27 - The Art of Phwoar [T1] (Patreon)

27.

UK English glossary: Phwoar! The sound a British person makes when they find someone sexually attractive. Have you seen Max Best's girlfriend? Phwoar!

***

The concluding section of my UEFA C course was delivered by some guy high up the FA gravy train who, presumably, had a free half-hour in between seven-course meals. He was extremely tall and good-looking, and caused a sensation when he walked into our classroom like he owned the place. He was one of those middle managers who read The Art of War (getting on for 3,000 years old) and imagine it has modern-day applications. It was around 4pm on Sunday when he showed us his last slide. The last minute of a four-month long campaign.

"Whatever you do in football," this chump said, "there will always be people who think they know better. Captain Hindsight. Monday Morning Quarterbacks. So I want to leave you all with this quote from Sun Tzu." He clicked his little button, and read what came on the screen. "One may know how to conquer without being able to do it. That's it. That's the take-away. Everyone's got an opinion, but put those people in the hot seat and all they'll do is warm their arse. 99% of people who've ever seen a game of football will tell you, whatever you're doing, that you're doing it wrong. But they couldn't stand in front of twenty players and tell them what to do. They couldn't stand on that touchline on a matchday and make the big calls. I know this is cheesy, and every intake they beg me to stop saying it, but I won't. I really believe this. By being here, by improving your skills, by doing things the way you think they need to be done... you're all winners."

All right, yeah. Maybe he wasn't a chump. And maybe I bought The Art of War five seconds after the guy finished staring into my soul.

***

And maybe it was kinda boring actually so maybe I looked up 'best Art of War quotes' and read that instead.

***

Monday morning's training was superb, of course. I watched from Jackie's office, which was too far from the pitch for the player profiles to show above their heads, but it didn't matter - I could track the first team and the women (though not the youth teams) through my squad screens. I could, to take a random example, see that Dani's CA hadn't increased after the last match, whereas almost everyone else's had. And I could see that she appeared to be in perfect health. No red attributes.

So the text message I'd just got was... worrying.

Mr. Smith: Dani can't make training tonight. Her ankle is troubling her.

I sighed. So it was going to be like that.

I passed the message along to Jill and Spectrum, and added one of my own.

Me: Please prepare the women to play 4-2-4.

That formation was the next perk I'd buy, possibly even ahead of Attributes 4, though with some good grinding I expected to snatch both before Friday's match. Another formation, another new ability. I felt like my football management powers were starting to get serious. I had enough basic skills to be dangerous, and I was adding to them all the time.

I sighed again. While I was out getting my B Licence, the first team had travelled to Hereford and been slapped 3-1. I tried to get a sense of what had gone wrong, but it was one of those 'ask six people, get seven opinions' scenarios. Henri, for example, started his explanation by saying, "Henri was not at his magnificent best" and said his marker was unusually good at denying him space. Pascal blamed Jackie's slow response to the other manager's changes. Youngster, who didn't get on the pitch as I think he'd been promised, said the team followed the plan to the letter and they were merely unlucky.

Despite the setback, Jackie's training was as good as I'd come to expect. My women's team were improving by one CA a week, but they were starting from zero. Improvement came on a curve with heavily diminishing returns. Jackie was adding one CA per week to experienced players. Players far down their personal curves.

Our best eleven now had an average CA of over 42. Henri had powered ahead to CA 53, just ahead of Sam Topps, the prick, on 52. With Glenn Ryder also hitting 50, we had three players with a half-century. All were guys who loved a scrap, and they loved Jackie's sessions, which were all about winning your duels and then bossing the match with your superior technique and passing.

Of course, there was a big drop-off from my dream team, which included Aff, to one that included D-Day. Aff's recovery from injury was going to be one of the topics of this morning's meeting.

Still, although results had been grim and we were only above the relegation zone by a whisker, the way our CA was rising would soon make us one of the strongest teams in the division. That spine - Ryder, Topps, Henri - was as good as anything in the league, and it was still improving. The risk was that we'd run out of runway - there were only ten games left.

MD arrived a couple of minutes early, followed by Dean and Livia. Jackie and Vimsy came in soon after, smelling of grass. Jackie was surprised to find I wasn't sitting in his chair.

"Hi everyone," he said, rubbing his palms together. "Big week ahead!" For some reason, his immense positivity made me turn to his girlfriend. She made eye contact with me and looked away. I understood it completely - Jackie was stressed off his tits. Four points from twelve, relegation looming, being the guy who'd get all the blame - understandable. It was only later that I realised he'd tricked us into not talking about Saturday's defeat, instead focusing on the future.

"Max," said MD. "I have a hard out. Can we power through?"

"The frequency with which you tell us how hard you are is upsetting," I said. "Where do you want to start?"

He glanced at his watch. "Tell us about your course."

I shook my head. "Yeah, done. Easy. Licence in the post sort of thing. Head honcho was a big Sun Tzu fan and I'm starting to see why. It's pretty top stuff. People never change, I guess. There were lots of lovely people, people trying to make a difference in their communities. I enjoyed it - no really - but the actual football content was a bit basic, even for me." I gave them a self-deprecating smile. That was less and less effective, I was finding. Maybe it'd still work on civilians, but the people in this room knew I was a floating megabrain. "I'm going on the B course as soon as. That's much beefier. A year from start to finish. Ton of work. Some of the teachers said they'd send me all their materials from when they did it so I can get stuck in. My plan is to have everything ready on day one of the course, hand it all in, then I can focus on the face-to-face sessions and all that."

"Making friends," said MD, with a smile.

"That's what I do. Oh!" I said, only then remembering something incredibly important. "One guy was really interested to hear what we're doing here. The pan-disability team, the women, the way we're building a positive, inclusive culture. He watched my tekkers video and was like 'yeah mate yeah'. He said it was right up his alley and he asked if we were looking for sponsors."

MD perked up. "He did?"

"Yeah, his dad runs a fast food chain. They're always looking to partner with sports teams because, you know. Shit food, healthy image." I fished in my pocket for some notes I'd made. "Right. They're talking about a test run of 20K."

"Twenty thousand pounds?" said MD, ecstatic.

"Yeah," I mumbled. I looked down at my notes. "Just one catch. It has to be Jackie."

"Me?" said the baldest man in the postcode.

"Yes, Jackie," I said, with aggravating patience. "You're the local hero. You're the manager. It can't be me, can it? Everyone in Cheshire thinks I'm a prick. Guess who is loved and respected? You. Now, look. Step one is we film a quick video. I send it off, my mate shows it his dad. If he gives the green light, we go from there with, like, proper cameras and a crew and all that guff."

The stress was plain on Jackie's face, now. He had a haunted look. He'd only been a manager for ten minutes, but he'd aged ten years. "I'm pretty busy, Max."

"Yeah, you're not too busy to earn us twenty grand with thirty seconds' work," I said, getting angry. I made a big show of calming down. "I've got the text here on some little flashcards. Read it out and we can all get on with our days."

I stood and moved him in front of a blank wall. I handed him his lines on three pieces of card and started filming.

"Charcoal," he started.

"Fuck me," I barked. "Smile or something. What the fuck? Have you never seen an advert? For twenty fucking thousand pounds you can smile, you miserable bastard."

"Come on, Jack," said Livia.

Jackie gave me a blast of evil eye, then composed himself. His best cheeky Liverpudlian face appeared and he twinkled at the lens.

"Charcoal Chicken is proud to sponsor Chester Football Club and here at Chester Football Club we're proud to be sponsored by Charcoal Chicken."

I waved a thumb at him. Keep going! Next card.

"When you add charcoal to chicken you get a taste explosion; it's dead nice. Chicken burger and chips is only five pounds at Charcoal Chicken."

Another thumbs up. Jackie moved to the third card and read it perfectly until he got to the last word.

"And best of all, it's open seven days a week. Charcoal Chicken - I'll see you... there."

The text I'd given him didn't say 'there'. It said 'dere', which is 'there' in a Scouse accent. It was just a subtle hint that something accent-related was going on.

Jackie's eyes rolled left to right as he shuffled the cards, reading through the text again and again. He blinked. "Oh, you bastard," he whispered.

I started to back away.

A huge, pained goose honk emerged from MD. Vimsy had been leaning against the window but now he was slumped forward, clutching his stomach like he'd been poisoned. I assume Livia and Dean were doing something similar but I couldn't take my eyes off Jackie in case he tried to actually murder me. I kept the table between me and him, but he made no attempt to assault me. He had flushed red but was now laughing along with the rest of us. His whole body shook as he wiped a tear away. "You bastard," he said again. "You didn't record that, did you?"

"Course not," I lied.

"What's so funny about the way I say chicken?" he asked, which landed like a nuclear bomb. Another round of laughs, the kind you fear might go on forever. "Come on," he said. "What's funny about it?"

"You do the first ch with your mouth extra wide, so that's already funny. But then the ssshhhggg sound in the middle doesn't actually exist in English. You Scousers can vibrate your throat, but it's a wet vibration." The phrase 'wet vibration' sent MD honking again. "When I try to recreate the sound, I feel like I'm waterboarding myself."

Jackie read the text again. He became about twenty percent more Scouse. "The 'ole time I was thinking 'why 'ave I never 'eard a dis?' Charcoal ch... charcoal poultry. I dunno what it is but it sounds amazing. My mouth was watering! Someone should do that as a business. I'm not even joking."

We gave ourselves twenty seconds or so to finish wheezing, and to do those long, luxurious final laughs that are so, so satisfying.

That little bit of oneupsmanship wasn't just to score some banter points. I felt that Jackie needed a good laugh, and the approval in Livia's glance made me think she agreed with me.

"Right," I said, clapping my hands and going back to my seat. "Now that I've won the banter wars, let's talk about injuries. How's Trick?"

"Right as rain," said Dean.

"Aff?"

"Could be back in full training sooner than expected. He wants to rejoin first team training this week."

"Does he?" I said, some of the warmth I'd generated fading away.

Dean had just enough sense to realise he was entering a minefield. "Yeah. He's been very diligent. Takes care of himself."

"Does he?" I said, even more frostily. From my point of view, Aff had tried to hide a hamstring tweak and played at full intensity instead of resting, putting himself out of the team for two months.

"I'd love him back in the lineup," said Jackie.

I looked up at the ceiling. I didn't want to bring any stress into the room, especially not five seconds after I'd basically given everyone the joke equivalent of a full-body oil massage. "My bro Sun Tzu says he who wishes to fight must first count the cost. So let's talk about the cost, and I'll put this in the plainest possible language. If Aff is rushed back from injury and the injury reoccurs, or he tears something else because he can't move freely, then at least three people are going to lose their jobs." I looked at MD when I said the last part. His eyebrows rose just a little, but he didn't gainsay me. I later realised that, as a middle manager, MD had probably been through multiple Art of War phases.

"Max," said Dean, but then he stopped. I think he was trying to work out who the other two were. It should have been obvious: Jackie and Aff himself.

Jackie certainly understood me. "So he's scheduled to come back on the 18th of March, right?"

"We're at home to Blyth Spartans that day," I said. "Give him twenty minutes at the end. Back in training, carefully monitoring his workload, letting him or I suppose in his case making him skip anything that's going to be a risk. He can do his glute bridges and his lunge jumps instead. Tuesday match against Kettering might be a bit too soon. Maybe another twenty if we're desperate? Home to Chorley, second half. That should do it. Last four games of the season he's back to full fitness. The last four games are Southport, Farsley, Scarborough, and Peterborough. With Aff in the team and another month of Jackie's training under our belts, there's nine points. Twelve if we go for Scarborough. Really go at them." I realised I was getting into 'messing with the first team' territory, so I shut my gob.

"That's the plan, then," said Jackie.

"Sorry," said Vimsy, "but okay, he can't play tomorrow, fair dos, but it sounds like he could be on the bench this Saturday. Six-pointer against Leamington."

"Vimsy," I said, scrunching my face closed and kneading my eyebrows with my thumbs. I had options, though. I could explode, sure. Or I could try to be funny. One of my new quotes seemed apt: In all walks of life, diplomacy should be our first option. "Oh, I get it. Good gag. Good wind-up. Thanks, I needed that. I was getting too tense, you're right."

Vimsy considered taking the safe route out, but stuck to his guns. "I'm just saying, he's quality. He gives us something extra."

"I know that," I said. "But if he gets injured a-fucking-gain, then I'll have to sack four people." The change of the number from three to four hit home. "This is now a football club that makes good decisions. We don't make bad decisions to get us out of a mess caused by terrible decisions. There's a quote about this. Hang on." 

I got my phone out and whizzed through the Art of War quotes I'd saved. 

"He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight. That is pretty fucking clear, isn't it? This guy three thousand years ago literally wrote a book called 'Don't Rush Aff Back from Injury'." I couldn't resist adding one last dig at Physio Dean. "If Aff doesn't feel comfortable in the medical rooms for whatever reason, that's something we can address going forward." He shoots, he scores! Dean was staring at his feet. I can't be sure, maybe it was wishful thinking, but I thought I saw approval on MD's face. "If Aff is bored, he can go and scout Southport. He can study their right-back, find weaknesses. Tell us what formation they're playing and what subs they make. Right? He can be useful. Sun Tzu loved a good spy. Aff's boredom can be managed."

Big pause. Lots to think about there.

"Anyone have anything else?" said Jackie. It seemed to me that he had shrunk when he'd retaken his seat. It wasn't Jackie. It was the chair. Evans made it seem like a throne. Jackie wasn't Evans, but he'd grow into the role. I was sure of it. For now, though, the chair didn't feel like his. The room didn't feel like his. Jackie was too busy to think about such mundane things.

While MD talked about finances and the coming 'Boost the Budget' campaign, I texted Livia.

Me: Can you sneak some Jackie stuff in here? A framed shirt? Big photos of him? I assume he's got loads of that. Make him feel that this is his space. Yeah? Just... choose photos where he's still got hair. So I don't vandalise them with devil horns and moustaches and the obvious.

I pressed send and surreptitiously looked at Livia. She read it on the screen, then gave me a little nod.

Livia: Great idea! I'm on it. Thanks, Max.

I can't explain it, but the way she added the word Max on the end, there, made me nervous. Really, really nervous.

***

I had lunch with Henri, Raffi, and Pascal. They wanted to go to a new place they'd heard about, but for some reason I was craving chicken, so we went to Nando's.

It was nice. Good group. Pascal's mania for detail and his desire for control; Raffi's cool acceptance that sometimes life be like that; and Henri, floating above, giving us the thirty-thousand year perspective on whether we should order dessert or not. (Answer: yes.) It reinforced something I'd noticed while watching them train - Pascal brought out some fraternal qualities in the older players. Raffi, in particular, didn't like when I teased the little guy.

They asked how the women's team was going. "Making progress," I said. "Jill, the coach and temporary assistant manager, knows the next team we're playing very well. Northwich Vixens. Apparently, the manager is good with tactics. I'm excited. Going to beef up my skills and see if she can deal with it."

"What if she beats you?" said Pascal.

"Then I'll steal her moves," I said, laughing. "What do you think? Thing about Sun Tzu is, he's all about not fighting if you aren't going to win. Which is cool if you're a general. But if you're a football manager, you're going to have defeats. You can't say 'ah, Queen's Park Rangers are too strong, I'll skip this battle'. You do your best and if there's nothing you can learn from it, you aren't trying very hard. You should be able to learn something from every match you watch."

With that in mind, I set off to London to watch Brentford beat Fulham 3-2.

Brentford were considered a model of good management - they used data to find cheap players with potential, and had done this so well they had won promotion and were ninth in the Premier League, ahead of Chelsea, and pushing for a place in a pan-European tournament. My plan was to be Brentford on steroids. When I had more time I needed to set up a fake data science team to explain how good we were at finding new players. AI was the big hype of the year, with impressive tools like DALL-E and ChatGPT making headlines. I could tell people I was using AI to analyse football data. That could be funny when other clubs tried to replicate the concept.

The drive down took four hours and I had to buy my own ticket but I gorged on XP: 672 in total. Such a big injection gave me the confidence to buy Attributes 4, knowing I'd have enough to buy 4-2-4 by Friday.

Just as I was about to unlock a new cell, Brentford got a penalty. The home team's star striker, Ivan Toney, scored it. That was his 22nd successful penno in a row. His technique was amazing. I couldn't quite work out how he was making it work. He took one slow step towards the ball, made the goalie move the wrong way, and then passed it into the net. (When I got home I watched a video that showed a bunch of his other pens, and what was interesting is that very, very often, the goalie dived the right way, but Toney scored regardless. I probably wouldn't change my method, but it was interesting to see a fellow expert at work.)

So. Attributes 4. The curse did its little cell dance, seemed like it would land in the one I knew had to be Influence. The one I wanted most! But I'm pretty sure that was just Nick yanking my chain - the cell bounced forward three more times, coming to a rest in the twelfth empty slot.

A new word appeared in the player profiles: positioning. Great. What did that mean?

I sat on the edge of my seat, leaning as close to the pitch as possible. The first thing I noticed was that the defenders generally had higher positioning scores than the strikers. That suggested it was a defensive stat. The starter with the highest positioning was Fulham's American centre back Tim Ream. The lowest was also a Fulham player - their star striker, Mitrovic.

So... this was what? How good players were at being in the right defensive position? But they were supposed to stand where I told them, right?

I fired off a text to Spectrum. He probably played Champion Manager and Soccer Supremo, the big nerd. I'd never discussed it with him, for obvious reasons.

Me: I want a young player to improve his positioning. Who do I tell him to watch from the first team?

He replied almost instantly.

Spectrum: Glenn Ryder.

I supposed I'd find out if that was right the next time I watched them train. I mentally slapped myself in the forehead. Since I'd become DoF, I'd been given access to every first team player's real-time profiles. I knew their positioning scores already!

Sure enough, Ryder did have the best positioning skill: 13. Trick Williams, the prick, was one of the best, with 12. It was annoying that the ghoul had good qualities. It made it harder to seethe at him. Aff also had 12, which made sense given how good he was defensively. Pascal and Youngster, predictably, had relatively high positioning scores: 9 and 10, respectively.

Carl Carlile's was only 7, which helped to explain his poor performances.

On the women's team, Lucy was the only one with a score higher than 10. Bit worrying.

I drove back to Chester, thinking about positioning almost non-stop for four hours, slept in the stadium, and pottered around the quiet, gloomy streets of Chester all day, house-hunting and staying out of Jackie's way, hoping our position in the league table would improve.

***

XP Balance: 604

Debt repaid: 1112/3000

***

Match 37 of 46: Chester versus Kidderminster Harriers

Jackie set the team up in his favoured 3-5-2, with an average CA of 41. Kidderminster were sixth in the league, fighting for a playoff place, and had CA 46 with two strong strikers in their 4-4-2. Their away form was much better than their home form - pretty rare - and their goals for was only slightly higher than their goals against.

From that info, I expected a close match decided by one or two key moments: a slip, a moment of magic, maybe a refereeing mistake.

So it was pretty thrilling to watch us play like giants. Sam Topps and James Wise took the midfield by the throat and let Raffi drift around connecting the other parts of the team. D-Day was inspired - nine out of ten - and Henri struck two powerful right-foot shots into the old onion bag. After the first goal, he ran around like a baby goat, hopping and skipping and doing lousy high-fives. The second time, he celebrated without moving. He turned on the spot, checking all eyes were on him as his skill demanded, while slowly raising his arms - extremely cocky, extremely narcissistic. The crowd fucking loved it.

Two-nil up after half an hour, dominating possession, playing like a top-of-the-league team. Amazing.

Harriers, though, didn't give a shit. They kept doing their thing. Grinding, Ian Evans-esque football. High balls to their beefy boys, looking for knock downs, hoping for a lucky bounce. One fell their way, and they scored.

"Just one of those things," said Ruth, who was with me and Emma in the Director's Box. She'd become a lot more interested in football since the day I went to her house and told her I didn't care about her vote.

Just one of those things? Sure. Maybe. But my obsession with the positioning attribute made me wonder. Was Carl just slightly in the wrong place? Had he switched off? I'd need to review the tapes, but it seemed to me like his positioning was at fault.

The goal was catastrophic - the rest of the match was played in our half. But like at the beginning of this adventure, the new knowledge was weirdly exciting. Knowledge was power, and I'd never felt more powerful. As a wise man - can't remember who, Neymar maybe - once said, 'If you know the enemy and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred football matches'.

For now, I still had to recruit players based on their PA - that was the quickest route, surely, to making some transfer profits. But as we rose through the leagues and I was choosing players to keep, then my defenders needed high positioning. How high? At the expense of what other attributes? I wasn't sure, but I had years to find out.

And in the meantime, if I found some high positioning youngsters, I'd be on them like devil horns on a vandalised photo of Jackie.

***

At half-time, Ruth and Emma wanted my full attention. I was by the window, leaning on the glass. Since Kidderminster's goal, our match ratings had been declining slowly and steadily. D-Day had two assists to his name, but even he'd fallen from 9 to 8. We'd won some battles but I knew we'd lose the war. And here I was, in theoretically the most powerful role in the club, and I could do literally nothing to help.

"I've got good news and great news," said Ruth, inviting me to choose. I was still thinking about how reliant the club was on the man in the dugout, so I didn't reply. Must have looked pretty gormless, because she pressed on. "Inga arranged a match against Wrexham, didn't she? And you were going to play it on a boggy field somewhere, weren't you, Max?"

"Yeah. It's just a friendly. Warming up for bigger things to come. End of season showpiece with two of the most famous women’s teams."

Ruth closed her eyes while her eyebrows shot up. Patient annoyance? "Wrexham are Chester's big rivals, Max. Even you should know that."

"We literally never play them. We haven't been in the same division since the 60s."

"That isn't true, but I take your point. Nevertheless, the rivalry is there. My dad was always very affected by the Wrexham matches. It's still a big deal in this city. So we've moved the match to here." I looked around the box. Ruth snapped. "Not here. What's wrong with you, tonight? Emma, what's wrong with him?"

"He's playing football matches in his head. He's trying to give you his full attention. Sort of."

"It's off-putting. Max, you'll need to do some publicity. Sell some tickets. Call your journalist friend and get another story. I liked that Wizard of Oz one. I want that for my team."

"My team," intoned Emma, and my mouth dropped open. I'd never seen her make fun of someone like that, apart from me.

Ruth thought it was hilarious. "Yes, yes, I know. It's Max's team. I'm sorry. I've been getting quite caught up in it. It's a good story, isn't it? The seven-nil was embarrassing but things have perked up since then."

"Who was the sexy dude who was with you? Phwoar!"

"Oh! The things he pays attention to. None of your business. So that's the good news. The great news is that Emma and I have decided we want to do the agency. There's just the question of the split."

"50-25-25," I said, frowning at the tactics board in my head. Chester's formation was changing and morphing, going from 3-5-2 to 4-4-2, 4-4-2 with a split striker, 4-3-3, 4-3-3 with two forwards set very wide, and so on. What was that? Jackie talking out options with Vimsy in one corner of the dressing room? I closed the whole interface - it felt wrong to spy on him like that.

"I was thinking one-third each," said Ruth. "Possibly a little higher for the person who does all the actual work."

"Oh, thank you," said Emma. "Going through contracts with a fine-toothed comb is painstaking work."

"Let me stop you both right there," I said. "It's 50 for me because my skill is extraordinary. It's mad to give up half, but I can't do it on my own. I think you'll both work hard. There are times Ruth will do more, times when Emma will. If the thought of the other one being on a beach while you're grinding makes you insane, that's okay, that's fair, but then there's no company. If you do this, you'll have to put some time in and deal with some unpleasant people. Learn about image rights and boot deals and stuff you don't care about. But you'll make millions. There will be disgusting amounts of money. I thought about the split at the beginning. I can't remember my exact reasoning, but I felt sure that you having the same does away with loads of BS. If one of you wants 26% just to be top dog, I don't want to be part of it."

"Easy for you to say, Mister Fifty Percent," said Emma.

"All right, well, it was just an idea," I said, going to sit at our little table. "I wish you all the best in your future careers."

"God, he's such a drama queen," said Ruth, following me. "How do you stand it?"

"I'm a glorified paralegal in my dad's company. Max's drama keeps me sane." Emma sat and did a weird gesture. She crossed her arms in front of her at a very oblique angle. I realised what she was doing and did the same.

Ruth looked at us like we were crazy, but then caught on. She copied the gesture, and then we were able to do a simultaneous three-way handshake. Or was it a six-way handshake?

"You don't realise it," I said. "But you just agreed to get filthy rich."

We clinked our glasses. A new sports agency was born!

"We're going to start with Bark," said Ruth. "Learn the ropes. What about Dani?"

"Er... Dani's mad at me right now."

"What?"

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. Maybe just hold off on the whole being her agent thing for a bit. Until, you know, she sets foot in Chester again. No," I said, waving my hand in front of Emma's phone. "Please don't text her. Please. The team has to do it."

"Do what?"

"Do the nothing that needs to not be done."

"You're infuriating," said Ruth. "I think I can guess what happened: you pissed her off and she's done a runner."

"Everything is going to be okay," I said, which was stupid, because that was the moment the Chester players emerged from the tunnel and jogged onto the pitch.

***

Kidderminster's manager changed to 3-5-2 at half-time, and they came out in a blitz. They equalised and dominated for ten minutes. Jackie switched to 4-4-2, subbing Raffi off for Trick again. That would have helped, but Kidderminster's manager immediately changed back to 4-4-2, regaining the upper hand. When Jackie made another sub, the Harriers guy copied him. In fact, Jackie made three substitutions in the match, and the away manager made a change of his own almost instantly. It could have been a coincidence, but it struck me as odd.

The second half was all Harriers, and they ended up winning four-two.

There were a few boos from the home fans. Since Evans quit, the team had played well but taken only four points from a possible fifteen. Jackie, to his credit, went onto the pitch and applauded the supporters. I saw one guy rush forward and make some rude gestures. Jackie pretended not to notice, but I know he saw it.

***

I was burning with curiosity to know what Vivek's positioning score was because it could have been anything. Low, which would explain why he was struggling to learn his role, or high, and his mistakes were just inexperience. But I couldn't go and watch any training on Wednesday; I'd decided the best source of XP that day was in Edinburgh. I drove across the border, thinking about Dani's ongoing fake injury, fretting that I'd pushed her too hard too fast. Watching Hibernian 1, Rangers 4 took my mind off things. Hibs let me in free as a scout, which helped me guess how much XP I was going to get. Despite being the highest league in Scotland, the Scottish Premiership matches only gave 5 XP per minute.

Several of the Scottish cities with big teams were only about three hours from Darlo, though, so it was well worth adding Scotland to my scouting repertoire. And I suspected - based on absolutely zero knowledge or research - that Scottish women's football would be underdeveloped. Maybe in the off-season I'd spend a week up there trawling for hot talents. The only fly in that particular ointment was that I'd told Emma how much I loved the celtic accents. Would she trust me surrounded by lovely Scottish lasses all day every day?

On Thursday I bought myself a ticket to see Man United at home to a Spanish team in the Europa League, the second most prestigious pan-European tournament. Strangely, it was also 4-1, so it didn't really take me on an emotional journey. I mostly focused on the new attribute, and it helped that I knew United's players so well. Their key centre backs had positioning 17 and 15, while the legendary defensive midfielder they'd bought from Real Madrid, Casemiro, had the highest one I'd yet seen: 18. The attribute was starting to seem pretty fundamental - it didn't matter if you were great at heading, for example, if you were always five yards away from where you needed to be.

Positioning, then. My hypothesis was that all players mostly stayed in the zones required by their formations, but within those zones there would always be an optimal defensive spot for a player to be, based on the game state. And a high positioning score meant they'd take up those positions most of the time, and their team would concede fewer chances.

It was also interesting to see how United had developed under the new manager, and the answer was: very well. Lots of green, lots of CAs on the up. Garnacho, the talented youngster I'd seen soon after I'd got the perk that showed me CA and PA, had added something like forty points of CA through the season!

But while I enjoyed the lessons and the experience points, being there in the stadium was unsettling. This was supposed to be my team, but I felt disconnected from it. I liked the players and the manager, but the owners were grotesque. More than a dozen times during the match, the United fans called for them to get out. The chants were even more powerful after United's goals. The fans were saying that even winning couldn't mask the horror of having bad owners. So far, so good.

And yet when I talked to the people in the seats around me, they said they'd welcome any new owners - hedge funds, Qataris, a mining billionaire. To me, it was replacing one horror with something even worse, but I was a voice in the wilderness, it seemed. New owners would put money into the club. Especially the Qataris. That was by far everyone's preferred bid.

I found I didn't really celebrate United's goals.

I took my XP, bought 4-2-4, and left.

***

XP Balance: 938

Debt repaid: 1238/3000

***

Friday, 10th March, 2023

We were away at the Northwich Vixens. The men's team in the town was called Northwich Victoria, one of those grand old clubs you saw sometimes in the FA Cup draw and thought 'wow what a top name'. The women's team weren't affiliated with them, but it seemed pretty obvious the name had been chosen with integration in mind. Evidence of long-term planning and a devious mind - exactly what Jill had warned me about. Tonight I'd be up against Tammy Tactics.

The Vixens were a small but formidable outfit. They had a history of breaking goalscoring records in the minor leagues they played in, but had settled in the North West Womens Regional League, tier 6 of the women's game. That was too rich for our blood, but they had a development team that played at tier 8. I worried they'd throw a few ringers into the mix, just to make sure they won, but then again, they probably weren't taking this as seriously as I was.

We had almost no spectators. Northwich was a bit too far and unglamorous for a casual drive.

But we had five special visitors.

First, Dani turned up, ready to play. She didn't acknowledge me or make eye contact. Her turning up was... perplexing. She couldn't not train and expect to play. Could she? Surely that was obvious, even to a noob?

Second, Livia had volunteered to come and be our physio. That made me uneasy; she hadn't offered to do it before. She was distracted and hadn't done anything with her hair. Sometimes she'd just be standing there, hair billowing in the light breeze, cheeks flushed slightly red in the evening chill. An absolute masterpiece. I wasn't the only one smitten - plenty of the players on both teams chased after a loose ball only to catch a glimpse of her and stand, dumbfounded, moonstruck, before turning away, cringing at their own weak-mindedness.

Third, MD. He asked if he could hang around with me on the sideline. Asked for a lesson in football management. I was happy to oblige.

Finally, Ruth and her sexy dude. He got a lot of 'phwoar!' attention from the straight women, a lot more than me, which didn't bother me in the slightest. Ruth introduced him as 'David', pronounced dah-vide. He spoke crisply with an unfathomable hint of an accent - German? "Max Best. Splendid to meet you at last. I am an Arsenal fan. For a long time, our greatest goalscorer was Cliff Bastin. Do you know the name?"

"Vaguely. Might have read it in some old annuals."

"He was deaf. I always wondered how a deaf player could be so good. I am fascinated by the story of your Dani. I'm glad to see her here tonight."

"Oh, right. But she won't play."

"What's that?" said Ruth.

"She didn't come to training," I said.

"Oh, dear," said Dahvide.

"Oh, wait," said MD. He'd been glaring at Dahvide, but now he whipped out his phone. "I have some Art of War quotes, too. Here's one... ah, yes." He cleared his throat. "If soldiers are punished before they have grown attached to you, they will not prove submissive; and, unless submissive, they will be practically useless."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Ruth.

MD winced, almost imperceptibly. "I'm saying it might be a little early in the project for Max to become a disciplinarian."

Before I could really think about that, the referee joined our huddle. She was middle-aged, and had flushed, rosy cheeks. Would have been a good barmaid in medieval times. She looked around the circle. Her mouth started to form the word 'phwoar!' but she was able to transition into something slightly less insane. "What are you? More Hollywood people come to buy a football club?"

"Got it in one," I said, and I went around the group pointing at Livia, Ruth, Dahvide, and MD in turn. "May I please introduce Kate Beckinsale, Charlize Theron, an older Tom Hardy, and Benedict Cumberbatch's stunt double."

"Oh?" said MD. "And who are you?"

I spread my arms wide. "I'm the biggest star of all."

"Right, that means you're Max Best," said the ref. "I've heard about you. I need your team sheet."

I checked the time. Fifteen minutes before kickoff. If I could get her to wait five minutes, I'd be able to see the other team's lineup.

"Can we wait a couple of minutes? There's a player who should be arriving any second. I'd like to put her in the starting eleven."

No such luck. The ref wanted the form. But she did agree to give me literally one minute to discuss something with my team. I gathered them around, while my unusually attractive companions hovered, interested in the process. They were way too hot - my players didn't know where to look. Sun Tzu never said anything about sexy generals distracting the soldiers.

"Guys, shut the fuck up. Robinson, are you typing this for Dani? Amazing, thanks. But tell her we're talking about her and then stop. Good?" I thought about what I wanted to say. "All right. With the men's team, if some prick doesn't show up to training and has a lame excuse for why, he doesn't get in the first eleven. Simple as that."

Lucy, the captain, spoke. "You mean Dani? I thought she was injured."

"Bullshit. Nope. She wasn't. So why not just name Dani as a sub and have done with it?" I asked, rhetorically.

"Because she's our best player," said Mo.

"No," I said, sternly. "That's absolutely not it. I want to discuss this openly but if that's what you think, I'll drop her just to prove the point. No-one gets special treatment because of how good they are. Ever. You're a team. That's the most important thing to me. Absolutely the most important thing. I thought I'd made that clear."

"You did, I was joking. Sorry," she mumbled.

I took a breath. There were times I flew off the handle out of proportion to what had been said. I tried to get back to where I was. Let my face soften a bit. "Why not name her as a sub? One. She's fifteen. Last week I told her some home truths and did I like people doing that to me when I was fifteen? Did I fuck. So I have some sympathy with that and you guys probably do an' all. 

"Two. I don't know that I should insist on professional standards when we're not paying you. 

"Three. She comes from Crewe. Her parents drive her all over the country according to what they maybe see as my whims. I don't want to be a total psycho about it if they want to skip a week. You know, if that's what it was. But if it was Dani flaking out and I don't punish her this week and then I punish you next week for the same thing, that's team spirit cancer. You're a good team, the vibe is great, but if I can get you to really fucking believe in yourselves the way I do, we can get to the top of this game. I'm dead serious. But honestly, I don't really know what to do, here. So, thoughts, please."

Pippa spoke first. "I want to be treated just like the men's team, but if you'd punish a player without knowing the whole story, then no. No, thanks."

Livia was next, to my surprise. I thought she was totally spaced out. "What makes you think she wasn't injured?"

"I can't explain it. But... I'll give you a million pounds if she was."

Bea Pea was next. "I don't think it's the first thing. The being mad at you thing. Yeah, she didn't like being told off. But deaf people are very direct. She's used to plain talking. And, er, we're getting used to it, too."

There was a lot of chuckling. "From me, you mean?"

"From Dani."

"Oh." I smiled. I sensed bonds being formed around these women. As long as I didn't mess it up, they'd keep growing closer together. "So she wasn't injured, she wasn't mad at me enough to miss training..."

Weirdly, the next person with an opinion was the referee. She'd snuck into the discussion. "She was on her period and didn't want to tell you. It's not a big deal. Can you fill in the form, please?"

I looked at Jill; she shrugged. Could be that. I had to laugh. "Right. We've heard the verdict from IFAB. Law six, subsection five - Occam's razor shall apply. Who agrees with our match official for the day?" Most hands went up. I pointed my finger around the semi-circle. "This one doesn't bite me on the arse, okay? I'm trying my best, here."

While I filled in the form, Lucy double-checked the ref understood about Dani's deafness, and Jill, reading over my shoulder, read the team out. There were no surprises. Basic 4-4-2. I handed in the form, and a couple of minutes later, saw that Tammy Tactics was also doing 4-4-2. Huh. Bit of a disappointment.

***

The feeling of let-down lasted five minutes. Ruth and her exotic boy popped off to get takeaway coffees from a little kiosk. Livia sat on a tiny stool, hunched over. She was in earshot, but didn't participate in the conversation. Jill was in front of us, walking up and down the touchline, yelling football things. I was going through our team, pointing out some strengths and weaknesses to a fascinated MD, when Tammy made her first change. Apparently satisfied that I really was playing 4-4-2 and it wasn't a trick, she started making tweaks.

"Ssh, ssh," I said, grabbing MD while staring at my opponent.

"I wasn't saying anything. You were."

"She's up to mischief," I said, beaming.

The Vixens were an interesting team. They had lots of pace up front, and a few players with good PA. But the obsession with having pacey forwards meant LOADS of players were out of position. The forwards included a left-back and a right-mid, while the left-back was actually a natural centre-mid. Tammy might have been a tactical genius - that remained to be seen - but she didn't have my ability to put players in the right positions. As such, it was hard to compare the team's average CAs, but I wasn't too worried if ours was quite a bit lower.

I started pacing around, waiting for the Vixen to finish barking instructions. The tactics screen updated and I dashed to MD to tell him what was going on.

"She's doing 4-4-2 diamond," I said. "That's crazy. She doesn't have a CAM. See the girl who's moved into the centre, there? She's a winger. CAM is hard; she doesn't have the skills."

"I don't know, Max," said Jill. "Having her there worries me."

I waved the concern away. "She looks good because she's fast. At this level, speed is like a cheat code. You know Michael Owen? Played for Liverpool as a kid. Scored hundreds of goals every season. He was just too fast for any other kid to stop him! The miracle of Owen was that he kept doing it even against top pros. Until his hamstrings popped."

"So what are you going to do, Max?"

"Huh? Oh, I already did it. Didn't you see? It was subtle, but the girls know what to look for. What do you see, MD?"

He scanned the pitch. "4-5-1?"

"Yeah. They've given up central midfield, so we're going to dominate it. Keep the ball there. Did you notice Dani automatically moved from the right to the very centre? We train that. So our best players, Dani and Pippa, are there in the centre passing to each other. It's fucking hilarious to me. What do you think?"

MD gave me a thin smile. "But what's the point? We don't look like scoring."

"Be where the enemy is not. We're not trying to score right now. Right now's all about frazzling."

"Frazzling?"

"Yeah. Tammy's trying to do something. Her players are trying to do something. We're like, nah, don't like your plan. We'll do ours, instead. We'll do hundreds of tiny passes in midfield on your home patch. It's winding them up. See that one there? She's got literal steam coming out of her ears." I laughed again.

"Who's Tammy?" said Jill.

"Tammy Tactics. Their manager."

"Oh." She didn't like it.

"Jackie calls Max Tommy Tactics," said MD. "I think Max is trying to pay a compliment."

"Absolutely. I can't wait to see what she tries next."

'Next' took its time. She was stubborn, this Tammy, but finally conceded her idea hadn't worked. She started yelling at her players. I flashed some hand signals to absolutely no-one, just so I could telepathically change formation without it being too weird.

"What's this time?" said MD.

"We're flooding midfield, so she's trying to match us. Five in midfield, look."

"Ah, yes..." said MD. "Yes. But... But now we don't have anyone in midfield. You changed it already."

"Yeah, we've gone to 4-4-2 diamond."

MD looked mutinous. "But Max! When she did diamond your solution was five in midfield, so how can the solution to five in midfield be diamond? It makes no sense!"

I laughed and leaned into him to give him a friendly sideways hug. "Mate. Listen. There's only one player on this pitch who can do CAM. Meanwhile, the Vixens currently have no attacking threat, and they're at home so they aren't going to mindlessly pass the ball around the centre circle like we did. So while they're in this lull, I'm going for their throat. Direct balls to bypass midfield. Pippa's not terrible as the DM. She can ping a decent long pass from there, anyway."

"How long until - oh, shit."

A feeble Vixen attack was stomped out by sheer weight of numbers, and the ball was played to Pippa.

Pippa has time and space. She looks up and sees Bea Pea coming short.

The pass is accurate. Bea Pea touches it first time to Dani.

Dani bursts past a challenge.

She's fouled!

The ref puts the whistle to her lips.

But Dani gets up and keeps going. She plays a one-two.

Another burst forward!

Dani has a clear sight of goal.

GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!

She makes no mistake.

Dani ran around, celebrating. I turned to see Dahvide holding Ruth's coffee so that she could applaud. They were both beaming.

"What were you saying, Mike?"

"Er... How long until she changes the formation?"

"The manager? She changed it during the goal celebrations."

"What?"

"Yeah. She's absolutely brilliant. I love her. Let's see," I said, pretending to be unsure of what the new plan was. "I think it's a plain 4-4-2. Maybe I'll go back to that, too. Don't want to show my hand. At half-time she'll have the chance to make big changes. The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Actually, that gives me an idea." I spent thirty seconds running up and down the touchline yelling instructions at players, pointing far and wide. Of course, they ignored any positional changes I requested verbally, but it was quite a performance.

When I was done, Jill took a few steps back and mumbled, "What was that?"

"Yeah, Max," said MD. "What did you change?"

"He didn't change anything," said Livia, in a pretty flat voice. It was the first thing she'd said in about half an hour. "He's bluffing. Making her feel stressed trying to work out what he did."

"Fuck me," said MD, as Tammy and her coaching team fell into a panic.

***

At half time, I let the ladies hydrate and chat to each other about their opponents and all that. Sometimes players said interesting things in those little moments. No-one had spotted what the curse had told me - that one defender had a much lower positioning score than the others. I wanted to test my hypothesis.

"All right," I said, when they'd had enough rest. Everyone paid attention. Normally, someone typed in the team chat so Dani could follow, but I wanted to try using my phone’s dictation tool. I held the phone to my mouth and tried to speak clearly. "The lazy dog drank the rain in Spain." I checked what it had typed. It had gone for drink instead of drank, but the rest was accurate.

Me: Huh. Not bad. Dani please tell me if this is shit. If you're still talking to me. I said that last part sarcastically, by the way. So, second half we'll dick around a bit more, just to annoy that manager and see if we can get that centre-back to spontaneously combust. Number 5 is a hothead. Just saying. But at some point we're going to stop reacting and start pro-acting. Shit, that's a terrible line. Cut that. Delete. Fuck me how do you delete? Yeah, so at some point we'll switch to 4-2-4. Dani wide right as playmaker. Now, their weak spot in the back four is their left-sided centre-back. Number 4. That's the one closest to you, Dani. So when you and Bea Pea combine, remember that. That number 4 will be out of position more times than not. Watch her. See what you can do with that info.

Dani: I'm not sure I know what you want.

Me: Like, can you drag her away from the other centre-back? If you can get her all the way over to the left-back, there's going to be a massive hole somewhere for Bea Pea or Gracie. Or she will play you onside when you're running on to a Pippa special. Just look for it. Number 4. Out of position. It's not a one-off. That's who she is. Number 5, big temper. Good? Bicep emoji. Heart emoji. Er... goal emoji.

***

The second half went great. Whatever Tammy tried, I reacted instantly and shut it down. After a while, MD seemed to get bored of me explaining my dance moves, so I gave him short updates like, "She's trying 4-3-3. That's a good formation for her fast players. I'm doing five in midfield to shut the supply routes down." Then I blabbed about life, the universe, and everything until it was time to unleash my new formation.

4-2-4 is basically the same as 4-4-2, but with the two wide midfielders pushed further forward so that they are very attacking. The wormy, fearful right-mid becomes a sharp-toothed wyvern. What sight on a football pitch compares to a winger in full flight?

4-2-4 is all about the wingers. Like in a battle, the danger comes from the flanks. Imagine Aff on the left and me on the right, getting the ball and firing crosses onto the head of Henri. How many goals would you get from that? That's right. Infinite.

Dani was well-suited to this formation. Gracie on the left, less so. But I instructed almost everyone else to 'pass right', while making Dani the playmaker. That ensured she'd be first option for a pass most of the time. Then the only questions were: could Dani win her duel with the left-back, and if she did, would she ease up?

What I love about 4-2-4 is how god-damned attacking it is. If you can get the ball to your wingers, it's mayhem. Of course, there are huge gaps in your midfield, so it should be possible for the other team to get a stranglehold in the game and force you to withdraw your wingers...

And that's where the frazzling came in. Tammy Tactics couldn't think straight. We played a full six minutes of this flying winger formation before she even realised it wasn't 4-4-2, and when she finally tweaked things, it was too late. Dani had run rampant, torturing her full-back and mercilessly pressuring the CB with poor positional sense. Bea Pea scored the goals, but Dani made them. There was even an incident where the fired-up defender stopped a Bea Pea dribble by pulling her hair.

My players went mental, but it all calmed down very quickly. I loved it. One of those incidents was better for team building than any speech I could give. The Vixens had a young player fresh on the pitch who was covered in tattoos and was keen to put herself around a bit. She yelled something at Dani, who naturally didn't react in the slightest. So this girl, Maddy, gave her a push. Dani was perplexed, but when she realised what had happened, became furious.

I watched Dani stomp around, fuming, getting herself really worked up. Maddy got the ball and Dani sprinted towards her - I worried my player would do something unbelievably stupid. Fortunately, Maddy passed the ball and jogged away, unaware she'd been in danger. I subbed Dani off, just to be safe, and she spent the next ten minutes complaining about Maddy and her shit technique.

I locked eyes with Jill and we both looked away, trying not to smile too hard.

Our little Dani was trying to be fierce.

***

The final whistle. Three-nil.

"Ah, well, that was tremendous fun," I said. "Good lark, that. Jill, can you come and help me with some recruitment?"

"What? You're going to poach one of their players?"

"Going to try."

As I walked away, I spotted Ruth and Dahvide go towards Dani. Laying the groundwork to become her agent.

***

I went over to Tammy and had a quick chat with her. I was very warm and - in my opinion - gracious. After the pleasantries, I asked if I could talk to one of her players to see if she'd be interested in joining our project.

Tammy wasn't happy, and pointed out that the Vixens were miles ahead of Chester, and we'd only beaten the development team. The actual first team would thrash us. True, but missing the point. I was on the verge of replying when Jill took over. Tammy knew and respected her. Jill pointed out that Chester Women was well-financed and serious, and she said some nice things about me that I don't need to repeat. Things like, "I know he looks like a villainous Ken doll, but he's actually really nice." And "I know he talks like an Apprentice candidate but he really cares about developing the players."

Tammy relented. "Fine. I suppose I can't stop you, anyway. Who is it you're interested in?"

"Maddy Hines," I said.

"You've got to be joking."

"I never joke about Hines," I said, ready to make a quip about beans.

"She only played ten minutes!"

"Right. So you won't miss her."

Maddy was helping to gather the team's gear. She was a 16-year-old right-mid with PA 80. She'd played ten minutes with a match rating of 5 out of 10 and in a real match would have been at risk of getting sent off. A deeply unimpressive cameo. There was no way anyone in the world would have thought twice about her. I loved the curse, sometimes!

I introduced myself and Jill and asked if she'd come over to our side of the pitch for a chat. She was surprised, but curious. As we walked, I asked her about her tattoos; she told me all about them. I noticed that Ruth and Dahvide were still talking to Dani, which meant none of our players had gone for their shower. They were all getting as much of an eyeful of whichever one they found hot, while also trying to get noticed by helping with the group chats.

But now there was a new person to gawp at.

"Shut up, everyone." I switched to the dictation tool so Dani could follow. "Everyone, this is Maddy. Very talented right-mid. I'd like to invite her to training and all that. What do you think?"

My phone beeped almost instantly.

Dani: Right-mid?

"Yes. Right-mid, Dani."

Dani: That's my slot.

"Your slot? Are you afraid of some competition, mate?"

Dani: No. She's shit.

"In what way?"

Dani: Not aggressive enough.

"Maddy, Dani is our right-mid. For now. She's saying you're not aggressive enough. What do you think about that?"

Maddy swept her black hair aside. "Aggressive? I didn't see her do anything in the fight."

"Oh, we're not talking about fighting. Dani, show her."

Dani grabbed a football and threw it at me. I caught it. Dani pushed me a few yards back. Maddy and Dani faced off.

Dani pointed at Maddy, really jabbed her finger.

"I think she's saying 'this is you'." Dani nodded at me, either because she'd read my lips or because she wanted me to pass her the ball. I kicked it towards her.

Dani took a touch, killed the ball dead. Then she looked around with a gormless expression, and put her hand over her eyes. A sailor looking on the horizon! The gesture I'd used to communicate with her in Crewe. Then she kicked the ball a couple of feet away.

"I don't do that," complained Maddy. "What does that even mean?"

"You're too slow," said Bea Pea.

Watch, demanded Dani. She pointed to me. This is him. She gestured that she wanted the ball. I passed to her. She touched the ball two yards away from her and sprinted after it. She zoomed past Maddy almost before the new girl knew what was happening. Dani came back and pounded her fist into her palm. Aggressive!

"Did you get that?" I said.

"Yeah," said Maddy. She'd found the last few minutes very surreal, but I knew what was happening now. It was her and Dani, me and the ball. A lesson. A chance to learn. Did she want it?

Dani got the ball and fizzed it at Maddy. Maddy took a touch - the passive, safe touch that Dani had spotted while studying her in those ten angry minutes. Dani turned and waved her arms around. She'd been spending too much time with Tyson. "Shit!" said Maddy. "Let me do it again."

Dani did. She hit the ball even harder, this time. Maddy was ready, knees slightly bent. She pushed the ball away and chased it. She dashed past Dani.

Dani watched, then gave a short nod. She went back to her phone.

Dani: We need a backup since you keep subbing me off. She'll do.

I summoned Maddy with a reverse nod. She came over. "That's what it's like here. We'll push you. It's not for everyone. We're going to play Wrexham next week, in our stadium. Sold a few hundred tickets already. You could be in that match. Why don't you come to training? Check it out. See if you like it." I smiled. "See if you can hack it."

"I can," she said. Not quite super confident, but good enough.

I thought I had her on football grounds, but sometimes a little sex appeal goes a long way. I introduced her to Livia - one of the physios - plus Ruth and Dahvide - they're on the financial side. And just in case Maddy was the kind of person for whom Ringo was their favourite Beatle, I said, "And that's MD." Maddy turned back to Ruth and Dahvide, but I couldn't tell which one she was into. And nor did I give a shit - all that mattered was we had another high PA prospect. "See you on Monday," I said, and let Jill do the rest.

I tried to keep the smug grin off my face as I walked back to my bag. But three-nil and a new player? Fuck it. This was smug o'clock. Sun Tzu never won a battle and then took his enemy's best general home with him. I caught Dani staring at me. She turned red, presumably still mad at me. Pippa tapped her on the shoulder. Showers were unlocked. Dani got up and followed everyone else inside.

***

"Well," said MD. "That was educational. Er... I wouldn't normally do this but I've invited Livia to chat with us. The Three Amigas." Ruth and her dude had gone. Jill was inside with the players.

"Sure, yeah, of course," I said, not really paying attention. Why shouldn't we talk to Livia while we waited for the women to shower? They took fucking hours in there. It was probably the worst part of the job and I was always tempted to drive off and leave them to it. Then I got suspicious. "Oh. You didn't come tonight to talk about women's football." Jackie. He wanted to talk about Jackie.

"No, I did. It was really interesting. It's a bit overwhelming, to be honest, watching you work. It's like watching my nephew play his video games. I can't keep up." He glanced at Livia. "I know this is a hard time for you."

She gulped. "Yeah."

"And you know none of this is personal. We all love Jackie." Livia nodded. "But we're in the relegation zone, now. One point behind Bradford, and they've got two games in hand. We're five points behind Blyth, and they've got a game in hand. We're... we're really in the shit."

"It'll be fine," I said. "The team's improving rapidly. Jackie's incredible. Nine games left. 27 points available. We'll overtake both those teams, no sweat."

"Max, I am sweating. I've been sweating non-stop for months." He pushed his hair back. "Tuesday, while you were surrounded by hot blondes, I was with the directors of Kidderminster. I've known them for years, good bunch. Love a bottle of bubbly, they do. But second half, they confessed they knew they were going to win. Apparently, it's all over the league. How to beat Jackie Reaper's Chester."

"What?" I said. "What?"

"Everyone knows he's good, but he's inexperienced. He's never been in the big chair. He's slow to react. The Kidderminster manager told his board before the game not to worry about the score at half-time, because as the match got towards the end, he'd switch things round and Jackie wouldn't have an answer. I'm sorry, Livia, I'm just saying what I heard. And... that's what happened."

"What if he's not slow? What if he's thoughtful? Sun Tzu advises to ponder and deliberate before you make a move."

"You don't. You see something and react instantly."

I shook my head. The situations weren't comparable. "I noticed that Harriers guy made a sub right after Jackie did. Three times. I thought it was odd."

"Yes!" said MD, animated. "Yes! They said that. 'I'll squeeze him on subs', the manager said. Turns out these old dinosaurs, as you call them, put pressure on the young managers like that. They've got more tricks in their locker, the older guys, more cards to play. The young guys flounder around. Most sink. The ones who swim learn fast. But we don't have time for Jackie to learn the ropes. There's a rope around our neck."

"Victorious warriors win first and then go to war. We win on the training ground. This win tonight, yeah, I was pretty great, guilty as charged. But we won it before we even got on the bus. We won it by recruiting well and having great coaches." I thought about the first team's green attributes and their rapidly rising CA. "Things are going great. Kidderminster are one of the best teams in the league and we matched them for half an hour. Who's next? Leamington. They're shit. We'll blow them away. We're miles better than them."

"Their manager's an old hand," said MD. "I'm worried we'll have more of the same."

More of the same. Jackie was just as fixated on 3-5-2 as Ian Evans had been on 4-4-2. Do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstances. I swallowed. Saying out loud that I'd hoped for more tactical flexibility felt... wrong. I didn't want to add any more doubts to the mix. We had to be positive. "But what do you want to do?"

MD glanced at Livia. "Tonight I watched you change formations, what, ten times? Instant changes. React, nullify... exploit. You didn't give the other manager an inch. It was almost cruel. It was The Art of War. Masterful."

I shrugged. "Jackie can do all that."

"Of course he can. But he isn't. He's struggling, Max."

I looked at Livia. She folded her arms. It was like she was distancing herself from her own treachery. "He's so in his head. He dwells on his mistakes, beats himself up. He feels stupid. I've not seen him like this since the early days of his injury. I'm really worried."

"Look. Listen. Guys. Seriously. Jackie's amazing. Okay? He knows football." I remembered my trial at Chester, and what Nice One had told me. "When you step up a level, you struggle. It's normal. You survive, then you thrive. We've handed him a shit job. He has to build the plane while he's flying it. You've got to expect some turbulence." It was strange that I was the most positive person in the scene. "All right. Let's be practical. What can we do to help him out?"

MD bit his lip. "You could let him use Aff."

"No. Something that would actually help him, mate. Tomorrow's match. The place is called Leamington Spa, right. Is that like a name or is it...?"

"There were spas," confirmed MD. "You used to go and 'take the waters'. Not sure if there still are any. You think a jacuzzi might help?"

I smiled. "It'd help Livia, at least. She's got second-hand stress."

She didn't smile. "I'd rather have three points tomorrow than a back rub." She dipped her head. "I'll check what's in the area. See if I can get him to come with me early. He'll want to be on the team bus, though."

"I'll talk to Vimsy," said MD.

Suggesting a stressed guy went for a massage. That was truly a floating megabrain at work. Tommy Tactics to the rescue.

***

On Saturday morning, Emma came to my place in Darlington and we had brunch together. For ten minutes it was so awesome, so perfect, that I stopped eating and just closed my eyes, trying to hear what utter contentment sounded like.

For some reason I thought of the sound of Old Nick's voice, and the hairs on my neck stood up. One of the quotes from Sun Tzu floated across my mind. Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night...

The old demon had been so quiet. He'd stopped me playing football, but what was he up to now? And why had I thought of him just then? Maybe he'd just that second spent a big chunk of the XP I'd collected for him, and I'd somehow felt it. Psychic feedback or something. I tried to shrug it off.

"So. The plan. Head down to Leamington and watch the match. If we lose, we'll check into a spa. Nice oily massage, late dinner. What do you think, bebs?"

She would normally have been on the phone booking the massages and making reservations before I'd stopped speaking. But she barely even blinked. "Max," she said, then hesitated. Quite rare for her.

"Sup bebs?"

"My dad was having breakfast this morning. He sits at the kitchen counter on his big iPad. I made a coffee and saw the Man United badge."

"Which is the best badge. Go on."

"He was reading about the takeover deal. Swiping through loads of photos of Arab guys going into the stadium."

"Old Trafford."

"Right. And I sort of stood there, watching him swipe. Didn't seem very interesting to me."

"Me neither, and I'm a United fan. They want to buy the club. It won't happen."

"But then..." She took her phone out. She'd saved some of the photos. She showed me the first one. "Here's the guy who wants to buy United. He's the figurehead, anyway. Dad says everyone knows it's the actual country financing him."

"Yeah."

She swiped. "Then it's loads of business boys..."

"B-boys."

"Loads of b-boys and more Qatari dudes and all that. Then I nearly dropped my coffee." Another swipe. The next photo was... "That guy you had an argument with in Sheffield! The one from the helicopter. He didn't get his way in Sheffield, so he's got involved in the United deal. Why do men always manage to fail up?"

I took the phone from her and brought it closer. There he was. Old Nick in amongst the b-boys and the billionaires. Trying to make sure Manchester United was sold to an oil state. In his mind, the ultimate punishment for my disobedience.

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

"Max, are you all right?"

"Yeah. I feel like I lost a battle I didn't even know was happening." I went internal for a minute. It was horrible in there. But I came back up and saw this gorgeous woman staring at me. I twinkled. "Forget that. I invited my hot girlfriend to spend the evening in a jacuzzi with me. I hoped for more of a reaction."

"I don't have a swimsuit."

My eyes widened. "Then let's get it booked!"

She smirked. "What if we win?"

"What?"

"You said spa if we lose. What if we win?"

"Oh," I said, realising I'd created a bad incentive. "Huh. Give me a second. Maybe there's a quote about that..."

...

Thanks for your suppooooooort!