43. Max Best Wins It All (Part 2 of 20) [T1] (Patreon)

43.

My match overview screen read: Broughton Under 14s versus Chester Under 14s.

I had my in-vision clock, but for the sake of seeming like a real boy I suggested Emma set a 35-minute timer.

"35?" she said.

"Matches are seventy minutes in this league," I said. "They should make it shorter today because the pitch is so big, but you can't expect anyone in football to actually use their brain."

"Except you."

"Right. But it's good news. We've got loads of subs and we can roll them on and off. The plan is to pass the ball a lot and make Chester run. We'll overwhelm them in the second half of the second half. Which means I don't need to mess the kids about with mad tactics."

"Explain that bit to me," said Emma.

"Which bit?"

"People seem surprised that you'd choose 4-4-2."

"Ah. That's because I'm a floating megabrain. They expect something weird from me. Something funky. Every match is a chance for me to show off. Why wouldn't I take it?"

"So why don't you?"

One side of my mouth lifted of its own accord. A pretty big part of the reason was that I only had access to three formations and I couldn't tweak them. Playing the MUNDIAL mini game had made me hungry to unlock every part of the curse. A month ago, my powers had seemed incredible. God-like. Now I felt feeble. I couldn't even drop a striker into midfield. "Emma! Because of what I've been saying. Why does no-one believe me? This isn't about me. This is about my lifelong passion for Broughton. 4-4-2 is the best formation to show what those little Broughton bastards can do. Remember the scouts? Sevenoaks can only play right-midfield. So that rules out tons of formations. No, 4-4-2 is the best thing for them."

"So what's with the cloaks and daggers and mentioning 4-3-3 all the time?"

"That's partly for my own amusement. Henri called today my revenge fantasy. It's not, but I can have my little jokes. Winning's not that big a deal, but why not sort out the kids's futures AND win? And it's like I said in my speech. You're allowed to take the piss if the other guy's a dick."

Emma looked Spectrum up and down. He was holding onto a clipboard. Clutching it to his chest. "Is he a dick?"

"He's a moderate dick. He's a good coach but he doesn't stand up to the parents so the net effect is negative. His team isn't fun. Notice they've only got two subs? That's shocking, really. Oh, and he called me names, the lily-livered soy boy. So yeah. His punishment is some low-level stress. I judge myself to be on the right side of history here."

"Oh, do you?"

"Yes. And by the way, all my shenanigans have made him give my most dangerous player a free ride."

"Benny?"

"No. Seven. He's the me in this team. If it stays like this in the second half, he'll receive passes under no pressure and drive forward. It's going to be carnage. Leaving him unmarked is like doing nothing to stop Mbappe."

"So you've learned a thing or two from the World Cup."

"I hope so. But to be fair, I've been doing this sort of thing for a while. Make space for the guys who can progress the ball. We're lucky today. We've got Future who can pass from defence to midfield. And we've got Seven who can dribble from midfield to attack. That's gold. I'm not sure what I learned from the World Cup. Probably hundreds of tiny little things. Do you know what I mean? Things you learn without knowing it."

The ref blew his whistle to start the match, and that in itself was interesting. I didn't get offered the Bench Boost and Triple Captain perks. Those were only supposed to trigger once per season, and this was explicitly the same league and the same season as last time I'd been here. No loopholes this time! I still had the Free Hit to boost our chances at a set piece, and I'd probably use it. I'd wait till the second half though. I felt a narrative brewing...

I made some last-second tweaks to our tactics. I set every player to short passing. No forward runs. No through balls. Offside trap yes, pressing no. All I wanted was passing. Thousands of passes. Sterile possession. The kind of football I hated watching. But today it would lead somewhere. Somewhere spectacular...

The match soon fell into the pattern I'd expected - there were a lot of Chester players in the middle of the pitch getting in each other's way. They had to run wide, then return to base. My players had lots of time and space. It was all very comfortable.

Already starting to get bored, Emma asked me to point out the good players in the Chester team.

"Okay," I said. "See that guy there? He's called Henk. His mum is a piece of work. Very ambitious. Cut-throat. Great football brain, too."

"You're describing the mum a lot considering I asked about him."

I smiled. Maybe a little bit guiltily. "She's quite attractive. Henri was mad at me when I told her off. But her personality is important to understanding Henk. See he's playing as a defensive midfielder now? Look, there's the line of defenders, and there's Henk in front of them."

"Yes, I see it. He's like a moat in front of the castle."

"Floating megabrain Max Best says he's a centre-back. But mum thinks Henk will have a better career and make more money as a DM, so she's trying to turn him into one."

"Will it work?"

"No. But it's smart. I've been undercover in the football world for a while now, and she's one of the only people I've met who's thinking long-term like that. Okay. Then there's Sullivan. He's in the midfield there. He's good but he's scared of making mistakes because his dad will shout at him."

"That's horrible."

"Yes it is. You'd be amazed how many people have told me it's just part of football culture and I should ignore it. Fuck that. Anyway, by playing safe all the time he guarantees he won't catch the eye of the scouts."

"But Henk's mum will?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"I don't like your enthusiasm."

"Talking of eye-catching, their final good player is that kid Tyson. You see him get the ball and dribble? Trying to take on the whole team. He’s catastrophic for team spirit. It's harsh to say it but he's the reason no-one wants to play for Chester."

Harsh, yes. Fair, yes. But it killed the conversation.

So we watched. On my new stats screen, we quickly shot up to 70% possession. Pass pass pass! I almost laughed at how boring I'd made the match.

Meanwhile, I rotated all my players in a constant whir. Everyone except the goalie. Benny came off. He looked at me, worried, wondering if he'd done something wrong. They all did. But five minutes later, they were back on. Rotation without judgement. The whole team relaxed.

The best players on the pitch, according to the match ratings, were Henk and Sevenoaks. They flitted between 8 and 9 out of ten. The two key strikers, Tyson and Benny, were both on 6. I'd noticed that most of a striker's match rating came down to how involved they were in creating goals.

Goals. For a while it seemed like this match could last infinity hours and not produce any. But as half-time approached, Captain made a mistake. He had an easy passing option to his right, but a mad compulsion to do something interesting hit him and he tried to chip the ball to the left, over Tyson. He made a mess of it.

Tyson couldn't believe his luck. He caught the ball on his chest, raced towards goal, and none of our defenders could get near him. The talented dipshit lashed the ball low into the corner. Good goal. Tyson ran around, arms aloft, celebrating on his own.

"Ugh," I said.

"Are we going to lose?"

I laughed. "No chance. But if any scouts have come, they'll be like oooh that was a good goal. Ooh, let me ask Max about Tyson. About Flappy Bird. About Gooseboy. Ooh, let's ignore the players who might actually be good."

"Why would they ask you about a Chester player?"

"Why wouldn't they? They know I was involved with the Chester youth setup in some way. They don't know about the whole fight to the death thing."

Emma was restless. "We conceded a goal. Shouldn't we do something?"

"Like what?"

"Pump them up. Do a tactic. I don't know."

"Strange as it may seem, I'm not a youth football expert. But I think it's all right for them to have setbacks. Let them feel miserable for a minute."

"Max!"

"I'm serious. Captain shouldn't have tried that pass. This pain is good for him. You know, long term. Moving up the ranks shouldn't be easy. It just needs to be possible."

"Was he showing off?"

"I wouldn't call it that, no. They haven't done any of that."

She didn't know about the green attributes my stirring speech had provoked. "So that's another win? That and Jude?"

I grinned. "I suppose so!" I checked the match clock. "Nearly half-time, isn’t it?"

"Oh! But we haven't even had a shot."

"I know. But Chester are running around way more than us. They'll pay for it in the second half."

"I'm bored! Where's my fearless football?"

I turned her towards me and put one hand on each shoulder. "Emma. This is fearless football. Not from the players, but from me. If this was a pro match, the fans would boo. I'm going to walk around at half-time and everyone will laugh at me. Everyone will have a smug comment. Oh, there's that guy who thinks he knows about football. Tommy Tactics? More like Freddie Fraud. And so on. I didn't want to be losing, but I can use it. I'm trying to teach these kids something. Telling them a story about right and wrong. The team playing as a team are losing. The team playing as an individual are winning. Is Max mistaken? This moment of doubt now... that's powerful. When they turn it around, the lesson will stick."

Her lips curled deliciously. "These little outbursts. Your passion. It’s pretty hot."

I grinned. "Do you want to go behind the bike sheds and do some winning?"

“Oops,” she said, holding up her phone. It was beeping. “Half-time. What a shame.”

***

Ten Minutes Remaining

Half-time. One-nil down.

The team came to the technical area to get instructions and take on liquids.

"Guys, gather round. Hurry up! One of the spectators did a murder last night and I've got fifteen minutes to solve the case."

"Half-time's only ten minutes, Max," said Big Man.

"Well, shit. I'll just say the butler did it. Okay. Big speech or little one? I'm thinking little one." Benny had his hand up. "What?"

"There's a girl watching. When I went to take a throw, she said: Why doesn't your manager give you instructions? Doesn't he like you?" He rubbed his arm. "It sort of messed with my head."

I laughed. I laughed harder than I had for weeks. Benny's look of worry melted away and he grinned, too. "Benny. She's doing it because she knows you're dangerous. Ah, that's great. I'm glad she's here."

"Do you know her?"

"Yeah. I taught her to say that."

"Teach us that kind of thing!"

"Nah. I'm not into that anymore. It's funny but it's the wrong kind of funny. Unless maybe you deserve it, Benny mate?" He shook his head. "Okay listen. Feast your eyes upon the lifeless husk that is Chester FC. They're flat out. Lying down. They're wrecked. Look at us. Standing up. We're fresh. We've got legs. We could win a dance-off. Do you know the phrase: handbrake off? Me and my assistant are turning our special keys. Keys to a weapon so powerful it needs two people to unlock it. 3,2,1, handbrake off. That means no more Mister Nice Guy. New plan: mixed passing. Forward runs. Try through balls. Pressing. Goals goals goals. Captain, what is it? What's up?"

He looked pretty distressed. It hadn't really hit me how much it would mean for the defectors if they could beat Chester. "I messed up that pass. Gave them a goal. I'm sorry."

I wanted to tell him not to worry about it, and make a joke. But that probably wouldn’t help him long-term. “There’s different kinds of mistakes. Many lead to goals but no-one thinks worse of you. Like if you slip or something. Mistakes are always bad if they’re against the manager’s instructions. I know what you were asked to do is boring. And I understand the compulsion to liven things up because I’d be the same as you. But I'm a winger; you’re a centre-back. You have to do what you’re told all the time. It’s not my idea of fun, but that's the role." I straightened and stretched. "Don’t stress about it. But know that every manager you ever have is going to expect you to follow instructions." I imagined Captain's best possible future, being trained to shuffle and slide by an endless succession of Ian Evanses and Dave Cutterses. Ah, well. Maybe he'd like it. "You know what is fun? Attacking. That's the team talk. Attack. If you're on the pitch thinking wait what's my job? Attack. That's your job. Hey, Benny. Have you got your phone? Your dad waits in the car when you play, right? Text him. Tell him I said he's allowed to watch the second half. No, I'm serious. He won't want to miss this. Okay, lads. Take it easy. Spend the rest of the break ranking my top ten goals."

***

Seven Minutes Remaining

I took Emma and started wandering down the edge of the pitch looking for social wins. I waved at Future's grandmother. I gave a double-finger-gun salute to a couple of the Knights parents I recognised. But before I could continue, I was intercepted from the right by James Yalley, Gavvo from Altrincham FC, and two men I didn't recognise. At the same time, Mike Dean, arrived from the left. They all started talking at once.

"Whoa," I said. "Let's do it in age order. Youngster."

It took him a second to drag his attention away from Emma. "Oh. Reverse age order. I see. Yes, well. Mr Gavins is here, as you can see. And these are the other scouts you invited. Wrexham and Tranmere." He said their real names, of course, but it's easier this way.

I shook hands with them and smiled at Emma. They had come! More wins! "Awesome. I'm ecstatic you came. This is Emma. Sixth in line to the Duchy of Monte Carlo."

"Fifth," she said. "Cousin Ludo died of gout."

"Of course. And guys, this is Mike Dean. Runs Chester." More handshakes and stuff. This was a really difficult industry to get things done quickly!

Everyone wanted to say something, but Gavvo was quickest on the draw. "Max. Thanks for telling us about this. Couple of good players already." He looked at his notes. "Can we talk about Tyson?"

Subtract one win. "Yeah, at full-time."

"What do you mean?"

'Do you really want to sign a player with more shots than attempted passes?"

"He's got good balance. Good touch. Good eye for goal. Players are often selfish at this age."

"It's your call. I recommend you wait and see how he acts when things start to go wrong."

Mike Dean beamed. "Ah, but Max. Our boys are in total control! You haven't even had a shot! Something tells me the second half will be the Tyson show! What scout wouldn't be impressed?" He frowned. "Not that we want our best players to leave the club."

"I invited them to look at my guys, Mike. But maybe leaving would be good for Tyson. Change of scenery, Different input." I shrugged. I didn't care all that much. "So you want to talk about Benny now? Seven? Future?"

"Future?" smiled Tranmere. "He's quite short for a centre-back."

"Yeah," I said, going off the guy in a flash. "You wouldn't see a centre-back that short, I don't know, playing in the World Cup final later today."

Emma squeezed my palm. Trying to get me to calm down.

Tranmere raised a hand. "You're right. You're right. You think he'll be that good?"

Future had a PA of 99. "On talent, he could get to the Championship. He's the most talented kid here. You should be throwing yourselves at him." I looked around. Benny had PA 40. Captain and bomber were in the low 30s. Seven was 35. They wouldn't play to a very high level, but they could all run out for Chester one day. That would be an awesome moment for them and their families. "I've got four more. Make sure you stay for the second half. We'll put on a show."

I tried to move away but Gavvo and MD both tried to stop me. Gavvo was again first to shoot out a question. "What about Henk?"

Henk had PA 37 but had the appearance of having a much higher ceiling. He was tall and powerful for his age, great in the air, smooth and unruffled. "Yeah. Good player. A more obvious fit for your teams. How much are you willing to pay?"

"Pay?"

"You want to sign a top youth prospect. What do Chester get?"

Gavvo turned to Wrexham and made a face that said, 'Can you believe this guy?'

Wrexham said, "They'll get a sell-on clause. If we take Henk and sell him later, Chester'll get 5%."

"Yeah," I said, checking the clock. These guys were burning my time talking about the wrong players! Big fail. "That plus twenty thousand pounds."

"What? That's crazy. No-one would pay that."

"Nineteen," I said.

Gavvo laughed. "We bring him for a trial. If we end up inviting him into the programme, five thousand pounds."

"Eight thousand or after Darlo get promoted, I demolish Alty next season. Twice." I was starting to enjoy myself, but then I wondered what I was doing. "Fuck it. I don't care. Here's the MD. His mum's over there. The fit one. Just make sure Chester get something out of it."

"What about the other ones? The Broughton ones? Is there a fee for them, too?"

"No. I want them to land in the best environment I can arrange. You can donate some old kits and mannequins and shit if you want. We'll talk again later. I need to say hi to someone."

***

Three Minutes Remaining

While the scouts haggled with MD, Emma and I pottered off. James wasn't sure what to do, but decided to stay with Gavvo.

"Here's the Bulldog Brothers," I mumbled, as we passed Tyson's family. They'd added a third. As well as the two brothers, there was now a teenage version. Big and beefy but with a decent haircut and no tats. The older of the species saw me and turned to each other, laughing at some joke.

"So the plan is," said Emma, "that these guys are laughing now and you'll wipe that smile off their faces by the end."

"Yep. Ah! Now see that guy up ahead? Looks like an ostrich egg but actually it's a human being."

"His girlfriend is gorgeous."

"She's a physio here. Let's go have a quick - "

"Excuse me? Mr Best?"

I turned, bewildered, to see that the third Bulldog had wiggled closer. He was just a yard away. What was it with people sneaking up on me? My first thought was that I should diffuse the situation peacefully with a Vulcan nerve pinch. Okay, that was a lie. My first thought was that I should punch him really hard, throw Emma over my shoulder, and sprint to safety.

All I could do was gawp at the guy, so Emma took over. "Can we help you?"

"Oh," he said. "I was wondering if I could have a selfie?"

"Do you follow her on Insta?" I said, trying to understand what was happening.

"Don't be a clown," said Emma. "He wants a selfie with you."

"What? Why?"

Wrong question. It unleashed a torrent. I guessed he didn’t go to the same school as Tyson; he spoke much more bluntly. "When you was here! They was all laughing at you, said you was a disabled rando who thought he knew footy, and then it was all hey remember that weirdo? He signed for Darlington. And then it was check this out! He played against Whitby and they was laughing because you was shit and they didn't even know your name on the PA."

"PA?" I said, startled.

"Public address," said Emma.

"Yeah!" said Baby Bulldog, as though we were agreeing with him. "And then you went psycho tackling your own player and they tried to laugh at that but you dribbled 80 yards and you sat two defenders down and I was like where's the joke, man? And then there was that mad free kick and every match you kept going mental and holy shit did you see it when you skanked that guy then said sack it let's do that again and mate you scored from a corner. It's like you're playing FIFA on cheat mode!" He nodded towards his family. "Those jokers stopped watching but I didn't. I keep telling everyone this guy's a legend and he coached my cuz and no-one believes me so I want a selfie so I can prove it."

All that came out in about eight seconds and I was twenty-eight seconds behind. "You want a selfie?" I said.

Emma pulled me towards the kid. "God sake, Max, pose for the selfie. Holy cow."

***

The Second Half

Emma dragged me back to our technical area where I spent the first few minutes of the second half in a daze. What just happened?

One of my biggest enemies in football had a cousin who thought I was top? Were the Bulldogs over there right now bickering about whether I was a genius or a fraud? Or was that whole speech and the selfie part of a bigger prank?

The back of my neck felt hot and itchy. I rubbed it.

"Come on, Chester!"

I turned to face the sound. I couldn't see the face of the shouter, but I knew who it was.

I got my phone out and dialled.

"Max?"

"Kisi. What are you doing?"

"I'm watching my beloved Chester. You can't phone me during the match. You're supposed to be managing."

"Beloved Chester?"

She moved the phone away and yelled, "Chester, whoo!"

A man beside her repeated the shout. "Chester, whoo!" Mr Yalley.

"Is your mum there, too? You should all be in church. God will smite you."

"James convinced mum and dad. Said we had to support you."

I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. "Right. Thanks. But you're cheering for the wrong fucking team!"

There was a bit of rustling on the line and I heard Mrs Yalley. "Language, please, Mr Best." More noise. She'd handed the phone back to Kisi.

"Kisi," I said, slowly. "I'm the manager of Broughton. We are playing against Chester. You are cheering for the wrong team. It's like if you were cheering for City against the Beth Heads."

"Well, that would be okay," she said. "I am a City player. Anyway," she added, "you were all Chester Chester Chester for ages. You can't blame me if I can't keep up with your moods. And another thing. Meghan taught me about football culture. I said I was a Darlo fan now because you were there and she said you can't change your team that's a big no-no. So I'm a Red Devil. I'm a Beth Head. I'm a Sandra Stan. And now I'm Chester. I have bonded with Chester boys under 14s. For life."

I exhaled. "Fine. Enjoy losing. Are you sticking around to watch the World Cup final with us?"

"Here in Chester? Where?"

"We've rented a cinema. Apparently watching footy on such a massive screen is top. James will love it. He can complain about the keystoning and that. Right. Stop mentally disintegrating my players. Stop cheering. Watch in sullen silence. Thank you very much."

***

I checked my tactics screens. Nothing needed a tweak. The match had taken on a radically different complexion - now, we were attacking relentlessly and Chester were on the back foot, pushed back so far all they could do was boot the ball away hoping for a breather. The breather never came. My boys were on one.

Captain was a rock. Tyson's dribbles kept smashing into him. Then a quick, simple pass and we were once again in full flow. Captain didn't look bored; he seemed to be having the time of his life.

I smiled at Emma. She smiled back.

This was a good setup. I could hang around with my girlfriend while managing the team while networking. I dialled again.

"Jackie! Nice to see you here. Are you coming to the World Cup final? I'll text you the details. So, Livia finally asked you out. I'm glad she finally plucked up the courage."

He sighed. "I asked her, Max."

"Oh, wow. I'm surprised. Question. Can you give Ziggy ten minutes in a match sometime soon?"

"Probably."

"Oh. That was easy. I feel he needs another kick. Another dose."

"Way ahead of you."

"Huh." Another win! "What do you think of my formation?"

I felt him shake his head. "4-4-2? Max Best, King of Convention. It's true what they say, then."

"What's that?"

"You can teach a new dog old tricks."

I laughed. "Talking of. The Max Best Challenge. What the fuck?"

"It was your idea, Max. Shouldn't you be focusing on your team?"

"We're in control of the game, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I had noticed, actually. But I don't see what you changed to make this happen. You're very frustrating, Maxy boy."

"If you come to the final I'll explain it to you." I changed my tone. "And I'll pay you back what I owe."

"Oh." Brief pause. "All that goal bonus money starting to come in?"

"Yeah. Turns out," I said, "that I'm a pretty good player. If you'd spotted that... you could have signed me for FC United. The team you work for."

"Got to go, Max. I'm expecting a call from my mate who's into conspiracy theories. He wants to tell me the king's a flat lizard."

So I wouldn't get any answers from him today. "Ah. You don't want to confess on the phone. Got it. See you later."

I hung up.

"What did you mean by that?" asked Emma.

"I always feel that Jackie Reaper is up to something. But when I think it through, I was the one who went to FC United and I was the one who asked him to coach the Beth Heads. He never initiated anything. So why do I always feel that he did?"

"Max, I'm bored. Can we have a goal, please?"

"Absolutely," I said. I did some hand waving like I was casting a spell, then I pushed the energy I'd 'summoned' onto the pitch.

Captain heads the ball down. He's winning all his duels today.

Future controls and looks up.

Future plays a pass to Sevenoaks.

He's in acres of space. He drives forward.

The left-back makes a challenge. Sevenoaks skips around him.

He's clear! He pushes to the byline. He looks up and crosses low.

There's a scramble. The ball comes loose. Benny is sharpest.

GOOOOOAAAAALLLLL!

The equaliser!

It had been coming!

Emma squeaked. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't. That was coincidence. I promise I am not a witch."

Big Man and Jude came to celebrate with us. "Tidy finish," said the manager, which was about as effusive as he got.

"Did you see that skill?" said Jude, referring to the way Seven got past the defender. "I wonder who taught him that."

"Don't look at me," I said. "He was doing that kind of thing the first time I saw him. Maybe he learned it from Spectrum." While I was trying to give the Chester coach some credit, I noticed the first outbreak of flappy-arm-itis. Tyson was beginning his transformation into a man-goose. "Aaaand the sulking begins. Big Man, what's your record win against Chester?"

"Record win? We're yet to record a win."

"Oh, shit. I think I'm about to break the space-time continuum."

***

Two-one.

Three-one.

Kisi: Max! Stop it!

Four-one.

Jackie: Just so you know, there will be random drug tests after the match.

Five-one.

Nice One: I can honestly say I haven't enjoyed a single minute of my son's football career. Until now. This is a joy. Thank you.

Six-one.

Jackie: Stop! Stop! They're already dead!

Emma asked why I was laughing. I told her what Jackie had written.

"So we should stop scoring, then?"

"Huh? What?"

"Do they stop the game if the score gets too big?"

"Er... no. In America they have a thing called the Mercy Rule. Stops kids being humiliated."

"And that isn't a rule here?"

"No."

"So the only thing standing between these kids and utter humiliation... is your sense of morality."

"My sense of morality is telling me to thrash Chester so violently that somebody finally realises they have a big fucking problem. My morality says that's better for everyone, long-term."

"Yes, and that's fine. I understand that part. But the Chester kids look miserable."

"Yeah," I said, smiling at Tyson's body language. That didn't go down well with my girlfriend. I tried to see things from her point of view. "You're worried they'll all cry themselves to sleep tonight. You think I've done enough to prove my point." I wasn't sure that I had. Today, sure, MD, Spectrum, and the parents would be stunned. But six months from now, they'd look at the results and see won, won, won, lost, won, won. Six goals wasn't enough to guarantee a long-term reaction.

"People are leaving," she said, pointing to the crowd. Little groups had started to detach from the hive and were heading off.

Okay, so maybe six goals was enough. "All right," I said. "I'll see what I can do."

Benny picked up a loose pass and dribbled into the penalty box. He waited for a defender to come, then rolled the ball sideways to himself. Nice trick! He was flattened by a second defender. A clumsy, tired, hapless defender.

Penalty kick, no complaints.

I held my hands up. "That wasn't me! I'm not a witch."

Emma laughed. "I know."

I took a couple of steps forward. "Future! Future! Take the pen."

He looked at me. Pointed to himself. Me?

"Yes! Hurry up."

He scurried forwards and asked Benny for the ball. Benny seemed confused and didn't hand it over until I went into the screens and made Future the official penalty taker. Benny blinked, but then crouched a little to give Future advice on where to shoot.

"Babes," I said. "I've put our tiniest player on the pen. He's a defender. He can barely kick the ball twelve yards. He's never taken a pen in his life. It's the best I can do. Okay?"

I hugged her and pulled her into me while the referee moved all the Chester players out of the D.

FREE HIT Y/N?

I had the option to boost Future's chance of scoring by ten percent.

I glanced over at Spectrum. At a sagging MD. At the thinning ranks of Chester FC parents and well-wishers.

I squeezed Emma again.

Help Future score? Or let Chester keep what little was left of their dignity?

This was not a hard decision.