9.

  Wednesday, August 18

  EFL Championship Match 4 of 46: Crystal Palace versus Chester

  "And in the driving rain, Makiadi drives it home! Crystal Palace four, Chester nil. Makiadi is the hat trick hero, but will he still be here when the transfer window closes? Or with Newcastle and others circling, is he set for an instant return to the Premier League? If this is his last game for the Eagles, what a way to bow out! And there's Max Best, staring onto the pitch as he has been doing for five minutes or more. He can barely watch as his youthful team are torn apart."

  "Or maybe he's bored, Clive. One eye on next week's Champions League playoff."

  "I wonder what the Chester fans make of it all."

  ***

  I was standing on the far end of our technical area, deep in thought. I had spent a day devouring the apocalyptic content being put out by Celtic fans and had acquired two new favourite words. Pish, which is Scots for piss, and pumpin', meaning a battering.

  As in: Chester were playing pish and Palace were giving us a pumping.

  No real surprise there. Palace were Premier League quality, with an average CA of 153. They also had a fantastic striker, Makiadi, CA 168, PA 174, who was the subject of intense transfer speculation. The rumours were saying he would go for 50 million. The curse suggested he was worth 60. There were two more league games to play before the transfer window slammed shut, but Makiadi wouldn't want to play in those and risk injury, wouldn’t want to endanger his move back to the big time.

  I wondered why his transfer hadn't been arranged long ago. The answer? So the TV companies could enjoy getting a close-up on my face in the pouring rain as the guy padded his stats against my weak and weakened team.

  We had cobbled together a half-decent starting eleven with an average CA of 111.7 Just about Championship quality, but there were too many weak spots. Zach had turned his ankle in the warm-ups, so Tomzilla had started, while Helge, Peter Bauer, and Bark were still below CA 110.

  An early goal from Makiadi made our task virtually impossible, Palace spent the rest of the first half ragdolling us, and about ten minutes ago I had said 'fuck it' and thrown on the kids. Sandra wasn't keen, reminding me that we could get relegated on goal difference, as had happened to Crystal Palace themselves. I told her if that happened I would give her one trillion pounds in cash. In truth, I was thinking ahead to the Youth Cup.

  Onto the Selhurst Park pitch, playing in the stadium where Ted Lasso was filmed, sprinted an 18-year-old, a 17-year-old, and a 16-year-old: Chas Fungrieve (72/83), Dominic Duckham (41/139, a midfielder I had snapped up for ￡400,000), and Adam B. Roberts (40/92), brother of William. We also gave useful minutes to Nasa (88/150) and Adam Summerhays (83/137).

  They were pish, but they were just as good at getting pumped as the starters.

  No, four-nil was fine. It could have been a lot worse, and the foul conditions and the air of uncertainty that pervaded the London air took some of the sting out of the home team's attacks. They had five or six players who would improve a Premier League squad. Which of these players would still be here in a couple of weeks? No-one knew, least of all the players. They didn't want to injure themselves chasing a fifth goal against Chester in a match that had been dead for over an hour.

  Our squad was temporarily threadbare, but settled. None of my guys were for sale and I had done almost all of my transfer business. While the Premier League and Europe's megaclubs put a hundred elite players and five billion pounds into an enormous tombola to see who landed where and for how much, I planned to spend transfer deadline day babysitting.

  "Max," said Sandra, giving me a tiny shake.

  "Hmm?" I was surprised to see that Crystal Palace's new manager was right next to her, and they were both right next to me. Andrea Bozzini had a reputation as being one of the nicest men in football, which is why he had come all the way over to shake my hand instead of assuming I was snubbing him like most managers would have done. "Oh, is it over?" I reached my hand out and he shook it.

  "It's over," said Sandra. She was a pretty gracious loser most of the time but she tended to get snippy when we lost so meekly. Losing while getting her hair wet made her twice as cranky.

  "It was very interesting," said Bozzini, coming slightly closer as though together we might protect each other from the rain. He was Argentinian with Italian roots, a former goalie who had played in Scotland and for Crystal Palace, before moving into coaching when he retired. His curse numbers weren't that good, but clubs loved to hire their former players and for this season at least, all he had to do was keep the squad as together as possible and ride that horse all the way to automatic promotion. "You have some good players."

  "Yes, we do," said Sandra. "Wonder where they are?"

  I laughed. "I learned a lot tonight, Andrea. Thanks for the lesson."

  He smiled as brightly as Palace's massive floodlights. "Good luck against Celtic next week!"

  I clapped him on the arm. "I don't need luck, mate. I've got DOD's number. He's pish and he's gonna get another pumpin'."

  "Jesus," said Sandra. "You can't act cocky and smug when you've just lost 4-0!"

  My eyes popped. "It's not chess, where we've got the same pieces at the start. He's got a 60-million-pound striker slapping us up! He’s worth more than every player in the entire history of Chester combined, plus every stadium we ever had!"

  "Sixty million," said Bozzini. "You think sixty?"

  "Ugh. Didn't mean to give transfer tips for free... but you'd be mad to let him go for less than that. Tell your owners to fight for 60 and tell them to remember who made them an extra ten mill when they're looking at spending that money."

  "I'm sure our owners will be very generous."

  "I bet they will, the tight-fisted bastards. But hey, your third-choice goalie. Would you let us loan him if I can't get my first-choice in? I would use him in games, train him up, send him back better."

  That question made Sandra perk up. Not having two senior goalies in the squad was causing her undue stress. "That guy? He's not very tall."

  I tutted and looked at Andrea. "Sandra loves a tall man."

  "I love a tall goalie."

  My eyes popped again, theatrically. "The best goalie in the Premier League is the shortest goalie in the Premier League! We talked about this!"

  Bozzini wasn't sure what to make of our bickering. He looked behind him, then back at me. "To be clear, loan him to Chester or to Saltney?"

  "Chester. It's just a backup plan but I like your guy and he needs minutes, doesn't he?" The goalie in question was listed by the curse as being available for loan, though there didn't seem to be any interest in him. Maybe the decision had only just been made by Palace and they hadn't communicated it yet, or maybe they were going to let the player's agent do the pitching. A deal for him could happen quickly on deadline day as moves collapsed and clubs scrabbled around for bodies. I was trying to make sure I had a few options just in case things came down to the wire.

  "A loan to Chester? With real playing time? That could work. Let us talk about it inside, shall we?"

  "Kay," I said. "But first I want to go talk to our fans."

  Sandra said, "What are you going to say?"

  "I'm gonna say whoa! Did you see me against Celtic last night? Top or what?"

  Sandra looked down. I think she was counting to ten. Finally, she looked at me. "Pish off."

  ***

  I squelched across the grass to the away end, where the Chester fans were still singing and applauding the players who had gone over to thank them for their support.

  I scanned the rows, looking for J, one of the guys who did the Deva Station podcast. He was always a reliable conduit for when I wanted to get a message across to the fans. "Anyone seen J?" I called out to a mass of bodies.

  "He's gone to the bog, Max!" called out one guy.

  "That performance gave him IBS, mate," yelled another.

  I opened my mouth to reply in kind, but saw someone waving at me. It was Smakk, former hooligan type turned legit. I waved for him to come down to the front. "Do you want an interview?" I said, loud, because our fans were still chanting and singing and the rain was making a hell of a din.

  Smakk's eyes lit up. Deva Station's bread and butter was the podcast, but they did some video stuff, too. Ray Hart, one of the club's part-time coaches, was the star of the podcast on account of his incredible voice, but Smakk was the star of the video content because he looked dangerous but was attractive and had a wicked smile. He was a lost boy who had found his calling. He didn't answer my question directly, but without missing a step, put his head near mine and had his phone out in selfie mode. "We're here at Selhurst Park interviewing the gaffer, Max Best himself. Max, that didn't go according to plan, did it?"

  "Course it did. Only problem was, it was Andrea Bozzini's plan, not mine. Smakk, I'll ask the questions, I reckon. First one. Are we still friends?"

  Smakk laughed and his camera wobbled around. "Yes, Max. It's a long drive home, innit, and there will be a lot of talk about you and Saltney and Gibraltar and Celtic and it won't all be positive but my football club has just played a Championship match at Selhurst Park. I mean, you get a long leash from us away fans."

  I nodded. "Yeah, top. The away fans set the tone for the fanbase as a whole and I hate to think that you travelled all the way down here and had to sit through a proper pumping. If it helps, we're gonna be just as miserable or more, making the same exact journey home as you."

  "You don't look that miserable, Max."

  "Ha, well, honestly? I'm not. I’m excited. Palace have to be the best team in the Championship, along with Wolves, probably, and Ipswich will be about that level. You think, ah, they're coming down from the Prem, they'll be decent. Nah, they're amazing. It's not just the quality but the athleticism and the energy. The stamina, Smakk! We broke their press a few times but they were relentless. These are the levels and this is where we need to get, do you know what I mean? I'm excited to see it up close."

  "Palace are better than Celtic, then?"

  "Christ, miles better. Miles. It looks like this Palace squad will be broken up in the next ten, twelve days but if this lot stayed the whole season they would get way over a hundred points."

  "It's just our luck we play them when they're at their strongest. Typical Chester."

  "I get what you're saying but I loved it. I feel bad for you and everyone here because we couldn't lay a glove on them and you had to make your own entertainment, but as far as I'm concerned, Palace just slapped us in the face and said, I challenge you to get this good. I'm up for it, mate. I accept that challenge. Let's go! I'm hyper. Let's train! Come on!"

  Smakk’s eyes flashed. He responded well to such motivational tactics. "It's not a bad time to get battered like that because it's new grounds to visit, new experiences. I never thought we'd be playing here in a league match and neither did anyone else here. We're going up to Middlesbrough on Saturday and that's another tough, tough game, we know that. We've already got four points from two home matches but we're not gonna lose every away game, are we?"

  "Ha! I promise we'll win at least one, okay? And hey, don't forget, this is what we all wanted. We fought tooth and nail to get here, didn't we? We were excited about it! We knew we would get slapped again and again. So yeah, let’s keep enjoying the new cities, new stadiums, but my message to the fans right now is that we’re working hard to close the gap between us and teams like Palace. Judge this squad, our coaches, Sandra, me, on how well we do in the return matches. When we play Palace at home - I think it's in April - have we closed the gap? That's the work for this season, do you know what I mean?"

  "I felt sorry for the kids you chucked on near the end. Lambs to the slaughter, Max. Won't that sort of drubbing harm their development?"

  "You're talking about bringing kids into a losing team. Yeah, I can see how that would hurt them, potentially, but we're not a losing team and anyway, there's nothing to stop players learning from a defeat and getting better. As the co-manager, I'm going, whoa, that was a chastening experience. As a player, I'm thinking, shit, this league is no joke and the Prem will be like that every single week. But as the director of football I'm delighted. We got three young players onto the pitch. They'll absorb everything they've seen and heard and felt and they'll use it to fuel their growth and if they don't, they're not gonna make it as players anyway. We've got more fitness into the legs of Dazza and Bark, Helge Hagen started, and the Brazilian lads got time on the pitch. Plus Adam Summerhays. We looked better when defending set pieces, I thought. I don't want to go overboard on the positives because it's a results business and we got pumped but at the end of the season I think all your viewers will look back at tonight and say, you know what? That helped us get closer."

  Some guy yelled out, "What about transfers?"

  There was much laughter. I said, "It's been a tough night down here and it'll be tough up in the north-east on the weekend, so sure, here's some positivity for you. I have got a transfer lined up that you will lose your shit over."

  "You've been teasing us with this for weeks, Max!"

  "Yeah but it's gonna be worth it. Surprise addition plus a quality keeper."

  "To replace Swanny?"

  I frowned. "No. We need two reliable guys. Swanny's doing fine. You don't blame him for these goals tonight do you?"

  "The second one. He was out of position, should have been tighter on his post."

  I blew a raspberry. "Come on! Players like Makiadi shoot from mad angles, their shots are cleaner, and in that instance he's got a guy coming into the box to his left. If Swanny blocks the near post, Makiadi passes and the other guy has an open goal and then you're saying Swanny's out of position for that one. If every option is shit, that's because the oppo is better than you. Do you know what I mean? It’s up to the coaches and outfield players to give our goalies the chance to shine. All right, I have to get back to the dressing room so that Sandra can yell at me."

  "She's not happy?"

  "Everything that you're thinking but you're too polite to say, she says to my face. Ha. But listen, I promise you one thing. If we had our full squad tonight, we still wouldn’t have got anything out of this game. The way I'm doing things, we might have a chance when we meet Palace again in April. That's what it's all about. That's the season in a nutshell. Enjoy the trip home, guys. Chin up, Chester! Chin up."

  ***

  As Sealbiscuit pulled out of the car park, I was kneeling on a seat, with Sandra next to me, and Peter and Colin facing us.

  I said, "Guys, quick chat because to do this properly we need the Brig, Bones, and Physio Dean. Basically, our players are on the right track, we are improving, but that Palace team blew my mind with their fitness and intensity. I've seen Prem teams before but I guess I haven't been watching that closely, or maybe it's just because I know what our guys can do, how fast they tire, all that sort of thing."

  Peter was completely drained. Colin was tired, but he at least had gotten a break when he was subbed off. Sandra said, "Those are the levels in the Prem. Non-stop running, every phase of play, every match. Didn't Bayern play like that?"

  "They can for periods," I said, "but most of the time, they don't need to. When you're two-nil up after ten minutes every single match, you can take your foot off the gas." I shook my head. "Palace were relentless. What I want to talk about in the coming weeks is to what extent do we want to play like that?"

  "We have to," said Sandra. "If we want to win these games."

  "Right," I said. "But at the cost of injuries. Right now, our injury record is fantastic. If we keep doing what we're doing, players will keep improving and we won't have many injuries. Great. But we'll lose these high-level games. This season, not a problem, but next season, big problem. So do we increase the intensity? What if we ask for 10% more pressing and we get 5% more injuries?"

  Sandra said, "Sounds fine."

  "Yeah," I said, thinking about it. "That does sound fine. What if it's 10% more intensity but we get 20% more injuries?"

  Peter and Colin looked at each other. Peter said, "If it helps us win, and as long as it's not me getting injured."

  Sandra said, "There's no way to know exactly the link between top-tier training and injuries but almost every Premier League team plays with the same intensity as Palace. We have to be able to match it."

  I said, "Or we get complete control of the ball and laugh as idiots run around chasing our shadows. We go full Tiki Taka. A thousand short passes, and we only need to get intense when we lose the ball, which is four times a match."

  Colin said, “Did we sign 2009 Xavi and Iniesta when I wasn’t looking?”

  Peter said, "Or we lean into Bestball. Fully embrace it. It could be a defence against the fucking hurricane that just hit me."

  "Hmm," I said. "I can see Relationism neutering some teams."

  "Max," said Colin. "You compared a football team to a Formula One car. You have to push the engine's limits. It breaks down sometimes, but if you don't drive flat out, you don't win."

  I saw the truth in what he was saying. "The teams we're competing against have loads of spare parts, though. The Premier League top 6 have spare cars. Also, if their engines fail, they buy ours. I mean, Jesus." We fell into a glum silence.

  What would we look like if we spent five to ten CA points building up a player's Strength and Stamina?

  I brought up Chester's squad list.

  Christian Fierce was 117/120, so three points from capping, but he was already very powerful, very physical. Joel Reid was 126/138, so he had room to get more hench. The two guys who were out at College, Fitzroy Hall and Andrew Harrison, were coming to their caps, but Andrew was already the closest thing I had to offering Crystal Palace levels of running power. None of the four would be coming with us to the Premier League.

  I wanted to build a pure football team. Fast, beautifully technical players who would move into space and make good decisions on the ball. I had already agreed to give up some of our training time to let Vikki work on their set pieces. Now I had to sacrifice some technique, some skill, just to be able to exist on the same pitch as the clubs I wanted to compete against.

  "It's not really a decision, is it? We have to take steps in that direction... The question is: how much?" I pulled at my lip while looking towards the back of Sealbiscuit. The harder we played, the harder we pushed our players, the more of those young men would break down, would spend weeks or months absolutely miserable, and - importantly - unable to train. "We wait till the transfer window's closed, the Eurotrash are back, and the squad is complete. Then we start to dial up the intensity."

  "Bit by bit?" said Sandra.

  "Yeah. We'll see how much extra we get on match day versus how many more boys we lose to injury. Does that sound good to everyone?"

  "Works for me," said Sandra. "I'll talk to the Brig tomorrow morning."

  ***

  Thursday, August 19

  After training at The Legends, I drove to Manchester to do a bit of shopping. In the end, I didn't buy much, because what joy would anything bring me if it meant I had less money to invest in Temps Perdu? There was once a football manager in Glasgow who wore a 26,000 pound jacket to work. What sort of person spends two years of a cleaner's wage on a fucking jacket?

  I was struck by how many young men were in the city centre in the daytime, swaggering around or loitering on street corners. It was a hot day but they were in full tracksuits, many with their hoods down and wearing gloves. Some went past on those e-scooters you can rent from an app, but loud clicks told the world that the scooters had been stolen. The world seemed largely indifferent.

  I took myself to Chorlton and checked in on 6th tier West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC, the club I didn't own. The pitch was looking good, maybe because there was one less fixture per week on it, and the vibe was just as upbeat as the day I had first rocked up at Brookburn Road.

  After chatting to some of the staff about the club’s fantastic start to the season, I took myself out onto the pitch to do some thinking. The tiny dugout sheltered me from the drizzle, and I reflected on the state of the club's finances, and by extension, my own.

  I had five main income streams, apart from any UEFA prize money that was coming to me. I had my basic wage from Chester (9,900 a week, before tax), the 700 a week I was getting from being Youngster's agent, my share of the R.E.M. agency money (a somehow disappointing 4,200 a week), just over 1,100 a week from the block of flats I owned, and a whopping 6,700 a week from my sponsors: BoshCard, Chester Zoo, Ganymede (the niche shampoo company), and Soccer Supremo.

  All my sponsorship money was being ploughed into this football club, which you might think was insane, but it propelled West to a total budget of just over 16,000 a week, which you might remember is more or less what Chester had when I was its manager in the 6th tier.

  A competitive budget, then?

  No. A seismic budget. A tectonic budget. As the manager of Chester, most of my money had been pre-assigned to, with all due respect, awful players. With West, after an admittedly harsh summer clearout, I had an almost completely blank page. I knew what was needed to win the 6th tier - strength, heading, and determination trumped skill - and I knew the levels. The bottom teams averaged CA 41, the top teams 56.

  I used my knowledge of the players in the leagues above, my reputation, and an extensive contact book to end the National League North as a contest before it had even begun. I had given the new manager (competent, not a tactics whizz, happy to give minutes to youngsters) a starting eleven that racked up an average CA of 61.2. That starting eleven had big hitters with CA 70 and it included former Chester youngster Vivek (CA 43, PA 66), Michael Harrison (CA 57), and a striker called something like Iffy. Biggy? Zipper? Anyway, the lad's CA was 58 and he would finish chances if the team created them for him.

  I had given the new manager a few decent squad players, too. Young Noah Harrison was chief among them. He was maxed out on CA 51 but he could do a job at that level.

  There were also six new Exit Trial kids. I had agreed terms with seven but one had dropped out, possibly because his mates had teased him about joining the club that sang about hummus and celery. Six new Exit Triallists, plus Myles Mitchell, a lad I had picked up at the previous season's trials.

  Seven more Lost Boys to whom I had given homes. Careers. Futures.

  Seven players with an average PA of 90. I would be a very incompetent football manager if I couldn't train them up and sell them for a million pounds. A million quid for doing the right thing? It's nice work if you can get it.

  The jewel in the crown was Kambili 'Kam Kam' Offiah, a PA 120 speed machine. The curse listed him as AM LR, but personally I would be loath to play him on the left until his technique improved - a lot. All aspects of his game were underwhelming, but he was only 18 and I had 'fixed' a very, very similar player before. Wes Hayward had tested the patience of Chester's coaches, but I had made them persevere and in the end we had sold him for 300,000. Wes 'Sharky' Hayward was only CA 86. Kam Kam's PA 120 plus my guidance would take him to Championship level.

  It was easy to imagine him playing well in a televised cup match after a string of dominant displays in the league, followed by a half a million pound bid from the big club he had ruined. That was very easy to imagine happening... in four or five years time... when I didn't need the money.

  For now, though, the main thing was to crush the league. I had little doubt West would oblige.

  I stretched my legs out onto the astroturfed technical area. 16,000 budget, 14,000 in actual wage spend, a perfectly balanced squad, old and young, current talent versus future, win now versus project. It was a wonder of the world, in its own way, a smoothly ticking timepiece, the most exquisite craftsmanship, and no-one would ever truly appreciate it.

  ***

  Europa League Playoff Round, First Leg: College 1975 versus Malm?

  I went to mum's bungalow to watch the first half of College versus Malm?, the club that had decided not to lend me the money to develop the stadium at West Didsbury. That was a crying shame because I wasn't sure if that project would ever happen. Jackie Reaper had sent me on a guilt trip about it, and I had fretted even more about the fact that Gemma and her lawyers had worked so hard to get us planning permission against stiff opposition from local residents.

  That guilt trip had come to an abrupt end when mum's carer, Angela, sent me a text saying mum had fallen. It wasn't bad, but it obviously wasn't good, either.

  The costs of not building West a stadium were fairly clear. About 150,000 a year in lost ticket sales, a few points in CA growth, the chance to really build an awesome club rooted in south Manchester, in a place where it was truly needed.

  Yep, but on the other hand, five million quid.

  On the living room TV, Andrew Harrison won a tackle and ran up the pitch before overhitting a pass. "Aww," said Angela. "He lost the ball."

  "Boys are always losing things," said my mum.

  I turned to Anna, mum's Polish friend, expecting her to join the chat, but she looked dead tired. She had lost the will to live a long time ago, but she was too stubborn to die. I said, "Are you still feeding the cats in the garden?"

  "They are wholly ungrateful beasts!" declared Anna. "I shall have no more truck with them! They bite, Max! Do not bite the hand that feeds you. Is it not the first saying you learn as a kitten? No more truck, I say, and certainly no more chicken."

  "Glad I spent ten grand on an elaborate chicken distribution system, then."

  Angela spoke. "What she means, Max, is she feeds them twice a day. Hemp treats in the afternoon, chicken in the evening." She turned to Anna. "Without fail."

  "Not tomorrow," said Anna. "Tomorrow the little shits can starve." She pinched the skin on her hands and furrowed her brows.

  Angela, apparently the bungalow's self-appointed diplomat, said, "Who's going to win, Max?"

  I watched as Malm? strung some passes together. It looked good but was ultimately futile. Passes needed a purpose. They needed an intention behind them. I want to move those defenders over there so that my left-winger has space. I want to tire my oppo. I want to run down the clock. What were Malm? doing? Nothing. "It's hard to say. My guys had another decent week of training, but the early rush of pops is over. I saw Malm? last season but they have made quite a few changes this summer. My guess is that the teams are fairly even, with a slight advantage to the Swedes. They certainly have the advantage on the bench. College don't have a lot of options. Next season, the Gibraltar lads will be, like, twenty percent stronger. The Conspiracy gets better the more we push it. In the end, the only limit is the population."

  Mum said, "My Max likes football."

  I don't know what came over me, but I asked, "Is he good?"

  Something flashed behind her eyes. Confusion? "Oh, yes. They kick him, the other boys. It's a cruel game, but it's better than rugby or that cricket with that heavy ball. It's murder, cricket. Shouldn't be allowed, if you ask me."

  Solly the dog barked, startling everyone. I eyed Anna, who pointed to the screen. "What?"

  "He's gone."

  Angela pressed a button on the remote and the match went into reverse. She pressed play and a few seconds later, Solly barked again as the screen cut to a close-up of Henri.

  "What's that all about?" I said. "Oh! You're warning me, aren't you, Solly? Warning me not to trust him, the naughty foreigner."

  Anna sighed. "He was reacting to Andrew, who was behind the one with the purposefully unkempt hair."

  "Ah," I said. "Right. Because Andrew takes him for walks."

  "Just so."

  Andrew and his brothers - The Triplets - had been around for so long they were basically part of the furniture, so it was easy to forget that when we met, they were lost boys, too. Three orphans on a cheap holiday, scraping by, with no prospect of a proper life for Andrew until Noah was old enough to fend for himself. Andrew's PA of 121 marked him out as someone who would one day command a seven-figure transfer fee, but here he was quietly helping out mum's friend and by extension, my mum.

  Malm? scored.

  "I'll take Solly for a walk and pop in to watch the second half at Gemma's place. It's funny that Emma's in Gib watching the match, but Gemma's had to stay here because of work. That's the wrong way round."

  "Oh," said Anna, in a strange tone.

  "What?" I said, quietly. "Do you want me to stay? I can stay. I just feel I'm upsetting... And I'm going to get worse. I shouldn't be here when the footy's on."

  "I understand and agree," said Anna.

  "Then what was that noise you made?"

  She hooked me with a crooked finger and pulled on an invisible thread. I leaned closer and heard her whisper. "Can you trust yourself with Gemma? When your friend is away and her friend is away and you are lonely and your wounds are showing?"

  My face scrunched up, which I'm sure was very attractive. In an ever-lower whisper, I said, "Is there maybe a pill you haven't taken today or...?"

  She leaned back. "You know of which I speak."

  "Solly, let's roll out. We're going into the danger zone, apparently. I need you to warn me when a vampire's about to get me." I shook my head. "She isn't even my type."

  ***

  I took Solly on a couple of laps of the park, then headed towards Gemma's house. She wouldn't be there alone - there would be a watch party. And so what if she was alone? She wasn't my type and I was Emma for life. Steadfast. Rock solid. Coming soon: a castle wedding with four types of ham.

  "I'm not lonely, am I, bro?"

  Solly looked up at me and said, "You are, a bit."

  I paused at the end of Gemma's road, walked on, and watched the second half of the match on my phone, alone, nursing an alcohol-free beer outside a pub. The waiter told me to be careful because hoodlums often ran past snatching phones out of peoples' hands. "Solly will protect me," I said.

  The bloodthirsty beast yawned and fell asleep on my feet; I moved my phone into my left hand and kept my right free. A couple of tracksuited kids wearing dark gloves walked past, eyed me, moved on.

  The match finished one-nil. Not a great result and the second leg in Sweden would be even harder. It looked like College would drop into the Conference League. Winning this playoff would be an extra million quid for Malm?, and they would play 8 games against attractive opposition instead of 6 against relative minnows.

  I got up from the table, somewhat disappointed that no-one had tried to do a crime on me. I would have enjoyed that.

  ***

  Saturday, August 21

  EFL Championship Match 5 of 46: Middlesbrough versus Chester

  Boro had surprised everyone by flying out of the blocks with three wins and a draw in their first four matches, but what surprised me about that was that they were 'only' CA 127. Even in a league that contained CA150+ juggernauts, a well-oiled, well-run team could overachieve. I expected Chester to hit Boro's levels late this season. Next year it could be us who set the early pace.

  That was the copium I ingested as red-shirted players poured through our creaking lines again and again. Three-nil was a better result than we deserved. At the final whistle, I walked to the away fans, found J and Smakk, and gave them a sheepish smile. "Are we still friends?"

  After 5 games, Boro had an impressive 13 points and were second in the league.

  Chester had won 1, drawn 1, lost 3, earning us 4 points. Goals for, 4. Goals against, 11.

  That put us in 20th spot, one place above the relegation zone. We were bottom of the list of teams with 4 points on account of our already shocking goal difference.

  Dog in a burning house meme, but subtract the flames.

  This is fine.

  Chester had no midweek match, and on Tuesday and Thursday, the guys who were on loan to Saltney and College would play their final matches. The following Saturday, Chester's squad would be full to bursting and Sandra would complain about having too many players.

  As our players showered and Sandra spoke to the media, I checked the News of the Blues website to see what their initial reaction was. The headline went:

  Stuck In The Middles Without You, Bruh

  Okay, so he was going down the 'where are all our players?' route. I skimmed it, noted that the blogger was pleased to see that we had used three completely different youngsters as this week's lambs to the slaughter, and turned off my phone.

  In three hours, I would be back home, and I would finally be able to turn my full attention to the second leg of the Celtic match. It was all that really mattered this season. It could be the difference between saving my mum, and not.

  Nothing else mattered.

  ***

  Tuesday, August 24

  Champions League Qualifying Playoff, Second Leg: Glasgow Keltic versus Saltney Town

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I was always critical of football clubs who flew by plane to nearby matches, especially when Arsenal took a 17-minute flight to Norwich and Man United did a genuinely sickening 10-minute hop to Leicester, so I had stared long and hard at the travel arrangements that would take us to Glasgow. In the end, it was so much easier to hire a jet to take us up north, and it also gave our squad a Morale boost. Private jets! VIP terminals! Overnight stays in hotels! For players who weren't used to it, a little pampering went a long way.

  Before breakfast, I went for a walk around the lush grounds of the posh hotel.

  ***

  There were a couple of key decisions still to make.

  The first was not whether to use my second and final Champions League Bench Boost - that was a given - but how many early subs to make. Doing 4 in the first leg had worked fantastically well, but getting the first goal had been worth a huge amount of risk. That first goal had changed everything. Now, though, we were two-nil up. We had the advantage.

  Celtic were dangerous. They had players on huge wages. Their highest-paid guy was on 37,000 pounds a week. Saltney Town were only paying a fraction of Cheb's wages, and were paying nothing for Wibbers, Gabby, or me, which meant that technically our highest-paid player was Danny Prince. We were contributing 5,000 a week towards what his parent club Blackburn were paying him, half of his basic income. Even factoring in what the parent clubs were paying, our three highest-paid guys combined earned less than Celtic's biggest star.

  The income gap broadly reflected the talent gap. Celtic's average CA was 130. Ours, though, had been charging higher. Our best 4-2-3-1, excluding me, was a hefty 114.9. We were only 15 points short of Celtic! Incredible.

  But still, we would need to go pretty hard on Bench Boost in order to compete. At a minimum, I would make 2 early changes, but that thought didn't stick around for long; two didn't feel close to sufficient.

  Three?

  Maybe three. The biggest problem I had was the possibility of extra time. If, for example, I made 5 early subs, I would get a fantastic boost that could potentially kill off the game by half-time. But if the match went on for 120 minutes, with no subs, in a high-intensity game in a cauldron of noise... I needed to reserve at least one guy in case of injury. Ideally, I would have two unused subs going into the last 20 minutes of normal time. One to cope with an injury, one for a guy who was starting to cramp, or even to make a tactical switch.

  But if we only had three Bench Boosted players on the pitch for the first half, Celtic could overwhelm us and energise the crowd, which would give us a mountain to climb.

  We had to start strong and win enough duels to shut the fans up. The minute they turned on their team would be the minute we secured our passage into the Champions League proper, I had no doubt about that.

  The final consideration was the quality of the squad. The dropoff from the starting eleven to guys like Toquinho, Aff, and Carl Carlile was massive. There was very little point holding onto my substitutions the way I held onto healing potions when playing video games.

  Ah, actually, there was one final final consideration. After the first leg there had been all kinds of snippy comments from 'proper football men', who claimed the mass substitution was somehow both underhand and stupid. There had been think pieces galore in The Sportsman and similar sports-focused media. The Celtic fans had ranted and raved about how I had shown their club such disrespect. Long story short, making four subs after ten seconds again would boil all the right piss.

  So, four it was.

  The second decision was whether to boost myself or not. I hadn't done it in the first leg, preferring to give the boost to Sticky, since I had been expecting more of an onslaught on our goal. There was a long season ahead, but today's match was my World Cup Final. Nothing else mattered - but I didn't want to piss off The Sentinel.

  I had managed to get to the final match in this adventure having scored just 1 goal and having made precisely 1 assist. I had deliberately dragged my match ratings down by kicking for touch, booting the ball away when under pressure, and so on. I had even scored an own goal! (If I'd had the choice, I wouldn't have gone that far in making myself look average.)

  What it all meant was that I was allowed to go flat-out one time.

  I didn't even need to score five goals or something mad - a dominant, smooth, unflashy performance in the DM slot would do the trick.

  ***

  We had brek together - the last day of Best's Bordermen in its current constellation. The last day of Danny Prince, Harry Dunston, Cheb, and the Chester boys playing as one. Last day of the boys. Last boys.

  After the food, we went into a meeting room and the lads sat in rows facing me. "Right, guys, quick chat. There's not a lot we need to say about Celtic and how we need to play against them. We know they'll come at us with more intensity than they did in Wrexham, but I think if we play how we played in the first leg, we're in with a real shot. I'm not worried about the hostile environment because a bigger stadium just means there's more space for more fans, more fans who will turn on their players. Enjoy the noise, the vibes, then we shut them up. Make sure you enjoy the Rocky 4 moment where they start cheering for us instead of their own guys. Heh. Maybe they won't go that far.

  "One thing that's different this week is the referee. Tonight's guy is a complete twat. An attention-seeker of the lowest order but even that can work to our advantage. He'll slow the game down, make it bitty, insist free kicks are taken from the right place, give fouls for nothing. Yeah, he's gonna give penalties for handballs that no-one in this room thinks is a handball, but he's as likely to do it to Celtic as to us, right? Do not let his shitness affect how you play, okay?

  "All right, time for the theme.

  "Celtic call themselves the Bhoys, boys with an H. This week, they're boys with an L. Um, nah, terrible, cut that. They did lose, though, so my mind jumped to lost boys. There's an 80s vampire movie, cult classic, called The Lost Boys, and I thought maybe it could be my favourite movie for a day. I tried to watch it over the weekend but it has not aged well. There's a character called Max who might be the head vampire, but it turns out he isn't, but shock twist - he is!

  "What's the relevance of a powerful character called Max who is in charge of everything and has loads of young men doing his bidding? Um, can't think of anything.

  "So that was no good, and I asked myself where I'd heard the phrase The Lost Boys before, and of course it's from Peter Pan. In those days, if a boy fell out of his pram when the nurse wasn't looking, and if they weren't claimed in seven days, they were sent to Neverland. Anyone here grow up with a nurse or a nanny? No, didn't think so. If you were posh, you wouldn’t have ended up here with me, innit?

  "By the way, there were no Lost Girls because girls are too sensible to fall out of their prams.

  "Okay so it would have been a stretch to turn today into a Peter Pan theme, because that story is all about not growing up. In the last few weeks, though," I said, looking at the younger players. "I've seen a lot of boys grow up. The first leg last week was a time for men. Fathers, brothers, leaders, soldiers, talents, grafters, workers, craftsmen. As good a performance, given the oppo and the stakes, as I have ever been part of."

  I picked up a piece of paper, and frowned at it.

  "I found another thing with the title The Lost Boys. It's a thoroughly depressing document put together by a British think tank. Page after page of all the ways society is failing young boys and what's coming out of that - our young men are becoming internet trolls and drifting towards authoritarian politics. And the last page, where it lists its urgent recommendations? Yeah, that isn't there. It's just a list of crises with no solutions. Maddening.

  "I didn't read this thing and think, huh, I know who can solve unemployment in the 16 to 24 category: Max Best." I went around the room pointing at the younger men, counting them up. "Well, I can solve it by, like, ten. But this part caught my eye. Dot dot dot, millions of boys are deprived of any positive model of manhood. And then a few sentences later. Dot dot dot, more than four in ten agree that society does not value traditional masculine values, such as courage, resilience and competitiveness."

  I put the paper down and let my gestures get bigger.

  "Courage, resilience, and competitiveness. That's a positive model of manhood. Well, fucking guess what? That's us. That was us last week and that's gonna be us tonight. When they see this Celtic team, little Scottish lads aren't seeing men. They're seeing a bunch of vapid mercenaries. They're seeing guys give 70% effort. They're seeing guys stink out the stadium and drive home in Lambos, as fast as they want because at that level of wealth, the fines are meaningless. No wonder kids are running onto the pitch to get social media clout. Who's showing them there's a better way to get where you want to go?"

  I let my gaze drill into Wibbers, Sticky, Sam Topps, and the others.

  "We are."

  ***

  ButteryCrumpets

  A few minutes from kickoff. That stadium's amazing! Fucking hell. Never thought I'd say this, but I envy Dylan. He's in there somewhere.

  As an aside, I do love Celtic's kit, and I assume that's the same font they've been using since they were founded.

  Okay, I'm gonna summarise what we've been discussing. We broadly agreed that Max Best to score was mispriced and I for one placed a small, fun, amount on that. No slipping back into bad habits for me!

  But then when the team sheets were announced and Best wasn't starting, the prices went crazy and I topped up my bets. He is going to come on early, isn't he?

  We also like BTTS (both teams to score). Celtic are going to have to send bodies forward at SOME point, and Best's teams are always great on the counter-attack.

  Some ABOBers have been nibbling at William Roberts to score at any time because he has 5 goals in qualifying so far and we are pretty sure he's on penalties. Gabriel has 6 goals but his odds aren't very tasty so we have been avoiding him.

  Meanwhile some of us have been putting small amounts on scenarios like Saltney losing on penalties, winning on penalties, Best to get a red card, that sort of thing. I'm steering clear of it, although the fact that the referee is a knob does make the red card bets more appealing. I just think Best is gonna behave himself and I think the bookies have priced the ref’s antics into their models.

  And we're off! Huge roar from the crowd, getting behind their team.

  Stoop

  Celtic need to score, like, right now while all these randos are on the pitch.

  ButteryCrumpets

  Not like that, they won't! What a shit pass that was!

  Okay, let's see. Surely he won't do it again...

  Stoop

  He's doing it again.

  ButteryCrumpets

  Jesus Christ, listen to the home fans whistle! I've had to turn my TV down. That must be intimidating as fuck.

  Saint Derfel

  Guess who's laughing his head off?

  ButteryCrumpets

  You?

  Saint Derfel

  I meant Best, but I'm not far behind. It has got to be the most pointless thing ever conceived by the human brain, but as a way of winding people up, there's not a lot like it. Let's just hope Saltney don't get two injuries now, or it's going to be one-way traffic.

  ButteryCrumpets

  I think that was Webb, Carlile, Bradley, and Topps who left.

  Which leaves us...

  Sticky

  Prince - Dunston - Evergreen - Alloula

  Best - Addo

  Barnes - Roberts - Westwood

  Gabriel

  Stoop

  That looks decent to me. There's goals all over the team and apart from that second leg where the game was over, they have been quite doughty in defence.

  DubaiGuy

  The odds have changed urgently in the last minute. I wonder why.

  ***

  Before I strode onto the pitch, Sam Topps gave me the captain's armband, which meant that Triple Captain was using my Influence score as the base. I was pretty sure I had Influence 20, which meant it was currently 60.

  Top, but I had to be careful. My mood was now much more likely to affect my team mates. If I started throwing tantrums, we would lose focus and discipline.

  Tantrums? Not today.

  I took one look around Celtic Park, the incredible arena which would be the scene for my greatest ever triumph, and then jogged towards our penalty area, where we had a goal kick.

  I stood in the dead centre of the goal on the edge of the 6-yard box. "Yes, mate," I said to Sticky.

  He rolled the ball to me and I waited to see how Celtic would deal with this. We hadn't done this in the first leg.

  Celtic's three forwards weren't sure what to do, and it took them a second to move. The central striker, one of three Japanese players, sprinted at me. I rolled the ball on a line two yards to the side of him, to a spot where Magnus was suddenly pressured by a midfielder. I had moved to a new angle so he simply deflected the ball back to me, and then I struck it first-time through a bunch of mannequins, onto Davey Barnes's left peg.

  And we were away on our first attack of the match.

  A minute later, Celtic were building through the middle of the pitch. I set our full-backs to mark their wide forwards, set Dunners to man-mark the Japanese striker, and swapped places with Magnus Evergreen on the tactics board.

  I didn't move into the centre of defence, though, but stayed near Vincent Addo. With Magnus there, too, we had three DMs. Together, we pressed hard, and by hunting as a pack, won the ball back pretty easily.

  Was it a risk to do that? Yeah. Big time. But I hoped that if Celtic did break through, one of our guys would hold up their opponent long enough for me to sprint back. It wouldn't take long - Bench Boosted Max Best was fast.

  With the ball back in our hands, I undid those moves, and Magnus slid back into the centre back slot.

  I liked that a lot and while I played one-touch passes with Vinni and Wibbers, I set up some hot keys so I could do it and undo it more easily.

  Our slick passes had brought aggro onto us, and this was the perfect time for a smart ball over the top of Celtic's high defensive line. I pointed for Tom to make a run, lined up the pass, and just as expected, Celtic's defenders rushed forward in unison.

  Well-coached!

  Except I didn't play the pass. I dribbled through two guys and chipped the ball to the left, where Danny Prince was blazing forward. Prince had always been an eye-catching player, and that was why Blackburn had poached him from Tranmere Rovers, much to the fury of Mateo. I had bonded with Mateo by offering to be an expert witness in the tribunal that decided how much compensation Blackburn needed to pay to the smaller club. Look at his pace, I had said. Look at his skill. Look at his decision-making!

  Danny Prince took the ball all the way into the penalty box, shot, but the goalie made a smart save.

  I made eye contact with the players nearest to me, feeling full body pins and needles. I hadn't played this well since I had been a mystery winger for Darlington. The Celtic players were moving in slow motion. The ball was mine to command.

  My next involvement came after our forwards, plus Cheb, harried Celtic's left back into punting the ball long. It was going towards Vinni but I called out, "Max ball!"

  I could have taken it down on my chest, but I was exulting in the feel of my supercharged body. I leaped high and headed the ball hard, back the way it had come. It flew close enough to Cheb that he could have controlled it, but he had been too surprised to do more than stick out his boot.

  A ripple of appreciation spread around the ground.

  That was an old-school header from a top-class midfielder. In days of yore, they sprouted in Scotland like mushrooms: Lorimer, Baxter, Souness, Bremner. Now the best midfielder in Scotland was a gobby Mancunian.

  ***

  It took 16 minutes for the first groans.

  20 for someone to shout at Declan O'Donnell, 'Do something, you useless twat!'

  24 minutes for Celtic to have their first shot, a miserable daisy-cutter that went five yards wide.

  26 minutes for the first yellow card, which was shown to a midfielder who found the only way to stop me slaloming through Celtic's midfield was to grab hold of my shirt and try to wrench it off my body.

  30 minutes for us to put the ball into the back of the net. Cheb to Wibbers to Gabby, good strength, pushed pass back into Cheb's path, clinical finish. But it was chalked off for being offside.

  32 minutes for my first chance to hit a free kick. It was too far out to shoot... or was it? I had the Free Hit perk... I decided against it. Too far out, bad angle. I used Masterpiece Theatre to position my guys, then whipped the ball into a good area. Henry Dunston got his head to it but the ball somehow skimmed off his forehead and it went agonisingly wide.

  34 minutes for us to string together our first 20-pass move, which ended with Wibbers cracking a shot that, when it bounced, seemed destined to be going in. How did it go wide?

  35 minutes, after another Wibbers long shot was well saved, for the home fans to begin slinking away into the concourses to eat, drink, and be lairy.

  45 minutes and the referee's whistle for the boos to erupt from the home fans.

  ***

  Saint Derfel

  Christ, how good is Max Best?

  BrokenGround

  I'm with Celtic's security lads having a cuppa. They're raving about him, and Wibbers, too. Can't stand their own players, though. No heart, no effort. They're playing with one eye on the exit door. They all want to go to big clubs in England, France, and Germany. I can't understand it. The Champions League is right there! You want to play for a CL club? You're at one!

  Saint Derfel

  One good thing about Parky was he only signed players who wanted to be at Wrexham and wanted to play. I'm worried we're gonna turn into Celtic one of these days.

  BrokenGround

  Not the worst problem to have, to be fair.

  Stoop

  What do you reckon Best's team talk is? 'Lads, it's Celtic?' Does he go more defensive? 5-4-1, park the bus?

  ***

  "Men," I said, looking round the dressing room. Most of our guys were on 8 or 9 out of 10. Sticky was stuck on 7, mostly for lack of work. "I enjoyed that. That was as good as it gets. Same again, please."

  ***

  46'

  Celtic came out for the second half with the same formation and players but a couple of things had changed. Declan O'Donnell had fired his bhoys up and sent them out with 'hard tackling' instructions. The rough stuff seemed to be mostly aimed at me.

  When I was taking the ball, guys were crashing into me from behind. The native English speakers - not many of those - were sledging me, calling me, calling my mum. There were 'accidental' stamps, flailing elbows, shirt-tugs galore.

  It was obvious they were trying to get me sent off but with this referee they were playing a dangerous game.

  With every foul, I stayed on the turf twenty seconds longer than I needed, killing the clock, draining energy from the crowd.

  At first, my players reacted strongly to the attacks on me, but the more I rose above it all, the more I used the fouls to our advantage, the more my lads were able to shrug it all off. They concentrated on their jobs.

  50'

  DOD shifted his forwards around, hoping to find a combination that worked. I thought about swapping my default position with Vinni so that I could help Cheb, but instead I told my DM partner what I was worried about. He took the info on board and moved a few steps to the right, more alert to the danger from that side.

  54'

  DOD shifted his forwards back to their starting positions. Another tactical battle I had won, though in truth the course of the match had been determined months or years earlier when the teams had been recruited. I had tried to maximise the amount of talent in my lineup, same as Celtic, but I had filled the squad with winners. With courage, resilience, and competitiveness. With self-motivators.

  Dunners and Davey were trying to show Wrexham they had misjudged their talent. Vinni was busting a gut to prove all kinds of things to all kinds of people. Wibbers was playing with his usual fury. All I had to do was control my zone.

  55'

  Vinni said, "What are you singing?"

  "Nothing."

  "You are. Fess up."

  "I was going, 'They see me patrolling... controlling...' Like that song."

  "What song?"

  "I don't know. Focus."

  57'

  We snuffed out a Celtic attack. Danny passed the ball to Sticky, who gave it to Magnus early. Not very controlled, and Celtic's press became frantic as their players sensed opportunity.

  I sprinted to offer support, which Magnus happily took. He passed it to my left side and with a Celtic midfielder about to steam into my back - as they had been doing the entire second half - I dipped my shoulder left, turned right, but then turned left again. A very Dan Badford move, very elusive, and my touch was dreamily perfect.

  I was looking downfield to see in which ways I would put the hurt on the home team when I found myself crashing to the turf. The fucker had swiped my legs away - again!

  I slapped the turf in frustration for once. Where was the fussy, attention-seeking referee when you needed him? Yellow card, bro! Yellow! This should have been a Coldplay concert. It was all yellow.

  My annoyance turned to fear as I realised Celtic were surging into our penalty area. One, two neat passes and the ball was rolled into the net. The roar from the home fans was stupefying. It was such an intense, primal feeling, like being in the middle of a medieval battle, that it took me a moment to remember I had the curse commentary.

  What I read made steam come out of my ears.

  The fucking referee hadn't given the free kick!

  I stayed where I was, sitting up, while I fought to control my temper. If I boiled over, so would the rest of the team. It was only 2-1, but if the ref was going to just let Celtic kick the shit out of me, we were in deep shit.

  "You injured, boss?" said Magnus, bending over me.

  "Get the ball," I said. "Bring it here. We'll take the free kick from here."

  "He gave the goal, boss."

  Cheb looked up at the big screens. "The VAR is checking it. Was it definitely a foul?"

  I glowered at him for a second, but fought to soften my face. "Everyone get ready to play from here."

  Magnus pulled me up. The ball came to me. I put my foot on it and got the guys into position. Danny Prince, Davey, and Wibbers on the far left. I would ping a pass to them before Celtic realised what was happening.

  It took fucking ages for the VAR to disallow the goal. What footage was the prick watching? Finally, though, the ref made a 'rectangle' gesture, pointed to the spot where I had been fouled, and blew his whistle.

  No goal.

  I smacked the ball fifty yards with pixel-perfect precision. Wibbers controlled it and scooted towards Celtic's area.

  Peep! Peep! Peep!

  The ref wasn't letting us play. Why? Because Celtic weren't ready? Who gives a shit?

  I came perilously close to losing my cool, and found myself pacing towards the dick, both barrels well and truly in the chamber.

  Two-nil, Max. Half an hour to go. 18 million quid. A big stake in Temps Perdu.

  Focus.

  ***

  Stoop

  This is insane. Saltney are all over them!

  DubaiGuy

  It is a masterclass in defensive anticipation from Max Best. Where danger is, there he goes. He supports his mates and makes life easy for them.

  Saint Derfel

  I can't remember seeing a guy get fouled this often. Jack Grealish, maybe.

  DubaiGuy

  He is drawing the fouls. There should have been more cautions. The refs have been told to try to let the game flow but this one isn't flowing and nor will it until punishments are handed out.

  ***

  Trust your mates. Trust your team. Trust your brothers. Let Wibbers lead the attack. Let Gabby get the glory. Think of the money. Think of your mum. She'll get scans, they'll take her blood, they’ll analyse her DNA, and machines will work out a cure. The future is here, the future is now, for everyone who can afford it.

  Celtic passed the ball around Tom Westwood, Cheb joined our press too late, and Celtic broke down our right.

  I was out of position. Why? Because I had been daydreaming. I put my head down, sprinted, ate up the ground, tore through the air, left grass shredded beneath my soles.

  Too late. Much too late.

  I could only watch in dismay as the Japanese striker... inexplicably put the ball over the crossbar with the goal at his mercy.

  Was it too early to park the bus? Go men behind ball and grind it out? I looked at Cheb's individual instructions. I could tell him to stop going forward. I tried not to overreact. Wibbers was causing all kinds of problems for Celtic, but much of that threat was because he was getting high-quality support on the wings from Danny Prince and Cheb. If I shut down our flanks, it would only invite more pressure.

  Stressed as I was, I had to follow the process. Attack's the best form of defence. Cheb could have made that tackle and we could have got a goal out of it. Don't make decisions out of fear.

  I crunched my abs and yelled, "Come on, men! Back to work!"

  ***

  71'

  I took the ball from Dunners, turned, nutmegged the nearest oppo, and had my shirt nearly ripped from my body again.

  Yellow card, at last. He wouldn't be able to do that again.

  At the far end of the pitch, not even pretending to have been caused by some match action, Celtic's goalie sat on his arse and put his hand up. 'I'm injured, ref! I need treatment.'

  Pathetic cheating, probably something his analysts had recommended as a way to get me to lose my temper, but like most things Declan O'Donnell did, it worked in our favour, negating one of Celtic's key advantages over us - fitness. We were able to take on energy gels, catch our breath. I spoke to Well In, asking what he thought about making our last sub. He said he wouldn't change anything - our team was perfectly balanced, the tactics were mint, we were on course.

  "Let's see what the dud does," I said, looking at DOD. I couldn't see any changes in the tactics screens. "I'm starting to tire. The fewer decisions I have to make, the better. The final change should be Omari - he's the best player on the bench. But make sure Aff and Tockers are ready to go, too."

  "Got it."

  72'

  DOD had tweaked Celtic's pressing scheme. Gone were the snide attempts to get me to lose my temper. Instead, two guys had been tasked with pressuring me when we were building up from the back. That suited me fine - we could go via Cheb or Danny and if needed, go long to Gabby, who was having a quietly immense game.

  But as play developed, I realised what DOD had really changed. His guys were looking for a new weak link. The sledging, the stamps, the flailing elbows were now aimed at Cheb - nothing doing - at Magnus - good luck riling him up - and at Wibbers. After getting a set of studs slashed down the back of his achilles, Wibbers reacted with fury. But before I could get over there to calm him down, he had put the ball down and taken a quick free-kick, exchanging passes with Gabby before unleashing a thunderbastard that was blocked. It spun away for a corner kick, and Wibbers waved his arms at the tiny away section, demanding they make more noise.

  I sent all the defenders into the box, keeping just Vinni and myself back near the halfway line. Celtic brought all their defenders back. I set Wibbers to take the corner and watched, annoyed, as some of our players got involved in pushing and shoving in the box. It was moronic. If we crossed and scored, the ref would just disallow the goal because of some perceived wrongdoing. Well, there was a way to avoid all that.

  When Wibbers was signalling that he would aim for the far post, I suddenly sprinted forward. Wibbers chipped the ball at a mad angle, not into the penalty area, but back towards the centre spot. Towards me. I adjusted my feet, leaned back, and cracked a volley.

  ***

  Stoop

  Shit! What a strike!

  DubaiGuy

  That would have been phenomenal. Just a couple of inches lower and it would have been a worthy winner for this match.

  ButteryCrumpets

  And we would have won our bets...

  Stoop

  Hang on, what's all this? Did I just see a red card?

  ButteryCrumpets

  Oh, shit.

  Saint Derfel

  I missed it. What happened?

  Stoop

  No clue. Waiting for the replay now. I'm pretty sure someone got sent off. Saltney player, looks like.

  DubaiGuy

  Danny Prince.

  Stoop

  Here's the replay. There's pushing all around the penalty spot, shoving, guy standing on Prince's foot, guy wrestles him to the ground. Prince gets up. Oh! Tries to go forehead to forehead with the defender but the soft lad drops like his head's been cracked open.

  That's weak as piss, that.

  That red can't stand, can it? He barely touched him!

  Saint Derfel

  Who cares if it's soft? You don't go to headbutt someone with 20 minutes to go in the biggest match of your career! The fuck is he thinking?

  DubaiGuy

  He's thinking about his ego.

  Stoop

  What a knob. If I was Best I'd show Prince what a proper headbutt looked like. Glasgow kiss. If anyone deserves one, it's him. Saltney were pissing this! What the fuck has he done?!

  And what happens now?

  ***

  I glared at Danny Prince as he left the pitch. He was complaining about how unfairly he had been treated.

  Unfairly treated?

  This was a guy who had the world at his feet. PA 162, talent recognised at an early age, smooth progression at every stage of his career.

  Until it got hard.

  He would never make it as a top player. Would he ever even make it to CA 140?

  As soon as he crossed the white line and went down the tunnel, he was dead to me.

  There was a massive hole on our left-hand side, which DOD was quick to try to exploit. He made three subs, taking off players who had earned yellow cards, putting on two fast right-sided players.

  "4-4-2," I called out.

  Wibbers went to the right as support for Cheb. Davey slipped to central midfield, where he was more comfortable anyway. Vinni as a CM wasn't as effective as at DM, but I tweaked his instructions to put him deeper.

  I played as the left back. And the left midfielder.

  Nothing was getting through on my side.

  Nothing.

  ***

  "Celtic launch another attack down their right. And there's Best again! He slides in, flicks out a foot to stop the pass reaching its target. He gets up, sprints, beats Yamato to the loose ball, clips it forward, chases. He's outnumbered. He turns back, little nutmegs, shapes to pass back to his goalie, no! He takes responsibility, turns back into traffic, little feint, stepover, great skill! He's up against three. He flicks the ball against the shins of a Celtic player and wins the throw!"

  "That, Clive, that was incredible. As a player, when you're down to ten men you don't want to be defending the whole time, so you look to your leaders, your captain, your best players, to get you up the pitch, to buy you breathing space, to produce a moment of quality. Since the red card, Best has been untouchable."

  "Imperious. And he walked away from the throw-in. Barnes ambled over to take it. That's another 20 seconds off the clock."

  "The tension's getting unbearable but the Saltney players look cool as cucumbers. Celtic are getting desperate."

  "O'Donnell has two more subs up his sleeve, but I don't see a game-changer on the bench. With every second that passes, I'm starting to believe this Saltney Town miracle is really going to happen. They play at The Legends Stadium and they are writing their names in legend tonight. Under ten minutes to go. Can they hold out?"

  ***

  My brain was pretty fried but I didn't see any sign that Well In wanted to make our final sub. I focused on my zone. I won headers, I made interceptions. With every victory I wanted to taunt the crowd, shout 'where's your famous atmosphere?' But there was no point riling them up.

  Do your job and go home. Don't even scream in the referee's face at full-time. Don't give him the satisfaction.

  So close now.

  I ran for a header, jumped, but moved my head away before contact was made. The ball flew out of play, ten yards behind me. Our throw-in. More time coming off the clock. More frustration from the home fans. They were already starting to leave.

  Activity in the dugouts. Not ours. DOD was replacing the Japanese striker - 5 out of 10, terrible - with Samuel, the player I had humiliated at Tranmere.

  I knew what was coming. Samuel was fired up - he had been gobbing off in the media about what a twat I was. Samuel was a shithead, not a team player, perfect for this Celtic squad, but if he got a half-chance he would one hundred percent score. The narrative demanded it.

  I jogged across and ordered a change of my own. "Tom off, Aff on."

  "Got it," said Well In.

  We survived the next phase of play and the game stopped again. More time off the clock while Tom trudged off, being shoved by Celtic players who were telling him to hurry up. Tom went even slower, which, despite the stress and the tension, made me laugh.

  I put Magnus at left back with Aff in front of him. I went into the centre of defence to man-mark Samuel. Gabby was on his own, tired, gamely trying to hold the ball up, to win headers, to do his part.

  ***

  Celtic passed the ball around with more speed, but then played a chipped ball over our heads, in a straight line. You never play a chipped pass straight because it almost always goes out of play. If you hit it at an angle, you give your strikers more time to at least keep the ball on the pitch, at least a chance to keep the danger alive.

  The Celtic fans booed and it was almost as loud as when they cheered the goal that had been ruled out.

  Music to my ears.

  But Samuel was unaffected by their boos; he simply did not give a shit about anything other than his own ego. The next time Celtic attacked, they went down our left. Aff and Magnus did their best but they couldn't handle that level of firepower. A Celtic forward stormed towards the near post hoping to get on the end of the cross that was coming. Dunners tracked him, quite rightly. Samuel, though, didn't care that one of his colleagues was there - he made the same exact run. It was his best chance of getting a goal. Who cares if it meant the overall threat was diminished?

  I made the same run as Samuel, determined not to let him score. Determined not to let football's most common narrative bite me on the arse. This was my story.

  We were expecting the cross to be hit low and hard, and that's probably what the winger was trying to do. He got the contact all wrong and the ball popped off his foot, arcing high towards the far post.

  I saw the panic on Sticky's face. The left-winger had got the march on Cheb and was unmarked. Sticky threw himself towards the danger but the winger made the right choice, heading the ball diagonally backwards. Vinni was there to stop an oncoming midfielder from getting a clean shot, but one quick pass later, the defender who had got Prince sent off thrashed the ball through a mass of bodies and into the net.

  Celtic Park erupted.

  ***

  "Frantic defending again from Saltney Town! The Bordermen are on the cusp of Champions League qualification but Celtic are knocking on the door. The danger is mostly coming from Celtic's right."

  "There are some very tired bodies out there. Best's stunt with the substitutions doesn't look quite so clever now. Some of his players are shattered."

  "Can they hang on? Another dangerous cross comes in! Dunston heads away. Addo gets in the way. He has been brilliant, hasn't he?"

  "He has. They all have, but Celtic are on top now. The home fans have been unimpressed by their team's efforts but they are fully behind them."

  "Another cross. Best heads away. It goes to the left wing. Cross comes in. Too close to the keeper - Icke punches clear. Best tries to get his players to move up the pitch but they can't - the pressure is unrelenting."

  "They need to get out. If they stay as deep as they are, they'll concede eventually. Best knows that but it's easy to say."

  "They drop back again. Evergreen loses out. Neat interplay on Celtic's right. Another low cross. Best is well-positioned, sweeps the ball away. It doesn't get very far, though. A snapshot! And it's gone in! Celtic have scored! Celtic have equalised! It's bedlam here at Celtic Park. Declan O'Donnell is dancing down the touchline. His team have done it! We're all-square."

  "His substitutions have changed the game. He has been under pressure but he'll point to that."

  "I have to say, that goal had been coming. Can Celtic find a winner, or will we go into extra time?"

  ***

  We somehow survived until the final whistle and I dragged myself over to the dugout. We had another 30 minutes to play, so we got an extra sub. That was amazing in terms of the guy being Bench Boosted, but I couldn't summon any enthusiasm.

  This thing was over.

  I had stopped Samuel from scoring, but I had fucked up in putting Aff and Magnus to cover one side of the pitch. I would probably regret that decision for a long time.

  "Give me Omari," I said.

  Well In nodded. "For Davey or Vinni?"

  Davey had ten more points of CA and was playing well, but Vinni had much higher Condition. "For Davey."

  "Got it. Hey, Max, keep on going, yeah? You never know what might happen. It ain't over till it's over."

  ***

  We played fifteen minutes of extra time. Celtic's players took the foot off the accelerator and basically passed from side to side, making us move, draining our batteries. Toying with us.

  In the interval, I devoured energy gel, took on water, and thought about how close we had come to winning this. It had been perfect but now I had to listen to the fans sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone', had to see Declan O'Donnell's smug, slappable face, the face of a man who thought he had put on a tactical masterclass.

  "Max," said Well In, giving me a little shake. "Come on, now. We're still in this. We are!"

  I nodded.

  "Fifteen minutes," cried Well In, to the players arrayed around him. "Whatever happens, you've got fifteen minutes in your legs! You've got fifteen minutes to show the world what you're made of. Hey?! Come the fuck on! You’re the champions of Wales. Let out your inner dragon!"

  ***

  We restarted with a spring in our step, fizzed the ball around, broke clear of Celtic's press a couple of times. Omari Naysmith was CA 91 these days, so with the boost he was probably playing at CA 100. Still miles behind his opponents but he showed some neat touches, played some crisp passes. It helped.

  But then a ball was played to Samuel's feet. He took a touch, waiting for me to slam into his back. I didn't. When he turned - the slowest, most predictable move of all time - I stabbed the ball away from him towards Vinni.

  Vincent wasn't expecting it, and a Celtic player zoomed in front of him, took control, and played an early pass just out of my reach. Almost before I could turn my head, the tricky left-winger was onto it. He clipped the ball past Sticky.

  3-2.

  Game over, man.

  The soundtrack to the next few minutes were the Celtic fans chanting Olé! Olé! as their players passed the ball around under very little pressure. Normally something you'd do when playing a club of comparable size, but whatevs. No-one ever accused football fans of having too much class.

  I sensed a shift in the mood among the Celtic players, though. They were playing like the job was done. The little Welsh upstarts had had a go but they were well and truly back in their crevice.

  There were 8 minutes remaining. If we equalised, there would be a penalty shoot-out. Me, Wibbers, Gabby, and Cheb would score. The fifth pen could go to Omari. He was a brilliant set piece taker. I fancied our chances in a shoot-out, for sure.

  We just needed one goal.

  But not too early. Don't leave time for another bombardment...

  ***

  Gabby, Wibbers, and Aff pushed towards a pair of defenders in a co-ordinated enough way to make him kick the ball long, ending the latest string of Olés.

  He had chosen Samuel as the recipient of the pass. I switched our formation to 4-2-4 and showed myself coming at him from the right, so of course the smooth-brained idiot touched the ball to his left.

  I burst onto it and moved away from the Nigerian so fast that his attempt to trip me up missed by a full yard.

  And then I was gone, driving hard into the midfield, hamstrings straining, thigh muscles burning.

  Aff was driving wide left, Wibbers wide right. Gabby was holding the centre. Omari stepped away into space as his marker came hurling towards me. I dabbed the ball to Omari, hurdled the tackle, continued running, got the ball back.

  I broke the line of the centre circle, enjoying the chaos that was unfolding before me. Guys were running everywhere. I pointed to a space for Gabby to run into. He did so, a move which led to a tangle of legs with a defender. They both tumbled. At that moment I swept the ball to the left.

  Aff took a careful touch, looked only at the ball, and swept it left-footed into the 'corridor of uncertainty' between the goalie and the defenders.

  There was nothing uncertain about it from my point of view. We had done this move hundreds of times in training.

  Still sprinting at top speed, I ran where I knew the ball would go, crashed my left foot through it, and as the net rippled I felt the hormones hit in one crashing wave. I kept sprinting, went six yards off to the side of the goal where millions of Celtic fans were in utter disbelief. I picked one out and jabbed my finger at him. "Olé!" I yelled. "Olé, you stupid fucking twat!"

  Bodies crashed into me, and for a few dreadful seconds I wasn't sure if I was being torn limb from limb by Scotland's disaffected youth or if it was the match stewards surrounding me.

  It was my players. "Come on!" screamed Wibbers, one of many guttural shouts.

  Gabby put his forehead against mine and screamed in Portuguese.

  "Don't do that," said Cheb. "You'll get a red card."

  I checked the time. 6 minutes to go.

  Not ideal.

  Then I shot a guilty look towards the TV cameras. Was The Sentinel watching? Come on. One goal. I'm allowed one goal. It wasn't even that good.

  ***

  Stoop

  Fucking hell WHAT a goal!

  BeardedWonderwall

  Pick that one out!

  Jesus Christ, what a hit, son!

  RetiredRed

  I can't believe that. It's like the best individual goal but it's a brilliant team goal, too.

  DubaiGuy

  It's better than you think. Watch the replay. Gabriel takes out a defender and that's the player who would have been defending the zone Best scored from.

  RetiredRed

  Do we still get paid out on Best as a goalscorer if he scores in extra time?

  DubaiGuy

  No, sadly. We don’t get BTTS, either. Most of our wagers were based on sound principles but have failed anyway. (Perhaps Max Best knows the feeling.)

  But anyone who bet on a penalty shoot-out result should be licking their lips.

  ***

  Three-all on aggregate. Three-all in our cup final.

  But I had made two mistakes. First, I'd scored too early. I didn't have much of a choice, but five minutes was a lot different to two minutes. Second, the goal had been too good. Some Celtic fans hated the manager enough to get mad about any setback, but most fans understood there was little you could do about a goal of such quality. If I had scored a scrappy one that should have been cleared, or latched onto a weak backpass, the fans could have blamed their players.

  As it was, they were getting behind their team for one last push.

  Celtic pushed.

  ***

  "Celtic come again. Saltney's players look shattered. Cramp everywhere. Sluggish responses everywhere. The final whistle can't come soon enough. How many will have the energy left to even take a penalty kick? Celtic working the ball patiently, holding onto it, letting the pressure increase. The ball's chipped over the top."

  "Awful."

  "A straight ball over the top, no-one there, dreadful. But Samuel chases... and he keeps it in play!"

  "That's the fastest he's run all night."

  "He did well, to be fair. Saved his team thirty seconds. Saltney have a throw-in by the corner flag. They're hemmed in. Celtic will be hoping to recover this ball quickly. And they do! Problems here for the Welsh champions. The ball's moving across the pitch, there's an overload on the right, cross comes in... and it's there! Celtic have scored! So late in the game! The goalscorer runs away, rips his shirt off, twirls it around. Declan O'Donnell goes for another run. Saltney Town's magnificent underdogs collapse to the ground. There is no coming back from this one. They are heartbroken! O'Donnell the most relieved man in the stadium. Max Best is crestfallen. He came so close to achieving the impossible. He goes to Vincent Addo, that magnificent young midfielder, pulls him to his feet. Saltney have been brilliant, they have been wonderful, but they have been undone by a moment of madness. Celtic won't care, though. The Bhoys are back in the Champions League!"

  ***

  Keltics asked me to swap shirts with them. Declan O'Donnell sarcastically offered to shake my hand. TV people tried to shove cameras up my arse. I remember none of it.

  I went to the dressing room and took my seat. I covered my head with a cold, wet towel.

  Numb.

  Empty.

  I meditated on the word 'devastated'.

  I heard the rest of the lads trudge in, boots clomping. Often after a defeat, players threw bottles, yelled, blamed someone for how much they were hurting. I hated it because it was all for show, but I would have accepted it that night.

  No-one said a word.

  It was so quiet we heard the thumping victory music from the home dressing room. The valiant warriors tucking into the feast. To the spoiled, the spoils.

  Well In came back from doing the post-match interview. He was a great manager, superb coach, but he didn't know what to do or say in such a situation. How could you know? I sensed that he had decided to give us space.

  Into the solemn chamber came none other than Celtic's hero of the hour, Danny Prince. He had showered and got dressed and had made sure to put his earring in. Very important to look your best at all times.

  "Guys," he said, coughing. "Er... just wanna apologise. It was just a heat of the moment thing and - "

  He stopped because I took off the towel and gave him a death stare. "You've cost us that match. You've cost your mates a massive bonus because you had to put your ego first. You've cost me millions of pounds that I need so I can afford an experimental treatment for my mum's incurable disease. You haven't killed my mum, but you've cost me the chance to save her.” I left a beat. “Never speak to me again."

  He turned pale, but he looked angry, too. He snatched up his kit bags and flounced out.

  "Max," said Magnus, but I was too exhausted to read his face. The atmosphere was ten times more horrible than in any dressing room since I had found the Darlington players had pissed in the boots my mother had bought me.

  I forced myself to get up from the bench and looked around before hanging my head. "You have been brilliant. You are models of masculinity and manhood. I need to tell you that I made a mistake." I looked towards Prince's empty space. Yeah, he was an eternal dickhead, but I had chosen him, hadn't I? I had to take responsibility for that. Like a man. I rubbed my temples hard, to see if that would help with the throbbing inside my skull. "When I was trying to work out the prize money I kept fucking up and I made one big mistake. The club gets four point something million for getting to this playoff round, and it gets four point something million for getting into the Europa League. That's the same amount for doing the same thing so I thought, like, that was it. But it's not. I mean, it's not one or the other. You get both. You get the four and the four. That's eight. So, ah, you get more bonus. I didn't want to tell you before the match because, obviously, I mean..."

  I was starting to feel sick. The enormity of what had happened was crashing in over me. I would have taken 8 point something million in prize money at the start of the qualifiers. I would have bitten your hand off. But I'd had two hands firmly clutching a pot of gold. A pot of 18 million.

  Look what I've lost, boys!

  "Boss," said an unexpected voice. Tom Westwood was on his feet, looking like a kid even though he had played like a man. "Might be a bad time but, uh, me and Omari were talking."

  "Omari and I," said Omari.

  "Whatever," said Tom. "It's just, we were talking about what you said this morning about the lost boys and, I mean, let's face it, we were lost boys, weren't we? Got dumped on our arses by our academies and you, like, picked us up. We could have been two more unemployed lads watching crap videos all day, getting angry and doing drugs and crimes and that. But we're not. We're here. And we got so close but Omari and I..." He paused to check his grammar with his mate. Omari shrugged. "We get to play Europa League. It'll be mint. Okay but what it is, right, is that we're doing okay and we don't have Lambos but we're okay and we was thinking we might give you our bonus so you could sort of help more... So you could do what you did for us again."

  "Pay it forward," said Omari.

  It was a magnificent gesture, one that barely registered on an emotional level at the time; I was simply too drained. The little brain run-time I had left had latched onto something Tom had said. They would play in the Europa League. Eight matches. Five they would lose, guaranteed, but there would probably be three they might stand a chance in. A win would earn Saltney 450,000 Euros. A draw was worth 150,000. There was still a chance to add to the prize pot.

  There was still work to do.

  I hadn't managed in the Europa League this season, so I would still have Bench Boost and Triple Captain. So would my Bench Boost ally, Well In. I could co-manage Saltney two more times and add as much as 900,000 Euros to the coffers. I couldn't play, and most of the big guns would be back where they belonged, but depending on the opposition we could scrape some draws, surely? One win and a draw had to be achievable. Who knew? Maybe we would be drawn against College again. If they made it through...

  "Tom," I said. "You are a balm for this wounded soul. That's a good thing, by the way. Keep your bonus. I'll do what I can for as many lost boys as I can. That's a promise.” The throbbing in my head was getting worse. I had to get out of there, fast. “Listen, guys, I'm not going back on the plane. I'm gonna take a tiny break from football. Thanks for everything you've done. We'll keep in touch, sort the money out, all that good stuff. But yeah, big shower, tiny break. Bye."

  "But Max," said Magnus. "Where will you go?"

  I looked at him. "Just a little city break with Emma."

  "How long will you be gone? There are some quite important events approaching on your calendar!"

  He meant the end of the transfer window. "Magnus, don't worry. As a positive male model of masculinity, I know my responsibilities. I know what's important in this world." I summoned the tiniest flicker of a smile. "I'll be back in time to babysit."

  Shoutout!

  Some PM/SS readers have their own fictions and I'm going to link to one, completely unasked for. I don't have time to read (what with the whole writing 20,000 words a week thing), but check it out! You might like it!