44 - Max Loses Big (Part 3 of 3) [T1] (Patreon)

44.

At the final whistle, the kids ran around shaking hands with their defeated foes. I supposed I had to do the same with my equivalent, if only to be a role model. So I pottered over and offered a handshake to Spectrum. He took it in silence. The formalities have been observed!

Then while the Chester mob gathered their gear and trudged away, our kids ran over to the technical area to start the real celebrations.

"Go in the middle," I said, waving them back onto the pitch. "Go on, fuck off over there. Yes, I'm serious. Future? Good job. In the middle. Captain." I waved the captain over and bent to put a hand on his shoulder. "Big days. Special days. You'll know when. You gather your flock. Do a huddle. Tell them what you think."

I saw the whites of his eyes as he realised what I was asking of him. "I have to give a speech?"

"Yes. You're not at school. Okay, you're at a school but you're not in school. No-one's grading you. I'm staying over here. This is between you and your mates. Say what you want. Stay positive, keep it short. All right?"

"Mr. Best. I really don't know what to say."

I formed a fist and pushed it against his chest. "Yeah you do. Off you pop."

I watched as he jogged into the middle of a lot of confused young men and started the huddle. The rest knew what to do - free arms found free shoulders like a graphical rendering of how water molecules combined.

Emma came beside me and took my arm. "What do you think he's saying?"

"He's probably telling them the seven reasons he's a Man United fan." I sensed the frown before I saw it. "That's an inside joke."

"Inside with who?"

"With them."

"Mr Max?" I turned to see a cluster of parents hovering a respectful distance away.

"Er... yes?"

"Can we get a team photo? Please."

"You want a team photo after a routine 7-1 win?"

"Oh."

Emma said, "He's fucking with you." The parent relaxed. Got the joke. "Of course we'll do some photos. Max, sort it out."

"Uh-uh," I said. "You're my assistant manager. You come, too. Big Man, Jude, come over here a sec. Team photo."

"But Max," said Big Man. "I didn't do anything. You be in this one. I'll do the next one. When I've earned it."

"No can do, buddy. You did more than me. I didn't tell those five Chester kids to quit, and I didn't tell them to come over to you. They did because they saw all the teams in the area and thought yours had the best atmosphere. You've created the best conditions for kids to grow. I painted the front door, but you built the house. Having said that," I said, rubbing my chin. Everyone waited for my next torrent of wisdom. "Having said that, I'm the best-looking, so I should go in the middle."

***

I didn't see Mike Dean and assumed whatever he had wanted to say he no longer wanted to say. Fine. As for me, I'd treasure the team photo, but I wanted to detach from the scene as fast as poss. Kids in Chester? That case was closed. Job done. Mission accomplished.

Emma and I drove to the cinema, where Henri and Gemma had taken over the foyer and turned it into a buffet. Lots of people came - the Yalleys. Jackie and Livia. Raffi, most of the same first team squad players as the morning, now with the addition of some wives and girlfriends. Including Shona. Ziggy couldn't come - he'd met a woman. If he could score on the pitch with the same frequency he scored off it...

Henri hadn't invited the Broughton kids. When I asked why, he mumbled something about not wanting to make jelly and custard, which is all he'd ever seen English kids eat. "I invited all the French children," he added.

"There aren't any," I said.

"Exactly. But if they were here they'd be able to name all the cheeses and possibly even the three different types of ham. Do you see all the ham, Max?"

"These hams are different?"

"Mon dieu. You are little better than an infant. Leave me! I must flamcray the smogrow." Or something like that. He was having fun, anyway. It was good to see.

I mingled and ate and mingled and drank and when there was half an hour until the World Cup final kicked off, I started to get really excited.

Excited not only to see a mouth-watering matchup, but for this whole MUNDIAL slog to be over. And to see how much a TINO was worth. I suspected one TINO would be worth one XP, because it was in Nick's interest for me to grow stronger.

What would I buy? I could maybe unlock three new attributes. Or buy seven new formations. What did I want? What would the next stage in my managerial career be? What skills would I need? The anticipation was making my heart pump faster. My fingertips were tingling.

I felt a tug on my arm. Emma and Gemma were there. Emma's chemical bond to me had vanished and now they were covalent. They would be friends long after Emma had dumped me. I didn't mind it. If anything, I wished I had a similar friend for life. "Max," said Gemma. "We want to know the story."

"The story."

"Of the final!" said Emma. "The Shakespeare bit. If I have to sit through another football match... Two in a day. Ugh. At least we can try to get something out of it."

"Huh. Okay."

"Wait!" said Gemma. She gathered the nearby people to give me more of a crowd. I climbed a couple of steps on the staircase that led to the projection room and looked down on my tiny audience. Kisi and James were there, as was Aff and his partner. And Mike Dean! He'd snuck in at some point. I wonder how many hams he'd be able to identify. Maybe none. He didn't know the manager of his football club was a ham.

That was weak. I checked to see if anyone had read my thoughts. Emma was smirking at me. She knew something had happened. I wished I could spend some XP upgrading my ability to hide my microexpressions.

I spread my arms in a wide circle and intoned: "Beginner's guide to the World Cup final." Then added, "it's Argentina against France."

Henri interrupted me from behind a little suitcase that seemed to be full of spirits. "It's France against Argentina."

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I did another arm-circle so that everyone knew where to look. "As most of you know, I'm all about teamwork. Teams that rely on the skill of one individual tend to crash and burn. They're like TV show pilots that get canceled because the premise isn't strong enough." I tried not to look at MD. "But today's not an ensemble drama. It's a western. A gunfight. It's high noon. Mano a mano. Yeah, there's two incredible teams but they are totally built around two incredible players. First. Argentina. Messi has been the best player in the world for... nearly twenty years? But he's never won the World Cup. If he can win it today he'll cement his legacy and prove that he's the best who ever played the game. But twenty yards away, fingers twitching, is Kylian Mbappé. He's young, fast, fearless. Better-looking, too. He can do everything Messi can do, and more. He's already won the World Cup. This would be his second, and he's only 23. That's absurd. So that's the story. The old hand versus the young gun. Evans versus Best," I added. I couldn't help myself.

"Who is going to win?" asked James.

"Ah. Great question. It might surprise you, but I actually know the answer." This time I did glance at MD, to check he was listening. He was. "You see, in a story, in a movie. it's the old guy who wins. His experience pays off in some way, or he sleeps with some woman who tells him the secret of beating the newcomer. Yeah. But movies are like that because old people buy more tickets. There's only one place an old guy wins. In fiction. Because in the real world. old people are just old. They do the same old things the same tired old way and if they win, it's blind luck. So what you do is, you fire the 72-year-old mayor who refuses to let the rail company build a track to the town, and you replace him with a 22-year-old who understands about trains and telegrams and can bring growth and prosperity. And maybe some high pressing and overlapping full-backs."

Gemma groaned. "What the fuck are you talking about? Which one is the mayor? Messi?"

I smiled. "I'm just being a dick. Honestly, I have no clue who will win. It's two brilliant teams with two brilliant players. It's the most closely-matched game I can ever remember. It's the perfect final. I just hope it doesn't go to penalties."

The crowd dispersed, and MD approached me. I sat on the stair and looked up at him. "Max," he said, shaking his head. "Great speech, as always. Was that you pitching your services? I fire Ian Evans and hire you? Is that it?"

"No chance," I said. "I told Emma this morning that my biggest goal for today was making it so I never had to come to Chester again."

He frowned and rotated the beer bottle he was holding. He sat next to me and took a swig. "No team at any age level has lost that badly since I took over. That hurt. When that tiny little one you call Future took that penalty... I knew he'd score. Players always score against their old teams, right? Seven-one. That hurts."

"Good."

His head snapped my way, but I kept my expression neutral. "I had to placate a lot of people after the match. Assure them it wouldn't happen again. My phone is blowing up. City Fans United are on my case. That's the trust that owns the club, remember? My position is a lot more precarious than it was this morning." He waited for me to say 'good' again. I didn't. He pursed his lips, but then there was a tiny smile. "It was amazing what you did with that team. The way they celebrated at the end was magical. But that eleven is basically the Chester team from the day you came. How did you do it?"

I was pretty sure I'd already told him how to fix the under 14s but he had sided with his shitty employees instead of listening. I had no interest in going over old ground. "What do you want, Mike?"

He was quiet for a long time. The MUNDIAL game was trying to do something, but I suppressed it. It could wait a minute. MD finally spoke. "You got us five thousand pounds today."

"You seem pleased. It's peanuts. A clever manager would put Henk in the first team, give him ten matches against opposition that suited him. In short, make him look like the next big thing, then sell him for 50K. But your manager didn't even turn up today." I had a lot more to say. I didn't say it.

We sat there for a while. Mike finally said, "I heard about what you did at Sheffield Wednesday."

I hadn't expected that. "How?"

"Your agent told David Cutter who told Ian Evans. They all talk. You joke about old guys not knowing about technology. You're dead wrong. Ian loves WhatsApp more than he loves his hair." He took another swig. "Max. Just tell me if the story is true."

"What's the story you heard?"

"They offered you a playing contract. Big money. Five figures." So Brad had exaggerated the tale! Ten thousand pounds a week! It made him look better, I suppose. "And instead of taking it you barged into a meeting of the owner and some investors and gave them a piece of your mind." A small smile played on his lips. "Is that about right?"

"Basically, yeah. I didn't barge into the meeting. It was right there. If you invite a vampire into your house he's allowed to do what he wants."

"Is that right? Well, people are saying you saved Sheffield Wednesday."

"What?"

"The owners decided not to sell. Took a closer look at the plans and didn't like what they found. They've bid on some land for their new training complex. If they were wavering, they're back. All the way back."

"Oh." I thought about it. I'd foiled one of Nick's plans, but I knew he'd simply turn his attention to some other club. It didn't feel like a big win, but it was better than a kick in the teeth. "I suppose I'll be getting my five-figure contract any day now."

He chuckled. "I doubt it. You might have pushed them into doing the right thing, but they're not going to want to have a 40-foot poster of you on the side of the stadium." Once he was finished stating the bleeding obvious, he wedged a fingernail between two teeth, presumably checking for ham. "It's not fun being on the receiving end of one of your outbursts. Believe me. The thing is, knowing that you did that reframes a lot of your actions. Ian said you're all about money. But then why turn down ten grand a week?"

"MD," I said. "Just to be honest and upfront, here. I don't want you getting a false impression of my sacrifice. It wasn't ten grand. It was nine." I thought this was really funny, but he didn't even blink.

"It doesn't matter. It's a lot of money. When I asked you to do some scouting you were ecstatic to be getting a couple of hundred from me. So if Ian's wrong about you being a money-fiend, what else? You told me the youth setup was broken. Everyone said you were a fantasist. Today ended that debate. You brought us Raffi Brown and he's already made his debut, so anyone who says you can't spot a player doesn't have a leg to stand on. You're lighting the league up for Darlington so that's a black mark for anyone who doubted you as a player. And I just can't get over the joy on the faces of the Knights. Seeing you again. And the Broughton lads. Nice One's son. That huddle at the end. What were they saying?"

"No clue. That's their inner sanctum. It's not for us to know."

MD gave me a strange look, but then stared at the beer again. "And you're hiring a coach for them! With your own money. No wonder they think the world of you."

"You're exaggerating. They think I'm cool and they trust me to tell them the truth. And most of all, they like me because I give them permission to do what they want to do." I stood up. I wanted to find a seat at the back of the cinema and get stuck into the MUNDIAL game. Earn some TINOs.

"What is it they want to do?"

I smiled. "To play football the Max Best way." It was an awesome exit line. I took two quick strides away, but MD wasn't thinking cinematically. Fucking amateurs!

"I should have made you Director of Football, shouldn't I?"

"Yeah." He looked so small, then, so sad, and I felt so sorry for him, that I decided to help him out. "Mike. You know what you have to do. Sack Ian Evans before January 21st. When you're interviewing the next guy, ask how many youth team players he's given debuts to. Ask how many youth team matches he's been to." I thought through what I'd learned in my time as a player. "Ask his opinion on hazing and what he does to build an inclusive culture. Ask what formation he'd play against 3-5-2 and 4-5-1 and if it's the same make him defend it. Does he let players give input into tactics? Can his assistant take over during a match or is he just a yes man?" I was suddenly tired; I waved my hand around. "Things like that."

"Max," he said, not looking at me. "Why the 21st?"

I sighed. He knew the answer. Why was he making me say it? "Because that's when Darlo are playing Chester. And that's when I'm going to do you one last favour. I'm going to run up the score to the point Chester are mentioned on the ten o'clock news. There will be a discussion on TalkSport - what's the biggest sporting humiliation you've ever seen? I want the Times to run a thinkpiece calling for the introduction of the Evans Rule - when the scoreline gets too overwhelming, the referee can stop the match. If you won't fire him, I'll make him quit. Because in his own way, the guy is as cancerous as those investors who wanted to kill Sheffield Wednesday."

***

I grabbed some drinks and went to hide at the back of the cinema. I finally opened the MUNDIAL screen and instantly regretted not doing it earlier. The final stage of the mini-game was to be played without restriction. As with the semi-finals, I could choose my starting lineup, captain, and formation. But now I could also choose which team I wanted to be.

France or Argentina. It was virtually impossible to say which team was better. The goalkeepers were similar, both had good defences, hard-working and talented midfielders, functional strikers. The main point of difference was the two star players. Messi or Mbappe? I liked and respected them both.

In the end I said if you can't beat them, join them. France had beaten me in every match of the MUNDIAL mini-game. I hadn't found a way to stop Mbappe without leaving giant holes in the team. So fine. Vive la France and all that.

So. Formation. Anything vaguely conservative would do. Keep it tight and let your star cause mayhem. That was how the real manager thought. It was boring but effective. I wasn't stupid enough to think I could do better. So... conservative.

There's a detective TV show where about 38 minutes into every episode, while the hero is failing to solve the case, he sees the thing that helps him make a connection. Example: there's a red car and the detective says 'Of course! Ford! The killer couldn't af-ford his rent! The murderer is one of the tenants!' Or some shit like that. It's garbage. I love it. I looked around the cinema hoping for similar inspiration. Maybe the EXIT signs looked like a 4-4-2? Not really.

My eyes rested on Aff. The left-winger. I quickly scanned the rest of his row. Seeing all the players there got my skin starting tingling. Here we go! Me on the right. Henri up front. Ryder in defence. James Yalley in the DM slot. Ziggy wasn't here, so we didn't have a second striker, but we had Raffi for midfield. Ben in goal, obvs. We had the bulk of a 4-1-4-1 right here in the cinema! Something about the thought froze me. The guys who had accepted Henri's invite, either to the morning matches or to this viewing, were top lads. No doubt about that. And they had talent to spare. This team could take a sixth tier club to League Two. Two promotions in two seasons. Easy.

I daydreamed about that for a while, then remembered what I was actually supposed to be doing.

In my mental screens, I scanned the French squad and picked a team to suit 4-1-4-1, making sure all the little details were taken care of, like who should go up for corners and who would take the left-sided and right-sided set pieces. I took it seriously. I put all my current football knowledge into the task.

The work done, I relaxed and settled back to enjoy the first half of both matches.

Both were one-sided, dull affairs.

In my match, the half-time score was nil-nil, but I was pleased with our domination. We had four shots against one for our opponents, and we were dominating possession, too. Twice the Argentines had been forced to take yellow cards to stop our attacks. It was going well.

Meanwhile, the real-world France were losing two-nil. They had been collectively shocking. Mbappe? Invisible. Messi? Majestic. Game over. Under the Evans Rule, I'd have stopped the contest.

***

The audience filed out of the screen and took positions in the foyer. Lots of chat. Mostly happy faces - it felt good to watch France lose on a screen that big! The more people I chatted to, the warmer I felt. The more at peace. Life wasn't half bad, sometimes.

Henri was downcast. Jackie Reaper, for some reason, was the one trying to cheer him up. It might have gone better if Livia wasn't by his side.

While that scene was playing out, Emma detached from her bestie long enough to give me some attention. I told her I was fine but would love to introduce her to some people. "To make me seem like a real boy." I started with Shona. Still trying to claw my reputation points back up to zero. It wasn't going all that well until I told her I'd remembered her Tupperware and had it in my car. That worked wonders.

The break was all too short. We drifted back into Screen 1 and retook our seats.

***

It was about the 80th minute when everything went nuts. Henri, resigned to France losing, was doomscrolling Twitter more than watching the action. I couldn't blame him - France simply hadn't turned up. Giving Mbappe 4 out of 10 would have been generous.

"Max!" Henri screamed, leaping to his feet. I matched the move but my jump took me into a kung-fu stance. I, er... don't know kung fu. "Max! Telford have sacked their manager!"

"Holy shit! Oh!" I slipped out of my row and walked up and down the side of the cinema, holding my head, rubbing my face. This was it! This was the opportunity! Old Nick had basically promised me that I'd get any job I applied for. Well, here it was! I raced to the front, where the room had a little stage so they could host conferences. "Mute that!" I shouted. The projectionist obeyed. "Wow. Didn't expect that to work. Er... Emma! Emma!" I got down on one knee. "Babes. Will you Telford me?"

She tilted her head and popped a crisp into her mouth. "What?"

"Will you Telford me?"

"What does that involve?"

"Come with me to Telford. Right now."

Another crisp. Gemma gave her a dig and they giggled at each other. Emma remembered I was there. "Why?"

"I'm going to apply for and accept the position of manager."

"You're inviting me to Telford? Where is it?"

"Down south somewhere. What does it matter? I'll be the manager. Hey," I said, standing, looking for Mike Dean - he seemed the most likely to know the answer to my next question. I didn't spot him, so I opened it up. "Football dudes. What colour do Telford play in?"

"Black and white," said Ben Cavanagh.

"Max Best's black and white army!" I chanted. "Max Best's black and white army!" Kisi joined in on the second round, but no-one else. Partly because almost everyone was affiliated to Chester, but also because they were gaping at the big screen.

The sound came back on. I turned and saw why - France had a penalty. I rushed from the stage to a seat. The ref finished checking the hundreds of things they feel they need to check. Mbappe approached the ball, hesitated, and smacked it into the left of the goal! Two-one!

Fun, but France were toast. They had no chance. I wanted to start my career, finally. I snuck into the middle of the theatre. "Emma," I whispered. "You coming?"

"Yes," she said. "After the match."

"You hate football," I reminded her. "This is torture for you."

"Nope. It just got good."

"It's not that gerrr holy shiiiiit!"

Henri cried out. Gemma shrieked. The place went nuts.

France had won the ball, played it to the left, hit a hopeful lob in the direction of Mbappe, and he'd - stupidly - tried a first-time shot from miles out. He could have dribbled closer! But guess what? The guy knew how to play. Hitting it so early took the keeper by surprise. The ball thumped into the bottom-right. Two-two!

Henri went tonto. He was riding his cinema seat like it was a rodeo bull.

"Okay," I said. "We can wait till it's over."

***

The room is abuzz.

Jackie Reaper is watching like his hands are glued to his head. Mr and Mrs Yalley are turned away from the screen. Mr Yalley keeps dabbing his neck with a handkerchief. Aff, the Irishman, keeps saying 'but I don't care who wins. Why am I so stressed?' Shona keeps leaving because the noise is too much for baby Serina, but then running back in to see the latest wild twist.

The final has hit the heights.

Messi has scored. Mbappe has scored twice. France are alive. Football as chess-with-men, a highly-structured, regimented, turn-based strategy, is out of the window. This game is untethered. Wild. Players are running everywhere, seemingly at random, with one thought and one thought alone: win.

France has a 93rd minute attack. Close! Argentina get the ball to Messi in the 96th minute and you'd bet your house on him scoring. The French keeper tips it over the bar. Full-time and I'm exhausted. The last twenty minutes have been so intense.

I have just enough mental capacity to check my MUNDIAL - it's nil-nil and, like the real match, heading for extra-time. I throw on a load of subs to keep things fresh.

I go to the toilet. Emma and Gemma have gone, too. The timing turns out to be important.

***

Extra-time has already started when I sneak back in. For the first time, the projectionist has turned the house lights down. The match is so good that it deserves the full cinematic treatment. What will happen next? Who knows? The cameras find Messi and Mbappe. They seem to know.

I lean back and drink it in. The noise is incredible. The commentators are high on the drama.

Gemma is back, somewhere in the theatre. As the thirty minutes of extra time unfolds, she screams every time there's an attack. As Argentina restore their grip on the contest, Henri is as loud as the surround sound system. "No, don't do that!" "Why are you offside you lazy shit?" and when Messi scores in the 108th minute, he switches to French.

The winning goal deserves its own chapter, but suffice to say that I'm taken by how almost everyone plays the situation perfectly - the goalkeeper makes a great save and a defender takes up a position and very nearly keeps the ball from crossing the line. But Messi has done it. It's over. At last!

I start to think about Telford United.

But the French are still playing. Why are they still playing? Don't they know it's over?

They have a corner. The ball travels to Mbappe. He shoots for the top-right corner - someone handballs it! I can't believe what I'm seeing. Mbappe has another penalty! To equalise, with mere minutes remaining. Henri is not yelling, now. I try to find him in the darkened room, and I see one shape that is more slumped then the others. It must be him.

Mbappe scores, becoming only the second player in history to score a hattrick in a World Cup final. The young gun, the old master, what happens when both win? I realise this isn't a western - it's a Fast and Furious movie and the stars have contracts that say they can't lose fights. In those movies, fights have to be ended by some improbable outside event.

The last thirty seconds of the match are the closest I hope I to ever come to an out-of-body experience. I'm fixed in place. Am I breathing? Not sure. My MUNDIAL match ends, still nil-nil. I'm supposed to choose penalty takers. But all I can do is watch, and what I'm seeing is unreal. Totally incomprehensible.

A lofted pass over the Argentina defence falls to a French player - he absolutely wellies it, but the goalie sticks out a leg and it rebounds to safety. Incredible! One guy nearly won the World Cup! The other guy single-handedly saved it! The ball is cleared to the midfield, where an Argentine guy takes it, turns, and suddenly they're on the attack! French players steam back, but the cross comes in - it's perfect! - onto the head of the striker - but it goes wide!

The only person not screaming is baby Serina.

The referee blows the final whistle. My pulse comes down to a healthy level. A coin toss means the penalty shoot-out will take place against a backdrop of Argentina fans. Big advantage for Messi and his men. In my MUNDIAL game, France won that toss and shot into their fans.

And that was the difference, perhaps. My fictional French team won, but the real one lost. Mbappe and Messi scored their penalties. Then all they could do was watch, fingers crossed.

I got cursemail. I couldn't deal with it right then and there.

It took a minute for the house lights to come back on. Nobody moved for a while, then we started to file out into the foyer.

***

As the host and only Frenchman, Henri became the sun around which we orbited. He seemed to be philosophical about the defeat, and effusive in his praise for Messi. Emma made eye contact with me - time to go?

I grabbed a glass and knife and stood on the nearest chair. Ding ding ding. "Attention, s'il vous plait!" People rotated to face me. "I just want to thank our gracious and charming host, Henri Lyons, for booking this cinema and giving us all a wonderful experience. I know I'll never forget that last forty minutes. To Henri!" I raised the glass and so did anyone else who was currently carrying on.

I stepped down.

"Max?" said Mike Dean, emerging from the toilet. His voice cut through. The crowd parted between us, then took on the shape of a circle. "I thought you'd gone."

"Still here," I said, smiling. "Not for long." I was about to leave Chester with a big bag full of tiny wins.

"I heard someone say," he declaimed, with a dramatic nose-pinch, "you were going to apply for the Telford United position."

He must have been at the buffet when Henri had told me the news, and he must have thought I'd driven off when the house lights were dimmed. "Yep! Heading there right now."

"It's Sunday! There's no-one around."

"Someone fired the manager today. Someone's there. If I can't find anyone, I'll check into a hotel. I'll be at the ground at 7am. Hopefully be the manager by quarter past."

He gestured. "They're 15 points from safety. They'll be relegated for sure."

"It's three points for a win. Fifteen points is five wins. We'll be ahead of Chester by the end of January. I haven't checked the maths but if it's possible, I'll be gunning for the playoffs. If not, we'll start building for next season. James! Where's James? James, want to be my starting DM by the end of the season?"

He grinned. "Manager Best, I would like that. But I will have to discuss your offer with my agent."

I gave him a fistbump. "Telford United are pleased to announce the signing of the league's best right-winger and non-league's best defensive midfielder. Please do not choke on our exhaust fumes." I smiled and took a step forward. The exit was behind Mike Dean.

He took a step to block me. "Max, wait. I thought you were a big-shot player now. I thought you would get a huge contact at a big club. What kind of money can Telford pay? Did they get a rich owner?"

"They're fan-owned. I assume they'll pay peanuts." I took a step to the right, just to see what he'd do. Sure enough, he matched me.

"But if Telford can afford you, so can we."

My smile faded. "Chester does not have a managerial vacancy, MD. Unless you've finally seen sense."

"I won't sack Ian Evans."

"Then what are you doing?" I was annoyed, now. It felt like he was trying to delay me from getting to Telford. Had he been on the phone to a mate? Trying to make sure his friend got the job before me?

He put his palms out, waist high. The way you might do with a crazy person. "When I thought you'd driven off I got desperate. I tried to call but your phone is off." He took in a breath. "We need you."

I tried to parse what he was saying. "Not to be a manager. Not to be a player, because there's no way I'd play for Evans. So what? What do you need?"

"Fix the youth setup."

"Mike!" I yelled. "It can't be fixed while Ian Evans is there! Jesus Christ, man. Will you please listen to me? The 12s feed into the 14s who feed into the 16s who feed into the 18s who need to get chances in the first team. If you block ANY step, the whole thing fails. You can't fix a youth system at a club where young players can't progress!"

"Then be our head scout. Head of recruitment."

"I'll be that at Telford. And I'll get to put the players I find into the team and give them enough game time to reach their potential. I'll have total control, Mike. I'll be able to do things my way. Here? I'd need to find Ian Evans-shaped players. Would he put James into the team? Would he fuck! And that's the joke. Unless Mo Salah is shopping at Cheshire Oaks, James is the most talented player in this county right now! Mike! Telford will give me the chance to flex all my muscles. All you have to offer me is Ian Evans."

"You're not ready to be a manager," he said. "You can be immature and abrasive. Parents will put up with it when they see their kids so happy and energised. But think about dealing with players. Sponsors. The board. The media. You're talking about carrying a whole club on your shoulders. It's too much, Max. Too much, too soon. Take an intermediate step."

"You're probably right," I said, done with this conversation. I looked around. Most of my friends and clients were here. I tried to read their eyes, tried to see if anyone thought I was being a dick. It didn't feel like that. "But I'm going anyway. I'll send you a postcard from the Premier League."

"But Max!" MD whined. "If there were three games left of the season and we needed six points to be safe, wouldn't you play for us, then?"

"If I was choosing the team, yes." He shook his head and looked at the fluorescent ceiling lights. "Fine," I admitted. "Yes, I'd make sure you stayed up. But I can only play for two teams in one season. Darlington and Telford makes two. So that's not an option."

"It is," he said, "if you don't go. If you take a job with us. Look, I... can we talk in private, please?"

"Nope."

I'd forced him into a place where he had to make a very public pitch. What he said next would tell me how serious he was. "Ian's contract runs out in six months. We have a succession plan. A young, dynamic, forward-thinking manager. You'll like him. He'll promote youth players. He'll take your advice on how to use players. You can do almost everything you can do at Telford, here! With your friends. Your clients. Perfect conditions to achieve your goals while growing as a person."

"What job are you offering me, Mike?"

He looked away. "Director of Football."

There were gasps, especially from the footballers in the audience. This was more mind-blowing to them than me becoming player-manager of a struggling team. I'd be in charge of virtually every aspect of the club. Scouting, recruitment, contracts, the youth teams. Ryder, Aff, Ben - their futures would be in my hands. I'd be in charge. In charge of everything except the first team.

"Okay, I accept. First order of business. I order you to sack Ian Evans."

I lost some of the spectators, then. That was the immature Max everyone kept talking about. "That's not on the table. We don't sack people at the drop of a hat. When a sacking is justified, you won't have any complaints about my speed." He seemed to be thinking of one person in particular.

"You mean Spectrum? I wouldn't fire him," I said. MD's eyes widened. I shook my head. If he'd offered the job to me at half-time, I think I'd have bitten his hand off. But now... now there was a fantastic job waiting for me. Player-manager at a fan-owned club. With the club being as small as it was, I'd be the de facto Director of Football, there, too. The main difference being that I'd get to pick the team. The role at Telford was more than I ever dreamed of.

I took a breath and was about to refuse when Henri pulled at my sleeve. He was smiling. "We could play together. This season."

"Do you think it's immature that I would refuse to play for Evans?"

He shrugged. "It is your right given your position. But you'd still train, no? Would you train? What about friendlies? What about the final day of the season? A win needed to save Chester. Up steps Max Best with the free kick. Henri Lyons rises above all! Chester have done it!"

I thought about the 4-1-4-1 formation made up of players from Chester. With James and Ziggy on board, we'd have a hell of a squad. Hell, with a bit of scouting I could create a powerhouse team that even a hack like Evans could have led to the title.

Shona stepped closer. She was holding her daughter. "You're wrong about Ian Evans. He's a good man. A kind man. It sounds like you'd need to work with him for six months. Six months! If you can't do that, that doesn't say a lot about you."

"Shona," complained Raffi.

"That's all right, Raffi. She's right. When she says it like that, she's right." I bit a fingernail while everyone watched. It was surreal.

Emma came up to me. Little arm rub. Smile. "What do the choices mean?"

"At Telford I'd be like Mbappe. Star player. Everything goes through me. The Chester gig would be like being Messi. A little bit removed, pulling the strings."

"You want to be more involved."

"Both sound fun. But yes. I want to manage."

Her lips curled. "There's plenty of time for that. I'm sure you can find some way to satisfy that particular urge."

She didn't know about my ambition of taking a team all the way to top as fast as possible. As Director of Football, could I create a team so dominant that any manager would lead them to promotion? It was an added layer of risk. Trusting someone else could set me back a year or two.

I looked at MD. I knew where the first team needed improving. I could fix the youth team in ten minutes. "Mike, Tyson has to go. Sullivan has to go." MD expressed unhappiness, but nodded. "That's the 14s fixed. Didn't take long. Any talented older kids we'll have to loan out to other clubs to get some first-team minutes. That's humiliating." I bit my nails some more. "I suppose this way I'd be able to play a couple more games for Darlo. Have a proper goodbye instead of fucking off one random Sunday." I sensed that I was tilting towards Chester. But why? At Telford, I'd be able to do what I really loved - manage games.

MD seemed to read my mind. "You'll be able to take control over the Knights and the boys teams, whenever you want! To keep your hand in."

I nodded. The kids. Yeah. Maybe. Every now and then.

Kisi tutted. "Oh, now he's going back to Chester!" She laughed. "Make up your mind!"

I opened my mouth to hit her with some witticism, but a thought struck me. A way to make the next six months more bearable. Keep me busy. Keep me energised.

"Mike, I'll do it." He stood straighter, until I added, "for two hundred thousand pounds."

His mouth dropped open. He looked around for help. Henri volunteered. "Is that to be your transfer fee, Max?"

"What? No. If I can't manage the first team, I'll create a different first team. I'll sign for Chester as a player, for emergencies only. I'll be Director of Football. Piece of piss. And I'll also create and manage Chester's first ever official women's team. 200K should be enough to get us off the ground."

Kisi yelped and raced over to hug me. "Make me your first signing!"

"We can't afford players of your class." I smiled. "Not yet." I grinned at Emma, at Jackie, Livia, and the first-team players. Henri sidled up to me and put his arm around my shoulders. I copied the gesture. "And Mike," I said. "One last demand." He peered at me, nervously. "I want your parking space."

...

Thanks for your patience this week!

Soon: an epilogue, featuring the last ever mention of TINOs!!!

Then almost as soon: BOOK 3 omgomgomg