7 - January Sales [T1] (Patreon)

7.

The office of the Chester FC manager, 9 am sharp. Behind his desk, in the position of power, doing his usual impression of an Egyptian mummy stolen by the British, Ian Evans. Behind him, leaning against a window, his trusted lieutenant, Vimsy. To the right, on the hard-backed chair, Mike Dean, shooting off one-fingered texts at an impressive rate for a man his age. On the opposite side of the desk, Henri Lyons. The only man in the room looking relaxed. One of the rare times he wore no scarf. So how did he look like he'd just stepped out of a yacht club? Next to him, wildly uncomfortable, the club secretary, a generic but competent admin dude known only as Joe. By the door, pushing the handle down to check it will open whenever I want, me. Poor little Max Best. The big swinging dick who took a big swing and got dicked.

Evans's watch beeped. "We're all here. Let's do it."

"Good," said MD, standing up and stretching. He looked like he'd had a sleepless night. I knew the feeling. "Max. Why is Henri here?"

"He's my Devil's Advocate," I said. I didn't know what was happening to me, but I was sure Old Nick was behind it. He had insinuated himself into a famous old club to the point where he was on the verge of asking it to destroy itself. How hard would it be for him to worm his way into the Football Association? It would be a hundred times easier than scoring a penalty.

MD shook his head. "I don't think you're using that phrase right."

"He's my diplomat. My lawyer. My thingy. Friend in need."

"A friend in need is a friend indeed," said Joe.

"I'm not in need," said Henri. "Max is."

I tried to explain. "The saying means 'a friend who helps you when YOU are in need, is indeed a friend."

"No," said Evans. "It's the friend who's in need. And that's the only time he's your friend."

"Stop stop stop," said MD, doing the thing he sometimes did where he paused being in awe of the football experts and treated us like the cretins we mostly were. "We've got a big problem here. Henri, I'm all in favour of having extra witnesses. Max. You know what I have to ask." He took a big, dramatic breath. I could see him thinking: this line will be in the trailer! "Max. Did you sign for Sheffield Wednesday?"

I pushed the door handle, one quarter-inch at a time, all the way down, until it clicked and the door swung open one atom wide. "No?"

"Max," he said.

"No."

"Then why are you registered with them?"

I closed my eyes and went to the 'latest transfers' section in my menus. The transfers for this month were in chronological order. The name Max Best was nowhere to be found. How could the Football Association say one thing and the curse another? "I don't know."

"A-ha!" said Henri. He leapt to his feet. "Now I know why Max wanted me here. The French are the best detectives in the world!"

"Hercule Porro," said Evans, with a thin smile. "Good show, that. Used to watch it with me family. Every Sunday night. David Sachet. Magic."

"Poirot is Belgian," said Henri.

"Tintin," suggested Joe.

"Belgian," said Henri.

"So who's French, then?" said Vimsy.

"Inspector Clouseau," I said. The situation was serious but I couldn't help myself. And part of me was interested to see the reactions of the others. Who would believe in me? Who wouldn't? To find out, I had to try to be normal.

Henri stared daggers at me. "Maigret. Dupin. Lupin. And the first private detective was French!"

I pointed out one simple fact. "The greatest detective in the world is Coleen Rooney." This is a private joke between me and the 1.2 billion people who followed a certain court case. If you don't get it, don't worry.

Henri had his hands on his hips. "I hate you, Max."

MD let out a frustrated noise. "This isn't funny. We have a big problem, here. Our best player can't play!"

Henri pulled his shirt down, straightening out any creases that might have developed as I threw spears of truth at him. "As I was saying. Allow me to investigate. Mister Joe, when was the transfer supposed to have happened?"

"According to the person I've been talking to, the paperwork arrived the evening of January 2nd."

"Max, where were you then?"

I thought back. "That was when we played Scarborough. We played, I signed loads of autographs and shit because I was, hang on, what was the word Bingo used in his article? Can't remember exactly but it went a little something like... After the shock, the awe, after the awe, the sadness, after the sadness, the nostalgia. Mere moments after Max Best's scintillating display, his all-too-brief time at Darlington was uploaded to the North-East's collective consciousness alongside names such as Jackie Milburn and Brian Clough."

"Jesus Christ," said Evans, but for once he was laughing with me.

"And then?" prompted Henri.

"Team bus home. Two hours, give or take. I think we got back around 7pm. Bit of a leaving party kinda thing. Got a bit emotional, actually. We had some drinks. I had a couple more than I really should have and ended up walking home. But I'll tell you what I didn't do - I didn't go home and download the Darlo Fans Radio file for the match and then cut out all the bits that weren't about me. And I didn't listen to the last twenty minutes of the match on a loop while kicking a milk bottle top around the kitchen, recreating the goals. I did not do that and I would thank you to stop implying that I did."

MD shook his head. "Did you sign for Sheffield Wednesday to muddy the waters so that you wouldn't have to play for us this year?"

I slapped my hips. "Why would I sign for Wednesday? At what salary? What goal bonuses? What shirt number? I've spoken more to one of my clients' pastors than I've spoken to Craig Summers. I’ve spent more time in church this past few months than I have in Sheffield in my lifetime! How can I sign for a club without ever seeing a contract? Having a negotiation?"

"He didn't do it," said Evans.

"What?" said MD, beating me to the punch by half a breath.

"It's not his style. Best doesn't want to play for me." The grimace was back, harder than ever. "He wants me to beg him to play. That's his drug. Five games to go. We need four wins. There's only one man who can save us. He refuses to play unless I beg him. Max Best, saviour. He wants to be the next Jack Reaper."

The eyes that were on Evans turned to me. "Yeah," I said. It had taken far too long, but he was finally off the ‘only in it for the money’ line. "Pretty much that. Not begging though. Just asking nicely would do it. It's your fault it feels like begging."

"Eh bien," said Henri. "I also don't think Max did it. He will make enough money out of football in his career. Playing in a big stadium fits his showman mentality, but the thrill would soon wear off as Craig Summers took credit for Max's tactical brilliance. No, Max is what the Germans call 'ein Kontrollfreak.' The DoF job scratches many more itches than mere playing. Max's pathology is savage aggression tempered by crippling empathy." He paced around the room, clutching his chin. "Joe. What forms must be filled in for a transfer to happen?"

"They're standard. Fill them in, fax them to the FA. Easy. The contract between the player and the new club is the hard part."

"Forms are sent from both clubs? Buyer and seller?"

"Yes."

"So it's a two-man job. Someone in Sheffield sent a form. Someone in Darlington. The forms require a signature?"

"Yes."

"Max. You said you were signing autographs."

I exploded away from the wall. This investigation had just become a lot less amusing. "You don't think I accidentally signed a football contract instead of a match programme? Mate!"

Henri shrugged. "Strange things happen. You sign a blank piece of paper. Someone puts it into the printer. Voila. It's a contract."

"Come on," I said. "That's mental. I didn't sign shit. Now look, this is all a red herring. We should be talking about why someone would do this. Cui bono and all that. That's what I can't get my head around. I can understand why someone would sabotage me getting the DoF position, but I've already got that. It's too late to dick me about. But me playing a few games for Chester? Who gives a shit? I mean - oh."

Henri, MD, and Vimsy all took steps closer to me. "What is it?" said Henri.

"I'll fucking murder him!"

"Who?"

"Bradley Rymarquis! This is him! He did this. This is his revenge for messing up a deal. He's fucking set me up! Nothing to do with Nick! Just plain old human pettiness. He was fucking there, Henri! That evening in Darlo. He was there. He was at the match and he followed the team bus. After I gave him a slice of my goodbye cake, he snuck off, sent the fax, drove to Sheffield, did that side of it. Wait - we were in Yorkshire. He sent the fax from Sheffield first. On a delay maybe. Can you do that on a fax? Holy fuck I will literally murder him."

MD took my hand and prised my phone out of it. He stepped away while Henri and Vimsy sort of bustled me down onto a chair and stood guard over me.

MD looked around. "Calm down! You’ll burst a blood vessel. Bloody hell. On behalf of Chester Football Club, I forbid you from having any contact with Bradley Rymarquis. We can't afford bad relations with agents. And I forbid you from contacting the FA. Their bad side is not a place you want to visit. Joe and I will deal with it. I want you to unlock your phone so I can delete Brad's number. Do you agree, Max?"

Bloody hell, he said. Blood. The world was made of blood, built on blood. Pyramids? Desert football stadiums? Drenched in blood. Bodies? Nothing more than six feet of red stuff, pumping complacently until one burst of rage sends it forth in a fury. Summon up the blood, stiffen the sinews. Brad? Tougher than he looked, but so was I. One punch and it would all come out. In the room, people were saying things. Why? Blood was all I could hear. I looked at my palms. I could see - and hear! - red cells rushing through my fingers.

The morning had started as a Kafkaesque situation. A lone, innocent man dealing with a vast, inhuman bureaucracy. But now I realised it wasn't that. It was one man trying to imprison another. I would lash out and the feud would escalate until one of us lay dead in a pool of claret. Bring it on. May the Best man win.

I'm not sure, but based on everyone's reactions, I think my lips had risen into a Draculan snarl. "What?"

MD repeated his request to delete Brad's number from my phone.

"I can get his number easily. What good is deleting it going to do?"

"It will stop you doing anything moronic in the next hour. And maybe you'll calm down when you've had a nice cup of tea."

Vimsy spoke. "Tea sorts you right out."

Tea. Right. I was British. We didn't tear people limb from limb. My revenge would have to be more subtle. More long-lasting. More complete. The pounding in my ears subsided. I started to feel human again. I scanned the room. Everyone looked slightly horrified - all except Evans. He approved. Being understood by Ian Evans was not how I wanted my life to go. I thought about some of the good things in my life. I knew about adblockers. I was a Director of Football. Emma wore my Darlington shirt in bed sometimes. "Tea."

Joe stood up. "I'll make you one. Come on, lad. This whole thing? It's probably just a mistake. Someone with a similar name. Or someone filled in the paperwork just in case you decided to sign. We do it sometimes around deadline day to move matters along. And this one time the papers got mixed up."

Henri scoffed. "From two different clubs?"

"Yeah, sure, it's unlikely. But there's got to be a rational explanation. Don't go killing your agent over it."

I cracked my knuckles; they popped like a pistol. "He's not my agent. And don't worry, I won't kill him. He's already dead."

***

While I fumed in the canteen, waiting for Joe to bring me a polystyrene cup of calming juice, Vimsy popped his head in. The rest of his body followed.

"Max. Sorry to be that guy."

"Go on."

"Spectrum called in sick."

I nodded. Typical. It never rains but it pours. "Okay."

"Spectrum was going to do the 16s and 18s this afternoon. What do you want to do about those?"

I stared at him, unable to comprehend what he was getting at. Was he asking if I wanted to cancel the sessions? "I'll do it."

He eyed Joe. "What about the, ah...?"

Joe shrugged. "Max can't play a competitive match until we sort this registration mess out. He can do everything else. Coaching the youth teams? No problem there."

Vimsy hung around a bit longer than the conversation demanded.

I looked at him. "What?"

"Well," he mumbled. "Just thinking... you might not be in the right frame of mind for it."

"Me in a shit frame of mind is better than anyone else on top form," I said, rising from my stool of self-pity. "I'm the only one who gives a fuck about these kids. The worst hour with me will be the best hour of their careers so far. Count on it." I found myself looking into space. Thinking years into the future. "We're going to have the best youth teams in the world, here. The world. I need builders. I need dreamers. I need people with the balls to believe the unbelievable."

Joe put the milk back in the mini fridge and pushed a cup towards me. "Tea's up."

I took a sip. "Terrible." I slapped him on the back. "I appreciate it, but that's garbage." I gestured towards the shitty polystyrene cups, the supermarket own-brand teabags, and the area where Joe had dropped the plastic stirrer. "Bad infrastructure, bad raw material, bad process. Huh. Is this analogy or metaphor? I can never get that straight." I slapped him again to show I wasn't having a go at him personally. "I'll make you a cup one day and you'll know what it's supposed to taste like." I put my hands on the counter and leaned against it. "I'm not going to let today get me down. It's not all steaks and fan mail. Bradley's never met anyone like me. I'll grind like a bullet train with the brakes on. Grind him to dust. January 4th. Everyone's back at work. Work means lunchtime games. Guys. Where can I find people who choose passes over pasta, nutmegs over nutmeg?"

***

I'd hoped Vimsy would know a match I could watch where I could pick up some XP and maybe find a star. But it was Joe who blew my mind by introducing me to an app called Footy Addicts. There, players of all ages and abilities met to organise games of football. You'd turn up, play for ninety minutes with a bunch of randos, go home. No stakes. No pain, no glory. Just football. Joe himself was an Addict - he went to one match a week and he loved the vibe.

"No one shouts at me when I play bad," he said, which was pretty heartbreaking, but also got my juices flowing. It sounded much more like my kind of football than watching two billion-pound clubs try to out-cheat each other. And, best of all, there were women and kids who played. I could fill three squads in one go!

There was no way to find a match without signing up and asking to play, so within minutes, I was scheduled to play. I used a fake name.

"Kickoff's at twelve. I don't want to ruin the game for everyone else by being technically, physically, and tactically superhuman, but I doubt I'll be able to play shit on purpose. Do you think I should wear a fake beard?" I asked.

"Might be weird," said Joe. "Why don't you play left-footed?"

I stared at him. I was still being pretty secretive about my left foot. There's a Rocky movie where his new coach teaches him to box left-handed. I had vague notions of making my way through the football pyramid until I was picked for England, and in a World Cup final, with the entire defence set up to defend against my right foot, I'd suddenly switch to my left. 'Best is fighting southpaw!' the commentators would yell. "Yeah," I said, finally, way too late. "My left is decent. You know what? I'll go in goal. Vimsy. Let's head down to training! I need to borrow some expertise for a minute."

***

I kidnapped the goalies, loaded them into my Subaru, and drove to the nearest sports store. Judging by the lighting it was doing better than Longstaff's shop, and it had a much bigger selection. They had a January sale going on.

We said hi to the store owner, who was bemused to find I had three ready-to-train goalkeepers as bodyguards. "Why have you got so much Wrexham kit in here? I thought Wrexham was a big rival of Chester."

"For the older generation, yeah," said the guy. "Try telling a ten-year-old that Deadpool isn't cool."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I said. "I have to kick Liverpool out and be cooler than Ryan Reynolds? Give me a fucking break."

I stewed for a while while my employees exchanged glances. The goalie coach, Angles, spoke first. "I think you're cooler than Ryan Reynolds, Mister Best."

My mouth dropped open. "What the fuck are you - oh. You're taking the piss. Good! I needed that." I blinked. We were in the goalkeeping equipment section of the shop, which is normally one of the smallest areas. I turned to the shop guy, who had taken a few steps away and was full-facing the stock. "Why is the goalie section big here? "

"There's a goalie academy not that far."

"An academy for goalies? Goalies only?" I said, astonished.

"Yep. Run by an ex-pro. Got a bit of a name doing YouTube and Insta. Started doing clinics once a week, expanded. There's massive demand. He's got it sewn up in the area."

"Good for him," I said. "Guys. We should pop by and see what he gets up to. Yeah?"

My goalies looked uncertain. "Really?" said Ben. "What for?"

"Because I'm having a shit day and you saying yes to my whims is what I need right now."

Robbo nodded. "I'm always available for a field trip, Mister Best."

"Right, good, that's settled. You'll be hearing from Inga. Attendance is completely voluntary. Changing the topic completely, I wish you luck in your contract negotiations... if they happen. On to the main event. I'm going to be training with you likeable dudes. Learning the ancient art of when to stay on your line for corners, when to punch, how to starfish, and how to kick the ball all the way to the other goalie to the apoplexy of your Director of Football."

"What!" spluttered Angles.

I gave him a hard look. I wasn't sure which part of my speech he was reacting to. "I want you to teach me to be a goalie. You can fit me into the sessions, I'm sure. A man of your experience."

"I only meant," he said, "that you're a winger. Why would you - oh. You've had complaints. Want to check on me." He rubbed a knuckle. The vibe was slightly off. Not in a really bad way, but none of us really knew how to act. Should they call me Mr. Best or Max? How far could they joke with me? How much did I want them to be subservient? No doubt we'd smooth the edges over time but for now it was still a bit strange. One thing was clear - I didn't want people worrying about their jobs. Unduly.

"No," I said. "No complaints. Nothing like that. This is about me wanting to understand every part of the club. When I think about football, I don't really think about goalies. That's obviously not sustainable in my new role. And the training will keep me fit and give me something to do in the mornings when I want to feel involved without bringing loads of baggage to a first team session. Anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion I'll make a good keeper."

He stopped rubbing his knuckles and looked me up and down. That was normally something I found flattering. This time, not so much. "Could be."

I jutted my chin at him. "When it comes to football, you can speak your mind. Always."

He wasn't sure he believed me, but decided to test the waters. "It's hard to imagine you in goal."

"Oh, is it?" I said. "Remember you said that next time I send you a trialst who appears to be total crap." I smiled, but he looked worried again. Bit of a nervous guy, this guy. "Angles, stop worrying! You'll get to boss me around. You'll enjoy it. Think of me as a trialist. Actually, scrap that. My first day at Darlington there was a trialist and they didn't let him do anything. That still annoys me. If I send you a kid to check out, I expect you to involve him. And no initiations. We don't do that anymore."

Angles scratched his chin. I'd fired too many things at him and he didn't know how to reply to any of them. "All right."

I picked up a glove. "If I'm going to be Chester's fourth choice keeper, I'm going to need some kit. I'm here to buy gloves and whatever else I need. You three are going to explain the difference between all this gear. Wow me with science. Ready? Go."

***

I got to the all-weather pitch at ten to twelve and jogged around a bit. An organiser told us the teams, and we went into our groups and tried to come up with a formation. We had twelve - it was rolling subs - and five proclaimed themselves to be strikers, which made me laugh internally. Externally, I kept my mouth shut, except to introduce myself.

"I'm Cliff," I said, doing jazz hands to show my brand new gloves. "I'll take the sticks."

"Oh," said a dude. He pulled a worn pair of gloves out of his bag. "I wanted to go in goal."

This happened frequently, it seemed. More frequently than I would have expected. Normally, no-one wanted to go in goal. The solution, in this world of pick-up football, was compromise. "Cliff, you go in goal first. When you concede, you swap around."

"Are these normally high-scoring games?"

"Oh, yeah. You won't last long in net!"

I smiled. It was just a kickabout but his words triggered a need in me to prove him wrong.

We settled into a 4-4-2 with almost everyone in the wrong position. Full-backs were strikers, midfielders were wingers, wingers were centre-backs. No-one seemed to care. It was football stripped of duty and animosity and spite, and everyone made a decent effort to enjoy themselves without ruining things for the others. Everyone except one guy on the other team who was taking it VERY seriously. He was yelling, claiming every throw-in, screaming that someone was offside. Read the room, mate!

Meanwhile, I spent the first five minutes with a big smile on my face. The morning had been absolute horsecrap but now I was on a pitch playing football on the other end of the spectrum from guys out to smash me, kleptoclubs, multi-club models, superagents, FIFA, and the rest of the scum. This was football just for the love of it. No leagues, no tables, no fans. There wasn't even a referee - the game policed itself, guided by the fair-minded organiser who quietly but firmly did the opposite of whatever his screaming teammate wanted.

My smile widened as a guy on the other team leathered a shot towards my goal. As soon as it left his foot, he was already celebrating. He turned and pumped his arms as he ran towards... what? The ten thousand adoring fans of his imagination? Not quite Ziggy levels of cringe, but not far off. This guy loved getting an early goal!

Being the last line of defence, the dude whose job was to stop goals being scored, was not something I'd ever wanted. Goalies were akin to Secret Service agents - it was my job to throw myself in front of bullets whizzing towards the president. Who would that appeal to? I'd never understood it. But now that I had the confidence in my footwork, my speed, my reading of the game, and yes, even my handling, I actually quite enjoyed it.

While the striker turned away to receive the congratulations of his fellows, I took two lazy steps to my left and threw out a hand. The ball stuck in my palm. I stared at it for about five seconds, pulling it towards me until I was basically performing Hamlet.

Handling 20. I fucking knew it!

I held the pose until the striker saw that I'd saved his shot. I wouldn't want him to think it had been a close-run thing...

I threw the ball to the left-back and tried to stop grinning - it was starting to hurt my cheeks.

Football, man! When it was good, it was so good.

The main reason for my smile was not that I was the new Gordon Banks, but the stats of two of my opponents. While virtually everyone on the pitch was CA 1 PA 1, there were two decent players. Kian, a 15-year-old who should have been in school. He was CA 1, of course, but had PA 30. Not good enough to play for Chester, but a talented youngster. Better than most in the Chester youth system, I was sure. I wasn't really interested in signing him, but I was happy to see random talent at a random game.

There was also Bonnie, a physically imposing centre-back with PA 41. I didn't plan to approach her - with a blank slate and months before we played a difficult match, surely I could fill my women's squad with genuinely talented players? I was hoping to find an entire first eleven with PA over a hundred. But it was pleasing to find a solid player so early in the process.

That thunderbolt was the only shot on target in the first half. Every other time our opponents attacked, I'd leave my area to languidly intercept a pass (one-touching the ball through midfield so that we were instantly on the counter) or collect a long, high punt (where I'd stand still for a second before smashing a low, angled pass through the midfield to an attacking player). Low-level showing-off, basically. This Kian kid saw me playing the sweeper-keeper role, which is where the goalie leaves his goal line and plays like a deep centre-back, and he tried to lob me from distance. Intelligent, but also dumb.

At half-time, my captain asked me to swap places with the other goalie, and I said I'd sub off and let the others enjoy the game. The guy asked if I was upset and I said no, quite the opposite. I was trying to play within the spirit of the game. Talking of which, I looked for Bonnie and saw that she'd taken the screaming man to one side and was giving him something of a pep talk. The captain noticed me looking. "Yeah, that guy doesn't get it. We get a lot of that with first-timers. We’re conditioned to conflate footy with rage. Normally I'd talk to him, or the organiser would. But Bonnie - she's different gravy. You get told by her, you stay told."

I grinned. "She's a good player, too."

"Takes one to know one," the guy said.

"Sorry, did I ruin the game? I tried to play within myself."

"That was you playing within yourself?"

"Honestly I just wanted to watch but there was no way to do that on the app. It wouldn't tell me exactly where the match was unless I signed up."

"Here, get your phone. I'll show you where it is."

He showed me how to find all the info without signing up. It really wasn't that hard. "Jesus. I was pretty out of it this morning. This has done me the world of good. Listen, that kid should be in school. Won't you get in trouble if someone dobs him in?"

The guy shrugged. "Did you never skip school to watch the cricket or something?"

"Miss school? Are you crazy? We played footy three times a day - break, lunch, afternoon break. If I had the choice, I'd never have left. You know what? I'm going to talk to him."

I wandered over to Kian. He was on his own, peeling an orange with great difficulty. I watched for a while - it seemed like he was afraid of pushing through the white bits into the pulp. "Kian," I said.

He looked up at me, alarmed. "That's not my name."

I laughed. "Isn't it?"

"No. I'm Michael."

"Cut the shit."

He sagged. "Michael's my dad. I use his account to sign up."

"Okay. I don't think I give a whatsit, to be honest. This is more fun than double French."

"We do German."

"You have my sympathies."

"It's all right when it helps me watch the Bundesliga. Was für ein Tor! But accusative dative?" He mimed vomiting.

"Why did you try to lob me, mate?"

He thought about refusing to answer because that would be giving his secrets to an opponent, but in the pick-up footy spirit, decided to answer. Not before throwing a segment in his gob. "You was getting everything. I thought if I shot it might pin you back. Give us more space to build."

"But all you did was throw the ball away. Put pressure right back on yourself."

"It was worth a try."

"Statistically speaking, it wasn't. And you should have seen how dominant I am. How graceful, how serene. And you should have thought, maybe I'll stick to things that work instead of trying a one-in-a-million shot."

He thought about it. "What works against you?"

"Bureaucracy. Listen, I know it's just some fun but you seem the type to try to get better. Nine times out of ten, pass to the guy nearest you. That's how you mess up our lines, how you keep control, how you get close enough to my goal to make me worry."

"Keep it simple, stupid."

"Absolutely. You think you need to do flashy things to get noticed, but you don't. Good players will see it. Bad players won't, but who cares what they think?"

"Short passes. I'll try."

"Kewl."

I started walking away when I noticed an envelope icon in my vision. Cursemail! I opened it.

Get 2023 off to a flying start with an experimental new mini-game: January Sales!

Win mini-games and complete challenges to gain up to three Coupon Codes.

Coupon Codes come in three amounts: 5, 10, and 20 percent off!

Redeem your coupons in the Perk Shop to reduce the price of any item you wish to purchase.

To redeem, simply shout the provided code before initiating your purchase.

Hooo-kay. So this seemed promising. Instead of offering me trash like Shocktober, the curse would let me win the chance to get discounts on the stuff I actually wanted. Perfect. I love a deal, and getting 20% off Playdar would save me 1600 XP. Worth it, depending on the time involved. If it meant re-watching the entire World Cup, for example, then forget it.

The first challenge popped up right away.

Disruptors Assemble!

Build a team of newly-scouted talents (minimum eleven players), arrange a friendly match, and lead the prospects to victory over their age-appropriate Chester FC counterparts.

Deadline: End of January.

Rewards: Coupon codes, variable, according to the margin of victory.

There was then a shit-ton of legalese and small print which firstly explained the task - I had to find a team of under 16s or whatever and use them to beat Chester's under 16s. Then there were lots of paragraphs warning me not to try to cheat because they'd thought of everything. For example, I couldn't stop the normal training of an age group, or tell them to lose, or try to 'discover' players I'd already scouted like Bark, or pay kids from Liverpool's academy to pop down for a day. I had to keep doing what I was doing - scouting - and use what I found.

I was allowed to give them extra training. I was allowed to use other perks in the match, such as Free Hit.

The curse also made it clear that I could use Kian, which made sense because he had somehow been the trigger for the perk to arrive.

I rushed back over to him. "Kian. Dude. I was just thinking, how would you like to do something a bit more serious?"

"More serious? Like German?"

I smirked. "Not that serious. I like the way you play and the way you think. You've got a spark and you're open to coaching. Why don't you get yourself to the King George V playing fields at five?"

"What? Why?"

"You just won a trial at Chester Football Club." He choked on a segment of orange. "There's one condition. You have to go to school right away. The new boss won't tolerate this skipping school shit. It's bad for the brand. You with me?"

When he recovered, he took a few healing breaths and said, "But I can't let my team down. We'll be short a player if I leave."

"I'll stop, too. Then it's even." This was a scam I was very happy with, since I'd already decided not to play the second half.

"Oh. Well, I suppose." He wiped his mouth with his top. "Is this for real?"

"Yes."

"But who are you?"

I stared dramatically towards the future. "I'm Cliff Daps," I said, while a breeze pushed my hair around.

"Right," he said, and started typing into his phone.

The breeze stopped, abruptly. The little shit was ruining my scene. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking you up. I don't want to get abducted."

"Fucking hell. Okay fine. I'm Max Best. Keep that to yourself, though."

He looked me up and down, uncertainly. Then he resumed typing. "Oh. You're a real person. You're - holy shit."

"Right. And we made a deal, didn't we?"

Kian looked at the search results on his phone, at me, then swapped his boots for trainers and jogged away. "5pm," I called after him.

All right. Build a team capable of beating Chester's under 16s. One down, at least ten to go.

My smile turned into a frown. I had planned to scout loads of young players anyway. The curse had added a bit of spice. Given me some low-level stakes and a deadline. Why? The only reason I could think was: to cheer me up.

I nodded. It didn't want me moping around. It wanted me grinding, working towards a goal. Because what made me stronger made Old Nick stronger. I nodded harder. This rare moment of actual help from the curse was simply more proof that Old Nick wasn't involved with the paperwork scam. It was all Brad. I stewed about the guy for a while. Thought of ways to get revenge.

Behind me, the match restarted, and even though I was getting ravenously hungry, I decided to stay and grab the 45 XP I’d get for watching the second half.

Skill levels were low, passes went awry, no-one stuck to their roles. There was a moment where I started to get down on it, started to really focus on the negatives.

"Yes, Bonnie!" said a guy, and he sprinted ahead to receive a pass from her. She tried a high, slow, lob - meat and drink for the defenders to clear. "Oh, nice try!" said the guy, laughing.

And that's when it hit me - he was the guy from the first half! The shouty whinge-head! Bonnie had talked to him, explained what these games were all about. Positivity. Relentless positivity.

Look at him now! Happy as a clam.

Fine. Forget Brad. I would stay positive. I whipped out my phone.

"Inga? It's Max Best. Your boss. No, I am! I need help. Yes, again. This one will be easier. I need to get invited to every school in Cheshire and I want to see every single kid playing football. No, I don't know how many there are. Are you looking it up? 115 secondary schools? That doesn't sound so bad. 80,000 children? Right well, yeah. That does sound like a lot. What was that word? Air-brained scheme? Oh, hare-brained. You know what? Let's start with one school. Ask if I can watch some kids play footy in P.E. Actually, forget it. This is what Playdar is for. In the meantime I'll focus on quality, not quantity. Hello?"

I slipped my phone away and focused on the match. The positivity started to draw shouts and yelps from me, too. "Yes, Gav! That's right, Ben! Man on, Des! Cover left, Govey! Great work, lads. Love it!"

But the positivity didn't last long. Yet another cloud came over my horizon.

My phone was ringing - Dave Cutter! Why would the manager of Darlington be calling me? Nothing good, I was sure. "Max," he said, flat-voiced.

"Dave."

"You still live in Darlo, right? Can you pop in before training tomorrow morning? I'd like to discuss something with you."

I thought about refusing. This was definitely part of Brad's attack on me. Still, better to get it over and done with. "Yeah. I'll be there. Let me check what my sched is for tomorrow. I'll text you what time I can make it."

"Great. See you."

He clicked off. The sound of his silence was ominous. I bit my nail.

January was not going to be plain sailing.