16.

Monday, May 3 - Three Weeks Later

"All right," I said, taking a few slow, hesitant steps across the front of the room. The audience could sense my doubt, my uncertainty. "I think we might be ready. Are we ready? There's no way to know if we're ready."

Emma was at the side, sitting on a low cupboard, looming over most of the audience, kicking her little legs. "We're ready, Max."

"Yeah, but let's review." I skipped back the way I had come, towards the left-hand side of the blackboard. I pointed to one of three words I had written in chalk. "Scarecrow. Got your photos?"

The kids of class 5E held up their colour printouts, which showed a variety of scarecrows.

"And what do scarecrows do?"

One little girl threw up her hand. Like most of the audience, she was 9 years old. I pointed to her; she said, "They scare crows."

"You are the world champion of succinctness," I said, which appeared to be the most delightful thing she had ever heard. "They scare crows," I said, slowly, as though peering at every syllable through a magnifying glass. "They scare... crowwwwws... Good. The second word is award. Who has my Vans Trophy Final Man of the Match award?"

A boy held it up.

"Who's got my Manager of the Season award?"

A bright-eyed boy and a girl with sandy hair were sharing it, which was appropriate.

"And who's got my Top Trim Trophy?"

A boy with an ironically shit haircut hoisted the prestigious prize.

Emma coughed. "Max, remind us how the winner of that award is chosen?"

"It's simple, Miss Weaver. All the footballers who have good haircuts are allowed to vote, and they vote for the football player they think has the best haircut. It's the best voting for the best."

"Literally," said Emma.

Our future head of youth development, former Chester midfielder Sam Topps was next to her. "One man, one vote."

"Scarecrow," I said, loud, drawing the class's attention back onto myself. "Award. The third word is outstanding. Which means..."

The same little girl put her hand up and said, "Very good."

"Top. I believe we are in full possession of the information we need to proceed." I cleared my throat and fished in my pocket for a thin slip of paper. As I held the paper aloft, letting it dangle, I bent my head low, looked up at the kids, and let my energy turn dark and mysterious. "Last December, I received this missive in the middle of a seemingly harmless Christmas cracker along with a cute snowman on a keyring. While my future wife, her parents, and various hangers-on and lackeys were busy having fun, drinking wine, getting sleepy on turkey, while they babbled and prattled away, while they remained blissfully unaware and unconcerned that a higher power was trying to communicate with me... Yes, in the middle of this innocent scene, a cryptic message fell into my lap." I got even more intense. "This is what I read. Why did the scarecrow win an award?" My eyes blazed with eldritch power. The kids were agog. "Because he was outstanding in his field."

The boy with the bad haircut laughed.

"You, sir," I said, pointing. "What is so funny?"

"How could a scarecrow win an awaaaard?" he said, laughing harder than ever. Several others joined in.

Emma said, "They could create a made-up prize of their own and buy an engraved trophy online for actually far too much money."

The smart little girl had her hand up. "It's a joke and it's funny because of the double meaning."

I bent to her level. "Explain."

"He's outstanding because he's very good which is why he won a prize, and he is standing out in the field because he's a scarecrow."

I stared at her, unblinking, for ten seconds. "At last," I hissed, clenching my fist. "At last..." I rose to my full height and read the slip of paper again. "Ha," I said. "Ha ha ha."

I was just gearing up to launch into loud, maniacal laughter when Emma forestalled me. "Mr. Best, you're being awfully silly. Would you like to get to the real reason you're here?"

"Fine," I said, scrunching up the paper. "Got to hurry up so the kids can get right back to the trigonometry they will be using every day of the rest of their lives. Kay, fine." I sighed, pinched my nose, and brightened. "The real reason I'm here is to do a magic trick! I'm going to make a television appear out of thin air!"

"It's under that sheet," said one of the brats.

"Yes, yes it is." I stroked the big piece of fabric the teacher had found for me. "Class 5E, because you were so good this season - "

"Term," said Emma.

"Because you were so outstanding this term, you have won an award, and your reward is to be invited to the world premiere of my final Chester Zoo advert. Which is..." I pulled the sheet off. "Now!"

***

EXTERIOR SHOT: What seems, from context, to be the side of a football pitch.

MAX BEST is in his trademark black hoodie, holding a football. He's pacing around, scowling. The words: Max Best (Player-Manager) appear.

MAX

[Stops pacing to address his players.]

All right, you animals, listen up. That first half was not good enough. Stop monkeying around out there! You're playing like a bunch of baboons. You don't have to go ape every time we get in their half! I'm going bananas watching this. Right, well, I suppose I've only got myself to blame. You know what they say, if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.

[CUT TO: Five Chester FC players - in full kit - lounging around the mandrill room in Chester Zoo's Monkey House. Zach Green is playing with Dazza's hair. Banksy, Cole, and Roddy Jones are posing as 'see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil'.]

[CUT TO: Max.]

MAX

Zach, don't eat thaaat! That's been in his hair! Ew. I don't care if you're an omnivore. What do you mean, it tastes like shampoo? That's not a good thing!

[AERIAL SHOT: A series of buildings in Chester Zoo.]

NARRATOR

Experience Monkey House and Monsoon Forest, home to a surprising variety of wonderful primates. Chester Zoo - we're simply the best.

[CUT TO: Max with a clipboard, looking for something.]

MAX

All right, I'm gonna make a sub. Hang on, where's my star striker? What the - ? William, mate, what are you doing?

[CUT TO: Wibbers, in full kit, lazily swinging on a tyre while eating a banana.]

WIBBERS

[With his mouth full, slightly belligerent.]

What?

[He continues munching.]

[CUT TO: a camera behind the other cameras, which shows the moment all the players and crew double over with laughter.]

***

The kids loved it! One little smartarse fell for the 'monkey talk' chat and rolled his eyes. "It's monkeys," he had said, bored. Why was he acting like a bratty teenager? To be fair, he laughed pretty hard at the reveal, and even harder when Wibbers did his bit.

I was delighted with the advert's reception. "All right, consider that well and truly focus tested. Bosh." I patted my pockets. "This is going great. One last thing. I made a note. Where is it? Ah, here we go. Where's Jordan? Jordan Holland."

Everyone turned to look at one dude. He looked terrified yet hopeful. "Here, sir."

"Okay, I've got a quiz for you. Answer correctly and all your dreams will come true. You ready?"

He wasn't ready. How could he be ready?

"This is it. This is the question." I closed my eyes and pushed an index finger into my temple. "What is the airspeed velocity... No, that's not it. The question is this: Do you want to play for Chester?"

There was uproar in the room, with all the boys and girls yelling and shouting and getting manic.

Jordan was one of the products of my supercharged new Playdar. After the cup final, I had decided not to play for the rest of the season, which helped me rack up XP. I had also done the co-manager hack on the women's team, putting Colin and Peter in charge of the final games while I relaxed in the dugout and left them to it. That, plus my usual low-level grinding made it a piece of cake to save up for and buy Daily Use 3 for 6,066 XP.

XP balance: 1,383

Now I could use Playdar three times a day and had been going at it pretty hard so that I wouldn't feel guilty when I took a complete break from football. I'd had some good results and there would be many more to come. The best thing was that every find turned dreary April and May days into Christmas morning.

Jordan's parents burst into the classroom and there was lots of laughing and crying.

Jordan Holland, 9, DM, PA 129.

His new future was one containing ten thousand pounds a week, trips to Wembley, photos of him standing next to large metal trophies.

When the initial euphoria died down a little, I pointed to Sam. "Jordan, this is Sam Topps, future Champions League player." Sam looked embarrassed by that description, but it was accurate, so I ploughed on. "He's going to be helping you out over the next few years, okay? He's gonna make sure you get good at football and you have fun and all that. I do need you to listen very carefully to me now, though." Jordan got as serious as was possible and nodded. I said, "I do need you to concentrate in school."

While I was saying that, my phone vibrated. I stared at the message.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: It's happening today.

My pulse doubled and I had to fight to keep from going completely feral. I needed to get outside and start hitting the phones.

"Max," said Emma.

"Yeah," I said, trying to get back into the moment. The kid. I was telling the Championship-quality DM I had found that he needed to study hard. "I don't like stupid players, do I Sam?"

"No, boss."

"Football isn't just about kicking a ball around. There are tactics and homework and nutrition and recovery and science. There are charts and numbers and data. And you might want to learn German and Spanish so you can try life in a new country for a couple of years. Do you know what I'm saying, Jordan?" He said he did, but he would have said anything. "Okay, that's all from me. Hang on." I tapped my pockets again. "Ooh, nearly forgot this. I wanted to say thanks to your teacher for letting me come to the classroom, so I've brought everyone tickets to come and see a football match! Chester, the mighty treble winners, are going to play somebody cool. I haven't decided who, yet. Australia, maybe. Or a team of left-handed people. Or the cartoons from Space Jam. All right? I'll see you at the Deva Stadium, everyone. Bye!"

I went outside and I breathed in the fresh morning air. Sam Topps came a minute later, holding two of my awards. "You forgot these," he said, handing me the bigger one with a hint of disapproval. He broke into a grin. "Wow, they loved that! You're so good with kids. It's absolutely mad what you do but they love it."

"You just have to commit to whatever it is you're doing. If you get very intense about trying to understand a joke, they'll go with you. There was that one smart girl who didn't think I was funny, did you notice? Those girls have intimidated me my whole life! What's up with that?"

One of those girls emerged from the school, holding my 'best haircut' trophy. She leaned into me, kissed me on the cheek, fussed with my hair, and gave me her most gorgeous lip-twisting smile. "You are a maniac, babes." My future wife sauntered away, unlocked the van's doors, and put my trophy in the boot.

I sighed.

Sam said, "Are you okay, boss? Tired?"

"Yeah, I am a little bit. It's been a long season." I jerked my thumb backwards, towards the school. "But making dreams come true? I'll never get tired of that."

***

I got in the passenger seat, while Sam settled into the row behind. We clipped our seatbelts into place, and Emma drove off. I closed my eyes, rubbed my face, and counted to ten.

Now for the other side of the job.

"Babes, I have to do that thing now."

"Oh," she said. "They're really doing it?"

"Yeah."

I got my phone out, checked through my contacts, and dialled the sporting director from a League One side that had made the playoffs. I got through after six seconds.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, hi Nico. It's Max Best here. Heard a funny story this morning. I heard a group of clubs are plotting against Chester. Surprise attack, so funny! I know you wouldn't get involved in anything tawdry like that because you're always telling people you've got big balls and I know you're a big dog, big alpha dog, and you'd want to beat us on the pitch, not in some seedy backroom. Uh-huh, sure. So anyway I was just thinking I'd call and let you know I'm thinking of bidding for Bensoussan." I allowed my counterpart to get a word in. "Yeah, I know he's your best player and I know you're trying to get him to sign a new deal - how do I know? Can't remember. I'm about ten minutes from the Deva. Just one sec." I turned to the seat behind and eyed Sam. "Driver," I said, holding up five fingers on my free hand. "How far are we?"

"Five minutes, sir," he said. I think he was trying to do a Brig impression.

I grinned at him before returning to my business face. "Five minutes, Nico. I'm gonna fax over a bid for 1.7 million, all right? I have to let you know that our machine is broken. It's stuck on send-to-all, so that bid's gonna get copied to every club in Europe." I paused for a few seconds. Emma frowned and turned towards me. I smiled and pointed to the road in front of her. Finally, I decided to misinterpret Nico's silence. "Huh. He's gone. We must have got disconnected."

I hung up, centred myself, and turned to explain the sitch to Sam. "A bunch of directors of football, sporting directors, owners, whoever, are plotting to drop a bomb on Chester. Basically, they're looking through the rule book to see what they can get us on. Not following the orthodoxy for how we collected our trophies, not following procedures, just whatever they can find - there's bound to be something - and they're gonna put our punishment to a vote."

"Shit," said Sam.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'm just explaining what I'm doing and why I need to do it now. Normally I wouldn't do this because if we get a fine, so what? It's not worth going to war over and now's a good time for a financial hit. And this would even be a good time for a points deduction. Apply it to this season, we still win the league. Apply it to next season, who cares? We're not going up, we're not going down. Yeah so it's a good time for the club to get punished, but it's a bad time for other clubs to come at me because I am in no fucking mood to give ground to anyone. Yeah, so... Sorry about this."

"What was that specific threat you made?" said Emma. "I couldn't follow that at all."

"This guy Bensoussan is worth five million quid but he's got a secret 1.7 million pound release clause that's active this transfer window. His club are trying to agree a new contract with him to get rid of it. The player wouldn't join us but if I bid that much they'll have to accept it and because I won't keep quiet about the bid, every club in the land will know the fee and they'll pile in. The club will lose, um, five million minus one point seven. Um... two point three?"

"Three point three million," said Emma.

"Right."

Sam was fascinated. "But who is it? Which club?"

"One of many," I said. I dialled again. A new victim. "Ross, hi, it's your old buddy Max Best here. Heard there's some weird stuff going on. Weird stuff is weird, isn't it? You know what I find weird?" Ross said he didn't have time for the call. "I suggest you make time, mate. You signed that guy Zach Fray on transfer deadline day, didn't you? All a bit frantic. 27,000 pounds a week. Ouch! That must have hurt. And you must have been too busy to inform Sosa and Perry." Pause. "What do I mean? I mean they've got clauses that guarantee they'll match the highest earners at the club, but they're still earning way way less than Fray. I was thinking that if you're too busy to tell them, I'd do it myself. Help you out of a jam, sort of thing."

There was another long pause, but this time I didn't hang up.

"Threat? What do you mean? You have a legal obligation to raise Sosa and Perry to 27,000 a week." Pause. "Did I hear that right? It doesn't count because Fray's on a short-term contract? That's your get-out, is it? Yeah, will that stand up in court? Good luck!" Pause. "The players couldn't afford to sue you?" I laughed. "I settled with UEFA so my lawyers are twiddling their thumbs. When they hear I've got a slam-dunk case they can get rich from, they'll be all over it. No win, no fee, yes win, yes fee."

I laughed again.

"How do I know the numbers? Mate, that's feeble. What I'm hearing right now is that you want to start this fight. That works for me because I'm in a fighty mood, pal. I'm itching to take someone down as an example to the others. I just had an idea. Save me five minutes of work and send over Sosa's phone number, yeah? I already have Perry's agent in my contacts." Emma and Sam heard nothing for a while. "What do I want? I want you to get on social media right now, by which I mean right now, and write that you think my treatment by the EFL this season has been shabby." Another pause. "It's your decision, but let me be a whole lot more diplomatic than you would be in my shoes. If you're the first to post, call me back later and we can talk business. I need a goalie and an attacking midfielder."

I hung up.

Sam was amazed. "How many clubs have you got dirt on?"

"All the dirty ones. Even the ones that are better at hiding their shit would implode if I did something simple like leak their player wages. Actually, that's a good one. Hold on a second. I'm gonna pick a director of football and show I know what he's paying his entire squad. When he asks why I'm sending the list, I'll apologise, saying I meant to send it to one of their fan-run podcasts and the Daily Mail."

"Savage," said Sam.

"What would be so bad about that?" said Emma.

Sam explained. "There's always one shit player who's the top earner, right? And the best player is in the middle of the pack. And when young players see what their teammates are making they demand the same. Leaking the wages is basically just instant chaos. I heard about one club where the secretary left a wage list on a photocopier and it turned into Lord of the Flies. Another club sent the wage slips to the wrong addresses and that was another shit show."

Emma was surprised. "But I thought players talked to each other about that kind of thing."

"They might tell their mates, yeah," said Sam. "But even when someone tells you, you're always thinking, is he full of shit? Someone like Henri, no offence, he could tell you a number and you wouldn't know if it was half what he was really getting, or ten times as much."

I scrolled through my list of contacts, thinking about whose dressing room was the most combustible. "I think Henri would tell you straight, Sam, so you could negotiate your own deal and whatever. He's got a massive ego but it's not related to his pay packet. Give me a minute while I choose who to torment."

The van was eerily quiet, thanks to the electric motor. At times the loudest noise was my phone vibrating.

I leaned back. "This is going great. He's crapping his pants. Should I write, come at the king you best not miss? Or double down on 'best'? Come at the Best you best not miss. It loses some impact that way, doesn't it?"

Sam said, "But how do you know the things you know?"

"Not everyone is out to get me," I said. "Some people want me to succeed. Oh, hold up." I pressed the green button. "Nico! You sorted out your connection issues. That's great. I'm pulling into the Deva now so don't worry you missed the fax!" I let the guy talk, then shut him down. "You're on thin ice, mate. You're lucky I'm about to go on holiday to an exotic, faraway land and I don't have the energy to go down there and steal your ten best youth prospects. You want to stop me building what I'm building? No way. My stands are fireproof but I'll burn down your whole fucking facade, mate. You've got one chance to make this right. Get on your socials right now and say that Chester FC has been badly treated this season or I will cost your club millions of pounds. Millions, and I'll let your owner know you were responsible. You've got five minutes."

I hung up and shook my head for a while, feeling my blood simmering.

Sam said, softly, "How long have you been building up this, like, case file?"

"Since I started, but there's always new stuff. It's like the wild west out there; I'm not gonna run out of material. At some point I'll hit a critical mass where enough clubs know the lengths I'll go to. They'll know they're bringing water pistols to an Uzi 9 millimeter fight."

Emma put on an Austrian accent. "Hasta la vista, baby."

Sam's eyes were wide. "Max, what's going on?"

I took in a long, slow breath, then turned and faced the front. "Shit just got real."

***

We pulled in at Bumpers. Emma got out and plugged the van into the charging station.

"Sam," she said. "Has anyone told you the code?"

"No," he said.

"It's 4-4-2, 4-4-2."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Oh, right."

"Max thinks it's funny."

"So I put in the code, charge it up. If I get an electric, can I use these chargers?"

"Yes," I said. "I didn't really want to restrict it. I don't mind if people in the community come and use our electricity but everyone told me it would be a disaster and there would be loads of freeloaders here twenty-four hours a day, blocking the spaces, making it so we couldn't charge our own vehicles, so..."

Sam took in the sights. Bumpers was still pretty busy with builders and workers, but they were mostly doing internal things. Most of the big trucks and machines were gone. Some had moved across the road; we could hear the crashes and slams. "Demolishing the away end, are they?"

"Yeah. Just getting stuck in. It's not a big stand so it won't take long. The new one's on its way. It's gonna fly up; Brooke has the timings worked out so precisely. She's really showing off with this one."

Sam licked his lips. "One project finishes, another starts. It's all go around here."

"Progress," I said. "It should be calm here for a while. Consolidation season in more ways than one, right? Let's take a look at your new office."

"Babes," said Emma. "Don't forget your trophies."

We grabbed one each and walked around the front of one of the new buildings. "This is the..." started Sam. "I'm confused. There was nothing here before. What is this?"

"This is the canteen slash restaurant slash events room slash roof party terrace building."

"Catchy name," he said.

Emma laughed. "Max wants to call it Best's Bistro but Brooke won't let him. How is someone gonna have their wedding reception here if it's called a bistro? It needs a classier name."

"I've got a classier name," I said. "The Get Fed and Wed Shed."

"Let me guess," said Sam. "Brooke didn't go for that."

"No. But it's gonna be mint, this place. There are different zones, right? Casual breakfast buffet where the players can hang out, men chat to women, coaches sit with players, all that good stuff that I want. A sort of sports bar along this side, where we can rinse the guys who rent our pitches. You've done your exercise for the week, now treat yourself to a craft beer and a kebab. Yes, please! We've got a more formal dining space, too, because we could host more serious events here. Yeah, the kitchens are massive. The cooks are in heaven. Imagine moving from a cabin to this!"

"Where are the cabins going?"

"I wanted to give them away to small clubs in the area but MD and Brooke aren't too keen. So I'm gonna use them instead of transfer fees. I told them the story of Zat Knight. Fulham bought him from a little club for 30 tracksuits. He went on to play for England! We'll give our cabins to poor clubs in exchange for their best players. Now, it might turn out that the clubs who most need the cabins don't have any good players and it might be that I make a big mistake in signing someone who doesn't quite work out. MD and Brooke can't expect me to get all my decisions 100% right, can they?"

"Be careful, boss," said Sam, "or you might accidentally give the cabins away to the clubs you wanted to give them away to."

"Life's so complicated," I said. We turned the corner of the restaurant building and our view opened up. I stopped and pointed across the first 3G pitch. Since Sam had last been here, two new buildings had risen. "New medical block, then the performance centre. Your office is on the ground floor because most of your job is parent management. Most like to hang out in here while their kids are playing, some go in the little stands - " I had annoyed our financial types by buying two 27-seat mini-stands at a time when money was very tight, but they had proven their worth a thousand times over. "And some like to hang out in the viewing booths. You see that shed thing with the floor-to-ceiling glass? We've got two now - the other one's by the small pitches - and we've even got the Wifi working pretty well. Those cabins let parents get close to the action while staying warm - they're a big hit. Okay so the basic plan is that when the kids are training, you're pottering around doing small talk with everyone. They'll ask, hey, how's little Billy doing? And you'll tell them. Easy."

"Boss," he said, laughing as we passed by a large piece of sculpted hedge. "What the hell is this?"

"What, that?" I said, admiring it. "That's our topiary T-Rex. Didn't you have one at Tranmere?"

"No."

"That's why you only came second in the league."

He was still grinning at it - everyone had the same reaction - until he got exasperated that I had finished talking. "Aren't you going to explain why it's here?"

"If you need to be told, you wouldn't understand the answer."

Sam found that reply frustrating. Emma said, "Still wanna work here?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Dead excited."

It soon became clear that both of the new buildings were hives of activity, full of plasterers, tilers, carpenters, electricians. I gave up on the idea of showing Sam his new office. He looked up. "What's that? Did they forget some scaffolding?"

I followed his eye-line. The building furthest away from the car park was currently known as the 'Performance Centre'. It had offices for the men's manager (me), the women's manager (currently me, but I was working on changing that), the coaches, our scouting team (i.e. a woman called Fleur), the Brig, and whoever else I brought into the fold. The building was the highest at Bumpers, with three floors, which meant plenty of space for all kinds of needs. Around the entire top floor was a wooden balcony. People said it made the top of the building look something like a treehouse. "That's my viewing platform. I can slip out of my office and walk around and see every pitch."

"Okay, that's gonna be creepy."

"You don't know the half of it," said Emma.

Sam said, "Um..."

"It's no big deal," I said. "But see the electronic boards around the 3G pitch?"

"Yeah."

"There's a big screen going next to the main training pitch, too, and some speakers. I'm going to be able to, ah, communicate from the treehouse to the pitches. Hey, Sam, did you cut that corner on that lap? Hey Sam, my godson can shoot harder than that. Hey Sam, are you offside from right midfield? We talked about that, Sam."

"Holy crap," said Sam. "Not sure I'd like that."

"Don't train shit, then," said Emma, sniffing, doing her impression of a hyper-masculine football dinosaur. Sam thought it was hilarious.

I was sick of carrying the trophies. "Let's dump these in Brooke's office."

We went into the shower block and up the stairs. Brooke had a corner office next to a big meeting room. The side of the building facing the 3G pitch had been turned into offices for our growing admin team and for the charity associated with the club. One wall had been turned into flexible working space, and one of those units currently housed Nicole's physiotherapy room. That left a large space with the flexibility to be converted into whatever we needed, but until today it had never been used. Brooke was one of half a dozen people milling around. She saw me and smiled. "Max! Get over here!"

We got closer and I saw that the marketing team had put six long tables side by side, forming an L shape. There were photos everywhere. The team looked to be in a tremendous mood. "It's real last day of school energy today, isn't it?"

"Not for us," said Brooke. "We're this happy every day, aren't we? I hope nothing happens to ruin my good mood, Max."

"What do you mean?"

"You're gonna release the last Chester Zoo spot today, right? The one with Zach? He won't tell me what his role was but I can guess. I can guess, Max. And I think there's a reason you're releasing it after you have fled the building."

"If there's one word to describe Zach's role," I said, "it is dignity."

"Pure dignity," agreed Emma.

"Huh," said Brooke. She wasn't buying it but I hadn't done anything wrong yet so she couldn't yell at me.

"Whatcha doing?" I said, putting my Manager of the Year trophy down on the nearest table.

Brooke said, "I assume you're a big fan of the Bayeux Tapestry."

"Big time, but I prefer their earlier work. The later albums got too mainstream."

Brooke was in such a good mood she actually smiled. "We're doing a tapestry of the season. We will choose photos and other realia from every month to make booklets to distribute to the players and staff. Mementos of the greatest season in the history of Chester FC."

"Oh!" I said. "That's mint. Brilliant."

"We're doing the men first. Wanna help us choose?"

"Yeah!" I went to the end of the L.

"July 26 is at this end," said Brooke.

"I'd start with the final matches," I said, eyes harvesting the photos that were in front of me. April and May 27. "You might work out what the theme's gonna be and work backwards."

"That's cheating," said one of the marketers.

I shrugged. "It's what Henri and Sophie do when they're making the documentary. Not all the time, but mostly they look for the final scene and work backwards. If the end is tragic, they start the episode positive. If the end is someone crying, they start funny. Okay, what have we got here?"

Emma came next to me and leaned in while I slid the pictures around. "Portsmouth. Last day of the season."

"Yeah," I said. "Fitzroy's equaliser. Then Wibbers' equaliser." That one had ended 2-2. Good contest, lots of excitement, but both sides were missing their best players (Rushy for them, Max Best for us). "It's hard to play well when it's such a party vibe in the stands. Yeah, this one would have to be about the celebrations. Where's...?"

"Here," said Emma. She picked up a batch and went through them one by one, but soon stopped. She slapped the pic that had caught her eye. "Christian Fierce lifting the League One trophy. Players left and right, Max Best in a shit hoodie to the side. Ticker tape. Champagne bottles. Big smiles."

"It's very conventional," I said, snootily. "It's even the official trophy. And everyone's got their medals."

"It's not completely conventional," said Emma. "For a start it's in the wrong place." We had built our own platform, complete with the official sponsor logos, so that we could celebrate near our fans and not where the EFL told us. "Also, it's got a toddler in it - two if you count Jamie - and a player from the opposition is celebrating with us." She was talking about Matt Rush, who had played enough games for us to get a winner's medal. "That can't have happened before, surely?"

"You have to end with that one," said Sam. "Lifting the trophy is the whole point of the season, isn't it?"

"Um," I said. "I'd prefer to end with one with me dressed as The Terminator and I'm standing on Chip Star's head."

"Max," complained Emma. "Brooke's right there."

"Yeah, soz. I'm just being silly. Last day of school, isn't it?"

"Chip has matured a lot this past year," said Brooke, in a thoughtful kind of voice.

"Oh?" I said, interested. "What's his mental age now?"

"Jesus Christ, Max," said Sam.

One of the marketing team had great diplomatic skills. "If not the trophy lift," she said, "which do you like?"

"Erm," I said, bringing my attention to the photos that Emma was shuffling through. "Crackers and Sumo handing out the medals was a high point for me."

"Me too," said Emma. "You could have been a little more polite when snatching the box of medals from that poor EFL guy."

"Could I? Okay, I'll bear that in mind for next time. Ah, here we go. This is the one."

Sam poked his head closer. "Oh, yeah. There we go."

It was a dramatic and impressive shot of all the club's trophies for the season in one big pile, with a bunch of key players crouched behind. I tapped on each trophy, trying to remember what they all were. "League One, Vans Trophy real, Vans Trophy official. Erm, Cheshire Cup men's, Cheshire Cup women's. Women's National League Northern Premier. Manager of the Month awards, Player of the Month awards. These two are from the Chester Knights. This one here is from the under 16s, these two are the under 14s, and those, like, million are the under 12s."

Emma said, "What a shame the haircut trophy didn't arrive in time. Here," she said, showing it to the nearest marketing person. "Can we PhotoShop this in?"

"It's quite a haul," said Sam. "The jokes about needing a bigger trophy cabinet aren't jokes these days."

"Yeah," I said. "The trophies are kept next to the boardroom, which at this point feels wrong. These things should be where the fans can see them. Brooke, can we put a temporary cabinet in the McNally? Put our swag where the fans can enjoy it?"

"I'll investigate."

Emma held up another photo. "What about this for the final photo? Is it too depressing?"

It was one of Ryan Jack applauding the Deva. I had sent him on for the last five minutes so that he could get the ovation his long career deserved. It would have been better to start him and sub him off, but he didn't have the legs. His next game would be in veteran's football. "It's not depressing," I said. "It's the circle of life. He has run his race, lived his life, and now he has to find a nice patch of land to die on, where he will release precious selenium into the soil, where he will feed worms and bugs and spark an explosion of new life and yeah okay judging by your expression it could be seen as depressing. Right, that was the last day of the season and now I'm going back in time. What's this?"

The diplomatic marketer leaned over. "That's the Cheshire Cup final, isn't it?"

Our amazingly youthful side had beaten a team called Vauxhall Motors 5-0 in the final. "Yes, that one's in the right place but I'm looking here. These others are out of order. Going backwards means the next is... this one. Home to Plymouth, one-all, party mood, Colin with a neat finish. The next one back's Salford City away, two-nil win that took us to 100 points, Zach and Cole boshing corners. You've labeled it Charlton, but that one's Salford. Charlton away was this one. One-all, and because Portsmouth also drew, that made us the champions. It's tricky because that's obviously a key moment in the season but it didn't feel like it. Not to me, anyway, because winning the league was never in doubt. The key moments came earlier. This... This reminds me of a club who put out a history book but one of the photos wasn't just the wrong details, it wasn't even a photo from that club! That kind of thing drives a wedge between club and fans so when you've got your picks sorted, will you please double check the photos are from the matches you think they are?"

"Of course. What do you think about the ones we've done so far?"

I went back to the first table, which had images from July of 2026. "Feels like eons ago. How time flies when you're getting shit done." I had been in Gibraltar when some of the photos had been taken and didn't have strong feelings about them, but as I moved along, my smile grew. "All those away games to start the season. Pascal and Duggers, yes, include them. Is there one of Josh Owens? Make sure he's in. Ah, the new stand rises. Bosh! Can you get one of Brooke in a hard hat? To show she did most of that work. October and November was an acceleration, wasn't it? We opened a big gap at the top of the table. Maybe slip the top of the table there and there to show that this period was when we really took over."

"Good idea."

"Halloween, yeah. That was when Gabby had his purple patch. Six goals in three games, and no more questions about his transfer fee. Oof, January. That was epic. Chesterfield in the Vans followed by Sunderland in the FA Cup. We had ten matches in January - maybe slide a fixture list into one of these? The pictures alone can't convey how monumental our achievement is. Vans Trophy semi-final down in Plymouth, 'Chester going to Wembley'; scarf, perfect, March was all wins, April's the cup final, lots of shots of Wembley, skip to the trophy collection. Yeah, that works. The lads will be buzzing to get these. This is ten out of ten work. Great job, everyone."

Sam said, "Put the final league table, too. The top, at least. 102 points. That's something to be proud of."

I found a pile of newspaper stories that the marketing team had collected through the year. One of the latest featured the dad and son who had given me their replica trophy. Beth had found their details and written a feel-good piece about them.

Beth had an uncanny ability to text me when I was thinking about her.

Beth: Max, why is half the EFL posting supportive comments on social media?

Me: Don't know. I'm not on MySpace, Beth.

Beth: The timing is bizarre. What's going on?

Me: Beth, it's just that thing I've been telling you. We're everyone's second-favourite team.

"What's this?" said Emma. She had wandered back to the start and was looking at a printout.

Brooke said, "Those are some of the messages the club got - and Max got - when we won the Vans Trophy final. We were thinking about using a few in the booklets but there are so many, and they're all so kind. How can we choose?"

Emma said, "Choose the ones from the biggest stars."

Brooke smiled. "Go on, then."

Emma got a quizzical look about her and went through the list, dragging her finger down. "Start with Dieter Bauer, obviously. Names don't come much bigger than that."

"Keep goin'," said Brooke.

"Paul Braun. That's much of a muchness. Don Pino. He's that superagent, right? You told him not to mess with you when you were at Bayern, didn't you babes? Looks like he's trying to stay on your good side! George Takei. He's from Star Wars, I know that. Adam Adebayo, Danny Kowalski, Zoran Bratko."

"There's three hundred million quid in Bayern Munich talent," said Sam.

Emma nodded. "I saw them on Instagram, all trying to emulate Max's goal. They had time, didn't they, after only getting to the Champions League semis. Pedro Porto. Aw, I liked him. Does he have a job yet?"

I shook my head. "He'll get a good one this summer. So will Paul Parker. I can't wait to see who Wrexham replace him with. It won't be Folke Wester, that's for sure. He wrecked his reputation this season. He'll have to go back to non-league, I think."

Emma looked down at the list again. "Sir Ian Masters. Name rings a bell..."

"He's one of the richest men in Cheshire," I said. "He's the Max Best of board games. You actually met him at the Cheshire Cup final. He invited us to his house. No? You were so sloshed that night. Do you remember you kept demanding more drinks, saying make mine a treble?"

Emma was unabashed. "We won the treble, babes. It was thematic."

"Anyway, he thought it was hilarious and endearing. We'll meet him soon."

Emma kept reading. "Pascal Bochum, Henri Lyons, Foquita, Sam Topps. Never heard of him," she said.

"Fair," said Sam Topps. He lifted his chin slightly. "Am I really on that list?"

Emma pulled the paper closer to herself. "Yes, one hundred percent you are. You're a ledge and don't forget it." Her eyebrows shot up. "Ryan Reynolds. Harry Styles. Donny Wormwood. Keira Knightley. Elton John. Jessica Ennis-Hill. Mr. Beast. Diggy Doggy. What! That's random. Aurélie Fragonard. Henri's mum. What has she written? Petit à petit l'oiseau fait son nid. Aw, she is sooo sweet. And the list goes on. Erm, okay, yes, I can see how it's hard to pick out two or three."

Sam said, "My French is a little rusty. What does that thing she wrote mean?"

"Little by little, the bird makes its nest."

"I like that. The little bird is Max, is it?"

"It's all of us," said Brooke, sliding one of her favourite photos back into place. It was one of Zach from when we had trained at the Welsh HQ. He was talking to some of the younger defenders. Coaching them. "We're building our nests one match at a time."

I tapped the photo. "That's a great one. Very dignified."

She pressed her lips together. "What have you done?"

I checked the time. "Ooh, look at that. Sorry, everyone, we have to go."

One of the team called out, "You off on holiday, Max?"

"Yeah."

"Going somewhere warm, are you?"

"We're off to an exotic, faraway land where I will be waited on hand and foot by an endless procession of radiant beauties."

"That's close to the truth," said Emma. "We're going to Newcastle. But the endless procession of radiant beauties will be waited on hand and foot by Max. Won't I, babes?"

I smiled. "Maybe we can take it in turns." I turned to the others. "Take it easy, guys! Congrats on an amazing season!"

***

We left the trophies in Brooke's office and went downstairs and out to the staff car park. Spectrum, Bark, Dazza, and Jonny Planter were loitering with Jojo, the amazing, cheerful woman who was the first smile everyone saw when they came to Bumpers Bank. There were backpacks and suitcases galore.

"What's all this?" said Sam.

I said, "These lads signed new contracts this morning. Got that sorted before they go flying away on their working holidays. Remember, lads, the new deals don't kick in until the start of July. Don't go spending money you haven't got." I pointed. "Dazza's off to play in the qualifiers for the Olympics."

Sam's face lit up. "So cool!"

I said, "You're supposed to say 'gud on yer, mate' in an impressive Australian accent. Emma, show him."

"Gud on yer, mate."

"Bark's off to Jamaica. Got called up, didn't you?"

He grinned. "Yeah. It was all a bit sudden. Had to cancel some holiday plans but my folks are so happy."

Sam said, "Gud on yer, mate."

"Ah, no, with Bark you do a Jamaican accent, like this." I cleared my throat.

The others threw up their hands and said, "No no no."

I shook my head. "They're worried my accent might be considered offensive and ting."

"I heard that," warned Emma.

"What about you, boss?" said Sam, to Spectrum.

"I'm not your boss, Sam."

"You are," I said. "Tell your underling where you're going."

"Off to India," said Spectrum, equal parts excited and nervous. "I can't believe this. This is the biggest thing I've ever done."

"Relax," I said. "You'll be fine." I was sending Spectrum to meet Pradeep to see if they clicked. If that arrangement had legs, Spectrum was going to work part-time for Chester and part-time for Maxterplanalytics, my fake data company, which I was hoping Pradeep could help me turn into something real. I needed tons and tons of money and fast. While they would be working for me, they would be on-site at Chester much of the time. "Find out how good Pradeep is with kids. I can't predict if they'll think his intensity is really cool or if they'll be put off. It doesn't really make a difference to the overall project but it might determine which office you get."

"Understood," said Spectrum. His face lit up again. "I'm going to India!"

"Jonny," said Sam. "What about you?"

"London for me," said my head groundsman. "Not as exotic as these chaps, but I get to hang on the coat tails of the master."

"He's gonna work on the pitches at Wembley," I said.

Sam said, "Gud on yer, mate." He eyed the suitcases. "Why is everyone just standing around?"

"Waiting on a couple people," said Spectrum. "There's one."

"Strewth!" I cried, and stepped to the side, moving between the newcomer and Emma. Dazza's overly-charismatic brother, Lachie, was strolling over. He was recovering well from his brush with death.

Emma dug me in the ribs and moved out of cover. Danger! "Hi, Lachie," she said, sweetly, rotating slightly as she spoke so that she could admire him from more angles. Very flirtatious. "It's nice to see you."

He came closer. "Come into my arms, you absolute beaut."

He wrapped his arms around me. I slapped him on the back. "You take care of my striker out there, all right?"

"You know I will."

"Max," said Emma.

"Yes?"

"It's my turn to hug Lachie."

"He's busy. Try Dazza."

"Maaax."

"Oh, here's Briggy."

She was pulling into the car park in a rental van. She would take everyone to the airport, drop off the van, and fly to Germany for a well-earned summer break. The guys loaded their cases, hugged Jojo, hugged Emma, hugged me, got in the van. Briggy was wearing a big, breezy smile. "So," she said, because there was nothing left to say or do.

"So," I agreed. "You get a break from football and footballers."

"A break from football, yes." Emma and I looked at each other and smiled. No break from footballers? We thought we knew what that was all about. Briggy grinned, but then she got serious. "You stay out of trouble, Max Best."

"I will. I pwomise."

Shortly after, they drove off, followed by Sam Topps. Jojo went back to her daily duties, leaving me alone with my dream woman. She let out a big, satisfied breath. "That was a good season."

"It was," I said. I brought up the Chester men's squad. Near the end of the season, training speeds had accelerated a little. The cup final, winning the league, a quick trip to The Vale, and perhaps an increasing Facilities Score as more parts of Bumpers came online. If we had a match to play, I could pick a 4-3-3 that would have a starting CA of 113.9. We were, at last, the best team in the league. Next season, my Death Star would be fully functional, as would the compound at Saltney. The future wasn't just bright, it was blinding.

"What are you thinking?" said Emma.

I checked my phone. "The vote thing is dead in the water, so that's amazing. And I'm leaving things in a good spot. First new contracts signed, players flying off around the world to represent their countries, staff learning new skills, staff taking well-earned holidays. Admins are adminning. Marketers are marketing. Demolishers are demolishing. Chester won our leagues. West won the league, Saltney won the league, College won the league. I'm the 35th best manager in England, the Welsh FA have an attractive new project for me, and Gibraltar's new national stadium will be finished in the next year - including my flat. Numbers are going up. What... What have I forgotten?"

"Did you leave the oven on?"

"No."

"Did you pack your gardening gloves?"

"Yes."

"That's it, babes. We're all set. Newcastle and chill, here we go."

I smiled. "Here we go."

***

THE END

Credits

Author: Max Best

With Additional Cliffhangers By: Cliff Daps

Cinematography: Henri Lyons

Villainy Consultants: Chip Star, Folke Wester, EFL, UEFA, FIFA

Costume Designer: Grindhog

***

POST-CREDITS SCENE

Wembley Stadium: A Medical Room

"My my my," said Old Nick, the twat. "What a fascinating way to keep a low profile."

"Yawn, boring," I said. "We've had this conversation before. Squash me or find a new topic."

"Oh, that we can do." He came closer, menacing, but then leaned back, changing the mood in the room completely. "I'd like to talk to you about a wonderful investment opportunity!"

I pushed my closed fists into my eyes. "I know how to banish a demon."

"Oh?" said Old Nick. "Pray tell."

"I get an acoustic guitar and sing Christian power ballads."

Old Nick eyed me for a few seconds, and without looking away or blinking, thrust his hand at the nearest imp, clicked his fingers, and said, "Get a guitar, I need to see this."

"What do you waaaant?" I whined. "I just played a cup final. I'm tired and I want a beer."

Nick clicked his tongue. "You did that, yes. It's on record that you shouldn't be doing that, but you did it anyway. I feel that you are slipping ever deeper into an entirely nihilistic attitude. There's no future for your mother and deep down you think there is no future for you. That is why you keep trying to get your brain scanned. You think nothing you do matters, so you do anything. You will get us all - what's the new phrase? - canceled. But Max," he said, leaning forward. "The world is not so dark. There is light. There is hope." He pushed one hand through his hair. "Let us talk about your financial situation. I understand that you have become a slumlord."

"I'm not a slum landlord! Jesus Christ! I bought a block of flats."

"That's good," said Nick. "Cramped, expensive, profitable. That's excellent."

"Get fucked," I said. "The flats are fine and I'm going to put solar on the top and an air-source heat pump and do something nice in the garden."

"Put those plans on hold, please," said Nick. "I understand you plan to spend far more money than you have ever earned building a football stadium in your home town for a team you don't own and have never played for."

"Yeah, West Didsbury and Chorlton. It'll be five million quid. What of it?"

"Is that a good use of your money?"

"Um... yeah. Good enough. Why?"

"It seems to me a dead end. Five million pounds in expenditure that will not materially improve your position."

"No," I said, and had to work hard to dredge up the relevant memories. "No, it's decent. Yeah, it's a lot of money but West is a vital link in my chain. It's the pathway, right? Good young players can start there, go to Tranmere or some such, then keep rising. I need to be able to control a team in tier 4 or 5 to get that pathway. It'll make me money, long term, for sure. I'll make more money if I spend that money. That's... investment. One good player sale could pay me back and there will be hundreds of small sales, too."

"That's good," said Nick, apparently satisfied. "One must speculate to accumulate. Can you build the stadium in a cheaper way?"

That annoyed me. Why would I cut corners on a project that would pay off ten-fold? "What's this about?"

Nick got up, walked away, and came back. He settled and seemed to need to compose himself. "This might be premature. No, this is premature. But you need to know that you aren't just putting yourself, me, and my colleagues at risk. If you are gone, who will look after your mother?"

"I've done all I can for her."

"No, Max, that is not how you should be thinking. Remember I promised to look into medical advances?"

Even though I had been swigging on water, my mouth went dry. "What?"

Nick's eye contact suddenly felt remorseless. "There is a company with a new methodology that has shown promising results."

"A cure?"

"They never use that word. They say treatment. They say intervention. Max, I must stress that this is not a guarantee and you have forced my hand. But the early indications are... positive. If you would like me to wait until I am sure, say so. If you would like me to continue telling you what I have learned, I must insist that you don't hold it against me if things don't eventuate as we hope."

I could barely speak. "Tell me."

"There is a sleepy village in Bedfordshire, in the triangle between Oxford, Cambridge, and London. It is a mere hamlet, but your government has taken steps to build a new city there. Many bright minds are already at work in the region and the population is set to explode. A company was founded there a few short years ago. Its opportunistic CEO hopes to benefit from the booming population and the improving transport links to attract brilliant minds from the universities and from the capital." Nick paused. "The company is already on the forefront of research and development into your mother's affliction. Presently they use multiple scanners, DNA sampling, masses of data, and artificial intelligence to develop individualised treatments. I have been there and have seen the results and they are very much on the cutting edge. Not just halting the progress of the disease, but pushing back against it. One or two of the results have been - I hesitate to use the word - miraculous."

"Oh my God."

"I am not an expert in any of the topics involved, but I believe I am an expert in one topic - humans. The ones who work at this company believe they are on the cusp of greatness. They are confident."

"But that's great. That's amazing."

"Not so fast. As it stands, the process is extremely costly. The company's bosses and lead scientists are hoping they will one day be able to scale what they do, but I am sceptical. It is more likely the process will remain cost-intensive. I would be happy to be proven wrong, but we can't afford to take that risk, can we, Max? Because we have a good thing going here and we want it to continue."

My head was spinning. I closed my eyes and tried to get a grip on the conversation. "So... I need to move my mum to Cambridge?"

"That is not the issue, no."

"Okay, I got it. I need to get rich. I need to save a few million to get my mum on their list? Get her into the next round of trials? That's what you're saying? That's why you don't want me to build the stadium at West. Right? That's what you're saying."

"If building a stadium will help you make money quickly, then by all means do it. As for paying to take shortcuts..." Nick looked at the imps. "I expected to be able to offer you something along those lines. My specialty is to find the weak links in the chain, those who may be bribed or bought. I expected it would be trivial to buy our way into the programme. Yes, that is what I expected; that is what normally works. We went full tilt at that angle." He looked at the imps again, who nodded vigorously. "This particular medical process is not straightforward, Max. There are machines and scans and tests and endless computer modelling. We can't bribe one person without ten others noticing. They will play it straight because they have to play it straight. They are testing their ideas on the sickest patients first. Those with the least to lose."

"But my mum's young. Relatively speaking, she's not that sick."

"Indeed."

I felt like I was catching up. He was pitching some kind of miracle cure, but one that would remain out of my reach until it was too late. A curse on top of the curse! Not for the first time that day, my eyes were stinging. "So then why are you telling me? To torment me?"

"No, Max."

Old Nick produced a glossy brochure from a company called Temps Perdu. He pushed it into my hands, and briefly held his over mine.

"There's no way to sneak in the back door or to trick your way to the front of the queue. As my colleagues like to say, you have to go Full Max on this one."

He looked down, then up.

"Let me put this into language you will understand."

He got a devilish smile on his face.

"If you want to help your mum, there can be no half-measures."

He tapped the brochure.

"You are going to have to buy the entire fucking company."

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