ran around, not zen. "Attack!" I yelled. "Attack!"

  "What's going on?" said Carl Carlile.

  "You're gonna get dicked," said Wibbers.

  The match restarted and it took thirty agonising seconds for us to get the ball. The timer on the 1-2 perk was down to the last three minutes. Lee C got the ball and dabbed it to Ryan. He looked to chip over the top but felt me thundering past him. Pascal and Wibbers made strange moves and I changed course. Ryan played a pass towards me. I ran over the ball. Wibbers was in line behind it. He did an exaggerated shake n bake move and also let the ball run between his legs. He peeled to his left, Chester's right, moving diagonally. Pascal was third in the river. He touched the ball into Will's path. Will chipped it over the top, first time, to where I was still storming ahead.

  The ball bounced awkwardly on a bare part of the pitch and with a frustrated grunt I had to let go of the idea of hitting it first time.

  I pushed the ball diagonally to the right, away from their superb defender, but since I was tired and had been swapping stamina for technique, I touched the ball far too hard.

  The keeper scampered out and looked favourite to get there, but by leaning back I was able to flick my foot out and gently scoop it over him.

  It dribbled towards the goal - the defender was going to get there - they arrived on the goal line at the same time - in his off-balance attempt to clear the danger, he only managed to boot the ball high into the roof of the net.

  I ran to the away end, my eyes bursting out of my head. The greatest move in the history of history. The team goal to end all team goals! Wibbers and Pascal competed to be the one to jump onto my back (meaning I got clobbered by both of them).

  The Chester fans were pure limbs. The goal was a complete sensation, the sound a wild cacophony.

  In the middle of the din... frantic, repeated whistling.

  I closed my eyes and saw...

  Bradford City 0 Chester 1

  The commentary told the tale - the goal had been disallowed for offside.

  The curse knew, and so did every player on the pitch, that I had timed my run to perfection.

  I sank to the turf and rolled onto my back, mentally commanding the others to get back into a low block.

  It took me twenty seconds to come to terms with the injustice of it all. The world had been denied an all-time classic goal because the linesman was inept. Fuck sake.

  I clambered to one knee, then got up. I was spent but there was less than ten minutes to go until half time. If I could hold on till then, I'd be able to see what Bradford's megabrain had in store for me.

  I walked back to the DM slot and lazily helped Youngster tidy up. He didn't leave much of a mess, the selfish bastard.

  Despite the anxiety of not being able to crack Bradford's secrets, despite the enormity of the situation and the stakes, I found myself strolling around with a big grin on my face.

  Youngster was a football hoover, effortlessly patrolling a huge section of any pitch. Wibbers and Pascal were smart, brave, and their talent was blossoming. Somehow the curse allowed me to use Relationism with them while keeping to a positional play structure. Maybe it was because of my new perk and I would be able to do the same with any pair, but I had the feeling it was not something that would work on just anyone.

  And as if I didn't have enough young talents to boast about, in the second half I would unleash Foquita onto an unsuspecting public.

  Heh. You can take your 4D chess and shove it up your -

  As I played a simple first-time pass out to Cole on the left, I felt a dagger strike me in the calf.

  I folded up and crashed backwards. Everything went white briefly and I saw Chipper loom over me, giving me a barrage of abuse. I didn't hear a word, but got the message.

  Mayhem ensued as Zach piled in, pushing the Welshman away from me.

  Oh, Zach, I thought. You're going to let him off the hook.

  But off the hook for what? I read the commentary and it seemed that as I'd passed with my right foot, Chipper had gone in hard and hit my standing heel. If he'd hit the heel, why had my calf felt it?

  Yeah. That didn't sound good.

  Physio Dean was soon with me, doing his preliminary tests.

  I felt a strange peace descend over me.

  For a start, one part of the enemy's plan had been revealed. Injure me, yes, but do it before half time so that I would have to make a sub. In making a sub I would show my hand for the second half and Folke - or the megabrain - would be able to concoct a solution.

  Well, that one was easily dealt with. I would go off and we would simply play with ten men for the rest of the half.

  I turned my head and saw that both Chipper and Zach were getting yellow cards. Jesus, Zach. Just stay out of it and it's a clear red for Chipper!

  After a moment, I decided I wasn't really mad. You can't do nothing while someone does snide shit to your best player. It actually felt good that my players cared so much.

  Another reason for my sense of peace was that the chessboard I played on had split into three. One board showed moves I'd made long in the past, the other moves I was yet to make. Taking an enemy piece on any board removed them from all boards. I was slaughtering everyone.

  In my imagination I picked up a pawn and with a gentle boop on his head, turned him into a king. And then another boop to downgrade him to a knight. No need to go crazy.

  With another blink I killed another thousand enemy pawns. Even if I was only badly bruised, there was no way I would be able to play against Manchester United. Crying about it would delight Chipper. Complaining would make his entire year, maybe his entire miserable life. I had a crystal clear vision of me on the touchline at Old Trafford, stripped and ready to play. Telling the assistant referee that I was ready to go on... Before having a last-second change of heart to give my spot in the team to... To someone else.

  What a moment! What generosity from Chester's player-manager! We all know he was a boyhood United fan but he loves his players so much he'd rather they have this magical moment than him...

  Everyone’s second-favourite team. The premier destination for talented young players.

  "Dean," I said, happily. "Pull me up."

  To my relief, I was able to walk off under my own steam. Obviously the impact site hurt like hell but to Chipper, to the rest of the world, even to Dean there was absolutely no indication of any lasting damage. "Max," said Dean, as we neared the touchline. "I think I'd like to take you for a scan."

  "Erm," I said. "Nah."

  "But - "

  I gave him a big smile as I put my hands on his shoulders. "Mate. I'm fine. If I'm not, I'll tell you. Okay? Now do you mind if I do my job? We need to win this."

  "Right right right," he said, stepping off the pitch as the referee assaulted us with whistles. Apparently the prick wasn't happy with the speed at which I was departing. I thought about giving him an earful - he had handled that sequence like a rank amateur - but he could still make my life miserable in the second half.

  "Dean, stay here, please. Peter, we're not subbing anyone on. All out defence until half time. Make sure no-one goes looking for revenge, especially not one of our centre-backs. Magnus, can you come and be my bodyguard, please?"

  "Yes, boss," said three guys.

  I strolled down the tunnel with Magnus by my side.

  ***

  In the dressing room I tutted and sighed. "I think he got me pretty bad, Magnus."

  "It looked bad."

  "Right, look. I need you to keep this quiet for now. Please? It's important. I'm going to have a quick shower and you'll help me get dressed if I can't bend or whatever."

  "Let me look at you first."

  I shook my head. “I need to be dressed by the time the lads get in here. No-one can know if I'm injured or not. Okay? I'm not asking you to lie because I know you hate that. If anyone asks, you say you don't know if I'm injured. Which is true because neither do I. I can see you're going to complain. Listen, just help me for a couple of minutes and I'll explain more."

  I was able to bend and get my boots off but there was already a nasty swelling around my achilles. Magnus swore under his breath.

  I showered quickly, dried myself off, and got most of the way dressed without help. Magnus had to help with my left sock. "Ow, you dick," I said, snapping. "Sorry." I ended up grinning. "Fucking Chipper. What a colossal arsehole."

  "You said you would explain why we are keeping this secret."

  "Okay," I said, leaning forward as he helped me into a nice, soft trainer. "I think I can use this to get Peter Bauer to join us permanently."

  "Oh!" he said. I think he had been expecting something more along the revenge line. "That would be good."

  "Yes. We're going to bring him into this conspiracy, okay? I haven't thought the whole thing through but there has to be a way. Er, yeah. I've got other ideas, too, but they only work if people think I'm fit to play against United. It's all good stuff, mate. I'm going to spread joy and happiness."

  He was trying to soulgaze me, which is what normal people call 'seeing if I was telling the truth'. "I'm still a physio here. I'm supposed to look after you."

  I smiled and got my phone from my bag. "Can you check the corridor, please?" He did and gave me a thumbs-up. I dialled Mateo; he picked up instantly.

  "Fucking hell, Max! I'm watching on TV. Chipper did a number on you. Are you all right?"

  "Not sure. Listen, we've got United in a week. I need people to think I'm fit and that means hiding this from my medical team." Magnus bristled but I smiled at him and did a slow 'calm down' wave. "But obviously I'm not stupid and I need to get checked out. Can you get your top man to do a scan on me? I'll be there a couple of hours after this finishes."

  "A secret scan?" he scoffed. "Get your own people to do it!"

  "Mateo! If Bradford know they've hurt me, they're throwing a party tonight. Is that what you want?" I felt him waver and pressed home my advantage. "I'm cooking up a scam. A caper of legend. It could very well end up with me bringing Tranmere Rovers its most famous manager of all time."

  "You?"

  "Dream on," I said. "But how about... Peter Bauer?"

  "You're joking."

  "It goes from being zero percent chance to some percent chance. Five years from now maybe."

  "I could wait for a name like that."

  "Right. Now stop being difficult and set up a clandestine meeting at a deserted clinic. Thank you." I hung up and closed my eyes for a few seconds. This thing was going to start hurting, wasn't it? "Should I take a painkiller? Anti-inflammatory?"

  "No," said Magnus. "They'll interfere with the tendon's healing process. I'll tell you about relative rest later. Basically you bring your activity level down to the point it doesn't hurt. And I'll give you a lift for your heel that will help your fibres knit back together."

  I nodded. "Sounds easy enough."

  He frowned. "It'll be easy to disguise that you aren't training properly because you almost never join in. It's like you planned for this years ago."

  "That's called 4D chess. What do you reckon for this injury? Days? Months?"

  "If it's simple tendonitis... six weeks. Of course with you - "

  I got a twinge of panic. "Don't tell Peter I heal fast!"

  Magnus frowned but the rest of the team came in and I got back into manager mode. We were still leading one-nil and I had a lot of decisions to make.

  ***

  When the lads came in and asked how I was doing, I laughed off talk of injury, saying I felt fine (mostly true) and that I hadn’t made an instant sub because I didn’t want to make life easy for Folke Wester (extremely true). We had our usual quiet debrief while I waited for the megabrain to make his move.

  The most obvious change was to replace the inept Steve Weller with Aff. Go back to the team that had been on a long winning streak. That would weaken Bradford in terms of CA but CA wasn't everything.

  How would I respond? Foquita to replace me was the starting point.

  When I'd seen him in the World Cup he had been CA 99. Since then he had only improved slightly - I suspected he had hit a soft cap caused by his club's training facilities or the standard of the league - but at CA 102 he was hilariously overpowered for the league and my first triple-digit player.

  I went to him, bent, felt a twinge of pain, stood, got him to stand. "Are you ready?"

  "Ready, si."

  "Muy bien. Henri, what's mission in Spanish?"

  "Misión."

  "Wow! My Spanish is great. Foquita. Tu misión es gols. Gols gols gols. Mucho gols."

  He nodded seriously. "Si, jefe." He added another couple of sentences too fast for the English ear to process.

  Henri helped out. "He said he thinks I should go on ahead of him."

  "No he didn't."

  Henri said, "Do you want to know what mission is in French?"

  "Nah, I'm good, thanks." I went over to Magnus. "You good to play?"

  He thought about it. "Yes, jefe."

  I laughed. "Not sure about this jefe thing." I walked to the tactics board and thought about formations for a few minutes. 4-2-3-1 wasn't optimal because I didn't have three CAMs, but I could deform it to have two CAMs and two strikers. The front four could be Wibbers and Pascal, Henri and Foquita. Decent!

  Another option was a simple 4-4-2. Pascal could go left mid with Andrew Harrison or Bark right mid. I wanted Andrew to replace Ryan Jack at some point, though.

  My heel throbbed. I made the mistake of glancing at Dean - he narrowed his eyes. I overcompensated with a big smile and a double thumbs-up.

  Just as I was starting to fret that Wester wasn't going to make any changes, he did.

  My paranoia kicked into maximum overdrive.

  What the actual hell was I looking at?

  Peter came over. "Bad news?"

  "Hmm? Don't think so. Let me just see if any team news is leaking." I got my phone out and opened Bluesky. I pretended to scroll around for half a minute. "Kay. The rumour is that he's taking Chipper and their best centre back off."

  "What?" Peter tried to look at my phone but all he saw was a cat in a small cardboard box. "That's crazy. Or... Chipper's on a yellow card. The CB had a slight knock."

  "Mmm," I said. "Sensible. But he's bringing on Tom Hickman and the striker will be this guy I spotted at the Exit Trials. He's fast but..." I checked his profile. The extra stats were helpful. "Yeah, this will be his debut. Hickman has played a few cup games and come on as a sub five times in the league. This is... a capitulation." I pulled on my lip. "Or is it? What's going on?"

  "The internet must be wrong," said Peter.

  "Oh, it is," I said. "But not about this. Fuck! What the shit is happening?"

  Peter's watch beeped. Two minutes to go. "We need to decide what to do."

  I scoffed. "I mean, all-out attack. Fuck them up. But maybe that's the trap."

  "How can it be a trap?"

  I sighed. The headache from the 4D chess was worse than having a thirteen stone Welshman smack into one square inch of my heel. "Four-three-three? No, fuck it. Three-five-two. Cole can slide to left mid... Bark right. Henri and Foquita up top. Take Ryan and Wibbers off."

  "On it," he said, rushing to tell the assistant ref of our subs.

  The changes would bring our average CA to 82.8 while Bradford's fell below 80, but more pertinently Foquita (102) would be up against Tom Hickman (60). It would surely be the biggest mis-match of the entire season, narrowly behind a CA 30 Exit Triallist playing against Christian Fierce (89).

  What was Wester thinking?

  ***

  The second half was a strange kind of agony, and I don't mean whatever was wrong with my foot.

  I kept waiting for the hammer blow to fall and every minute that it didn't made me even more nervous. I micro-managed Pascal and Youngster's positions to a ludicrous extent, giving us more defensive structure while creating a new triangle in attack.

  Our three-man defence was untroubled, Youngster stuck to R. Brown, Weller continued to stink the place up.

  Meanwhile...

  ***

  Boggy: Chester stroking the ball around midfield with relative ease. Bochum is playing deeper this half. Seems to be more or less an orthodox midfielder?

  Spectrum: That's partly right, but when we have the ball he's pushing forward into CAM. Out of possession, Youngster is dropping to DM while Pascal reverts to the CM role. It's very interesting, that. I haven't seen us do it quite so fluidly. I'm not sure what Max is worried about - Bradford are offering nothing this half.

  Boggy: It's on the right with Bark, one of our key January signings. 75,000 pounds for the man from Tranmere. Happy to have him back, Spectrum?

  Spectrum: Very happy. He gives us good natural width and Max is a big fan of his technical qualities.

  Boggy: He's very tidy on the ball. It has gone over to the left where Cole Adams is perhaps not as suited to midfield as Josh Owens.

  Spectrum: Josh will come on if we stick to this shape. Cole is fine, though, and his height is always useful.

  Boggy: I have to say the atmosphere is very strange, all of a sudden. The air has been sucked out of the stadium by those half-time changes. Bradford look incredibly diminished and the home fans can sense it. The ball's back with Bark. One criticism of him in his loan spell was a certain shyness. But he takes on his man and beats him! That was smooth! He's racing down the line. Looks up. Lots of movement in the box. Bark shapes to cross... He's overhit it! No, wait -

  [Crowd roars.]

  Spectrum: [Squeaking.] Foquita what have you done?!

  [Roar continues.]

  Boggy: Goal for Chester! The cross from Bark was hit hard but too far, too high. Foquita, the new signing, the man Best believes will have a long and storied career, leapt! He leapt! Angled his body, contorted his neck. Somehow as he was diving away he got enough purchase on the ball to nod it down, across goal, under the keeper's legs. It was incredible! He has scored on his debut! He runs to the nearest camera, grips it, gives it a kiss. Jubilation on the Chester bench... Except for Max Best. He looks worried.

  Spectrum: They say two-nil is the most dangerous scoreline. He might be thinking about a possible comeback.

  Boggy: Bradford have come back from two goals down four times this year, three times in this stadium. Can they do it again?

  [Long pause.]

  Spectrum: No.

  ***

  With an hour gone, I swapped Lee H for Magnus.

  I gave Lee a hug and wouldn't let go until he laughed. All is forgiven when you win.

  No! We haven't won yet! Concentrate!

  ***

  Boggy: Good play from Bradford and the ball is slipped to Brown at the edge of the area. He shapes to shoot... Blocked by Youngster. He slid in just in time, got his leg in the way. The ball's rebounded... to Bark. First time to Contreras. Forward to Lyons. First time to Bark. Instant reply to Lyons! Amazing play! Lyons slips the ball forward... Foquitaaaaaaaaa!

  [Roar.]

  Two goals on his debut! Henri Lyons slipped the ball between two defenders and the Peruvian sensation was onto it in a flash. No hesitation - clinical finish into the bottom left of the goal. That was stupendously good football from Chester! This is a statement. This is a statement. Could we? We could!

  Bradford fans are leaving!

  Spectrum: And booing.

  Boggy: Some are booing as they're leaving. Can't beat a bit of multi-tasking.

  ***

  On 70 minutes the action areas were so distorted it seemed like we were doing an attack versus defence drill. I swapped Cole for Josh Owens. If Bradford somehow came at us, I had players like Josh and Magnus who could let me switch to a back four.

  The thought didn't bring me any comfort.

  ***

  Boggy: Good tackle to prevent Bochum from breaking clear. Josh Owens will take the throw. He hurls it long, down the line! Bradford weren't ready. Lyons chases it. He has a head start on Carlile. Lyons clips the ball left-footed to Foquita. He holds it up, turns, lays it off to Bark. Quality forward play! Bark drills it low. Foquita is there for the hat-trick! Incredible save! Partially cleared. Bochum on the follow-up... Draws the defenders, rolls it left, Lyons sweeps it into the net!

  [Disbelieving roar.]

  It's four-nil to Chester!

  The boos from the home fans are deafening. What are they chanting?

  Spectrum: I can't quite make it out. They want someone out. Honestly, that's wild. They're top of the league! You're allowed one blip. Especially against Chester. Everyone knows we can beat anyone on our day.

  ***

  Four-nil, I mused. Away. To my fiercest rivals. The league leaders.

  Folke Wester was fuming. Behind him on the bench, Aff looked grim. Chipper was seething.

  Fake fake fake.

  I brought everyone back into a low block, defensive mindset. Run down the clock. No comeback for you!

  Bradford huffed and puffed but kept running into blind alleys. The curse had upgraded Steve Weller to five out of ten, but that rating was shared by Tom Hickman and the poor striker. R. Brown had won enough headers to bump his score up to six. Carl Carlile had stuck to his task and was on seven.

  The Bradford fans were chanting at Chip Star. 'Chequebook out! Chequebook out!' That one overlapped with a rousing chorus of 'Spend some fucking money!' And finally, one guy with a supremely loud voice, during a rare lull yelled 'Stop buying fucking Chester rejects you stupid twat!'

  Chip wasn't there. He'd vanished shortly after the second goal.

  I realised I was getting distracted by what the fans were doing and concentrated intently on the pitch until the final whistle blew. Even then I waited to check there wasn’t some crazy twist in the tale like the ref insisting we replay the last five minutes.

  "Peter," I said, and was surprised to find that he wasn’t next to me; he had rushed onto the pitch to celebrate. "Mate," I called out. He rushed back, flushed with pleasure. I cracked a smile. "I'm in a mood," I said, though seeing his joy was helping with that. "Can you do the post-match?"

  "Sure. What do you want me to say?"

  I waved. "Whatever the first question is, suggest that in Germany a tackle such as Chipper’s would be reviewed on video and punished with a long ban.”

  “He got a yellow card so they can’t review it.”

  “They can,” I said. “The yellow was for beefing with Zach not for the tackle. Just put that out there. Whatever the second question is, say you want to talk about our lads. Then go through them one by one saying how good they were. If they interrupt, say that's an interesting question then go back to exactly where you were."

  He laughed and some eruption of joy made him throw his arms around me. "You don't like the media, do you Max?"

  "Sure, as a fan, as a reader. As me, no thanks."

  He stepped back and wagged his finger. "You'll have to deal with a lot more than the pre- and post-match when you're manager of a big club."

  I eyed him and as I spoke, he laughed again and joined in. "Chester is a big club."

  ***

  I hung around in the dressing room for a while. The home club is required to provide food for the away team and my lads were going to scran up before hitting Sealbiscuit. I wasn't hungry but was simply waiting for the Brig to give me the go-ahead to leave. With Emma, Peter, and Magnus, it would be a cosy car, but so much the better.

  The home fans departing early in their droves helped. The Brig gave the green light half an hour ahead of schedule.

  I had one last chat with every player, including Dazza, Dan, and Tom, who had travelled just in case we needed them, and done so with good cheer. I knew it wouldn't always be like that so I was extra charming with them. Tom was in the best mood of the three.

  "I was a bit put out you were shipping me on loan again," he said. "But now I've seen Foquita in action, I get it. He's different gravy."

  "He is," I said, before adding, with utmost seriousness, "but you've got something he will never have."

  "What's that?"

  I tapped him on the chest. "A Welsh third division winner's medal."

  He cracked up. "Thanks, boss. Feel much better now. How's your, you know, foot?"

  "Pristine," I said, truthfully. It's not like he specified which one.

  ***

  The outskirts of the stadium weren't quite as empty as we’d hoped and I pulled my hoodie all the way down so no-one would recognise me.

  While the Brig patiently waited for the police to let us leave, I checked my experience points.

  XP balance: 1,336

  Not bad considering I'd bought four perks since the turn of the year.

  I liked my new toys. The extra player profile stats were long overdue and had already proven useful. The match action percentages were a tool to measure the 'eye test' of how I thought a match was going against reality. And the 1-2 perk had triggered something wonderful - a brief flurry of Relationism within the structures of positional play. More - much more - testing was needed on that one, but our next match was against a certain Manchester United and I doubted I would be doing mad experiments in front of 76,000 people.

  When we were clear of the unhappy home fans, I swore everyone in the car to secrecy and fessed up that my heel might be more injured than I was letting on. I lied about the likely prognosis, saying I wouldn't be surprised if I was out for three months. That was intended to get Peter into the mindset where he would stay at Chester longer, but I assured Emma it wouldn't be as bad as my previous injuries; I would be able to walk and drive and wouldn't be a grumpy prick.

  "That remains to be seen," mumbled someone from the back of the car. Not sure who, but it wasn't Peter or Magnus.

  "You were in a strange mood today, sir," said the Brig, causing me to launch into an examination of all my doubts from before and during the match.

  I started with Folke Wester's match programme and his hints that he had some transfer targets. I told them about the injured players who weren't actually injured. I skipped over the way Bradford knew I was using perks with a timer and explained my theory that Chipper's assault on me was timed to make me reveal my plans for the second half. I noted the way Wester had seemed to almost go out of his way to make Steve Weller, Tom Hickman, and the Exit Trial striker look shit.

  I told them I had been outplayed and outwitted in some way I didn't understand.

  "Someone's playing 5D chess against me," I mused. "And I don't even know who it is. That's how good they are."

  There was what I thought was an impressed silence from the back of the car, ruined by Emma trying to squash down a laugh. "Babes," she said.

  "What?" I said, pissed.

  "Put your hand up if you know who's playing 5D chess," she said.

  I turned and saw three hands were up in the back. In the front, the Brig's hand was up. "Would you kindly return your grip to the ten-to-two thingy, please?"

  "Very good, sir," he said, lips wobbling with amusement.

  I faced the front and tried to work out what it was that everyone else knew. I ended up shaking my head rapidly, getting frustrated. "What letter does his name start with?"

  "M," sniggered Emma.

  "M," I said, softly, triggering another bout of fucking irritating merriment behind me. "Moss Brown," I said. "The idiot father who took R. Brown away from me. For what? A million pounds?" I shook my head. "Scratch that. That makes it sound awesome. I'd fucking abandon me for a million pounds. Can't be Moss. He's pretty basic. M, M, M," I said.

  "Come on!" said Emma, punching my headrest.

  I turned and in a posh, strident voice said, "Do you awfully mind?” I relaxed. “Just tell me."

  "John, pull over. I can't live with this dumbo. I'm going back to Newcastle."

  "Sorry, miss. You know how he gets in clinics. He's either flirting or trying to climb out the windows when he sees a needle."

  "That's true," she said. I heard her shuffle forward. "Max! No-one's playing 5D chess except you! The guy who was sitting next to me today told me that Folke Wester is trying to put pressure on Chip Star to give him money for transfers and he has done it in a way that takes the power away from Chip. Wester wants to be the one who chooses who they buy. Okay?"

  Magnus said, "He made Chip Star's signings look bad and those players who are injured will all miraculously recover on the first of February."

  My head had been spinning all day and now it was spinning harder and in the opposite direction. "So what does that have to do with Chipper fouling me just before half time?"

  Peter chuckled. "That was merely the first time you let anyone get anywhere near you. I think you play the Peter Bauer role rather better than Peter Bauer."

  That left the whole running-down-the-perk-timers thing, but that could have been coincidence. Wester might have told his centre back to go down at least once in the first half as cover for a half-time sub.

  Hmm.

  We drove in silence for about half a minute. I thought back through the day. I had been unusually careful. Seeing ghosts around every corner had made me careful, diligent, and thorough. I'd overprepared, had come up with a sound tactical plan and when it hadn't worked, I've given it something more than a nudge. With every goal we'd scored I'd concentrated harder, hadn't worried about the optics of going defensive for long periods, hadn't cared one jot about what anyone might say about the entertainment value.

  And we'd fucking dicked them.

  "Okay," I said, finally. "Okay I think most of what you've said makes sense. Some of what was happening was random noise, some of it was Folke trying to show that my picks weren't good and that he needed funds to bring in some players of his own. And he's not worried about Chester. If he gets the players he wants, he thinks he'll bosh this league. Yeah, okay." I fussed with the toggles on my hoodie. "But who's their mastermind?"

  The back of the car erupted with complaints and people talking over each other. All I heard were snippets like four-nil, masterclass, title charge, Devon Loch. The Brig laughed out loud. "Emma, call your parents and tell them to put the heating on in your old bedroom; we'll be there in an hour."

  "Hey," I said. I had to smile because everyone else was in such a good mood. I thunked my head back onto the rest and covered my eyes with my fists. "Something's going on," I whined. "I can feel it, just out of reach."

  "If it's out of reach," said Emma, "you can't feel it."

  Magnus had the last word. "Boss, all that's going on is we're going to beat Man United and then we're going to win the league. Okay? Brig, how about some driving music? Peter, what's your favourite band?"

  "Oh," he said, thoughtfully, as my heart started thumping. Had I told Magnus to ask him that? Peter said, "I suppose it's Oasis."

  My heart fell. I was never going to bond with anyone over a band so closely associated with Man City. I closed my eyes... and heard sniggering. I turned and looked at the three people behind me. "You're rinsing me when I'm injured! That's an absolute scandal!"

  "Laughter is the best medicine," said Peter. He smirked. "I can play 4D chess, too, Max."

  "Okay, you got me," I said. "You got me good."

  Peter smiled, pleased with himself, as he turned to look out of the window at the lights of some Yorkshire village. I made eye contact with Magnus. He nodded. He wasn't a bad 4D chess player himself.

  I turned to the front and closed my eyes. Peter was a catch, but so was a versatile player with no apparent ceiling. In getting Magnus to help me seduce Peter, wasn't I also seducing Magnus?

  I felt sure that by the end of January, Peter would be a player-coach, and in the summer, Magnus would extend his contract. I tried to stop myself from smiling too hard.

  My heel was mashed up but I was still scoring mucho, mucho, mucho gols.