30 - Yellow Cards [T1] (Patreon)

30.

I paused as Henri opened a car door for me. "Enchanté," I said.

"I'm opening the door for Gemma. You get in the front."

"Why?"

"Because you're a professional footballer and we're going to be driving for two hours."

I didn't really understand what he was talking about. "What?"

"Being scrunched up in cars is bad for your hamstrings. The passenger seat has been calibrated. Now get in and don't press any buttons."

Gemma pulled me out of the way. "It's okay, Max. I don't mind."

I walked round to the other side, then scratched my head. "This isn't a Lotus Seven."

"That's right, Max," said Gemma, mimicking the way I mocked her. "Well done!"

I got in the passenger seat of this ugly silver Volvo and placed the tupperware down between my feet. I settled into the seat, then sighed. "Made a mess of that party, didn't I?"

"No, Max," said Henri, buckling his seatbelt. "You were provoked. You had no choice."

"Do you really think so?" I said, but my burst of happiness flew away as soon as it grew wings. "Oh. You're taking the piss."

"Yes. I am taking the piss. I am disappointed in you. You were immature. Shona worked hard to host us. That is my career you are playing with. And Raffi’s. He just signed a three-year deal!"

“Evans isn’t more annoyed with me now than when he signed the deals.”

“Everyone has a limit, Max.”

“He’ll be gone soon.”

“He’s connected. He knows everyone in the game. Be careful. Be very careful. Consider this a yellow card from me. Pray Raffi is as tolerant. There. I have spoken.” We drove off, then almost immediately pulled to the side of the road again. Henri checked me out. "Watching these games is important to you, yes?"

I was feeling that sort of numb buzz you get when you realise you’ve made a big mistake. Yes, I felt justified. Yes, the situation was patently unfair. But Henri was right. Of course he was right. I’d gone too far. A lot of risk for almost no reward. Self-sabotage to the max - literally. I’d put myself in a position where I’d endangered a huge chunk of my guaranteed income. Lost in a mist of self-pity, it took me a second to realise he was talking about the World Cup. "Yes."

"Then go ahead. Watch on your phone. When the match is over, we'll still have more than an hour to complain about your behaviour."

Poverty kicked in. "I don't have that kind of data plan."

"Here," said Gemma. She gave me her phone. I say phone, it was practically a tablet.

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure."

I wasn't going to argue. I went to a website that had links to lots of exceedingly legal ways to stream live matches. As soon as the feed came on, I saw that I'd only missed two minutes, and questions 6 and 7 popped up in my vision. "Oh! Amazing. You're a lifesaver."

"You can leave the sound on," said Henri.

"I prefer it with the sound off," I said. "I can concentrate more. Also, I need to listen out for the questions." Saying this, I popped the earphone in.

"This is what you do, is it? With your free time? Watch matches and answer strange questions?"

"Yes," I said.

"And what do you hope to get from it?"

"Opportunity."

"But you are a football player. You are playing well, scoring goals. Building your reputation. That's opportunity enough, no? Your January 31st plan remains insane, but it's growing on me. There's a long way to go but... if a club is desperate enough... why not give you a chance?" He sighed. "However. This extra work you are doing, this online course, it is not healthy. You look exhausted. You need to take better care of yourself."

"Max," said Gemma. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Put yourself forward to manage a children's match against Chester? It's going to annoy the management, and you've got two clients there. I don't get it."

"It is not gettable," said Henri. "It is diabolical."

His word choice made me wince. "Why would it annoy them? It's coincidence that the match is against Chester."

"Come on. I’m not that stupid. You knew it was a mistake when you were doing it. I want to know."

I shrugged. On the phone's screen, Argentina were struggling to create chances against Mexico. I'd probably struggle to explain my motivations. "Okay, fine. To annoy them."

"To annoy Ian Evans," said Henri.

"No. Both of them. I like MD but he doesn't give a shit about the youth system and he should have defended me against what Evans was saying. I didn't break that team. It was already broken. Fuck sake, Henri. You were there. Tell me you agree with me."

"I don't completely agree with you, Max."

I fumed for a bit. "Gemma, it's like this. You smother your teeth with... I don't know... what's that fizzy sweet that tingles your mouth? Then you forget to brush your teeth for 4 years, then one day Max Best comes along and offers you a KitKat. You take a bite and five of your teeth fall out. Who do you blame? Max or the KitKat?"

"The KitKat."

I laughed. "Come on. It's your fault! You didn't brush your teeth. You did it to yourself."

Henri nodded once. "Your analogy has some merit, Max. But to make it more realistic, once the teeth fall out, Max Best breaks the KitKat into four pieces and uses them to make rude gestures at the person who trusted him."

Amazing. Had he somehow heard about what I'd done on the team bus? No. Surely it was just coincidence. I smiled, very slightly. "You missed the bit in the middle where I told them not to eat the KitKat and said I had a special toothpaste that would heal their teeth and make them grow bigger and sharper than ever. And instead of using my toothpaste, which only costs 350 pounds a week, they keep yelling 'what have you done to my teeth?'"

Henri shook his head, but he was smiling now. "You're certifiable."

"Guys, listen. I feel bad for Shona. That was shit of me. I need to get a grip. I really do. I promise I’ll work on it. But that’s me. Me the person, me the agent. But the kids! The youth team! I have to be honest with you now. I'm annoyed. At everyone. Everyone except Gemma. Yes, Henri, I'm annoyed with you. I don't expect you to take my side in front of Ian. We can’t both have a bad relationship with him. But I do expect it here in the car. I admit I struggle to keep my temper in check and I have to be more diplomatic but this thing with the under 14s presses all my buttons." I put the phone on my lap so I could count on my fingers. "One. Wasted talent. These kids are good! One's really good. Two. Toxic workplaces. Imagine being that age, excited to get a chance to train and play five times a week, and then you find out what it's really like. Fucking winds me up. By the way, you could have told me Darlington was wall-to-wall pricks. Three. Indifferent, incompetent, and distant management. Am I describing my bosses at the call centre, or am I describing a man who doesn't even know the name of the brightest prospect in his own youth system? Infuriating. Four. Lies and cowardice. Spectrum and the guys who told Evans none of this was their fault. And above all, five. Bad football. Imagine how much shit the average kid would put up with to play for their local team, then realise that half of one whole team has walked out. That's how shit it is to be on the same team as Tyson and Henk. But yeah. That's my fault. It's all my fault."

I took a moment to calm down, and remembered the Argentina match. But no sooner had I picked the phone up than I put it down again.

"That Benny kid means a lot to me. It's weird, but he does. He's not the most talented, but he wants to be a professional like his dad and he can certainly get that far in the game. He's a top lad. I will bring him to his mountaintop. I will. He's well out of that Chester team. He's in a good place, now. It's not going to be the best training and the best facilities, but he's not breathing poison every day. Know what I mean? I can't be there to watch over him, but I can check on him every now and then. Make sure he's on the right path. And while I'm doing it, I can stick it to Ian Evans and his fucking lackeys. Why did I do it, Gemma? For me. For pride. For stubbornness. 90% for me. And 10% for the kids. And I promise you one thing, that's 10% more than they'll ever get from Ian Evans."

I faced the front. I was spent.

“Fighting Ian Evans is a mistake,” said Henri.

“No, Henri. My mistake was starting to care about some random under 14s. But I do.”

“You can’t care more about the under 14s than your actual, paying clients. And if you do, you need to rethink that.”

I bit back a response. He was right.

"Max," said Gemma.

Her tone made me turn back again. There was something tender about it. "Yes?"

"You're fighting Ian. You're fighting your teammates. You're fighting for these kids."

"Yes." I expected her to tell me to try being less aggressive.

"Why don't you fight for Emma?"

I looked away. "Because," I said. But I had no clue how to go on. I felt completely drained.

I faced the front again and picked up the phone.

"Messi just scored," I said. I answered all my open MUNDIAL questions as best I could, closed the browser, and gave Gemma her phone back. I was done for the day.

***

We pulled into Henri's driveway. I got out and went, 'huh.'

"What?" said Henri, opening the back door for Gemma.

"I feel great. Not stiff at all. You'll have to teach me how to adjust the car seats."

"Not until you're done trying to destroy my employer."

He used his own key to let himself in, and, too late, I remembered the state I'd left the house in. I raced up behind the lovebirds, but what was I supposed to do? Rugby tackle them?

"Fucking hell, Max," said Henri.

"Oh my..." said Gemma.

I rushed to the island unit in the kitchen and tried to swipe the nearest post-it note. Henri grabbed my wrist.

"I'll make sure it's clean," I said.

"Max," he said. "I do not care about the countertop." He released me and let his hand float over the rows and columns of post-it notes that I'd arranged on the island - pink, yellow, green. There were post-its everywhere, arranged in neat horizontal or vertical lines. The kitchen island looked like a spreadsheet with many columns of ten colourful little squares. My intention was to see if there were any hidden patterns in the questions, any deeper meaning I could get out of the MUNDIAL mini game. Of course, it made me look like a serial killer.

"What is... this?" said Henri, pointing to one note.

I peered at it. "England player with the best heading. Harry Kane."

"And this one?"

"What formation did Japan switch to against Germany? It was when that sub came on and changed the game."

"This?"

"That was a weird one. From that day's matches, who was the best goalkeeper? Very, very tough. I didn't get it."

Henri was lost for words. My mania wasn't a mania. It was way beyond that. He did one very slow blink, then wandered off to collect what he had come to collect.

Gemma was standing by the fridge, looking around the room, spotting more little columns of post-its here and there. Duplicates so I could seek inspiration in different parts of the room. She was rubbing one arm like she was afraid of me. "What is this?"

I sighed. I placed my palms on the island and leaned on them. "This is a colossal waste of time. Or a huge shortcut. I won't know till it's over."

"Oh."

"I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I chose this. But... you know." I waved my hand around the room. "Not exactly knight in shining armour material right now."

"No."

Henri returned. He had a load of clothes and something in a little zipped-up case. Headphones, maybe. He went through into his office and came back with two envelopes. "Max. I thought this could wait but... despite your behaviour, a gift. World Cup final tickets."

The envelopes were glossy and expensive, but I could still see the glowing, Willy Wonka golden tickets shining from within. I felt dizzy for a second. "Are you serious? They're like gold dust."

"I have contacts. Now listen. Do you want them?"

Huh. Some tiny moment of hesitation. On the one hand, the World Cup final! On the other hand, Old Nick's little burst of anti-Qatar propaganda made me pause. For almost a tenth of a second. "Yes, absolutely."

"Great. The final is December 18th."

"Cool," I said, hand outstretched.

He waited. Stared at me. I was supposed to think something, but I was tired to my bones. He crossed the T. "That's the day Broughton are playing Chester."

"Oh." Now, this was a dilemma. Go to the World Cup final, in person, or manage a bunch of - sorry to say - fairly terrible players whose careers - let's be honest - wouldn't ever amount to much. I brought my hand back, and rapped a knuckle on the countertop, one beat for every second of calculation. Three beats. "Yeah, okay. I'll pass. Thanks."

"You'd put Benny ahead of the World Cup final? Seriously?"

"Yes, Henri," I said, getting hot. He was getting on my tits. If I had a spare house to live in, I might have really let loose. "Seriously."

"You said this rematch with Ian Evans was 90% for you, 10% for the kids. What is it really?"

"Just that."

He slapped the tickets on his other hand. "No! No, Max! You do not miss the final, the World Cup final, for some meaningless kickabout. Be serious."

"Fine. It's 20% for the kids. Jesus. Who cares?"

"I care." He looked stern. "I put it to you, Max Best, that you are 90% for the kids. Ninety!"

"Come on," I said.

He tossed the tickets onto the counter and placed his hands on my shoulders, as though my first kiss in Darlington would be with him. "Look at me, Max. Tell me the truth. Is this big fight, this title bout, for you? Or for Benny?"

He was so close I had little choice but to return his gaze, but before I spoke I looked down and away. "Benny is me."

"Explain."

"No."

He did something strange, then. He released me, slipped the envelopes into his jacket, then walked away and sat on the bottom stair. He jiggled a nail in between two teeth, the way I did, as he started into nothingness. "Eh bien..." He finished his deliberation and came round the island and looked me up and down. Then he walked around in a little circle. "The children are in your heart. You continue to surprise me. Sometimes I do not like it, but it must be the way that it is. You will manage Broughton against the club that pays two of your three clients. I will talk to Ian Evans. I will do my best to smooth things over and make sure no harm comes to Raffi. I will smooth things over with Shona and help her understand what happened tonight. I cannot support your revenge fantasy, but I will support your efforts to help the children. I will teach Benny how to be a fearsome striker like his idol, Henri Lyons.” He stopped walking. “We will play a formation with strikers, yes?"

We! He said we! "Strikers? Yes," I said. "Three."

"Ah!" he said, smiling. "You've been trying new formations. Of course you have."

Not yet, but I would make practising 4-3-3 a priority. "Your phone was here the whole time. How did you know when the final was?"

"I'm French, Max. When you support a national team as dominant in international competition as France, you learn the dates of the finals."

"Ha ha," I said. "Let me see the tickets, though. I've never seen a World Cup ticket."

"Ah," he said, and immediately everything about him became shifty and slippery. "It's late, we have to go."

The whole scene suddenly clicked. There were no tickets. He was just testing how serious I was. I put my hands to my head. "Oh my fucking God! You absolute prick! What if I'd said I wanted the tickets?"

"I didn't think that far."

"Why is it that when I do plans everyone thinks I'm manic and childish but when you do it, it's cute and whimsical?"

"Because my plans don't drag dozens of other people into them, Max." He stepped close again and gave me a hug. When we separated, he pointed to the post-its. "Please do less of this."

Gemma followed him towards the front door, took one last look around the room, and said, "I don't understand any of this, but don’t let anyone stop you. You do you." Then she gave me a double kiss goodbye, and I was once more alone with my block of post-its and my marker pen.

***

You do you. She was talking about watching all the World Cup matches, but it was all the encouragement I needed to forge ahead with what Henri called my revenge fantasy. I took a piece of A4 paper and drew a timeline from then until December the 18th. I plotted out all the things I could do to make sure Broughton won that game - chuckling as I thought of ways to annoy Spectrum and get under his skin - and arranged them into some sort of sequence. A few things, for example managing a Middleton Rangers game, would mean missing World Cup matches, but I had a plan for that. By the end, looking at my scheme, I was pretty convinced we’d beat Chester.

I pottered around, picking up Henri’s books and putting them down again. One was called Maxy Dick, which shocked me into a double take. Of course, it was Moby Dick, about a dude who destroys himself fighting something he should have left alone. A stiff, solid rectangle of card was wedged in, halfway through, used as a bookmark. It wasn't yellow - it was orange - but close enough.

“Fine,” I said, out loud. “I get it. Jesus.”

I went back to the timeline. I’d been focused on winning the match and crushing Evans and Spectrum and all that bad stuff. But now I brainstormed how else I could make use of that day. Things that would be beneficial to Benny and the other rebels beyond the thrill of victory. I worked on that for a while, took a last look at my creation, nodded, and stuck it to the fridge.

I got into bed, but after a restless half hour, went back downstairs and plucked all the post-its from the kitchen island. I placed my laptop there instead and went to YouTube. I typed ‘anger management’.

When I eventually went back to bed, I slept like a lamb.