S1 2H - 15 - The Fast Track [T1] (Patreon)

15.

There was a minor logistics issue. Because I'd walked to the restaurant and Henri had arrived in his impractical two-seated Lotus Seven, he would have to drive me to my car, and then I'd go back to the restaurant and drive the ladies to the stadium. Henri, of course, wanted to do it in a more complicated way.

"We will both drive back here and take one woman each. I choose... Gemma." Gemma wasn't the giggling type, but that was the closest she came.

"Oh, great," I said. "Why don't we drive to the flamethrower shop and burn down some trees while we're at it?"

Henri tsked at me. "Max, I care about the planet. I do. But it will survive this extra half mile trip. And, in case you forgot, this is a date. I bought a sports car to impress women, Max."

So that was absurd, but that's what we did. Emma got in my shitty box-on-wheels while Henri zoomed off with his date in his green fantasy car. I experienced a rare pang of jealousy.

I rubbed my forehead. "Sorry, Emma."

"What for?"

"Just sorry."

***

When we got to Blackwell Meadows, Henri's car was nowhere to be seen, but when Emma and I were looking for the entrance, he and Gemma appeared from behind us. Odd.

"This way, Max!"

With Gemma dangling from his arm, he led us through the side of the stadium into an office. Cutter and the club secretary were there. They pushed a contract in front of me, and a memorandum of understanding in front of Henri.

"You first, Max," said Cutter.

"Wait, Max," said Henri. "Let me look." He skimmed through my contract, his face turning from red to purple as he went. "No! Do not sign this, Max! It is scandalous."

Cutter looked panicked, but I intervened. I wanted them to talk to each other as little as possible. For now, at least. "Henri, it's okay. I asked for those terms."

"What is it?" said Emma.

"It's... ugh!" said Henri.

I stepped in. "I've chosen to be paid by the match instead of weekly. So I get a little bit of a higher fee."

"It's criminal," said Henri. "They are abusing you. It's a zero-hours contract. Even car salesmen have a basic income guarantee."

"No, Henri. Please! Listen. This is a fair deal all round. What if I'm shit? The club isn't locked in. And if I'm good, I'll actually earn more. See here, I've got a good assist and goal bonus. Okay? Calm down. Emma, this kind of thing is known as pay-as-you-play. Henri's worried that if I don't play, I will be broke. So that's why it's good I'm an agent as well. Right? Right, Henri?"

He grunted. "Yes. It is good you feel financially stable enough to sign... this."

I patted him on the back, leaned over, hesitated just for a moment, and signed. 500 pounds per match. 500 for every goal and assist. No-one took a photo. The secretary guy scanned it and faxed it to the FA, then tapped away on his computer and checked the printer had paper.

Henri read through his own document, shaking his head at my stupidity. His wasn't an actual contract. It was a thing to say that he would join Chester on the 1st of January. It was legal enough for both clubs to plan accordingly. He signed it, then sighed. "So that's that."

"That's that," agreed Cutter.

We all shook hands. The secretary gave me some printout. "Welcome to Darlington!" he said. "Er... there will be more to come. I'm afraid it will take a while because of my, you know, holiday. But it's all done and dusted. Shirt number 77, like you asked for. Ask at the office if you need anything in the meantime."

"What's this?" I said, pointing to a section of the paper he'd given me.

"That's your FAN. Football Association Number."

I laughed and groaned and raised my head to look directly at the ceiling. "Jesus Christ. I just borrowed 500 quid to get that. Did I just chuck 500 quid in the bin?"

"Why did you need 500 pounds?"

"To get my agent number. My licence number. Thingy. This!"

"Ah! Of course. Well, don't worry, you had to pay that to start the process, but it will be the same number in the end. If I were you, I'd call the FA tomorrow and get them to link your player profile to your agent one. It'll take them thirty seconds."

"Oh!" I said. That was unexpectedly awesome. Bit of a fast-track scenario.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll run off. Double-check my packing, you know."

"I'll be off, too," said my new boss. "Training at 9:30 tomorrow Max. Don't be late or there's a fine. There are fines for everything. Not from me, you understand, from the captain. He uses the money for team nights out and stuff. Talk to him when you see him."

"One thing," I said, and both men stopped on their way out. "Can we take our dates onto the pitch? Show them around a bit?"

"Absolutely," said Cutter. "Your first time, his last time. Spent in attractive company, for the first and last time! There's a groundsman somewhere. Just er... don't be too... romantic out there. We're a family club. Okay, Henri?"

"Please," said Henri, with a smile. "As if I'd have my first kiss in a football stadium. I'm the poetic type!"

Cutter eyed him with a hint of sadness, a hint of pride. "You are and all. Listen, Henri." He looked away, then back. "Good luck, yeah?"

"Thank you, Mr Cutter. You too."

***

Henri showed us around the stadium. It didn't take long. The side with the offices was almost like a cricket pavilion and was known as The Clubhouse. There were no seats there, but I guessed a few people would stand along the side of the pitch, leaning against a railing like at a Sunday League game. Opposite was the south stand, a cute little thing with 600 seats. The east stand was 8 steps high and had no in-built seating. 1,000 people could stand there. It was known as The Tin Shed, according to Henri, and had been rescued from a previous ground.

Henri advised me not to ask the locals about past stadiums because that was a 'canister of worms'.

Finally, the west terrace was... empty. It was just a space, uncovered. Unlike in bigger stadiums, the home and away fans weren't always segregated, but the away fans tended to congregate there. And get drenched.

So this wasn't Old Trafford, or Anfield, or even Wrexham's Racecourse. Far from it. But where there were gaps in the stadium, there were trees, giving the place a kind of serene Scandinavian quality.

We walked all the way around until we got to the south stand, which felt like the main stand although it was technically not the biggest. All the seats were labeled - media, Darlo Fans Radio, Home Director, Away Director, Reserved.

The real star, of course, was the pitch. It was in decent condition - a bit worn here and there. But it'd do. And the jewel in the crown - the goals on either end, with the standing-room only terraces behind. When I scored, where would the biggest noise come from?

Gemma didn't want to go on the grass in her high heels, but Emma did. We went to the centre circle and stood awkwardly for a while. I felt like I'd done damage to our relationship and didn't know how to repair it.

She spoke first. "Are you mad I brought Gemma?"

"No, of course not."

"Max?"

I looked longingly at the goal. Although I didn't like being kicked to bits, I loved playing football. At its heart, it was simple. Kick the ball past that straight white line and people would admire you and think you had accomplished something. "Okay, yes. It annoyed me. I know it's wrong to feel like that."

"You're allowed to feel how you feel. But talk to me."

I nodded. "Okay. You're right. I said not to choose Gemma. I’d like to think you would value my opinions on things. I'd like my opinions to be valued."

"I do and they are. But you said you'd bring a footballer and… well. Gemma. You know? I thought you were joking about all the philosophy and that. Who knew there were two erudite footballers?" We looked over to the side of the pitch where Henri was being Henri and Gemma was being Gemma. "They like each other."

"I know. It was a good choice. I was wrong." I looked over at them again. "What was I thinking? She's so sexy. What man wouldn't want her? I was being a big manbaby. I know that. But really, I’d have liked to have met another of your friends. You’ve met two of mine. What the - Hey! They’re kissing. What was that he said about first kisses?"

"He said he didn’t want his first kiss here. What do you think they were doing in his car?"

I slapped myself on the forehead. "The absolute dog."

After the mutual laugh, there was another moment of awkwardness. Of expectation.

"Oh, wait," I said. "No no no. I'm not kissing you now after I've been fucking weird all morning."

Emma pouted. "How about after you score your first goal?"

"Huh," I said. "Huh. Let's walk to a corner flag. So... this Tuesday is a friendly against god-knows-who in the back-end of wherever. That doesn't count. Saturday is the FA Trophy. It's a cup for non-league teams. Did you finish the Welcome to Wrexham thing? Wrexham got to the final of that, at Wembley."

"Yeah yeah yeah," she said. "Is the match here?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be here. Which side will you be playing on?"

I laughed. "If I play, both sides. I play on the right and we switch ends at half-time."

"Hmm." She looked around the stadium. "That part looks the warmest. I'll sit there. You score, you kiss me."

"Okay, okay," I said. "I like the way you think. But what do I get if I score a hat-trick?"

"Duh," she said. "A hatful of kisses."

We'd arrived at the corner. I moved Emma out of my way - which she didn't seem to mind at all - and rehearsed my run-up from different angles.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"I think I'd like to score direct from a corner."

"What does that mean?"

I took up a left-footed stance with the corner flag to my left and the goal to my right. The imaginary ball was about a foot off the line. I pretended to kick it. "I approach the ball, hit it hard with a lot of curve. It goes two or three yards out at the... what do you call it? Apex? Apogee? Crest? But then it starts to bend back in." I moved close to her, leaned in, and used her arm to show where I was aiming, like I was teaching her to play pool. My face was almost pressed against hers. I spoke very softly. "There are loads of players in the six-yard box, so the goalie isn't completely free to move. He tries to jump to punch the ball away, but one of our dudes is blocking him. Ball zips past. Swish! Crowd goes nuts." I smiled and eased away from her.

"Right," she said, cheek slightly flushed. She pointed to my damaged ankle. "But aren't you right-footed?"

I poked my tongue out of the corner of my mouth. "You're right. Everyone thinks I'm right-footed." I moved so that the corner flag was to my right and the goal I was aiming at was to my left. "So in that case, I'd approach the ball from this angle, and curl the ball away from the goalkeeper and onto the head of one of my players. Yeah. I should stick to that for now. Keep the element of surprise. Good point. I can shoot when the corner is on the opposite side of the pitch. But maybe I do want to show off from the beginning. Huh. Tricky."

"Are you saying you can kick just as well with your left leg?"

I smiled. "No. Of course not." And I did a very exaggerated wink.

"Max!"

I held my hand out and she took it. We started walking back to the dugouts.

"No, Max, really," she said. "When we met you never said you were a player as well. You were all about Ziggy. So... So just how good are you?"

"Ha," I said. "That's the question, isn't it? I honestly, honestly, have no idea. But," I said, pausing to look backwards. "But I think I'll be a real problem at set pieces, and I've always been good at crossing. So... I'm good enough to get what I want." We started walking again, but once more, I hesitated. "I think."

***

Henri invited us back to his house to celebrate.

"To your house?" I said.

"I buy a house everywhere I play football. First it's a home, then it's an investment."

"Will you buy one in Chester?" asked Gemma.

"If I'm only there for six, seven months, probably not."

I wondered how much he had made in his career. Seemed like a lot if he was buying houses left, right, and centre. I took one last look at the goals. Was I making a mistake in wanting to be a manager? Players earned far, far more.

Hmm.

We left the stadium and I followed Henri. He kept trying to go fast, but had to slow down because I refused to match his speed.

"Are you doing that to wind him up?" asked Emma.

"Hmm? No. But if it does, that's a bonus."

***

His house was very nice, decorated and furnished in a minimalist style, very tasteful, very classy, but with cozy moments here and there, such as a chunky leather armchair surrounded by lamps and books. It was top.

After the tour, we retired to his spacious kitchen and stood around his central island. Gemma very close to him, Emma close to me.

Henri took four wine glasses down from a cupboard. He opened his fridge and took out a white wine. He pulled out the cork. "This is from my family's vineyard," he said, as though it was nothing.

"A family vineyard? How romantic. Can we visit?" said Gemma.

"Alas," said Henri. "I was lying. I know it's not nice to lie to one's friends. Is it, Max?"

He gave me a stern look. My throat was dry. Did he know? "Um... is this about me calling you the best player in the league?"

"That was the truest word ever spoken."

"Certainly," I said, thinking that actually, Raffi had a higher ceiling.

"I refer, Max, to when you said the deadline to sign was 1pm. We ended our nice brunch early because of that. The club secretary told me it was actually 2pm."

Ludicrous relief. But I couldn't keep living like this. He'd signed, now, it was all arranged. All settled. I could come completely clean. Almost completely clean.

"Henri, stop. Please." He looked surprised, but lifted up the wine mid-pour. "I need to be straight with you." Gemma made a scoffing noise. I ignored her. "One question. You only thought about staying in Darlington to play on the same team as me. Right?"

"Right."

"Okay." I cleared my throat. "Here's my plan. Let's see if you want to drink to it or not." I took a breath, paused, and said, "I'm going to play for Darlington, win the league, and then quit. And I'm going to do all that by the end of January."

"Emma, would you please check to see if he has a fever?"

Emma pressed the back of her palm to my forehead. She took it away and I unconsciously tried to follow it. "Well," she declared. "He's hot all right."

Henri grinned. "Indeed. But not sick? No? Well, well. I am... gosh. I am speechless. I have never been struck dumb by stupidity before, yet here we are."

"Is what he said impossible?" said Gemma.

"No," I said. "It's trivially easy. If I play ten games for Darlington and they win the league, I'll get a winner's medal."

"Ten league games," said Henri.

I hesitated. Had I calculated wrong? "May I?" I said, pointing to a nearby Macbook.

"Oh," said Henri, looking worried. "Er... not that one." He moved away, then came right back. "Joking. Of course you may."

I opened it and went to Darlington's fixture page. "Ten. Exactly ten league games before the end of January."

"You'd have to play in every game," said Henri, coming round to look at the screen.

"And I will. I'll be so good in every game he'll keep picking me."

"This one, Max, this one," he said, jabbing at the data. "The tenth match is on January 31st. The last day of the window. And it kicks off at 7:45pm. You finish at, what, 9:30, and at 9:35 call the FA to cancel your registration with Darlington?"

"Oh!" I said, happily. "You understand it perfectly."

"No, Max! You cannot call from the dressing room to cancel your contract, then walk in with your former teammates to take a shower. It's unprecedented. It's... it's almost sick. What about your reputation?"

I shrugged. "It'll be fine. I'll make up some story."

Henri stomped around his kitchen. "Why are we even talking about this? What is the point? I said I don't mind you playing for Darlington! You need to build a career, Max. Burning everything down is not the way. Believe me! And why are you only telling me this now? I'm not a good enough friend to share the secret?"

"You're a good friend, Henri. That's why I couldn't tell you. Because you'd try to stop me." He stopped pacing. Took a swig from the wine bottle and calmed down. Then he realised what he'd done and got a new one from the fridge. "Henri, you don't know how much I want to be a manager. You can't know, because it isn't rational. I know that. But I'm telling you, friend to friend, that my deepest wish is to manage. I want to manage a football team. Now, let's think about the job market. Football managers are fired all the time. Look at the bottom of the National League North. Telford, Buxton, Farsley. They're all in trouble. What they're doing isn't working. Yeah? Would they give me the job? No chance. Now imagine I play 10 games for Darlo and score, I don't know, 7 goals with 8 assists. There are, like, YouTube highlights of me being fast and doing backheel nutmegs and all that shit I do. I'm a million pound player, maybe. And Farsley sack their manager and I turn up and say, hey! Do you want a player-manager? I'm a million pound player and I'll do it for minimum wage. What are they going to say?"

"They're going to say no because you're 22 and you're a maniac."

"Okay maybe. Maybe not. But there's one team in this league who have already let me manage their disabled team and their youth team. A team slipping down into the danger zone."

Henri scoffed. "Max! You forget that I will be moving there on January 1st. And I will shoot them up the table." He smiled at Gemma. "Single-handed."

"That's 6 weeks away," I said. "What if they're in the relegation zone then? What if they only draw the first few games when you're there? And check this out." I gestured on the trackpad to make a section bigger. "Look at this fixture. Saturday 21st January. Darlington are at home to..."

"To Chester," he said, eyes wide.

"So what?" said Gemma. "If Henri is playing, Chester will win. No offence."

"None taken," I lied. "But Henri can't play against his parent club. So it'll just be me. Now, Henri. You're one of the top 3 football experts in this room. What, in your opinion, will happen to a team in relegation trouble if they lose heavily in a performance inspired by a player they could have signed for free?"

He glared at me. "Define heavily."

I looked at the ceiling while keeping his face in my vision. "8-0?"

He slammed the table. "No! No, Max. I forbid it. If I play for Chester, I play for Chester. I cannot allow this."

"Sorry, mate," I said, slouching on his island. "Not much you can do about it, though." I stood straight again, but my smirk was crooked. "Look. If Ian Evans is sacked, I'll apply for the job. No biggie. Mike Dean will snap me up - he knows I'm a tactical wizard and by then he'll have seen I'm a top player. And then you and I will play together, right? That's what I couldn't tell you until you signed. That's why I was weird and stressed. Because this is the plan! Together we will rule the galaxy as Manager and Subordinate!"

He rolled his neck around. "Emma, would you be mad at me if I fired Max right now?"

"Yes. Sorry."

"Merde." He sighed. "Max, you're quite mad. Your plan has more plot holes than Inception. You're right that I would have tried to talk you out of this." He closed his eyes and shook his head, letting out a stream of invective in his mother tongue. Finally, he started to pour the wine again. "I will play for Chester and they will finish mid-table. A perfectly respectable season. You will not find a club willing to take a chance on you as a manager, and you will finish the season at Darlington as a player and not ruin your reputation. Eh bien. I understand that you have tried to create something magical today. A delicate and beautiful shoot of hope, and it falls to me to stamp on it, to extinguish its life. It is not your fault you will fail; it is the world's. I remain pleased to have met you. You remain privileged to be my agent." He nodded a few times. "Follow your course until the transfer window closes. Then when you are forced to remain here, in this nice market town, close to the joys and delights of Newcastle, remain with all your heart. Spare some time to talk to clubs in League Two. Get them to send scouts to watch the magnificent Henri Lyons. There. I have spoken."

He finished pouring and distributed the glasses.

"Let us drink," he said, "to the best and worst dual date I have ever been on."

We all took a swig.

Emma said, "Well, now that Max is normal again, to a certain value of normal, maybe we could try it again next week? Without all the contract talks and worries? Talk about Max’s debut?"

"Love to," I said. "But can't."

"Why not?" said Henri.

"Next Sunday," I said. "I'm going to church."

"You can skip it," he laughed. "For Emma."

I smirked. "Can't. I'm giving the sermon."