17 - Culture [T1] (Patreon)

17.

Football glossary: cultured left foot. Reference to an aesthetically-pleasing left-footed player whose ability to curve a pass around a defender is the closest most football fans get to watching live ballet. 'He struck the free-kick with that cultured left foot of his'. Please note right feet are never cultured. Hey, I don't make the rules.

***

I had a restless night, and didn't sleep much. I'm not sure when it happened, but I'd convinced myself that the curse had given me rapid healing. Not quite Wolverine levels, but a definite boost. If it happened it happened when I slept, though, and if I didn't sleep I didn't get the benefit.

What was causing me to stare at the ceiling was the fact I couldn't turn left and right every twenty seconds like I normally did - the nurses put me in a neck brace and when they saw me trying to manoeuvre it so I could sidesleep, they did something to make it harder.

But mostly it was Dani. And Pascal. And James. And Vivek. And all the other prospects I'd find who didn't quite fit into the standard picture of a football player. I had vague aspirations of doing something dramatic that would persuade every talented player in the country that Chester was the place to go. But it wasn't, was it? It was the same kind of environment as Darlo, and I'd survived there by bullying the bullies and being talented enough to reshape the team in my image. Guess who isn't doing that? Every single one of the players I wanted to sign.

So it came down to culture. Like Dani said, culture wasn't only what happened when I was around, but what happened when I wasn't. How could I massively, rapidly improve the culture?

Yeah, a sleepless night obsessing over what I used to think of as a corporate buzzword. Football is about glory.

I wasn't the only one suffering. Emma stayed at some nearby hotel but didn't get much sleep. She said she was plagued by visions of me slipping into a coma and dying alone. She was in the clinic's reception at half five, begging to be let into my room. When she was allowed in, I promised her I felt much better, which was true, but I was so subdued she didn't believe me.

"Let's think about how we get home," I said, testing my injuries. The impact site was very sore and my neck hurt.

"No need. Henri's taken care of everything."

"He has?"

"Yeah. Mike Dean is going to come and take you to Chester. You'll be close if you need any tests. We'll stay there overnight and on Wednesday Henri will drive you to Darlo."

The whole day being nursed by Emma? Top plan. Flawless. The only problem was that there were sixteen days left in January and I couldn't afford to spend two full days in hospital. At the very least, I needed to spend the evening grinding for XP. But if I kicked up a fuss, MD and Emma would conspire to inject me full of sedatives. I'd have to get what I wanted in slices. Salami tactics.

***

MD was stressed. He drove with one nail between his teeth. I could feel the times when he thought about the league table - he slowed down by 5 mph.

"Are you thinking about Scenario B?" I asked. I hadn't spoken much that morning; rapid movements, excitement, noise, bright lights, everything made me slightly queasy.

"I think about it all the time." He glanced at me, but I was done talking. He checked his rear view mirror. I hadn't liked the way he angled it at Emma when he thought I wasn't looking, but I suppose loads of people do that whoever's in the back seat. "I got a call from Crewe Alexandra asking why our DoF was running their Para team."

"What did you say?" said Emma, smiling.

"What can you say?" he said. "Oh, yeah. He does that."

"Are they angry?"

"I don't know. It was hard to tell."

"They won, didn't they?"

"Yeah." He went back to biting his nail. "There's a post on the Chester fans' Facebook page. Link to a banter website. Title's something like, 'Hero Director Steps In to Lead Wrong Team to Victory'. Top comment is 'I had the wrong leg amputated and that was an easier mistake to understand - my legs both look the same'. Some fans think you helping Crewe is funny, some are upset. Why are we paying this guy to coach other teams?"

"Fair point," I said.

"It's not a fair point!" said Emma. "You were scouting a player! Tell him, Max."

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the backrest. I didn't care about defending my name. Dani didn't want to come and if she did come she wouldn't stay. That's all that mattered. That had to be fixed - urgently.

"I heard the story from Henri and Terry. Henri's version seemed fanciful, but Terry's version was even more unbelievable. Henri had you creating a tactical web in which a deaf girl was the spider. Terry said you took a tiny, frail girl and turned her into Al Capone. He said you played the most attacking formation conceivable, got bored of that, and got shot of the goalkeeper." He shook his head. "And they won the final, eight-one. Terry normally brings the Knights home after their last match, but yesterday they stayed right to the end to watch the whole thing. Almost everyone did. I have to confess, Max, I didn't know all that when I called Terry. I put some of the Facebook comments to him and he got quite angry with me." MD grinned. "I've never heard him angry. That's one employee we don't have to worry about. He is all-in, and then some." MD sighed. "So who's this girl?"

Emma told MD what she knew, and added details she'd learned when I was unconscious. I hadn't read the chat history yet. I turned to give Emma my full attention; the nurses would have been furious.

"I asked her about football and that lasted about a minute. She wanted to know who Max was and so on, and how we met, but mostly she wanted to talk about Harry Styles."

"Harry is Harry Styles," I said.

"Yes."

"The singer dude. Not Harry Kane, the footballer."

"No."

"Shit."

"She's a massive Harrie. That's the name for the fandom."

I closed my eyes. To try to understand James Yalley I'd read the Bible and talked to loads of Christians. Conceptually, religion makes sense. Ancient humans needed it to cope with nasty, brutish, and short lives. My brain was just about on solid ground, there. Understanding a teenage girl was maybe a challenge too far. I closed my eyes to help concentrate. "She's deaf. He's a singer. She can't hear his songs. Does she like his videos or what? What is it?"

Emma did some gesture. A shrug, maybe. "She's a teenage girl. He's a hot boy. Hot but safe."

MD shocked me by making a valuable contribution. "He's from Cheshire."

"That's right, MD!" said Emma. "He's from Holmes Chapel. She grew up in the next village, more or less. He's one of the biggest stars in the world but he's legit the boy next door. There's a cardboard cut-out of him in the bakery where he worked before he got his big break. Fans go on pilgrimages to the spots he's talked about. She's seen all that. Eased into the community. Facebook groups, websites, Twitter accounts that post daily pics of Harry with cats."

The way she said his name! I found the energy to smile and point accusingly. "You are a Harrie!"

She flushed. "I was a Harrie. I had my One Direction phase. Now I'm a..."

"Bestie," suggested MD.

"Maximalist," I said.

"Nevertheless," said Emma, copying one of my ways of changing the topic. "She's massively into Harry Styles. I doubt you can do anything with that, but there you go. It would help if you had a social media presence. Just saying."

"Nope. Still hate it. I'll find a way," I said. "A Max Best way. She's my top priority."

"Just how good is she?" said MD.

"When she signs," I said, "she'll be the best player at the club." Then I put my neck pillow on and closed my eyes.

***

When we got near Chester, I asked MD if we could stop off and watch training for a second. He tried to refuse, saying I was all smashed up and needed to rest, but I promised him I wasn't going to play or butt heads with Ian Evans.

"I just want to show Emma where the magic happens. You, as well. Point out a couple of cool things I've noticed. When will I get a chance to show you both at the same time? We should make the most of it. I'll go straight to bed afterwards." I deserve an Oscar for that little performance, let me tell you. Outside I was breezy and upbeat. Inside I was feeling... mutinous. A strange word, given that I was theoretically running the club. But that was just it. When it came right down to it, I wasn't running shit. I could sack Spectrum and kick Tyson out, but the club was still so far from what I wanted it to be that bile actually rose in my throat.

I kept up my calm, amiable charade all the way until we got to the training pitch. As soon as I saw the drill, my pulse shot up, triggering a mild headache. I calmed myself, idly noting that Raffi had added a point of CA, and noting a red attribute in one of our key players.

We strolled up to Ian Evans and Vimsy. They were sometimes barking out orders, but mostly they were chatting. When they noticed us, Evans scowled and Vimsy's eyes widened. A normal reaction, you might think, when a ravishing blonde shows up. I knew better; it was guilt.

MD made the introductions and joked about someone finally giving me a whack on the head. Evans snorted, a single, unpleasant laugh, and turned away.

There was a hole in the scene, and that hole was me. Normally, I'd have chatted non-stop, explaining what we were seeing, what the point of the drills were, all that kind of thing. But with my whiplash and the queasy feeling in my gut, I stood silent, undercurrents of emotion not quite touching my face. I wanted MD and Emma to feel that something was wrong. The way Emma was side-eying me - mission accomplished.

After a long, awkward silence, I finally spoke.

"Vimsy. These are the same drills you did last Monday."

Evans's hair quivered, while Vimsy defended himself. He said routine was important and players liked it and blah blah blah.

"MD," I said, softly. "Tomorrow night's match has been called off?"

"Yeah. Pitch is waterlogged. Ours is holding up, just about. And from what I've heard from your former haunt, Saturday's home match will go ahead."

"Mmm," I said. I stared at the drill for a while. When Vimsy started to relax, I spoke again, trying to make sense of the contradictory facts. "No match tomorrow... Doing the same drills..."

Ian Evans turned, remembered Emma was there, and scaled back the attack he was planning. "You don't tell us how to train the players, Best. We've been doing this for a long time."

"Mmm," I said. I rubbed the sore spot on my skull. There was something about causing the pain that was almost addictive. "Mmm," I said again, checking that MD and Emma were trying to work out what was going on. They were. "Vimsy, could you get Aff?"

"Aff?"

Instead of repeating myself, I sucked in a big blob of air - kind of an inverse sigh - and waited. The guy called the left-winger over.

The Irishman was lightly sweaty. "Hi, Max. Emma. MD. What can I do for you?"

I looked at his feet. "Are you injured, mate?"

"What? No." He gave Evans a worried glance.

"Huh," I said. And waited. It was good, this waiting thing. Way more effective than I would have thought.

"He said he's fine," snapped Evans.

"So if he aggravates an injury you'll pay his wages?" I said.

"What are you talking about? We're trying to train. These interruptions are unprofessional."

"Aff," I said. His acceleration had dropped a point and was in red. He had some injury he hadn't told anyone about. Disappointing. I scanned his legs, thinking an acceleration injury might be located in a muscle. Calf strain?

"Well," he said, watching as I tried to X-ray him. "I did feel a twinge in me hammy, but it's nothing. I'll run it off."

"No," I said. "We don't do that here. You'll go to medical. Right away. Because you're our best player and we can't be without you for two fucking months." That little exertion cost me. Pang of headache, nausea, dizziness. The whole shebang.

"Right," he said, looking from me to Evans to Vimsy and back to Evans. "Right so."

"We'll all go," I said, and turned back towards the credit card building, leaving Evans to mutter obscenities under his breath.

***

In the mornings, Physio Dean and Livia were based in the credit card building. There they treated minor sprains and injuries and gave massages and all that. In the afternoons, they went to the stadium where the equipment was better, or they went off to do side jobs to help pay their bills.

Aff, Emma, and MD chatted all the way to the door of the building, but on the last step I blocked them from going through. I put my finger to my lips, waited until they got the message, then we walked into the medical room in near silence. We found different places to sit, and waited. And waited.

MD pointed to his phone. He wanted to make a call. I shook my head.

We waited some more.

Physio Dean finally slammed through a door, talking angrily on his phone, striding through into his little office room without even looking at us. As we listened to his conversation, MD got more and more angry. Now he knew what it was like to be an injured player at Chester Football Club. He understood what I meant when I complained about Dean's bedside manner. MD stood up, ready to go in and confront Dean. Again, I shook my head and asked him to sit down.

By the time Dean came out, pulling on a latex glove, the mood in the room was sour.

"Oh," he said. He tried to plaster a smile onto his face. "Max. MD. Er..."

I stood, went to the door, and gestured that Emma and MD should follow me out. As I closed the door behind me, I saw the face of someone who knew he'd just cost himself a job.

***

The three of us went to a little greasy spoon. That's a cafe for long-distance drivers. Those places normally have good tea, large breakfasts, and shit furniture. This was no exception. My plastic chair wobbled. The table was covered with crumbs, coffee stains, and what I hoped was a blob of mustard. Before she took our order, a waitress gave the table a wipe, replacing the debris with a harsh chemical smell. I preferred it how it was.

"MD," I said. "I'm glad you saw that." I took a hit of tea. I was feeling much better. Much more like myself. "You, too, Emma. That's how it is. That's how it is, how it was, and if you listen to anyone in the football world, how it will always be." Outside, cars were going past at regular intervals. Normal people with normal jobs. Normal people told their bosses what they were doing. I spoke to MD. "I know it must seem like I'm popping up all over the place with no rhyme or reason. I'm working hard, though. I'm being serious."

"I know that, Max. It is baffling, sometimes, hearing that you've asked for tickets to Burnley, or when my phone starts blowing up because you're going bananas in Crewe or you're in critical condition in hospital."

"Yeah, well. Hospital. I was there in the bed last night thinking, what's the point of me?"

"Max," said Emma.

"I don't mean it like that," I said, smiling. "I mean for Chester. Like, am I supposed to go and find a very slightly better left-back? Is that my purpose?"

"It wouldn't hurt," said MD.

My smile broadened. "Yeah. But what's my talent? Really? It's not finding incrementally better left-backs. I mean, I'll do that, too. But no. My real superpower is finding talent no-one else can find. But then what? What do we do with them?" I pointed back towards the training centre. "Ems. Would you bring Dani into that?"

She eyed MD. Didn't really want to say negative things in front of him. "Probably not, no."

I opened my arms a little as though I'd scored a big point. "I wouldn't bring me into that!"

MD opened the little biscuit he'd got with his tea. Brought it towards his mouth. "You're talking about culture."

"Yep."

"It's hard to change. A lot of companies try and fail." He popped the biscuit into his mouth, and we watched him munch it.

I said, "Those companies don't take it seriously."

MD then told us a long and fairly boring story from his life in the fast-paced, hard-nosed world of pharmaceuticals. It ended with him saying, "So you see. Sometimes it's not as easy as you think."

"It will be pretty easy, actually. Most players are out of contract in the summer. Anyone who's a dick gets kicked. From now on, we put behaviour clauses in everyone's contract. Make it easy to bin them. Emma, can you help with that?"

"Maybe. You'll have to get specific."

"Oh, I can get specific. But before we do anything... MD. Are you with me? You have to be with me all the way."

He looked into his cup - reading the tea leaves, maybe. "We need this to improve as a team?"

"No," I admitted. "We can get better players. But I'm talking about big jumps in quality. Big improvements. You saw what I did with one talented player yesterday. Give me a star striker and a midfield fulcrum and I will move the earth. You know who said that?"

"Archimedes," said Emma.

"No. It was Theo Zagorakis."

MD pushed his cup away. "I'd say about half the first team won't take any change. You'll create conflict with them. And, you know, Scenario B is looming. Can we do this in the summer? When we're safe?"

"No."

MD grinned. "Why did I even bother asking? I'm hungry. Let's talk about it over some food."

***

We went out to a nice lunch - MD's treat. I tried to ban football as a topic - I liked to have breaks from it so it didn't totally fill my days - but they kept checking the Facebook groups and TikTok.

MD said, "Someone's posted a new link. Thumbnail is you in a red hat doing a kick-up. Title: Tekkers to the Moon. Tekkers is technique, Emma. Skills." Emma went round to watch along with him.

I exhaled. "Why do you never turn the sound off in public? Literally spent the last two hours talking about culture."

The clip was pretty short. Emma frowned. "I thought you didn't do this performing seal stuff."

"Show me," I said. MD rotated the phone. It was the clip of me doing tricks on the sideline. Pretty cringe. "I was trying to get Dani to entertain the fans. Hard to say that non-verbally. So I did that."

"But Max," said Emma. "You want kids to want to come to Chester, right?"

"Yeah."

"So even I think this is impressive. Imagine your mate sends you this video and it says Open Trial, Saturday 3pm. And the guy doing the tekkers is the boss? That's awesome. Sign me up."

MD's eyebrows shot up. "You're talking about a social media-based recruitment drive? Let's workshop some slogans! Chester Welcomes Careful Dribblers. Er... Got Skills? Chester Wants You! Chester Wants Youth. No, keep it simple. Come to Chester."

I rolled my eyes. "Come to Chester. Max Best performs at 10am and 2pm. Jesus Christ."

"Are you saying, Max," said MD, glancing at Emma, "that we have an incredible marketing tool that we're not allowed to use? Look at this! You're a natural. Listen." He gave me one of his serious faces. "If we do this. If we reach out to young people, show that we're modern and inclusive and diverse and cool, it'll do a lot. It'll show the first team we're serious about culture. It'll attract talent." He licked his lips. "And the sponsors will love it. This... I've been daydreaming about this for years. We're so far behind. We can combine your culture war - oh! I like that. Your culture war with my sponsor-friendly content. Perfect synergy. Really, Max. Come on, you know I'm right."

Emma gave him an Emsy Two-Thumbs. I looked towards the exit in a show of wanting to flee. "Team," she said, in a weird voice that made me twist so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash again. "Teamwork. Teamwork."

"Is that an impression of me?"

"Teamworrrrrk."

I sat back, smiling. She'd done me. "It's a good idea. But what you're asking is three things, right? One. You want me to do tekkers on camera. And I'm not into. I tell the kids to practice skills they use in matches. Flicking a ball onto the back of your neck is inane. And a crisp three-yard pass is not going to go viral. So yeah. Two. If we're doing content, we might as well make it something for Dani. Which means I have to listen to loads of Harry Styles. And maybe he's my favourite singer and I just don't know it yet. But spoiler alert, probably not. And three. I don't like social media. It's toxic. This would be like using anthrax to kill some germs in your sink."

"No, it isn't," said Emma, who loved that whole world. "You're so mental."

"Will you at least think about it, Max?"

"Yeah, sure, big think."

***

The tekkers clip provoked another wave of reaction from the Chester fans. Lots of positive voices saying things like, 'What a player, can't wait till he's in the first team.' And lots of negatives. 'Show-off prick does nothing for the wages get rid.'

I found myself scanning the negative comments looking for patterns, just as I'd done the morning before I went to meet Bulldog and the rest of the Board. "MD. While we're doing all this culture stuff, let's go talk to Bulldog and Tyson. Then Spectrum. Then, bed and soup. I promise."

Bulldog's cybersecurity office. Around 4pm. Emma and MD made small talk with Bulldog until Tyson came zooming in, sweating from a rapid bike ride from school.

I clapped my hands. "All right. This shouldn't take long. This whole situation has been unpleasant for everyone, but I've come to realise we all want the same thing. We all want Tyson to improve and do well and ideally, have a career. And the problem isn't talent, it's culture."

"Culture," said Bulldog, the way you might say 'anthrax'. As in: you've chosen to clean the sink with... anthrax?

"Yeah. Tyson's an individualist. What we're doing now in Chester is collectivist. It's that simple, really. It was never going to work. So..." I fussed in my pockets looking for a slip of paper. "The match against Broughton, there were scouts. They asked about Tyson before anyone else. I've written their phone numbers. They'd love to hear from you." I smiled at everyone.

"Is that it?" said Bulldog.

"Yep."

He turned to MD. "Max promised to try. I don't call this trying. What was that, a week?"

MD met his gaze. "If anything, Max tried too hard. Spectrum felt he was being micromanaged."

"And the minute I wasn't there, he was back to his old ways." I shook my head. "We're changing the culture at Chester. Massive focus on... what's a less wanky way of saying inclusivity?"

"What does that mean?" said Tyson. He was pretty sullen.

"In your case, it means passing to other players," I said, surprising myself by not lacing my voice with sarcasm.

"But what does it mean for everyone else?"

"It means don't be a dick. It means treat people with respect. It means if I bring some rando to training, be nice. They might be the next star player and we want to make them feel welcome at the club."

"Like that girl?"

"Which girl?"

"The disabled girl from the tournament. We've been watching the videos all day. You made her a goalkeeper but she had, like, twenty assists."

"She's not disabled. But yes."

Tyson suddenly seemed close to tears. "Are you saying you think I'd be a dick to her?"

"No, because your dad would batter me if I said that."

"Say what you think," said Tyson. Kind of brave, really.

I shrugged. "Imagine you're deaf. You get asked to go to play for Chester boys. Everyone's super nice. Super nice. You feel great. You start playing, but there's one boy who's always moving into your position, who never passes to you, who... expresses his displeasure in a way you understand very clearly. Then off the pitch, he's super nice again. What do you think? Is that... is that... a place you'd stay?"

"No," mumbled the kid. I nearly asked him to speak up, but remembered I wasn't his headmaster.

I tapped the paper. "You go to Tranmere. Wrexham. Alty. You'll fit in. You'll do well. It's fine."

Bulldog lifted a paperweight from his desk. The movement scared me a little. "You are such a hypocrite."

I was still staring at the object. If he slammed that into my pre-weakened skull, he could seriously mess me up. "What?"

"Tyson's playing like you. You don't pass. You shoot from everywhere. You complain when players don't pass to you. You don't obey your manager. He's copying you." He mumbled something at the end that sounded like 'fuck sake'.

"What are you talking about?" I said.

Bulldog was actually much better at controlling his temper than me. He gritted his teeth. "The lads send videos around. Goals from the Premier League. Mad tekkers. Funny own goals. And yeah, Max Best clips. Tyson, they say, you play like Max! What's he supposed to think?"

I looked to Emma for help. She shrugged. She didn't know if it was true. MD looked blank. Didn't want to get involved. "I don't play like that. But anyway, it makes no odds. I specifically told Tyson not to take shots. Talk about clarity! Literally one thing. Tyson, mate, it's okay that you kept shooting. That's who you are. I'm not angry about it. You do you, as a wise woman once told me."

I stopped. Nobody said anything. That seemed to be that. Quite a relief.

But then the little shit ruined it. "Can I have another chance?"

"Why?" I said, semi-exploding. "Why? You don't like it! You're supposed to get angry at me, vow to prove me wrong, go to Tranmere, get into the team, score a brace against Chester, knock us out of the cup, run around in front of the dugout flicking Vs at me." Emma cleared her throat. I eyed her. "What?"

"He wants to try it your way."

I corrected her. "He wants to try it my way... again." Everyone was looking at me like I was being unreasonable. I knew better than all of them how much attention this kid needed. It was disproportionate. I did some quick calculations. Giving him another chance would cost very little, but would make me look good in front of Emma, MD, and yeah, even the dad. He was, after all, a sponsor and a member of the Board. "Crazy. I can't believe this is happening. Fine. Fine, let's try it. With conditions. One, no shooting, ever. You shoot, you're out. Two, anyone leaves the club because of you, you're out. That's a universal thing, don't take that personally. But it's new so I'm mentioning it. Three, this space reserved for future conditions. Four, you're not allowed to say you play like me."

"Oh, come on," said Bulldog.

I stood and pointed to his chair. "Can I use your computer?" He gave up his spot and I went to a YouTube channel I'd made where I'd collected clips of me from my time as a player. There were about 35, mostly very short, that I'd stolen from other channels. I clicked on the first one. "Tyson, get round here. Check this out. This is my first match. Whitby Town. Not very high resolution, but that's me there with no number on my back. Get the ball, beat the man, now I'm clear." I hit pause. "What's going through my head here, are the percentages. Bottom-left, 60%. Top-right, 50%. Square pass, 99%. Guess what I chose?"

For the next fifteen minutes, I went through the early stages of my career explaining what was in my head just before I did what I did, including all the bullshit and politics that factored into me making seemingly bad decisions. It was a masterclass in how the shitty culture of the team made me play like a twat. I was focused on Tyson, but his dad, Emma, and MD were riveted.

While I explained why for the first time in my life I had more goals than assists, I found myself considering which snippets and angles made me look good. What if there was music playing? What if the moments I struck the ball were synced up with a drum beat? Huh. It seemed like the viral-type videos MD wanted could work with normal football skills. I wouldn't need to be a performing seal to create cool, sponsor-friendly content that would also help me attract young players. I could use real skills. Hmmm.

***

We drove to the place where the kids trained. We walked towards the all-weather pitch. Emma had been a bit quiet. "What's up?"

"That was so interesting," she said. "But scary."

"Scary? What?"

"You're a bit of a psycho."

I tutted. "MD, help me out."

He didn't help me out. "I'm with Emma. I had no idea so much of football is about who you hate and whose career you're trying to boost."

"We're trying to put an end to that, remember. Trying to create a culture that allows people to play without the politics and pettiness. There he is."

Spectrum was waiting on a bench. He'd met Jackie Reaper and they'd had a big ol' chat about whether I was a fantasist or not. This meeting would decide if he would work for a few more months, perhaps until the summer. If we could smooth things over, it'd give me a bit of breathing space when it came to buying the staff perks. But I wasn't sure I wanted to smooth things over. Spectrum was bad culture. He got up, sat down, and finally got up again.

MD did the intros, although technically Spectrum met Emma when she was my assistant manager in the Broughton match.

"Can we talk alone?" said Spectrum. "There's a coffee place just there," he added, for Emma and MD.

"I'll keep him where I can see him," said Emma. "He goes crazy if one of his players doesn't take an injury seriously, but it's fine when he spends a whole day working with a giant crack in his skull. What's the name for that kind of behaviour, MD?"

"Culture?" joked MD, the traitor.

I walked away and Spectrum followed. "I heard," he said, "that you got Raffi Brown to manage the teams on Sunday."

"Yep."

"I didn't mean to leave you in the shit."

"Was he that bad?"

"Who, Raffi? I don't know. I mean, you shouldn't be scrabbling around looking for people to run the touchline. I mean, I want to do my job. Until you get a proper replacement. For a month or two or whatever you need."

"Great," I said, with zero enthusiasm. I pointed to the bench where Emma was showing MD something on her phone. "We've been talking about culture the whole day. We just came from a chat with Tyson. He's getting another chance. That means I need a coach who'll coach him the way I want."

"I'll do it."

"Great. Then there's the website."

"What?"

"You do the website. Joe told me."

"Yeah. On the side. It's not much work."

"And you chose the photo of me to put there."

That hit home. He suddenly knew where this was going. He shrank. "Yeah."

"See, you've put a shit photo of me there. And that must have been a big laugh with the Maxy No-Thumbs crowd. Super funny. Thing is, I'm the guy who's out there representing the club and looking for players. How many parents will look at our website and see that and assume we're a bunch of amateurs? Altrincham have a site that makes every academy kid look like Messi. Whoever does that site really loves that club. Do you get me? Now, I wouldn't normally even mention this because the first thing you'll do is run off to your mates and laugh about how vain I am. Sometimes I'm vain, sometimes I'm not. I don't know if it's a funny trait. But if I'm representing Chester it's better if I look good. Do you agree with that?"

"Yeah."

"It's like, you don't want to be micromanaged but you go against my express wishes when it comes to Tyson. You make me look shit on the website, which harms the club. And Maxy No-Thumbs. I'm 22 and my life's going pretty great, to be honest. I didn't care about the name-calling. Until yesterday when I tried to bring a deaf player to the club. She said no and I was gutted. But then I was relieved. Because what would happen? Would you and your banter group start calling her Dani No-Ears?"

"No! No fucking way!"

"Here's what I think. I think this place," I circled my finger, "is amateur. It's all cliques and banter and tough guys and bullshit. If you want to coach the kids for another month, I'm all for that. I don't have time to find your replacement." Or the perk I need. "But standards around here just went up. Way up. It's not just the training. It's everything around it. Any questions?"

He was still reeling from Dani No-Ears. "Er, no. What do you want me to do today?"

"Whatever you want. I'll be there at the start to let the new lads know which ones will be staying. It won't be as crowded from now on."

***

I hung around until five and cut most of the new kids. I did it well, I think. Told them they could always tell everyone they got scouted by Chester and that they'd had real, proper training and 99% of the country couldn't say that. They took it with good grace, and the lads that got to stay were made up. MD had had enough of me for one day, and fucked off.

I noted that Vivek was still stuck on CA 1. What the hell was that all about?

Then after being in the coffee shop for a pretty boring hour in which Emma and I romantically shared earbuds while watching Harry Styles music videos, I went and repeated the trick with the eighteens. We hadn't added a lot of talent, overall. It was better than nothing, but I was relying a lot on Playdar beefing up the squads in double-quick time. If it didn't work as I hoped, maybe some viral videos would be the way. Not with a Harry Styles song, I didn't think. He was fine, surprisingly good voice, but a bit bland. I definitely got why Dani would like him, and it was cute letting Emma try to explain Harry to me. She started with a familiar phrase. "What I like about Harry is... athleticism, expertise," she said, and I joined in for the finish, "moments of surprise."

From there we went a bit more downtime and we checked into a hotel. While Emma was taking care of all the admin I fired out a bunch of texts. Soon after, with me lying on the bed pretending to be asleep, Ruth arrived. She persuaded Emma to go and get dinner and have some girl talk. The door closed behind them, I quit my fake snores, caught the next lift down, and hopped into Raffi's car. He took me to one of the five-a-side places I hadn't been to yet and I did some grinding while he told me what an ordeal it had been managing the youth teams.

"I was froze, Max. I didn't know what to do. All those kids looking up at me, thinking I'm some kind of expert. No, it's not funny. I was so out of place."

"Imposter syndrome," I said.

"What?"

"You did 4-4-2 and made the substitutions I suggested?"

"Yeah, more or less."

I laughed. "You're a first-team star, you're helping them with their careers. They loved it. Every time you're in the first team, when you get your big move, those kids will be buzzing. That's our manager! He managed us. No, really!"

He tsked. "Serious, now. We lost."

"I don't give a shit. You helped me out. They probably feel they let you down and they'll try even harder in training. Right. Let's get onto the real reason I asked you here. What's a good song to shoot a viral video to?"

Raffi didn't have strong opinions on the subject, but I found myself wondering if the improvement in his CA was because he'd played on Saturday or because he'd managed his first game. Either would make sense. More data needed!

***

While I was watching a PA 23 midfielder, wondering if there was any point in training him up, a couple of lads came over. "You're that Max Best, aren't ya? Are you doing any signings? Who's coming in?"

"Oh, signings!" I said, slapping myself on the forehead. "I knew I forgot something."

They laughed, but they stuck at it. Kept hassling me. Raffi saw I was getting pissed, cooled the sitch with his ace bouncer skills, and we left.

I picked up a measly 67 XP, with 8 going towards my debt. Frustrating.

But when Emma got back to the hotel room and climbed into bed, fairly wasted, she announced that 'we' had decided to create an agency. Then she tried to get frisky, aggressively cuddled me, and fell asleep, all within ten seconds.

Weird day.

***

Tuesday morning, 9:15.

Good sleep, head solid, neck twisty. Speed healing confirmed!

All the players, coaches, and medical staff currently employed by Chester Football Club were in the Blues Bar, at the back of the main stand in the Deva stadium. Not quite all. As I climbed onto a sturdy piece of exercise equipment (a sort of half-sized vaulting box), I noted that Ian Evans had decided not to deign us with his presence. The first team had colonised three of the large round dining tables. Vimsy, the coaches, and the medical guys were over on another. Spectrum was there, trying not to catch my eye.

MD stood to my right. Club secretary Joe to my left. From the Board, Ruth, Crackers, and Barnesy had come. They were behind me, literally and figuratively.

I introduced myself, MD, and the others, just in case no-one had ever done that before. And also, to hammer home the point that this wasn't just my flight of fancy. This was serious. This was happening.

"Guys, listen up. Things are changing here. This meeting is where you learn what's going on. I'll give you the quick version today and if any of you are still at the club next year, I might do it again but more detailed." The threat of them not being here next year impressed a few people, but caused resentment in others. Sam Topps was giving off very smug vibes - he had a two-year contract.

"We're launching the women's team. We're bringing in talented youngsters. We want to be a selling club. We're going to train talented players and sell them for money. Money which we'll reinvest in the squad and the facilities.

"I believe the culture of the first team is incompatible with my goals. So we're changing it.

"In no particular order, unhappiness. Some of you are unhappy and you haven't told anyone why. I don't blame you; I blame the culture. But I'm telling you now if you've got a problem that's affecting your performances, you need to talk to someone. Me, MD, one of the coaches, a player you like.

"Same with injuries. You pick up a knock, you tell the manager and the medical team. If someone tells you to run it off, that someone will be working against our culture and against the best interests of the club. So do not run it off. Go directly to the medical team. That is an instruction I am giving you now."

Aff's hand went up. "There'll be twenty people in there every day."

"We can't afford moronic injuries. That's it. This isn't open for discussion. I know when you're not moving right and I know when you're not self-reporting.

"Right. Onto the big stuff. There will be a lot of new faces around. It is important to the club that they feel welcome. We're investing a lot of resources in finding these players, persuading them to choose Chester, and yeah, straight up paying them. They are employees of Chester Football Club. They are not your toys. You do not get to push them around, bully them, call them names. This is me officially banning initiation ceremonies. This is me officially banning pranks." Half the team looked mutinous. "This is a place of work. This is a business. People's mortgages are on the line. You can't get through the day without pranking someone? There's the door. Clown school is to your right."

"But," said someone.

"No. No discussion on that. There is no fucking world where I bust my balls trying to bring a player here and watch you muppets drive them away. You don't get to choose who comes, stays, goes. I do.

"You might have guessed that there was an incident that provoked all this. I found an amazingly talented girl. On talent alone she walks into any team in Europe. I'm serious. I tried, but I couldn't persuade her to come."

My speech was far from over, but I stopped there. I stopped because Sam Topps and Trick Williams were suddenly whispering to each other and laughing hard. Thinking about the content of their 'joke' made my blood boil. My ears were pounding. I must have been staring at Williams for ages, imagining pounding his bones into dust, one by one, because everyone in the room was craning their necks, turning, standing up, to see who I was raging at.

Ruth came over, touched my calf (because she couldn't reach my back), and whispered, "Don't bite. Ice cold."

I nodded. Ice cold. I took some breaths. "Ah, there's been some mistake. This is hugely embarrassing, Trick. Thing is, this meeting," I waved my finger in a big circle, "is for people who have a future at the club. So if you don't mind." I jabbed my thumb towards the nearest door.

Trick tried to stay where he was, but under the weight of everyone's gaze, he got to his feet, gathered his crutches, and slunk away, red-faced. The noise of his chair scraping along the ground was deafening; the clanks of the crutches deeply annoying.

"Well, there we go," I said, slapping my hips. "That sums it up." I stared at a spot on the wall. "That guy just committed career suicide because he couldn't resist making a crude joke about a fifteen-year-old girl." I scratched my neck. I needed to get back to Darlo to have a shave. I looked around the room. There were the obvious good guys, the ones I knew. The Henris and the Magnuses. Then a lot of dudes I suddenly didn't trust in the slightest. We'd have to keep them separate from the women's team, from the kids. "Unacceptable," I said. I scanned the room, counting players I wasn't sure of.

Ten. We potentially needed to replace ten of the first team, just on the basis of character. If we couldn't ship them out to other clubs, we'd have to pay those pricks until the summer, so their replacements would have to be guys who would work for minimum wage for a while if it meant getting their big break. CA 1 guys with high PA.

How catastrophic would that be? It'd drag our average CA down to potentially dangerous levels, but would pay off massively after six months. We probably couldn't get away with it in the short term, but by the summer I wanted ten more Raffis, ten more Jameses. And that was just for the first team.

Include the women's team and the youth system and I needed fifty players. I needed fifty players and I needed them to think Chester was Shangri-La before I even met them. The only place for them. Chester needed a story.

I got down from my box and strode out of the bar, out of the stadium, and drove to a house I'd been to once before. I rang the doorbell and a woman opened it. "Oh! Welcome back! Come in!"

Sumo was streaming, but he didn't mind me messing up his speed run. He had the emotional intelligence to realise that I was fuming. "What's wrong, Max?"

I put the second pair of headphones on and leaned forward to see what the chat was saying. OMG ITS THAT GUY LET ME CHANGE OUT OF MY SWEATS. That made me laugh. "Sumo, I need your help. And your viewers, too. I need to learn how to make a Harry Styles-inspired TikTok."