6.15 - Epilogue [T1] (Patreon)

15.

Saturday, Feb 3

Match 28 of 46: Chester versus Banbury United

The ball came to me on our right. My first touch killed the ball, but it felt wrong. The ball was heavy and sullen. Beside me, the community stand was quiet, like a heavy blanket had been draped over it. The little away section on this quarter of the ground was deserted; the few dozen Banbury fans were behind the goal I was attacking.

Attacking? Hardly.

I rolled the ball under my foot, away from the defender, evaded the onrushing midfielder, and clipped a pass back to Carl. He waited to see if I would surge down the line. I didn't. He passed square to Steve Alton; the move would happen down the left or not at all.

A moment later I realised my hands were on my head, and not from any particular physical exertion. I had been doing my defensive duties but with our highest CA defender behind me - Carl was fast becoming one of the best in the league - there wasn't much need for my services. I pulled my hands down and resolved to look like a professional footballer.

Not long after, I had forgotten my resolution and was on my haunches, scanning the pitch and the stadium, looking everywhere except for the centre of midfield where a giant blood-soaked sinkhole was gently throbbing.

"Max!" called Sam Topps, with some urgency.

His need bypassed my mood; I sprinted away, past the startled left back, to give him an option. Sam leaned back and did his best Ryan Jack impression, trying to roll the ball into my path like a snooker player - Ronnie O'Sullivan coaxing the white behind the blue, sweet as a tartlet. His attempt lacked a bit of pace, so suddenly the left back was favourite to get there first. I competed but the defender was strong enough to hold me off and he played the ball back to his goalie. Henri jogged towards it to stop them wasting time, and then the ball was launched long.

Banbury's average CA had actually improved without Chris Beaumont in their lineup, but they were much, much less dangerous. They'd found a big, strong boy to replace him so they could keep playing the same way. The new lad had good heading and was more mobile, but he didn't have the X-factor. Glenn and Steve took it in turns to carry him around in their pockets.

MD, Sec Joe, Boggy. Even Ollie. "Look on the bright side," they'd said. Trying to cheer me up. Cheer? Up? In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, when the evil priest tears out a victim's heart and shows it to him, still beating, at least no-one says, "Cheer up, mate. Could be worse."

Raffi Brown, who I'd plucked from obscurity - no, fuck him. He was dead to me. Find 'Raffi' replace 'traitor'.

My hands were on my head again. I'd been trying to use the screens less when I was playing. Playing au naturel helped with fatigue and I had Sandra to help me with in-match decisions. I opened them now, though, to glance at the match ratings. Nothing stood out - it was a pretty drab game that we were dominating, but there had barely been any shots.

William B. Roberts was a new name on the Banbury bench. Sometimes the curse added initials to player names, especially if they were pretty common - it avoided confusion. Had it added the B. because we had Robbo Robson on the bench?

One reason we weren't creating much is that Aff was struggling. Banbury weren't playing a low block but were strung out in a defensive 4-5-1. They'd tasked their right mid to drop back and help the right back deal with Aff, and it was working. Of course, if they were doing double coverage against Aff on their right and were doing the same against me on their left, then the middle should have been badly exposed.

The middle. Where Ryan would have picked their lock with angled, well-weighted passes. Where Raffi -

"FUCK!" I screamed.

I looked on the bright side.

The bright side of losing the 150,000 a year I would have got when he made it to the Championship. The bright side of having no midfield threat. The bright side of being dumped, not even by text, but by bank transfer. The bright side of having my heart ripped out in public. Worst of all, I had to go through the motions of playing a football match before I was allowed to die.

Nothing had been resolved at the Fans Forum. Both sides had said their piece but nothing had been accomplished. Perhaps my relationship with the Chester fans was slightly worse. I'd told them off for not turning up and now the stands looked even sparser than usual - I'd know the definitive attendance when the second half started. Not only did I never get a honeymoon period, but also the wedding was off. One of us was doing it wrong!

The bright side? We'd nearly tripled Chester's record sale for a player. Back in the olden days, Chester City had sold a young hotshot called Ian Rush to Liverpool for 300,000. Eight hundred K was insane money for a small club. In most scenarios it would have felt like a miraculous injection of cash but today the mood was sombre. This wasn't a football match. This wasn't a wedding. This was a funeral.

It was all Old Nick's doing, that was clear. My human enemies were low-rent - Bradley Rymarquis and Richard Carling. Folke Wester and the media twat I'd kicked in the face. There was no connection between them and the Saudi Pro League. No chance. Unless... unless Rymarquis had developed a relationship with a scout for the SPL over the last four weeks. Perhaps they had been coming to every match to check on Raffi and if I'd been around I'd have seen it and would have been able to swerve out of danger. But I'd been in Tranmere.

My own fault?

What could I have done differently? The transfer window was closed. Like, proper closed. Who could have imagined in a million years the SPL would be interested in Raffi? He'd been called up for England C, yes, and his numbers were good. Serious English clubs had been bidding on him. So the Saudis had overpaid by 30 or 40%, so what? That's what they did. But who could have predicted it?

The ball came to me again. I shaped to pass inside to Magnus, dipped my shoulder, went around the defender and was immediately tackled by the covering midfielder. The ball went out of play and I threw it back to Carl with an urgency that didn't fit the rest of the match or my own personal performance.

We were miles better than Banbury. We should have been able to grind out a result. I'd sat with Sandra to go through our options, but we didn't have many. Ryan was done for the season. Joe Anka was a couple of weeks away from training. Chris Beaumont couldn't play against the team that owned him.

In addition, our morale had been squashed like an organically-grown orange. We normally had much higher morale than every team we ever played. Today was the first time we'd been lower, the first time we were collectively below the midpoint, and the first time I'd had to leave someone out of the lineup because of morale.

That person was Pascal and Pascal was a wreck. If anyone was taking Raffi's betrayal worse than me, it was him. Raffi had been like an older brother to the German, who was an only child. The only child had spent the whole morning one stray thought from blubbering, but kept it together enough to ask, "Has anyone heard from him? I've tried to call. He doesn't pick up. Has he texted anyone?" His morale was on abysmal - the lowest.

Hence why I was playing right midfield.

We were doing 4-1-4-1 with Ben in goal, a defence of Eddie Moore, Glenn Ryder, Steve Alton, and Carl Carlile. Three silvers and two golds in that group.

Youngster was the holding midfielder. Under the tutelage of a coaching megabrain - Sandra - and with his number of minutes being carefully managed by another megabrain - me - he had eased to CA 49. Silver, but in touching distance of gold.

Sam and Magnus patrolled the middle. Sam was so, so close to platinum, which was great. But it was also his limit. And he couldn't pass like Ryan or score like... like... the traitor. Sam was a very good, very solid destroyer of enemy attacks. And so was Magnus. His CA had crept up to 48 and I could play him anywhere in defence or midfield. But that central axis of Youngster, Sam, and Magnus was sorely lacking in creativity.

Fortunately we had Aff on CA 58. If we could get him into the final third with a bit of space, he'd mess teams up and fire crosses and low passes to Henri, CA 63. Henri was stuck again, but we just had to live with it. Our schedule was Tuesday/Saturday almost non-stop until the end of the season. Managing availability was my new challenge, not squeezing every drop of talent out of my star players.

While the team lacked a bit of magic, it had an average CA of 52.4. And there was one flair player in the blue and white stripes...

Unfortunately, that was me. I reckoned I was around CA 90, physically. Mentally I was CA 1, morale 1, traitors unmasked 1, number of hearts left in body zero. And that was the problem with me having Influence 20. If I was in a black mood, it spread to the rest of the team.

We ran and competed and did our jobs. We were professional. But with low morale, there was no spark; we didn't do the extras. We didn't make the selfless runs that cost us energy but opened just a fraction of a yard of space so someone could get a better angle on a pass or someone could get a second to put some quality on a shot. We didn't do the extra covering, didn't call out danger, didn't suffer or sacrifice in any way. We were so much better than the oppo that it didn't much matter, but one day it would.

The bright side? We were top of the league with a game in hand. We had eight hundred grand in the bank. Money that would be bugger all help in the rest of the season. We couldn't sign players apart from free agents and none of the ones in my database were over CA 32.

Even if I did pick up a decent out-of-contract dude, he would need weeks to get up to match fitness. Vivek and Michael were doing well at West - impressing the manager and other players - but were far from ready for meaningful National League North action.

No, the squad was the squad. And that's why I had Bark on the bench instead of D-Day. Our loan deal for Chris Beaumont was set in stone, but if we didn't give Bark minutes or weren't seen to be developing him, Tranmere could recall him and we'd be struggling even more. Mateo and James wouldn't do it, probably, but why take the risk? D-Day had taken my decision well. He knew he'd get minutes, he knew he'd be involved, he knew I was under the cosh. He was a dick but when it came to the crunch he was a team player.

Youngster and Glenn combined to deal with a long ball to the Banbury big boy. Youngster scampered away with the ball and fizzed it to Magnus. It was the sort of pass he had been playing to the traitor, but Magnus had a totally different style. He lost the ball and Sam Topps stretched and threw himself into a sliding tackle to recover it. A Banbury guy did the same and the two players clattered into each other.

Both guys' pace went red and both injury screens said 'potential foot injury'.

Well, wasn't that peachy?

I made the 'sub' signal to the dugout while I waited for Dean to come and check out the sitch. Sam, naturally, said he wanted to stay on. I bent and loomed over him. "Mate. We've got twenty more games this season. Shut the fuck up and start getting ready for next Saturday."

"What about Tuesday night?"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

He slumped back to the turf. "No, Max."

"Dean, give me a minute."

"Yes, boss."

I meant that he should keep Sam there so I could talk to Sandra about the subs. She wanted Tony on to support Henri, maybe moving to 4-3-3. I wanted to get our loanee on to show his club that I would use him. "Let's stick with this. Bark right mid. I'll go in the centre."

So the team became much more youthful, much less experienced, and much less dense in CA. We fell to under 49. Still well ahead of Banbury's 40, but now within the range where losing wouldn't be such an upset.

From the centre of midfield I kept things tidy, moved the ball around, and made interceptions. But my heart wasn't in it. My heart, you'll remember, had been ripped out and tossed aside and unless the cleaners had been, it was still on the stage in a drab conference room.

***

The ref blew for half time and I trudged, slow as a toddler who doesn't want to leave a puddle, towards the tunnel. Two of the imps were there in their favoured spots. Tactics Imp was wearing smart trousers with a fancy belt, a plain white shirt rolled up at the sleeves with two buttons undone at the neck, and he had a black jumper or cardigan wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Around one wrist sat a very chunky, very expensive looking watch. The effect was ruined or enhanced, depending on your point of view, by one of those plain plastic bracelet things that support some good cause or other.

Snake Imp had gone for a different vibe. He was in a baggy black T-shirt with words in a chunky yellow font: JUST A MAX THANG. He had at least thirty gold chains around his neck, a gold watch on one wrist, gold bracelets on the other. The inevitable snapback was far too big for him, but perhaps that was to get the embroidered letters as big as possible: MBFTW.

Old Nick had leveraged my January XP well, then, and there were plenty of Hell Points to go round. At least someone in the stadium was happy. When they saw me looking, both formed their fingers into W signs. W for Wibwob. It looked more congruent coming from Snake Imp.

In the dressing room, I checked on Sam - he would be fine by next Saturday - and sat on the cramped bench - cramped apart from one unoccupied section with an empty hook - and wallowed in misery. Glenn barely spoke. Aff didn't call anything deadly. Henri was in a distant world of his own. Sandra gave us a few minutes to collect our thoughts; we would need a lot more than that.

The door opened and Jackie stepped in. He asked for Youngster. Behind Jackie, Kisi poked her head in and waved at Sandra. She was pulled back by Meghan, the Butcher of Burnage. I knew she had a crush on Youngster. Whatever this was, it was kid's stuff; I ignored it.

So I was pretty surprised when Youngster went to the tactics board and coughed to get our attention.

"I would like to give the half time team talk," he said. The level of astonishment was on a par with the events of the night before.

Sandra looked over - I shrugged. Why not? Life couldn't get any worse.

Youngster looked over at the doorway. Jackie was nodding, while Kisi and Meghan were holding each other's hands, unable to believe their luck. "When I first came to this country," said James Yalley, a player who now represented almost the entirety of my financial hopes and dreams, "I knew there would be things I would not understand. Tea with milk. Cricket. Dr. Who. Ben's inability to park within the lines."

"Oi!"

"But I never expected the taps. One is hot. One is cold. The system is quite stupid. What if you would like some warm water?"

His goofy smile made everyone turn to me. They saw some tiny tears and one big smile. "James, you weren't there. How do you know the words?"

"Kisi repeats it often. But, Mr. Best... I have something I would like to say and I would like to use my own words, not my father's. I am not sure I have the courage. I do not think everyone will like it."

"If everyone likes what you're doing, you're doing it wrong."

"Do you believe that?"

I scoffed. "I'm Max Best. I have to."

"Very well." He took a deep breath. "What has happened is unfathomable. It is beyond belief. But we know Raffi Brown to be a good man. If he left us without a word of explanation, there must be a reason."

"Yeah," spat Sam. "For five grand a week on a four-year contract." The numbers slapped me in the face. They sounded right. The only way to be sure would be to go to Saudi Arabia and watch a match featuring the traitor. Yeah, veto.

"Oh," said Youngster. "Perhaps. But regardless, I believe that if Jesus were here, he would want us to forgive Raffi Brown."

I shook my head. "No-one has ever said this before or even thought this before, but I think Jesus was a better person than me." Kisi thought I was being hilarious, but Jackie made the girls leave and followed suit, giving me a little nod before departing. "But thanks, James, bro. Someone needed to say something and God knows it wasn't going to be me." I smiled. "And I needed the laugh."

The squad did, too, even if most didn't know about the taps. They'd reacted to my reaction and they somehow knew Youngster had played one of his aces. The average morale had gone up. A little bit more might be the kick we needed to get a goal in the second half and keep our lead at the top of the table. Something told me we couldn't afford any slip-ups.

"Max," said Sandra, gently pushing Youngster away from the tactics board. Sam gave him a fist bump as he went past. My assistant manager had her little book out. "Would you like me to give the lads some notes?"

"Yes please, mum," I said.

The noise was deafening. Shouts, calls, whoops. Morale went green all across the board. Angles hugged Sandra then Goliath gave her a high five. Sam, Tony, and Henri were in fits, side by side on the bench. Gerald, Magnus, and Glenn stood so they could fall into each other. Pascal was laughing so hard Livia was worried about him.

When the mayhem subsided just enough, the Brig stepped in front of D-Day. "Pay up, lad."

D-Day looked panicked. "What?"

"I wagered on Max."

D-Day started to reach into his kit bag - from what I had heard, this bet was big news; was he carrying around over a thousand in cash? - then pointed from the Brig to me. "Fix! It's a fix!"

"Pardon me, sir?" The Brig fixed him with a steely gaze that Donny would normally have withered under.

Not this time. "You told him! He did it on purpose! What a swizz!"

There's a song for Portsmouth Football Club, nickname Pompey, that sounds like a church bell and goes 'Play up, Pompey, Pompey play up!' Someone - I think it was Glenn - started singing:

"Pay up, D-Day! D-Day pay up!"

We all joined in, even Sandra, Dean, Livia, and Vimsy.

Morale went up up up.

D-Day, the only one with red morale, snatched his bag, snatched the money, and tried to snatch it into the Brig's hand, which is linguistically impossible.

The Brig held it up and we fell silent. After a beat - incredible timing - he yelled, "Big night out if we beat Banbury!"

Green green green! Sam and Tony pushed and pulled Donny, uttering nonsense at him until he broke into a reluctant grin. He had lost, but in a good way. The story would be the stuff of legend. Well worth whatever his cut of the takings was going to be.

I slapped my hands together and went to the tactics board.

"Lads? New plan. You ready?" They were. I slapped the magnets showing our 4-1-4-1. "We do the same, but this time, we do it right. That's it. Get the fuck back out there."

"Come on, Chester!" yelled Glenn, and with a final roar, the lads charged out of the dressing room.

When it was mostly just the senior staff left, I looked at Sandra. "See that? You know who can't do that? Your boy Pep. You're in the big leagues, now."

She shook her head, mock exasperated. "Thanks Max. Very educational. I'm learning a lot. Now do you think we might push Youngster up to CM and get you into more advanced areas? And tell Carl to stay back to cover Bark? And get Eddie further forward like you did with the guy at Tranmere? Without breaking him?"

I cricked my neck left and right. "No. We had it right first time. We just needed a thumping motivational speech."

"What was all that about taps?"

"That?" I said, laughing, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Didn't I ever tell you? That was how the Beth Heads beat you."

***

As the second half kicked off, I saw the attendance. 1,812. Meagre. Demotivational. But I'd used my morale amplifier and couldn't let it go to waste. We had to win today and then we'd have a few days to work on our, like, feelings or whatever. Then on Tuesday night we'd hit crosses to Goliath and win at a canter, rotating the squad, conserving energy. Simples.

The match restarted with us attacking the Harry McNally stand where our noisiest fans were. Banbury kicked off and I sprinted at the ball carrier, slid in front of him, collected the ball, and danced away from a couple of challenges. I waited for movement - Bark was sprinting down the right but was blocked off the ball by the much more experienced full back. Henri was scampering ahead. I knew he'd drift left so that my pass could curve between the centre backs.

The goalie knew it as well, and he took a few steps forward, ready to sprint out and be a sweeper keeper. So I cocked my leg and struck the ball miles to the side of the goal. It took the keeper a second to understand the danger, but that was nearly enough.

He scrambled back across his six-yard box, and at full stretch flung his arms out. He got fingertips to the ball just as it finished its final spinning bounce - it would have crept in at the near post - he pushed it onto the upright. It bounced back onto the back of his head and dribbled towards goal. He twisted and flung himself on it, breathing heavily.

A lucky escape, but he'd think twice about coming off his line again.

The incident spooked the away team and they dropped a little deeper. A point against us would be a fantastic result for them, so I expected them to go low block as soon as we got our gander up.

But for now they were still in the match on their own terms. They won a couple of headers, put a few passes together, forced us back. Youngster cleaned up a bit of a Steve Alton mess, Magnus slid the ball out to Bark, and he did a cute trick to get past the left back. Bark sprinted ahead and had Henri up in support. Bark wanted to hit a low pass or get into slapping position at the side of the box, but he lacked conviction. He slowed, hesitated, and when the defender got back, he turned and passed to Magnus. Chance gone.

"Come on, man," I said, in a rare moment of on-pitch annoyance. Generally, I was very good at being a positive presence and not slating players for minor mistakes or missteps. The moment clarified that I had a decision to make - which CM to be. By default, I'd taken Sam's place near Aff, and me and him combining could cause havoc.

Or, I thought, it could allow Banbury to flood that side of the pitch and shut us down, making us reliant on the right. Bark was talented but he looked like a boy playing against a man, to the point where it was hard to imagine him impacting the game. Subbing him off - he was a sub himself - would make his confidence even worse. Me going over there would be frustrating if Bark kept making shit decisions.

A few more minutes passed and our match ratings had increased all round. Lots of sevens, now. We were getting a grip. Banbury sensed that, and one of their players took it upon himself to take decisive action.

Henri jogged over to force a Banbury centre back into clearing the ball. He aimed it high to the left, towards his number 3 and Bark. Bark had poor heading and jumping but he wasn't short by any means. The elbow he took was aimed up, into the face.

I lost my mind, had the 3 in my grip, was snarling at him. The Brig was there to separate us and I cooled enough to check on the kid. He was lucky - no broken nose, eye socket, or jaw.

And no red card for the assault. The ref bottled it completely, giving a throw in.

I bent to ask Bark if he was all right. He said yes. Dean said it might be best to take him off. "No," I growled. "We need him. Get up, mate. We're gonna fuck these cowards up."

Did my voice get louder as I spoke? Was I right in front of the Banbury bench? I couldn't say. But by the time Bark got to his feet, my blood was pumping and I'd reorganised the whole team.

Aff was now playing at left back. Eddie Moore was left centre back, partnering Glenn, and Steve at right back. Carl was the DM. I'd basically rotated everyone one space. That left Magnus and Youngster as the CMs and Bark at right mid. On the tactics screen I started as the left mid, but I had no intention of playing there, which was the whole point.

"Max!" called Sandra. "What are you doing?"

What I was doing was playing as a second right winger. I'd probably only get a minute or two of freedom until Banbury realised, but for now every attack would be an overload.

We competed for the throw in and there was an untidy phase of play. Typical non league fare until Carl, enjoying his unexpected day out in midfield, literally put his foot on the ball like he was, I don't know, me. He touched it to Youngster who skipped past one tackle - he was getting really good at that line-breaking move, and played a short pass to me.

That was decision-making 20 because I was absolutely white-hot with rage and ready to slap. I sprinted and passed the ball down the line for Bark to run onto. Then I cut in front of the defender and made him barge into me. Don't run into a fucking brick wall, mate! The prick was lucky I didn't elbow him in the grille but I couldn't afford a suspension while the squad was so thin - I was already in hot water with the Football Association for Facegate.

Bark realised he was free and accelerated. I untangled myself from the 3 and pumped my legs as hard as I could trying to give Bark an option. Henri darted to the near post. Bark shaped to pass. Henri turned and zipped to the back post. Bark didn't panic - he swept the ball diagonally back, into my path, and his eyes widened as I clipped it first time, full of side spin, through the defenders, where Henri was dynamically lurking and - GOAL!

I raced to Bark and bearhugged him, lifted and tried to spin him around. He was a lot heavier than Emma and I wasn't as strong as I once was, so I only succeeded in moving him a few feet, but his ecstatic laughter was worth it. Henri arrived, we screamed at each other, we screamed at Youngster and Magnus and the others as they came flooding in. A river of us.

Once the huddle broke, I walked towards the left midfield slot, doing my patented position disguise, but on the way a lot of emotions hit me at the same time. Anger, betrayal, frustration, relief, and what's this? Even more anger. Fists clenched, I almost doubled up as I roared defiance.

Smash my boys I'll smash you.

Wreck my plans I'll improvise.

Block my path I'll overcome.

Fuck. You.

The ref whistled to get the game back underway and I walked right. The match went on around me like I'd been inserted into a cool movie sequence where one guy - Paul Blart: Mall Cop, for example - is on an escalator while the world around him zips past. But then the ball broke and the world flipped - I was the speed, I was the energy, and everyone else was in slow motion.

I passed to Bark. He touched it back. A tackle came in. I booped the ball over the outstretched leg and moved forward five yards. I passed to Bark again. He touched it back, fell into a sprinter's start, retreated, and we repeated. More tackles came in. I dodged and weaved and when it was time to nutmeg the full back I pointed, feinted to touch the ball, laughed as he closed his legs, and twisted my body to thrash the ball on a slight diag into Aff's path. With me attracting all the aggro, he was one-on-one for the first time in the match.

Aff surges forward with the ball on his favoured left foot.

He drops a shoulder and moves past the defender with ease.

He keeps going. Now he needs support.

Lyons comes square. They exchange passes.

Aff seems to mis-kick a pass with his right foot.

No! It has gone straight into the path of Youngster.

He's clean through! He dabs the ball to the right of goal...

Hits the post! The rebound is loose...

Saved! A defender clears.

But only as far as Barkley. He sends it back in...

Lyons is beaten in the air.

It falls to Aff on the volley...

Blocked!

Chester can't believe they haven't scored.

I abandoned all pretence, then, and lined up right next to Bark. If Banbury tried to overload the other side, I'd cover. No problem.

The goalie played it short to the right back Aff had just skinned, and he smashed long. It was too easy for Ryder to head away, and the ball was cycled to me. The lads knew, now. They knew I was the pass.

Magnus looked up and played it to me. I shifted my body weight left, then right, then let the ball go through my legs, leaving the 3 bamboozled, but Bark had read my intentions - he was callow but he was smart. He was in place for my dummy, dribbled forward, used me as a decoy to get some space, and chopped left, Ronaldo-style, as he moved from the edge of the box to the D. A retreating midfielder took him out.

The ref gave a free kick in what future historians will call 'Max Best Territory'.

Two perks kicked in. First, the offer of the Free Hit. Yes, please. Smash that.

Second, Masterpiece Theatre. It was pretty cool - it was basically a minimap with eleven circles that I could move around to some extent. I used it now to leave three players back and everyone else to the left of goal. Banbury erected a two-man wall, which I found quite insulting. Two? Try ten, you pricks.

When was the last time someone had underestimated me from a free kick? Had it been my trial at Chester, when I'd used Raffi to turn an indirect free kick into a direct one?

Raffi. Raffi, mate, what have you done?

The ref blew his whistle - I got the impression he'd been doing so for a while. I gave him a little thumbs up and settled into my stance. Beckham or cannonball?

I pumped my legs like I was running on the spot, released the brake, and slapped that ball as hard as I could. It flew to my right, the goalie's left - he would save it comfortably - but then physics kicked in and it veered away, away, away...

The Harry McNally stand leapt, jumped, and hugged. Limbs everywhere. I didn't hear it, didn't feel it. It was just a goal. There was no emotion for me. I noted with vague interest that the player who'd been involved in the tackle with Sam, who had stayed on the pitch despite being equally injured, was being helped off. His injury was worse than Sam's, now. He'd miss more games, come back less fit with more risk of being re-injured.

I was on the right track. I was doing the right things. But as I'd learned right at the start of my adventure, no good deed goes unpunished.

My players enveloped me, surrounded me, and took care of the celebrations. I let them; it was my job to suffer.

***

At two-nil down and with me targeting his left back, Banbury's manager decided to shut up shop. He went low block, tried to keep the score down, and subbed off his 3.

I raced across and told them what I thought of that. "Hey! Hey! I'm not finished with you. Get back here! What the fuck! Get fucking back here you prick!"

Bark and Magnus combined to pull me away and the last I saw of the 3 was him heading down the tunnel behind some high-number rando on the touchline waiting to come on instead.

It didn't matter who the rando was. Banbury were shit and now they were pulling their necks in like scared little turtles. They could fuck off home. Two hours and thirty minutes of guys asking the three why he had wound me up. Why he had decided to crash his elbow into a young man's face.

Banbury kicked off, played a half-hearted long ball to their big boy, and when he was outmuscled by Carl, fell into the low block. I swapped things back to the default formation for the day, pretending to call out to people so Sandra wouldn't get suspicious.

Then I went to CM to take the piss without attracting the ire of The Sentinel.

Starting with... a long-shot bombardment. I took the ball forty yards from goal, shaped to pass to Bark, and instead launched an absolute fucking howitzer that the goalie batted away before shaking his head like a boxer who'd just been punched.

I was snarling again, I realised, and while the thought did occur to me that I should maybe relax, I was also enjoying it. Let the anger make you strong!

Next time I got the ball I burst past one tackle and had Bark to the right, Henri moving smartly across goal, and - this confused me - Eddie Moore and Aff racing each other down the left. I decided to do a cheeky little chip to the left to see -

Two sets of pain hit, one after the other. The first, on the back of my calf from where he kicked me. The second as I crashed into the turf, totally unprepared, totally off balance.

I stayed down to let Dean come and check me out before I tried to move. If I was injured, now would be a pretty good time to go off. Who could come on? Andrew Harrison, probably. He needed minutes.

That could wait, though. Dean said everything looked fine and helped me to my feet. I stayed bent for a second while I checked I could wiggle my right toes. When I looked up to see the prick who had fouled me, I fell right back down again.

The ref came over. "Are you timewasting or not, Best? I can't tell."

"Got a bit light-headed. I need ten seconds."

My assailant was right there, and based on the fact I'd never heard of him, he was making his Banbury debut. Fifteen years old with a B in his name. B for booking. The fine for the yellow card would be thirty pounds. Did he have it? He was registered with Banbury but he didn't have a full-time contract.

What he did have was the fucking nerve to foul me on my own patch. He had an almost palpable will to win; steam was coming out of his ears, so frustrated was he at the dire performance of his team and his own inability to catch me up. Looking at his attributes, it might have been the first time he'd ever played against someone faster than him.

William B. Roberts

Born 10.03.2008 (Age 15) English

• Acceleration 16
• Handling 1
• Stamina 12
• Heading 11
• Strength 12
• Tackling 6
• Jumping 9
• Teamwork 14
• Bravery 16
• Technique 10
• Creativity 14
• Pace 16
• Passing 9
• Dribbling 8
• Positioning 6
• Finishing 14
• preferred foot B
• CA 4 PA 185
• Forward (RLC)

The PA made me dizzy again. He was better than Dani. Better even than Youngster. And he was a forward. That meant goals. Marketing. Money. Glory!

The ref wanted me to take the free kick. Who gave a fucking shit about one measly free kick? This match was as good as over.

And I'd just had an absolutely absurd thought. I hadn't quite been able to work out why Old Nick had engineered a move for Raffi. A move I couldn't block or talk him out of. With Raffi gone, I'd have to play more matches. I'd have to play every match, and that's the last thing Nick wanted.

Unless, though... Unless the absolute most important thing this month was that I was here. On this pitch, against Banbury. If Raffi had been available today there was a risk - a low risk, but still - that I'd have left Sandra in charge and gone, I don't know, tobogganing with Emma. (Euphemism accidental.)

But Raffi was gone and I had to stay at Chester to clean up the mess. And more importantly, to play. And to meet William B. fucking Roberts, one of the hottest prospects in the country, on his debut, before anyone else in the world of football even knew about him! It was the chance of a lifetime.

The smile came of its own accord and I changed from a cannonball to a Beckham. I stepped, struck, and this little Roberts yob turned to watch as it flew into the top left corner. I strode toward him and gave him some friendly advice. "You've just cost your team a goal because you're a selfish prick. You wanted everyone to notice you? Great. Everyone knows you're a fucking indisciplined little shit who puts himself above his team. Foul me again I'll score again. Get bent!"

"Fuck off!" he yelled. "Fuck you!"

My players got between me and the furious Banbury guys, tried to pull me away so we could celebrate, but I just wanted the game to restart so I shrugged them away. Banbury kicked off and I positioned myself ten yards in front of Roberts.

When he got on the ball, I pounced, surging towards him. He played a simple pass away and I backed off. That move broke down and the ball was sent to my feet. I put my knee on the ball and got up, all my body weight left. I'm going left! I'm going left! Roberts came at me, expecting the trick. At the last second he stuck his leg right.

So I nutmegged him.

I ran around him and he grabbed me - it was like being hugged by a wheelie bin full of bricks, but he let go because of his yellow card. He'd done enough to slow me down without risking the referee's wrath. Self-regulation! Maybe he wasn't aggression 20 as I'd initially thought. There was a good way to check - I dribbled over to the left with him tracking me, snapping at my heels.

"Henri!" I called, and my mate came short.

Roberts, the dick, reacted by getting too tight to me. I backheel nutmegged him and ran off, cackling. Still the kid kept tracking, kept in my wake, kept at me like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. He wasn't a greyhound, though. He was a human being with - theoretically - a brain.

"Give up!" I yelled as I exchanged passes with a bemused Carl Carlile.

"Fuck you!" came the reply.

I opened my body to spread a pass out wide to Aff and Roberts slid in to block it. I popped the ball up and rested it on my shoelaces, two feet above the grass. I bent down. "Give up," I said, and as I moved away, he slapped the pitch in frustration.

We used our last two subs to give minutes to Andrew and Tony, and I played the rest of the match pretty straight. No dribbles, no taunts. Truth be told, I spent most of the match staring at Roberts's player profile. Not just because it was pure sex, but because one of the attributes had turned green. After I'd given him a piece of my mind, his teamwork had popped to 15 and his CA had risen. He was a complete sponge. Whatever I poured into him, he'd absorb.

Holy fucking shit.

Three-nil, three points, and three stud marks on the back of my calf.

I ignored the fans, my mates, my opponents. I had Sandra to do my diplomatic work. I went straight for Roberts.

He was stocky with a face that couldn't decide if it wanted to be round or rectangular and ears that couldn't decide if they were in or out. He had broad shoulders and big powerful thighs that with his low centre of gravity gave him a vaguely Maradona-esque vibe. The comparison was absurd, of course. But then again, PA 185 and two-footed. It was close enough!

"Did you enjoy that?" I said.

"No," he said. His voice had broken and he was gruff. He was a little ogre, this guy!

"Come on. You did a bit."

He glared at me in a show of bravado, but while he almost had the body of a man, he was just a kid. He smiled cheekily. "Yeah." The scowl was back. "Don't like losing."

"Is that right?" I mused. His Contract screen had some interesting words. Currently considering a contract offer from Banbury United. I could get in trouble for what I was about to do, but so the fuck what? Some risks were worth taking. "Don't sign that contract, then."

"What? How did you know about that? You been scouting me?"

I looked around, then realised that was making me look suspicious. "Just don't sign it yet, all right? I want a friendly chat. That's all right, isn't it?"

He considered me. Gave me a very mature look, very thoughtful. "Friendly chat? If I want a friend I'll get a puppy."

I smiled. "All right, then. Nice knowing you." I walked away, heart thudding alarmingly hard in my chest. Relationship anxiety. Welcome back, old friend!

After a few yards, I was stopped by a cry. "Max!"

But it wasn't the kid. Chris Beaumont had been down the away end, posing for selfies with and chatting to the few Banbury fans that had come. He was very much their star player and the club's talisman. The money I'd paid to loan him for a few months would pay their entire tax bill. "Chris, mate. What did you think? Enjoy that? Must have been weird. Who did you even want to win?"

"Fuck all that. I can't wait to get on the same side as you. You're something else. What were you doing when the kid came on?"

"Who? Roberts?"

"It was like one-on-one in the back garden for a minute, there. Hilarious. Never seen owt like it."

"Just seeing if he's got what it takes."

"And? Does he?"

"I've seen worse," I said, truthfully.

Chris smiled at Roberts as he went past us on his way to the dressing room. "Made your debut. How's it feel?"

It was clear Roberts admired Goliath. "Good, Chris, thanks."

"And you got to meet your idol. He megged you a couple of times, I thought."

Roberts turned red and mumbled something, then kept going.

I couldn't believe it. "Idol?" The kid had fouled me and run around like a whirling dervish trying to compete with me. He didn't like me, did he?

Chris laughed. "Max. Come on. You know how you play."

"Is he a good kid?"

"Yeah. He was at grassroots scoring a few, had a growth spurt and he hasn't been right for a while but looks like he's sorted himself out since I've been gone. He's absolutely football mad. It's all he does. Extra practice, extra coaching, ball boy, clearing snow off the pitch. Anything to be around footy. He's got it bad. And he plays Soccer Supremo non-stop, too. He's always tweaking his formations and asking the coaches what they think. Drives them mad because they don't understand what he's on about. That's why he's got that nickname."

"What nickname?"

Chris Beaumont had one of the best nicknames going. Goliath. But William B. Roberts had a nickname that nearly blasted me off my feet. "You don't play Soccer Supremo, do you? It's an acronym thingy. You tell your players what to do with the ball, and what to do without the ball. And his name sounds just like it."

I felt like if he didn't say the fucking nickname already I would fall flat on my face and simply give up the ghost. The tension was killing me. Literally. But I already knew what this nickname was going to be. It had all clicked. It explained why the imps were there. All this time, they hadn't been encouraging me to get a perk, they'd been steering me towards getting something completely different.

"We all call him Wibwob."

...

.

.

Thanks for your support!

We did another book. What! I'm starting book 7 now. Hey what that doesn't sound right?

Shout out to the Discord which went WILD after the last chapter and where OverpreparedGM has been making custom emojis for us. Big fun over there. Get stuck in!

Okay, some numbers. YOU LIKE THAT.

...

Feb 3 League Table

Team P W D L [F A GD] Pts

1 Chester 28 21 2 5 [75 27 48] 65
2 Kidderminster 29 18 8 3 [51 20 31] 62
3 York 30 16 11 3 [49 30 19] 59
4 Darlington 29 16 10 3 [45 28 17] 58

Chester Men's First Team

Squad No. Name Age [Wage] CA PA

1 Robbie 'Robbo' Robson GK 34 [500] 44 45   
13 Ben Cavanagh GK 26 [425] 48 67   
25 Steve 'Angles' English GK 36 [500] 19 80   
4 Glenn Ryder DC 30 [750] 54 54   
2 Carl Carlile DCR 25 [400] 57 77   
12 Magnus Evergreen D,DM,M 26 [500] 48 -2   
5 Gerald May DC 29 [700] 38 38     
Vivek [LOAN] DC 17 [0]  10 66   
16 Steve Alton D CR 25 [500] 46 53   
20 Eddie Moore DL 22 [900] 42 75     
Lucas Friend DL 16 [0] 7 62   
6 Sam Topps MC 28 [750] 59 60   
17 Andrew Harrison MC R 22 [500] 24 ?   
18 Michael Harrison [LOAN] MC R 18 [350] 12 ?   
19 Ryan Jack MC 35 [750 INJ Jan 2025] 151   
11 Aff ML 27 [525] 58 70   
14 Youngster DM, MC 18 [500] 49 181     
Dan Badford CM 15 [0] 5 -1   
77  Max Best Omni 23 [500]       
15 Joe Anka MR 28 [600 INJ 2 WKS] 40  
22 Bark AMRC 17 [0] 23 130     
Tyson AMRC 15 [0] 13 58   
7 Donny 'D-Day' Dorigo AMLR 33 [500] 39 55   
18 Pascal Bochum F (RLC) 18 [500] 43 133   
21 Chris Beaumont S 36 [1000] 29 33   
9 Henri Lyons S 28 [800] 63 90   
10 Tony Hetherington S 26 [600] 44 44   
26 Benny   15 [0] 14 40

Transfer value of Men's Squad (estimated by Max): 170,000 (+105,000 year on year)

Chester Women's First Team

wages in brackets if applicable

1 Robyn Wright GK 19   14 14   
13 Queenie GK 16   4 94   
16 Erin Barnes CB 19   12 12   
22 Mel Robinson RB 18   15 15   
15 Mo Walsh CB 18   21 21   
23 Lucy LB 42   21 90   
4 Bonnie CB 25 [350] 26 41   
18 Diane DM 22   3 60   
14 Gracie Davies LM 20   17 17   
6 Pippa Hoole CM 32 [200] 28 111   
7 Dani Smith-Smithe M, AM LRC 16 [350] 33 177   
12 Susan Butler MC 18   21 21   
11 Maddy Hines MRC 17 [200] 25 80   
8 Charlotte MC 21 [350] 40 101   
17 Kisi Yalley AM RLC 15   24 143   
9 Beatrice Pearce S 18   27 36   
19 Julie McKay S 17 [150] 17 53   
10 Angel S 16 [350] 9 155

Notable Youth Prospects:

Age PA

Chas Fungrieve S 14 83   
Future CB DM 12 99   
Stephen Watson DM 10 146   
Mark Nelson D RLC 10 70   
Tadpole GK 10 130   
Big Sam GK 12 61   
Simon Black S 10 77

Max's Private Clients:

Ziggy (45/week)

Youngster (50/week)

R.E.M. Clients/Agency Cut:

Bark 50/week
Dani 35/week
Angel 35/week

Max's Assets and Liabilities

20,000 from traitor
20,000 (minus taxes) from Tranmere
The Duchess (a brown Subaru)
West Didsbury and Chorlton AFC
One superfast laptop
-?,000 to the Brig for services rendered

Estimated % of Merch Sold in Chester with Chester FC branding:

4